‘Recall the second witness! Comrade Tapeworm, please tell us: was your superior present at the celebrations in honour of the Spanish civil war?’
‘She was not. The chair was empty.’
‘Exactly! And why? Because this foul progeny of reaction, this warped monster whose hatred of working people was imbibed along with her mother’s milk, this child of a flunkey of that bloodthirsty fiend Franco nurtures so violent a loathing of peace and the forces of progress that the very sight and sound of the symbols and slogans which represent the struggle for the liberation of the oppressed masses of the world makes her foam at the mouth with fury like a rabid bitch. So she was afraid lest her unrestrainable reactions betray her.
‘That’s all very well, you might say, but in that case how did she get where she is? How could she have been entrusted with the responsibility of educating our youth? And how did she come by such a high position? You are right, my friends: this is the key question.
‘The answer is that she was imposed upon us by a hostile power: bourgeois France. And it was done by blackmail. It was made abundantly clear to us that if we cared at all about Dr Dolowy and his future development, we must accept her appointment.
‘I call the fourth witness! Comrade Gromek, is that not what happened? Do you confirm it?’
‘I do. Every detail,’ says the voice of Gabriel Gromek, MA.
‘Fifth witness! What about you, Dr Dolowy?’
‘I can’t deny it, although I wouldn’t be quite so harsh . . . because of the interests involved: foreign trade and light industry (ballpoints for pens!).’
‘You are magnanimous, comrade. But one can’t cry over a rose when whole forests are ablaze.
‘We come now to the last, fundamental question, namely: why is this so important to la douce France? What exactly is the French interest in this matter? Or perhaps the question should be phrased differently: what did Madame la Directrice do for France to deserve such fervent support?
‘It was the foulest of her betrayals. It was so vile, comrades, that it is best passed over in silence. Let us not sully our lips by naming her crimes.
‘But does any of this bother our virtuoso? Is he at all shocked or revolted by that act of corrupt love? Not in the slightest! On the contrary: it excites him! It makes him rub his hands with glee. For here is the possibility of further gain: he might turn what he has seen to his advantage. He could make himself useful and get something in return. Or, if that doesn’t work, he could resort to blackmail and extortion. For this talented artist, comrades, has the morals of a pimp.
‘Moreover, he knows perfectly well that this whole “experiment” with French as the language of instruction is a complete sham. Its true and only purpose is to send a fifth column to the West for training in subversion.
‘Accordingly, he tries to signal to her that he can be trusted: he does not hide his hostility to our people’s democracy. And then, like a faithful dog, he exerts himself in her service, writes her elaborate essays so that she can have something to show her masters, practises his eloquence for the benefit of foreign experts on their visit of inspection, memorises poems to impress with his erudition.
‘He doesn’t have to wait long for his thirty pieces of silver.
‘As the first sign of her trust she gives him the key to her office! Then she gets him an admission card to snobbish events where bourgeois art is celebrated. And then . . . then, comrades, comes the crowning moment: he is invited, on her recommendation, to a training course for spies in Tours. And they go there together – sneaking across the border.
‘There, comrades, you have it: the real truth about this romantic couple, this pair of turncoats, these wolves in sheep’s clothing, seething with vicious hatred and venom for our party and our government.’
At this point Carl Broda emerges from the band of brigands and, like a choirmaster, begins to intone:
How best shall we deal with them? Spare them or seize them?
Show mercy or favour oppression and force?
Then, like Wladyslaw Broniewski at a rally, he turns to the assembled crowd and says:
The people alone have the right to release them.
Their will must decide it.
– OPPRESSION AND FORCE!
The ‘red-and-black’ rabble roar out in chorus, raising their fists into the air. And Carl Broda pronounces sentence:
The people see through your fine airs; they’ll no longer
Permit your vile plotting to make their wounds run;
Your crimes deserve death, and your death will make stonker
Our will to go on saying: ‘¡No pasarán!’
‘And what about her?’ Kugler asks, pointing to Madame, as if wondering how the action of this scene should be resolved.
The question is hardly out of his mouth when Lucilla Rosenberg, or Lucy, wafts slowly down from the clear blue sky, made up and dressed as Dolores Ibarruri, and in her sensuous voice pronounces the verdict:
Let these youths, so strong and virile,
(pointing at the band of brigands)
Seize her in their manly arms.
They can play with her awhile;
Let them taste some of her charms.
Let them throw her to the ground,
Spread her there and pin her down!
At this Kugler slowly raises his huge hammer, crosses it with the sickle and pronounces the following words (profaning one of the nation’s most sacred texts):
Listen well, folk, and heed our behest,
For such is our will and command:
Those who never put out in this land
Can forget about trips to the West!
I can feel that this is it: in a moment I shall see ‘that most terrible of all things to be seen on this earth’. And so I decide to act.
‘You can eliminate me,’ I say to him, ‘but you’ll never win. I’m better than you.’ My challenge seems effective, for Kugler turns purple with rage.
‘We’ll see about that!’ he screams, swallowing the bait. ‘Mephisto, the chessboard!’
And there is Mephisto, obligingly setting out the chess pieces.
‘Just a moment!’ I say. ‘First let’s agree on the stakes. If you expect me to give you a chance to get even just because of your pretty face, forget it!’
‘What do you want to play for, then?’ asks Kugler.
‘For Victoire,’ I reply.
‘For what?!’ he grimaces uncomprehendingly.
‘For her,’ I explain calmly, nodding at Madame. ‘If I win, she’s mine.’
‘Fine. Have it your way, you pathetic little clown.’ He laughs contemptuously and then snarls, ‘Not on your life, you bastard,’ and with the hand holding the sickle makes a gesture expressive of what he thinks of my chances.
We begin to play. I gain an advantage over him and exploit it. Soon only the kings and two of my white pawns are left on the board. I let out a sigh of relief. Victory! Now it’s just a matter of time; a few moves, and it’ll be over. I calmly promote my pawn and transform it into a queen.
‘Check,’ I say, beginning the attack.
‘And mate!’ cries Kugler, taking my king with his.
‘That’s an illegal move,’ I assert in a superior tone. ‘This isn’t a lightning game.’
‘You should have said so at the beginning,’ replies Kugler, and spreads his hands (i.e., the hammer and sickle) with insincere regret.
I fling myself at him, screaming, ‘You bastard! You filthy swine!’ But my voice is drowned out by a piercing, shrill noise which fills my ears. The whistles of the red-shirted rabble? A phone call for Kugler?
No – the alarm clock, which I had set for seven.
I woke up drenched in sweat.
The Day After
When I emerged into consciousness I found it not much better than the nightmare. At first I wasn’t even sure whether I was awake or asleep, for the events of the previous evening, between the film and the phantasmagorical visions of my slumbers, seeme
d so otherworldly and unbelievable I felt I might have dreamt them as well. And when I had shaken myself entirely awake and could no longer doubt they had really taken place, I can’t say I felt wildly cheerful. In fact, I felt dreadful.
If the information I had acquired with Constant’s help could be compared to the experience of landing on the surface of a planet, the knowledge I possessed now was that of a miner and a geologist rolled into one. I had gone deep down under the surface, through the crater and into the volcano.
And what had I gained from it? Divine omnipotence? An advantage, at least? Not even that. On the contrary: I had only the bitter taste of defeat, torments of suffering, a sense of hopelessness. The path to knowledge had turned out to be the way to my doom. Instead of discovering the water of life I had stepped into some infernal fire.
My suffering came in several stages and degrees of intensity. The humiliation, mingled with burning shame, was the least of it. Far worse was the consciousness that all hope of fulfilment had vanished: all the things she could conceivably give me – conversation, language games, friendliness, signs of favour – had lost their value. None of them could now bring consolation, and the only thing that might was inconceivable. But most painful was the injured pride. Not my ‘manly’ pride (because she preferred the director) or anything like that, but the pride I’d always had in the power of my mind, my reason, over the heart and the flesh. Now, like Hippolytus, I had weakened and broken. I had allowed myself to ‘drift’. I had betrayed Reason and succumbed to passion. I had not thought I could sink so low.
I felt like a torture victim who had been on the rack. My immediate future, my plans, the rest of my life meant nothing to me now. Final exams, university, an artistic career were as sounding brass. Even the thought that my Young-Werther-like sorrows could be put to literary use was no consolation.
My only consolation could take the form of poor Tonio Kröger’s wistful dream after his unhappy dance with the carefree Ingeborg, and again after his encounter with her, years later, at a ball in Denmark. I knew (not only from the narrator of that wonderful novella) that such things seldom happen on this earth; nevertheless I got up, dressed and, inspired by the hope of an unprecedented miracle, dragged myself to school.
Just to see her, to address her, to be the recipient of even the most trifling favour, I thought as I walked along in the grey morning light. A look, a kind word, the smallest gesture . . . perhaps to hear my name in the familiar, shortened form? At any rate, to see her, to look at her. To see . . . to see what people look like the day after.
On Saturdays French was in the fourth period. The time that separated me from it was not idly spent: at every break, burning with impatience, I ran downstairs and loitered around near her office in the hope of catching a longed-for first glimpse. Fruitlessly: there was no sign of Madame. In desperation, I armed myself with the first pretext that came into my head (‘Is there a lesson today? Someone told me there wasn’t’), went to the door of her office and depressed the handle. It was locked. I repeated the operation with the door of the staff room. She wasn’t there, either. Disconcerted, I returned to the classroom and waited in suspense for the end of the long break. At last the bell rang, but Madame did not appear. Instead the Viper strode into the classroom and announced that she would be substituting.
So she really wasn’t there. My heart raced and I felt a hot flush spread over me. What had happened? What did it mean? Had she arranged her absence in advance? Or had she called in sick that morning? Both these intriguing possibilities offered rich soil for speculation and surmise. If she had arranged her absence with the school, it could mean that the events of the previous evening had also been planned in advance – and that she’d known she would need a day off after her birthday night of heated passion. But if she had called in sick that morning . . . that could mean anything!
My fever of speculation gave way to depression. To die, to sleep, a voice in my head suggested; no more . . . The Prince of Denmark’s whispers were tempting: just then it was indeed a consummation devoutly to be wished. The worst nightmares would be better than this reality. All I wanted was to sink into oblivion.
I was rudely snatched from the sweet embrace of Melancholy and Death by the voice of the fearless Viper, who, guided by her infallible naturalist’s instinct, had approached my desk and now loomed over me. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said, ‘what can the matter be? Why so pale and wan? Why the sunken cheeks, the glassy gaze? It must be all those feverish late nights . . . reading romantic novels. Or could it be because there’s no French today? Because instead of nourishing your soul with sparkling esprit you’ll have to chew on the dry bread of biological fact?’
‘I’m at a loss to understand the reason for your remarks,’ I said coldly. ‘Am I in your way?’
‘Oh, not at all!’ she replied with heavy sarcasm. ‘Not in the least. I merely wanted to bring you down to earth, to make you abandon your lofty perch for a moment and see if you’ll deign to flutter down into the valley to join in the lesson. A little of your attention would be gratifying. And seeing you sitting there so gloomy, I thought I’d put your mind at rest. There’s nothing to fear: I’m not going to test you on the rabbit.’
The class burst out laughing, and I was seized by a cold fury.
That’s it, I thought, I’ve had enough. There’s no reason I should have to sit here and listen to this.
‘In that case,’ I said, in a tone of false disappointment, ‘there’s nothing to keep me here.’ Whereupon I rose and started for the door.
A hush fell on the room.
‘Think what you’re doing!’ hissed the Viper.
‘I have,’ I replied calmly, and left the classroom.
My composure was purely external, however. Inside I was trembling. In the corridor my control abandoned me entirely. Not wanting anyone to see me in this state, and fearing the Viper might give the command to launch a pursuit, I fled to the lavatories, locked myself in and waited there until I had calmed down. When I had regained some measure of control over myself, I slipped through to the cloakroom, and by the time the bell rang for the end of the fourth period I was well outside the school grounds.
To recover completely and think things through in peace, I went to my traditional place of retreat: Zeromski Park. It looked quite different from the last time I’d been there, pondering the consequences of my first run-in with the Viper and planning the campaign from which everything had begun. Now, instead of an array of pastel colours shining in bright sunlight under a blue sky, I saw a bleak, steel-grey landscape cut through with the occasional slash of black or white: bare branches and tree trunks, sad piles of dirty snow and splotches of yellowish-grey grass. Like a Bernard Buffet, I thought with a bitter smile as I passed my usual bench.
Three months had passed, and in that time I had more than fulfilled the task I had set myself. I had not only learnt a great deal about the course of Madame’s life but discovered her secret goals and the subtle ways in which she proposed to achieve them. If someone had told me I would come to know all this, I would have laughed incredulously. Even if I had believed it, I’d probably have been thrilled at the prospect of such an advantage, for I thought then that I could win any game I wanted if only I had the right cards. It hadn’t occurred to me that knowledge would change me – that once the means of achieving my goals were within my grasp, the goals themselves would no longer interest me; that once equipped for the game of allusion, suggestion and mild provocation I had longed for, I would no longer see any point in it and would lose the desire to play it.
There were many things I could do with what I knew. I could indulge in the coy, innocent wordplay of my initial dreams, or I could engage in more perverse and menacing games, games with a whiff of blackmail about them. But the power I wielded gave me no satisfaction, and the thought of exploiting it filled me with disgust, as Freddy had been filled with disgust at the thought of how he could humiliate and terrorise Dr Dolowy. My reasons for self-revulsion were eve
n stronger, for while Freddy had felt only contempt for his colleague, I adored Madame. More than that: emotions, as we know, can lead people to commit the basest acts, and to say I adored her was to omit something much more important. Despite my reservations about some aspects of her personality and her literary tastes (Simone de Beauvoir), reservations for which my grounds were in any case quite inadequate, I respected her. She was proud and strong and undaunted, and somehow beyond the influence of the drab, dismal, perverse reality of our People’s democracy. With every atom of her being she said no to it; everything about her – her appearance, her behaviour, her language, her intelligence – was a resounding, defiant refusal to accept this reality. She was mute testimony to the ugliness and absurdity of our lives, an eloquent reminder that it was possible to live differently.
I knew she was right. She was my North Star.
Hence the conflict that was tearing me apart. If I was for her, I could not be for myself; our interests conflicted – indeed, they were mutually exclusive. If I wanted to act in her interests, I should give up the game. Surrender and retire from the field. Like Schiller’s knight Toggenburg.
I realised, to my astonishment, that this would be easier if I could be certain she had no serious feelings for the director. I’d rather she went to bed with him from vanity or snobbery, even sheer opportunism, than from a sincere engagement of the heart. I preferred cold, self-interested calculation to genuine passion. Cynicism I might deplore, but could forgive; love was harder to bear. Love, paradoxically, was unforgivable.
It was only now that I really began to understand Phaedra’s scene of jealousy.
I was seized by an irrational desire to find out. That’s all I want, I thought feverishly, just that, no more. If I could only establish that, I would be satisfied; I would seek nothing more. But how? After all, it wasn’t something you could see; to establish it you needed language, conversations, confidences . . . des confessions . . . And it was unrealistic to hope for that.
Madame Page 39
