Famished Lover (23 page)

I kept looking.

“After everything.”

She didn't seem jealous at all. I could picture myself peeling off her dress. But we would need to get into the shadows, away from the sun. It was hot, not wintertime at all. Even the leaves on the trees were warm, and her skin was so fair she'd redden easily, even blister.

“It's silly to think of a man loving just one woman for all his life,” she said. “You could love two quite easily. Or more, perhaps. If only society weren't so stuck.”

She was inviting me — clearly she was. I hadn't known before, but now I did. All I needed was the right spot. I looked and looked, but the wall of the forest grew thicker.

I looked.

And Lillian said, “Ramsay!”

I bolted upright. The room was filling with smoke.

“Michael!” Lillian screamed and left me in a moment. Most of the bedding either followed her onto the floor or, wrapped round her, went down the stairs, where I could see licks of flame in the blackness. “Michael!” she screamed again and again. A moment later I heard her cry, “There you are!”

I still hadn't moved from the bed.

The heat of the fire sprang through the walls. I ran to the closet that still had no door and pulled something off the rack and around my body. Then I stumbled into my studio and opened the storeroom and began to throw the paintings out the window in pairs, in threes, in singles. I could see first Michael on the ground — he was tiny, in bare feet, scrambling on the snow — then Lillian in her nightdress gathering him up.

“Ramsay! Come down!” she screamed to me.

“I've got time!” I yelled back and continued tossing. I tried to send them flat into the night so that they would land as softly as possible.

“Ramsay!”

Even in the shadows and the smoke I could see the paint on the walls bubbling and blackening.
But this is not it
, I thought. I
am not going to die tonight
.

I got the last of the paintings out. Lillian was screaming at me from below, but at least she had sense enough to stay a good distance away with the child. I flung myself into mid-air and fell flat upon landing, the thin snow barely cushioning my fall.

But nothing broken.

“Get away! Away from the damn thing!” I yelled. We sprinted down to the meadow. I was in sock feet but somehow didn't feel the cold, not immediately. We hadn't struck the tent yet and thankfully some blankets had been left out. I was sick at the sight of the house — a crackling burst of light in the cold darkness. Then we heard alarms in the distance, and neighbours ran to help now, voices shouted for us. Even down in the meadow the heat of the blaze drew sweat to my face.

I saw in Lillian's face a register of the shock of it, and baby Michael looked on in wonder as timbers started to fall.

“Your paintings!” Lillian said suddenly.

The south wall folded like a man suddenly driven to his knees, and a burst of flame and chaos spread over the ground where most of the canvasses had fallen.

“Let them burn,” I said quietly.

“But you saved them!”

“I was stupid to even waste a thought.” And then, when I saw the look on her face, I said, “We're all safe.”

“But what are we going to do?” Lillian wailed. “Everything's gone!”

“Do?” I said as lightly as I could. I felt oddly happy, as if my sails were unexpectedly full of wind. “In the morning we'll have breakfast and then start again from scratch.”

Soon the neighbours found us with their flashlights. Their voices were full of excitement and concern. “We're over here!” I called. “We're all right!” and I stepped forward. I had Michael in my arms now, and young as he was, I wanted him to see it. I wanted him to know what to do when the world has come crashing down.

“I need your help.” The words slip out almost carelessly, although I've been rehearsing them for days. I am pushing my broom with feigned industry while Henrike stands behind me, apparently watching a pair of birds that have slipped inside the factory.

“Yes?”

“I need clothes.”

“For winter?”

“To leave.”

She turns around as the birds swoop low past long, whirring machinery belts and then wheel higher into the rafters of the old place. We are all watching them. Her face betrays nothing.

The cracked windows and leaky walls of the factory keep out none of the gathering winter. We are defenceless against
it — all of us, Germans, British, Belgians, Russians. For months it seems we've been hearing the news of the great Fatherland's victories, but the German faces on the street are as pale and gaunt and joyless as ever, and the soup in camp has not thickened. But the packages from home have stopped coming. Either the Germans are stealing them outright, or the war is grinding out its victories by devouring both sides.

I wait for a sign from Henrike. She is preoccupied the rest of the day, then absent the next, which is not unusual — the leather shortages are so acute that our production some days falls to nothing. The next day is idle too, and I spend much of it sitting in a spot of sun behind the shelter of the least grimy window in the place. I allow myself three cigarettes and smoke them as slowly as possible.

When she comes back at last she pays me no mind until near the end of the day. Then she gives me a slight nod, a signal that usually means for us to meet later in the storeroom. But the door is locked, and I cannot contrive to wander by it more than twice without arousing suspicions.

I begin to wonder if I spoke to her in the first place or have imagined it all.

Finally, about a half-hour before the end of the day I see her talking with some of the men who work the machines. Once she points directly at me, and they all look. They continue their discussion. I die slowly on my feet, my heart breaking. If they come for me I will seize the first and shove his body into one of the leather cutters. I'll grab the next and fling him into a whirring belt, and then I'll run like a rat until they catch and kill me.

She leaves the men. She is walking towards the storage area, and it seems the workmen are still staring at me, but
when I look at them they appear preoccupied with other things.

It's a trap, but I have no choice. I leave my broom standing up against an old locker and walk directly to the storeroom even before Henrike is out of sight. No sense hiding it anymore. She is betraying me. It's not her fault. It's the fault of the war, which is stronger than nations, than empires, than history itself. The war is calling me, and I have no choice.

I leave the door to the storeroom open so the men can come in and catch me. When Henrike enters her eyes are wild with alarm. She stands shaking, feverish in the face despite the awful chill.

“Change quickly,” she says, and thrusts a bundle of clothing into my hands. “Then out through there.” She barely indicates the broken window high up the wall behind her.

She lowers her head and leaves, closing the door behind her.

The clothes are a fit for a German giant, not for me. Yet there seems nothing else to do but to carry on with the charade. In a moment men will burst through the door and beat me to death right here.

But they don't come. I have time to bundle my prisoner rags in the corner, to take the rope belt from my old trousers and bind it round the new ones to keep them from falling, then to climb on an old table and up some shelves. The door does not open. I reach the window and hear some men coming. I imagine them with heavy spanners and huge iron wrenches, clubbing me senseless in just a few minutes.

But the door stays shut and all becomes quiet.

I struggle out the window and peer down from a dizzying height at an empty, filthy cobblestoned back alley I've never
seen before. On the way down I have almost nothing to cling to — a bit of ledging, some faults in the brickwork where the mortar has fallen out. I jump the last several feet and land with the grace of a bag of rocks falling to the ground.

When I regain my feet and look at the opened window perhaps fifteen feet above me, it seems impossible that I was up there myself just moments before.

What to do? I have no extra food. I can't even think of what side of the factory I'm on or how I might best hide myself until dark. The alley is walled on three sides and leads, apparently, out to the large street that fronts the building. The doors on the left will only bring me back into the factory. I don't know what's on the right.

I stand in shock and indecision until a wagon comes clop-ping up the alley towards me. The horse is tired and slack, her ribs standing out and her head drooping almost to the cobblestones. An old man is driving. He nods just the once as if we were introduced long ago and he knows all about me.

When he gestures towards the back I stand rooted for a moment, stupidly uncomprehending, until I force myself to move. The bed of the cart is made of wood so old and worn I think it must have been fashioned in medieval times. I burrow under a pile of canvas sacking that smells of earth and rotten potatoes, and then the wagon starts backing up. All the way down the alley we ride. Between the sacking I can just see a strip of sky, segments of the grim and crumbling walls of the factory. I can hear the horse's hooves slipping on the cobblestones as she awkwardly manoeuvres backwards. Then we must be emerging onto the street, wagon first, with me cowering, trying to stay still.

At last we change direction and I watch the roofs of the
buildings scrape the edge of the sky and hear other vehicles — many horse-drawn, but some with engines. I stay as still as possible. Gradually the old town of Münster gives way, and I can smell the countryside and feel the difference in the ride and noise of the wheels from paved road to dirt and rocky lanes.

Finally the wagon stops. I smell mud and manure and hear the honking of a goose. Cautiously I look up. The farmer is standing on the ground now, motioning to me. I crawl down stiffly and he hurries me into a low rock barn, which is packed with hay in one corner. He doesn't say a word but points, and so I climb into the damp, smelly mess and cover myself. Then he leaves. The wooden door bangs shut and I wait. When it gets dark i'll head west. Münster is close to the Dutch border. But I didn't get a good look around and will be lost if I can't glimpse the sun before it goes down.

Cautiously I stand up and approach the door. Silence. I creep out and survey the area quickly: a shabby old farmhouse, a series of low walls, pastures down a hillside, trees in the distance where the sun appears to be heading. I steal past the edge of the barn, trying to seal the sight into my mind. Then I am seized by an overwhelming need to pee. I fumble with the new trousers.

When I am finished I turn to fix myself up. The farmer's wife is staring at me, her fat arms full of a tray laden with bread and cheese and a mug of milk so warm from the cow it shimmers in the cold air. She says something to me in German and I nod at her dumbly. She motions to the door of the barn, then backs up to let me pass. I enter once again and sit on a wooden rail. It takes all my will to not throw myself at the glorious food.

“Are you friends of Henrike's?” I ask slowly, hoping she will comprehend. She says something back in German and I struggle to find words. Two years in the country and what can I produce?

“
Danke
,” I say.

I shook his hand, making sure not to cripple him, but his chin wagged a little so I let go immediately and sank into the solid oak chair on the customer side of his desk.

“I was so sorry to hear,” he said. “What a tragedy. What an awful, awful thing.” He straightened his tie and so I straightened mine. And he started shuffling through the file dispiritedly.

“It was the wiring,” I blabbered. He'd see it all in his file anyway. “I did everything myself on that house, but I'd no experience with wiring and must have crossed something somewhere. I'll get someone qualified next time, of course. And no one was hurt. That's the wonder. It's only money.” I smiled at him and he looked up from the papers finally, his pale eyes reflecting dull disbelief at the naivety of such a statement.

“The fire was entirely your own fault, and you had no insurance,” he said.

“No, unfortunately I hadn't gotten around to that.”

He stared bleakly at me, then returned to the file.

“I'm good for it,” I said. “The full amount. I'm gainfully
employed, this is only a small setback. It means I'll be a few more years repaying you. Which is a good thing in your business, isn't it?”

He tapped his pencil on the blotter pad and with his left hand massaged his eyes behind his glasses.

“The only collateral you have, Mr. Crome, is the deed to the land.”

“Oh yes, that, and I have a wife and child. I'll gladly give them up to you and the bank trustees if I ever miss a payment!”

His gaze was withering.

“Listen,” I said, leaning in, trying to burn my eyes right back into his. “You know I'm good for it. I fought, killed and starved for my country. I built that house with my own hands, and by God I will rebuild it better than it was. And I will work to my dying day to fatten your bloody profits. There's nothing for you to decide here. Sign the form right down there.” I pointed to the box where I knew his name was supposed to go.