A Book of Memories (12 page)

"My dear Frau Hübner, let's not keep the lady waiting, please, do show her in"
—I repeated my request, more softly but more emphatically, evincing a presence of mind that came as a surprise even to me, and in spite of that fleeting terror, I managed to remain cool and objective, my voice keeping the required dignity; I felt what I was going through was nobody's business: but I could see it was hopeless, and for some incomprehensible reason, the unusual situation so paralyzed Frau Hübner that, though she had had ample opportunity to learn it from me, she couldn't perform the simple ceremony of showing the guest in and behaved as if the gun was really pointed at her; quickly pulling my robe together and, like one resolved to face whatever awaited him, I turned without delay to welcome my guest, whoever she might be.

In spite of this resolve, stepping from the sunlit room into the hallway's pleasant dimness, whence I could see the entrance hall through the open door, I had to stop and cry out, "Is it really you, Helene?" for seeing her in this drab, almost wretched, though for me more or less natural setting, suddenly made my poor landlady's stupefaction not only understandable but almost palpable, as if I'd gone through the same experiences as this hapless widow, who had not had many opportunities to behold such visions
—for that's how Helene appeared, standing in the hall, like a vision, and in these dreary surroundings it seemed that even I couldn't have had much to do with such an affluent, angelically pure, exquisite yet fallible human being; she was wearing a silver-gray dress trimmed with lace which I hadn't seen before and which, according to the fashion of the day, most artfully concealed and at the same time cunningly emphasized her body's slim and shapely features, carefully not highlighting one to the detriment of another, which would have made her indecently conspicuous—the effect was created by the totality, whose excessive artificiality was offset by the naturalness of the underplayed details. She was standing with her head slightly bowed, a posture that immediately brought to mind those afternoons when she'd sat at the piano or leaned over the embroidery hoop, and her neck, emerging in startling nakedness from the high, closed collar of her dress, was made to appear acceptably chaste and covered simply by stray curly ringlets escaping from a carefully combed bun of hair gathered up at the back; yet she appeared more exciting now, and not only because the deep crimson ringlets accentuated the bareness of her neck—what fires our imagination is never mere nakedness, which only evokes a feeling of vulnerability, painful defenselessness, but everything that is almost covered or barely concealed, urging us, by its very suggestiveness, to lay it bare, implying always that we and only we are entitled to view and touch such a vulnerable body, that only to us does it surrender its nakedness, for only a mutual thrill of discovery and possession makes it possible to tolerate, indeed enjoy, whatever is coarsely natural; although I could not see her face—the huge rim of her hat cast a shadow over it and she hadn't lifted her veil—I could sense her embarrassment, and I was thoroughly embarrassed myself, partly because the surprise was simply too great, and partly because I was overwhelmed by the unexpected joy that rapidly replaced my initial fright; I knew I should speak first, sparing her the further embarrassment of having to talk in front of strangers, for in the meantime two uncombed, pale-faced young girls, Frau Hübner's granddaughter and a friend, had stuck their heads through the slightly open kitchen door and with utter amazement were gaping at the tableau presented by Helene, a tableau in which they, too, were now involuntary participants, yet I could not bring myself to speak, for whatever I might have said would have been too obviously intimate and emotional for utterance in public, so I could only extend my arm toward her, whereupon she grasped her long-handled, pointed umbrella with one gloved hand, lifted her train with the other, and, gliding almost silently, began to move toward me; "What's come over you, my dear?" I said—it may have sounded like a stifled cry—after I finally managed to dislodge Frau Hübner from her spot, and having closed the door, we were left to ourselves under the arch between my room and the dim hallway, "or is there something wrong? What happened? Speak to me, Helene, I'm most anxious to hear!"

But she took her time answering; we were standing very close, facing each other, the silence was becoming too long, I felt like tearing the veil off her hat, just tearing it off, and tearing off the hat, too, that so annoyingly covered her face; I wanted to see her face, ascertain the reason for her unexpected visit, though I had a fairly good idea; or perhaps what I really wanted was to tear the clothes off her body, to stop her from being so ridiculously alien to me; but as my excitement was aroused further by seeing her whole body tremble, I simply couldn't make a move that might seem common or coarse, didn't dare touch that blasted hat, because I wanted to spare her; "I know, I know very well I shouldn't have done this," she whispered from behind her veil, and in our excitement we nearly brushed against each other, though both she and I made sure we didn't, "still, I couldn't make myself not come, it will take only a moment, my carriage is waiting downstairs, and I'd be so ashamed if I told you my true reason for coming! It's your eyes I wanted to see, Thomas, your eyes, and now that I've said it, I no longer feel ashamed; because last night, after you left, I couldn't remember your eyes; please don't turn away, and don't despise me for asking, do look at me; now I can see your eyes, good; all last night I couldn't remember them."

"But you seemed to understand what I tried to tell you."

"Oh, please, don't misunderstand me! I knew you would misunderstand. I don't want to hold you back. Go."

"But now how could I?"

"Now you will feel even better about going."

"Why are you being so cruel to me?"

"Let's not say anything, then."

"You are driving me insane. I am madly in love with you, Helene, now more than ever before, which makes me feel I haven't loved you enough, but now, by saying what you've said, by coming here, you are driving me out of my mind, and I can't express myself; I am being ridiculous, but you should know that you are saving my life, though that's not why I love you; and I'd really like to destroy all my notes, rip up all my books."

"Be quiet."

"I can't be quiet, but I can't find anything to say, either. With my teeth I'll rip apart all my writing, all my papers."

"All I wanted was to see your eyes and say your name, Thomas; I must always say your name; now that I have, I can go, and you should, too."

"Don't go."

"I must."

"My dearest."

"We must be reasonable."

"I'd like to see your hair. Your neck. I'm going to sink my fingers into your hair, grab you by your hair and pull so hard you'll scream."

"Do be quiet."

"I'm going to kill you." And this last sentence, uttered as she whipped off her hat and veil, came out with such conviction that my voice, hoarse with excitement, actually deepened, for those words, said in total ecstasy, seemed to hit upon the secret wish, the well-concealed desire, the very emotion that until then I'd been unaware of yet did not seem so new, after all; it was as if I had felt this wish all along, that and nothing else, as if all my endeavors had been fueled by the desire to kill her, and for this reason the sentence itself, and the emphasis I'd given it, sounded startlingly honest; though coming from me
—especially since I who, let's not mince words, was the son of a murderer, a common ravisher—the sentence could not have sounded entirely innocuous, could not have been considered an empty phrase of love, at least not by me, for after a long and troublesome period of my life, I had experienced for the first time, in my own fingers, the urge that would explain to me Father's hitherto inexplicable and abhorrent deed; yes, it was like a new insight, unexpected and none too pleasant, felt for a mere fraction of a second, during which I could almost step outside myself and contemplate my own profoundest desires, which were similar to what Father in his time had acted on; this was like the shattering discovery that a tree's roots exposed to the light of day reflect the impressive shape of its leafy crown; at this moment I was very much in love with the creature standing before me and trembling helplessly; I felt I was quite beyond those carnal desires that entice our loftier sentiments with the promise of temporary gratification, or, I should say, I thought I was beyond them, if only because in the circumstances, until our wedding day, I knew I was not even to think about such things, I was to put them out of my mind, but just the same, I would have loved to wrap my fingers around her neck and tighten them until I squeezed every last breath out of this long-admired neck.

Except that in that sentence she could not discern her fate
—just as Mother could not discern hers on that certain afternoon long ago—and therefore did not think she ought to take seriously what was in fact serious; if anything, the earnest resolve Helene may have sensed in my voice only served to intensify her fervor: "Here I am, take me," she whispered in reply, and laughed; and it was like seeing her for the first time, her lips were so full and moist and ripe; "You dirty little slut," I whispered back into her mouth, before touching it with my tongue; I was somewhat bothered by not having performed my morning toilette, I hadn't even rinsed my mouth, but I kept it up: "You little bitch, you whore, you dare talk like this before our wedding?" and I laughed with her, too, for these words, uttered not quite involuntarily, did not seem to surprise or scandalize her, and though my breath may have been unpleasant, it proved to be another source of pleasure, she now fully opened her mouth into mine, and I derived not just physical pleasure but a terrific mental satisfaction from hearing these coarse words, as if I were stepping over my father's body, daring to say out loud what he had so tragically suppressed.

It was such a joy, certainly one of the greatest joys I have ever experienced, for though I was grasping her neck with both hands (when and how they got there I couldn't tell), the fear, feeding on uncanny resemblances and echoes, as well as hate and anger implicit in our relationship, which induced so much shame and guilt and prevented me from enjoying the moment at hand, always reminding me of something old and familiar
—all these feelings simply vanished, disappeared without a trace; I wanted simply to devour that lovely mouth and have that mouth engulf my body with its kisses. I did not dare hold her tight, because my light robe and silk pajamas would not keep down my powerful erection; my hands became an instrument of tenderness whose sole aim was to nestle her head in the gentlest, most comfortable position possible; her mouth transformed the force of my hatred into that of possession; fingers no longer wanted to squeeze and choke but to raise up, to make it easy for her to kiss and to explore with her tongue; though my consciousness tried to maintain control over itself, I couldn't say just when I closed my eyes or when she wrapped her arms around my neck, as if two dark orbs were flowing, sliding wetly into each other; still, a vestige of fear ran through me, attributable perhaps more to jealousy, since I didn't understand how she could kiss like an experienced lover, and at the same time I sensed that this was not experience at all but what she was giving me was the purest of instincts, and her purity affected me more than any experience possibly could; I was the one who, relying on my experience in love, wouldn't allow myself to yield to her fully; cunningly, and with a certain superiority, I merely tolerated her explorations and advances without really kissing her back; by unexpectedly and deliberately delaying my responses, by surprising her lips and her teeth with the tip of my tongue, or by actually obstructing the path of her tongue, I was enjoying her confusion and arousing further her desire for us to merge into one; what I really wanted was for her to abandon the last retreats of her modesty and shame and be totally at my mercy, which we both needed then—all the more so because the sober part of my consciousness had to realize that neither of us could stop or delay the chain of events without some risk; we would have to cope with the lengthy, intricate act of undressing, which would require all the reserves of skill and delicacy I still possessed, and the embarrassment of fumbling with buttons and strings and hooks would become a delicious new source of pleasure, a titillating memory only later, after the two naked bodies had already become one.

I may have planned out my every move, skillfully, sensibly, but there came a moment when I lost all my good sense, and now that I'm long past such matters and try to recall the events of that sunny morning with the detachment of an analyst observing his own activities, I realize that at this very juncture I run into the impassable barriers to free expression and have to crack that stone wall with my skull; and it's by no means modesty alone, obligatory and thus in many ways quite laughable, that makes my undertaking questionable: though it's not easy to call by their name the things that in daily life have their overused and hackneyed appellations, these words, denoting certain organs, functions, and motions, for all their spicy, down-to-earth vitality and expressiveness, cannot be used to describe my experiences, and not because I'd be afraid to transgress against bourgeois propriety
—I couldn't care less about that; my task here is to give an account of my life, and middle-class decorum can be only the framework for such a life; if for this final reckoning I wish to chart as precisely as possible the map of my life's emotional events, then I should be able to spread out before me my own body, and no amount of squeamishness should hold me back from scrutinizing it in all its nakedness, just as it would be ludicrous to tell the coroner not to remove the sheet covering the body on his table; in other words, I should be able to remove my robe and pajamas and her fussily beautiful dress here and now, just as I did then and there, while naming every gesture and emotion in the process; but after some reflection, I must say that to use common words to describe the so-called immodest parts of the body—and, since we are talking about a living body and its quite natural functions—would be as ridiculous and false as it would be to change the subject politely; to demonstrate the true dimensions of the problem and the difficulty of finding a solution, if I were to ask myself the question as a kind of test: "So tell me, my dear, on that sunny morning, did you finally fuck your fiancée?" I could answer in the affirmative, but that would be no less a deceptive oversimplification or generalization as it would be to say nothing, because this word of affirmation would help to gloss over crucial details, just as silence would; yet narcissistic curiosity, interested only in details concealed and deemed unworthy of attention, finds it difficult to form a clear picture of its object, which is itself, because the body loses self-awareness precisely at those moments when it could be most revealing; consequently, memory cannot retain what the body had not been aware of, allowing crucial gestures to slip away, though it also endows them with a very special air, as the memory of a fainting spell can preserve only the curious sensations of losing and then regaining consciousness while the fainting itself, most intriguing to us, for it's a state like no other, remains inaccessible, unknowable.