‘You needn’t worry,’ I said.
‘I could tear this church apart in ten minutes.’
I looked for the exit, I don’t know how we had made it so far inside, I slowly retreated.
‘That’s why I’m trying to have faith,’ he bellowed, ‘faith, faith, faith,’ the room echoed, ‘and that’s really helped me,’ he whispered.
His face glued to mine – during operation exit. Goodbye fury, goodbye sound; it is always a relief to escape such difficult people, but at the same time a tragedy, so many people, using myself as an example, whom I have left behind, standing or sitting, homeless, hungry children with lightning-quick movements in the Third World, you name it, and you always carry a little of that tragedy with you: sorrow and regret. The unfortunate person you leave behind.
Oh, all the people I should have taken by the arm and walked away with, but where would I have kept them all, all the life-sized people.
[Kristian]
Haworth is a dark city, built from dark stone, or stone that time has darkened, the streets are narrow. Many of the houses are decorated with flowers at the front, orgies of flowers, the blue and red in particular can be gathered under the term spinster-flowers: leaves like earlobes that time has made large and loose, and in garish colours that even weak eyes can capture; dangling from the façade in pots, pots on the ground lining the wall of the house, each house an entire flower shop. The landlord at our guest house is English and the landlady is French; when we arrived, she came to greet us with open arms, I put the suitcase down, and she bonjoured and directed her lips at my cheek; somehow or other my mouth was too open, or she turned her head too much: instead of planting a kiss in the air by her cheek, I got a mouthful of her ear. It tasted of pepper. And before she managed to withdraw, I pictured (in a flash of lightning) the duchess from Alice in Wonderland stirring a huge pot.
We are staying at a guest house right by the churchyard. By cutting across the churchyard, opening a gate, following a narrow dark path for a hundred metres, opening another heavily sloping gate: you reach the heath. Haworth Moor. The fairy tale spreads out before us. We are still miserable, and again we are rambling in the realm of a powerful love: Catherine and Heathcliff. Their love was equally impossible as Dorothy and William’s, which we had just experienced, so to speak. And our own is also utterly impossible. Though for other reasons. Reasons I don’t understand. If I run my hand across Alma’s body, she shudders and says it tickles. She does not move my hand, but stops it by placing her hand over it. It feels more like a funeral than a sign of affection.
Today we visited Top Withens, a building that is said to have inspired Emily Brontë to write about the storm-battered house, Wuthering Heights, now a ruin.
The heath. Sparrowhawks circled above us. The heath was white with cotton grass. In moist areas grew bracken. It causes cancer. And I was walking bare-legged. The weather changes incessantly. The sun is shining. Then it starts to rain. The rain lashes the face, and the wind is severe. We put on our woolly jumpers. A little later we take them off again. Yesterday Alma bought a pair of long woollen knee-length stockings. From a specialist shop (regional wool) in the town. We got to chatting with the owner. He wanted to leave England. Because of the way foreigners are treated. He wanted to move to France. Alma made a few comments about how the conditions for new arrivals (wasn’t that the word the Danish queen had used in her latest New Year’s speech? A carefully selected neutral word, a proper queen word; but maybe so neutral that it lacks precision) had also become rather harsh in Denmark. He looked at us blankly. ‘No, no.’ He wanted to go home to Le Pen. Le Pen knew what needed to be done. Only a couple of days earlier I had read an article in The Independent about the prison-like conditions English asylum seekers face; about an African woman who had been forced to give birth in handcuffs so she didn’t use the hospital visit as an opportunity to make a run for it and join the mass of undocumented immigrants. By that point Alma had already paid for the stockings. Otherwise we would have left without them. Now we are using Alma’s long racist stocking as scarves. One for each of us, with the foot of the stocking smacking the middle of the chest; Alma ventures a smile; the ridiculousness unites us. That’s how cold it is.
On the way up to Top Withens, we passed through a valley that was nothing less than delightful, in a place that the Brontë sisters were fond of sitting. Steep rock faces. A waterfall. A brook with stepping stones: an invitation to joy. I removed my shoes and hopped from stone to stone. In the meantime Alma walked back and forth across the Brontë bridge and sat down for a while on the Brontë chair (also a stone).
‘I would like to return here,’ Alma said, and then we continued walking.
When we arrived at the ruin, sweaty and out of breath, we were immediately surrounded by moorland sheep, they were greyish-brown and freshly sheared. They flocked around us. One had a large growth dangling from its chin. Maybe it was from the ferns.
The ruin consisted of only a few rooms, two or three. The inside walls were so low that I could look over them. In the novel, Wuthering Heights, the building that gave the novel its title, seems to be a property of considerable size, full of corridors and dark rooms, where dogs leap out from hidden corners. The Wuthering Heights of the novel is like a fortified prison where an incredibly poor atmosphere incessantly reigns. A place that is difficult to escape from. First the adult Heathcliff keeps his son imprisoned in the house and later his daughter-in-law, the daughter of his beloved Catherine, whom you would think he would treat well out of love for Catherine; but no, on the contrary.
The violence takes place within the confined rooms.
The ruin is open. The heath, as well as the weather, has forced its way in. The building cannot hold anyone in, as the house in the novel does in abundance. Nowadays Heathcliff would have to chain his prisoners there. The only thing resembling the description in the novel is the isolation of the building; located on a hilltop, surrounded by a desolate heath. Windswept. The wind takes hold of the stocking foot and swings it over my shoulder, ‘it is very wuthering’.
Heathcliff is a savage, avaricious (he usurps two entire properties), vindictive brute, and Catherine is a hysterical, manipulative and rather violent monster. Why is their love so famous? How can two such monstrous people love? And how is their famous love represented? Is it a noble phenomenon set against a backdrop of violence (the house and a number of violent minor characters) between two equally violent people? For them love is to know no difference between each other’s souls, to believe they are one:
My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I am Heathcliff! He’s always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being. So don’t talk of our separation again: it is impracticable,
Catherine says and shortly after marries Heathcliff’s opposite, a cool man.
Only in death do they become one. Heathcliff digs up Catherine’s coffin and releases the boards on one side so that it remains open; he ensures that the same will be done to his own coffin after his death – threatening the powerful anger of his ghost if he is not obeyed; thus at long last the two become one flesh.
In contrast to the true love of these two, where the truth is that one is (like) the other, the love between Heathcliff’s son and Catherine’s daughter is a love artificially created by Heathcliff, again with material gain – and revenge – in mind. It is obvious that the two lovers have different wishes, the proof that their love is false:
One time, however, we were near quarrelling. He said the pleasantest manner of spending a hot July day was lying from morning till evening on a bank of heath in the middle of the moors, with the bees humming dreamily about among the bloom, and the larks singing high up overhead, and the blue sky and bright sun shining steadily and cloudlessly. That was his most perfect idea of heaven’s happiness: mine was rocking in a rustling green tree, with a west wind blowing, and b
right white clouds flitting rapidly above; and not only larks, but thrushes, and blackbirds, and linnets, and cuckoos pouring out music on every side, and the moors seen at a distance, broken into cool dusky dells; but close by great swells of long grass undulating in waves to the breeze; and woods and sounding water, and the whole world awake and wild with joy. He wanted all to lie in an ecstasy of peace; I wanted all to sparkle and dance in a glorious jubilee. I said his heaven would be only half alive; and he said mine would be drunk: I said I should fall asleep in his; and he said he could not breathe in mine and began to grow very snappish,
Cathy tells the housekeeper, Nelly.
I read the piece out loud to Alma, and she said: ‘Such an amazing piece about the heath. You could only write like that about a place you know inside out. And such an amazing piece about the joy of moving.’
She put her arms around me and said: ‘Such poetry!’ and I was just as happy as if I had written it myself and had not merely possessed it for a moment with my voice. I said: ‘Heathcliff’s son had tuberculosis, that is why he did not have the energy for all of her running and dancing, but preferred to lie about and sleep. It felt like he had burning milk running through his veins. He experienced it as though lying between heaven and earth, as though breathing through the eye of a needle.’
She looked at me suspiciously and said that sounded like something from a book, not that she had anything against it, but where was I? The last part was in fact a quote, from-god-knows-where, in any event not from Brontë. Maybe she grew tired of all the talk of illness. In any case I got a sense of having missed an important moment – it had been a long time since we had been so close, both physically, with her arms around me, and mentally – until she got up and walked over to the window. We were back at the guest house. She looked like someone who was trapped, and I felt inferior. Like the skinny cucumber on the label of the vinegar bottle.
[Alma]
Kristian has come down with something. Ill in Wales. Snowdonia. He has a fever and sleeps most of the day. We have taken lodgings at the Heights Hotel in the village of Llanberis. It is a relaxed location, a bit hippyish, but not outright psychedelic, you can come and go twenty-four hours a day, there are rooms and dormitories, the music is a little loud, but it is clean and tidy, and there is no danger of having your things stolen. It is a young area, in contrast to the Lake District which is mostly for the prosperous middle class. There are a lot of mountain climbers. The area, with its grey, naked mountains and Snowdon itself, the highest mountain in Wales, is a Mecca for climbers. Today I saw one being rescued from a mountaintop by a yellow helicopter, I don’t know if it was due to a broken bone, or if the person in question simply could not or would not climb back down, like the cat that has to be helped down from the roof by the fire service.
Kristian has told me to just go out as much as I like. There is no reason for me to sit on the edge of the bed watching him sleep. No, probably not. Still I felt a bit bad when I went down to the hotel bar at night. I don’t like going out alone. I don’t know what to do with my hands or where to look. When I am out at a restaurant alone, I normally read. In short: I’m afraid of someone getting the wrong idea. I tell myself how unreasonable it is that men can go out alone and feel free and at ease, own the world… in other words: I think I should do it. And so I do. But of course I can’t force myself to feel at ease.
I set foot in a room packed with people and smoke; there were evidently a lot of locals, a number who looked a little inbred; that is what the mountains do to people. I bought a beer and looked for a table. I found an empty seat at a table for three. Sitting at the table was a small, sharply-dressed, quick man, whom I estimated to be in his early forties. He could be a jockey. Weighed next to nothing. And looked wily as hell. Next to him was a very different man, far younger and heavier, with dark curls, well-built under a striped (purple and burgundy) North African hooded cloak. He had probably been to Morocco. I’ve been there. Maybe it is one of those jellabahs, or else it is some other, long, cloak-like outfit. His eyelashes were so thick and long that his eyes were veiled when he blinked. His name was Michael, and his friend was called Tony. They were both from Leeds. They were here to climb. They came as often as they could. Tony was a car salesman, and Michael a carer for the disabled. They lived and breathed mountain climbing. I was told all of this at once. Because no sooner had I sat down than they leant across the table and started to talk to me. Tony talked the most. And leant forward the most. The other one had his elbows on the table, a little stooped; but he looked at me alertly enough. My only contribution to the conversation was to tell them that I had a fear of heights. And how it came about.
Up until fifteen years ago, the time I climbed the Leaning Tower of Pisa, I had never had problems with heights. I could choose to walk up to an edge or not. I was neither attracted to nor afraid of heights. Not one of those people who always says, oh dear, afraid of accidentally throwing themselves over the edge. Not at all. Just indifferent. But on the uppermost colonnade of the Leaning Tower I suddenly got scared that I would fall onto the sloping foundation. I got nauseous and dizzy and had to lie down. I lay close to the centre of the tower and clung to the side. You know how an old wall like that smells – almost like a well. (Tony tapped his fingers on the table, he did not have the patience for descriptions.) I was blocking the way and brought traffic to a standstill, there was not much room beforehand. I lay on my side and pressed my face against the body of the tower and felt the precipice tugging at my back – as though it was trying to tear my hands loose. Finally I agreed to be helped down. The trip down the narrow staircase was a nightmare, let me tell you. I promised myself I would never ever climb to any great height again. I sat on the ground and looked at the Leaning Tower, it looked like a chess piece from there, but I knew better, and everything was swimming before my eyes.
When I had finished, Tony said that there was only one way to cure me.
‘Don’t say another word,’ I said, ‘I can guess. Desperate diseases call for desperate remedies, right?’
‘Exactly,’ he said, ‘we’ll take you up with us tomorrow. We can lend you some gear.’
I looked at Michael and nodded. I felt exhilarated. I felt anxious. I felt intoxicated. I wanted to be brave. I wanted to be admired. By then, I think that we had already made up our mind. But I couldn’t know one hundred per cent. I felt like I was being torn apart from the inside. I had another beer and pushed the image of Kristian out of my mind and asked if we were going to climb Snowdon (1085m). No. They were going to take me to a place called Suicide Wall. The name caused me to emit some strange sounds, I had wanted to say ‘hah, hah.’
Tony reminded me of a restless bird. A tough bird, with short, sharp movements, back and forth across the table. A bright knife. With no further presence, only really present in flashes. Where did he go. Everywhere. Scanning the bar. Quick glances at every woman that stepped inside. Restless, restless, restless. Michael, on the contrary. I don’t care for the expression ‘grounded’. But that was what he was. He was anchored in himself. Present. And if there is one thing that stimulates me, that is it. To have somebody at home. And here I had found a mountain climber so firmly rooted to the ground.
There was a commotion on the dance floor, more and more people got up and stood in a circle until there was an entire throng of observers. Curiosity brought us to our feet; oh, a stripper had arrived. With bad skin and breasts like pears. She probably worked at the supermarket during the day. She stripped naked and tried to get a man to join her on the dance floor. She held out her arms and grabbed several people’s hands, but nobody dared, they held their hands behind their backs and retreated a little. Then a couple of men pushed their friend into the centre. He tried to hide in the flock, but kept getting pushed into the middle – he was now sacrificed by the entire throng, all of the people who had personally declined to dance made sure he stayed on the dance floor. As long as they kept him there, they were safe. The stripper danced up to him
and tugged his shirt out of his trousers. He tried to tuck it in again. Then she started to unbutton it. He raised his hands in surrender and pulled off the shirt by himself. Then he put his hands in the air and started to dance a dance that was all about shaking his belly. Cheers from the throng. He reached for the stripper’s breasts, but she evaded his grasp and made a snake-like attack on his belt. Soon his trousers were hanging around his ankles. He was wearing red underwear. There was no end to the excitement, the shouts grew coarser, a few people threw beer on the couple. And the man on the dance floor was handed beer after beer, which he drank and poured over himself and over her. Loads of foam that disappeared down their bodies and onto the floor. It was starting to seem Prussian. He pulled off his shoes and threw them into the crowd. One shoe just missed my ear. Of course he couldn’t resist swirling his trousers in the air like a lasso before letting them fly.
Tony had pushed all the way to the front; I could see that only a small part of him was shouting, the rest of him was busy keeping his bearings. If he had only belonged to the upper class, he could have worked at an embassy. The stripper must have signalled someone at the bar, because suddenly the bartender threw a love doll onto the floor. I looked at M and he shook his head in embarrassment. The stripper held the blow-up plastic doll in front of her and got the man to touch it. He threw himself at her gaping fish-mouth and glaring eyes, and the stripper left him there, with this creation that belonged to a hot summer day at the beach in his arms. She pulled away relatively unnoticed, the man threw the doll on the floor and pulled his underwear down to his ankles and made a show to penetrate her, but something went wrong, because she burst like a balloon, and only a sea of coloured plastic remained beneath his fat hips.
Companions Page 3
