The White Hotel (5 page)

We had to rush upstairs. His prick was up
me and my cunt began to flood
even before we reached the top, the priest
had left to lead the mourners through the trees
to the cold mountainside, we heard the chants
receding down the shore, he took my hand
and slid my fingers up beside him there,
our other friend the plump corsetière
slid hers in too, it was incredible,
so much in me, yet still I was not full,
they bore the bodies from the flood and fire
on carts, we heard them rumbling through the pines
and fade to silence, I pulled up her skirts
for she was so gripped by her belt, it hurt,
and let him finish it in her, it seemed
no different, for love ran without a seam
from lake to sky to mountain to our room,
we saw the line of mourners in the gloom
of the peak’s shadow, standing by the trench,
a breeze brought in a memory of the scent
of orange groves and roses falling through
this universe of secrets, mothers swooned
crumpling into the muddy earth, a bell
tolled from the church behind the white hotel,
above it rather, half-way up the slope
to the observatory, words of hope
came floating from the priest, a lonely man
stood on the lake beside the nets, his hat
held to his breast, we heard a thunderclap,
the peak, held up a moment by their chants,
hung in mid-air, then fell, an avalanche
burying the mourners and the dead.
The echo died away, I shan’t forget
the silence as it fell, a cataract
of darkness, for that night the white lake drank
the sunlight swiftly and there was no moon,
I think he penetrated to her womb
she screamed a joyful scream, and her teeth bit
my breast so hard it flowered beads of milk.

4

One evening when the lake was a red sheet,
we dressed, and climbed up to the mountain peak
behind the white hotel, up the rough path
zig-zagging between larches, pines, his hand
helped me in the climb, but also swayed
inside me, seeking me. When we had gained
the yew trees by the church we rested there;
grazing short grass, a tethered donkey stared,
an old nun with a basket of soiled clothes
came, as he glided in, and said, The cold
spring here will take away all sin,
don’t stop. It was the spring that fed the lake
the sun drew up to fall again as rain.
She washed the clothes. We scrambled up the slope
into the region of eternal cold
above the trees. The sun dropped, just in time,
we entered the observatory, blind.
I don’t know if you know how much your son
admires the stars, the stars are in his blood,
but when we gazed up through the glass there were
no stars at all, the stars had gone to earth;
I didn’t know till then the stars, in flakes
of snow, come down to fuck the earth, the lake.
It was too dark to reach the white hotel
that night, and so we fucked again, and slept.
I felt the ghostly images of him
cascading, and I heard the mountains sing,
for mountains when they meet sing songs like whales.

The whole night sky came down that night, in flakes,
we lay in such high silence that we heard
the joyful sighs of when the universe
began to come, so many years ago,
at dawn when we crunched stars to drink the snow
everything was white, the lake as well,
the white hotel was lost, until he turned
the glass down towards the lake and saw the words
I’d written on our window with my breath.
He moved the glass and we saw edelweiss
rippling in a distant mountain’s ice,
he pointed where some parachutists fell
between two peaks, we saw the sunlight flash
in the now heavenly blue, a corset clasp,
it was our friend, there was the lilac bruise
his thumb had printed in her thigh, the sight
excited him I think, my light
head felt him burst up through, the cable car
hung on a strand, swung in the wind, my heart
was fluttering madly and I screamed, the guests
fell through the sky, his tongue drummed at my breast,
I’ve never known my nipples grow so quickly,
the women fell more slowly, almost drifting,
because their petticoats and skirts were galing,
the men fell through them, my heart was breaking,
the women seemed to rise not fall, a dance
in which the men were lifting in light hands
light ballerinas high above their heads,
the men were first to come to ground, and then
the women fell into the lake or trees,
silently followed by a few bright skis.

On our way down we rested by the spring.
Strangely from so high we saw the fish
clearly in the lucid lake, a million
gliding darting fins of gold or silver
reminding me of the sperm seeking my womb.
Some of the fish were nuzzling guests for food.
Am I too sexual? I sometimes think
I am obsessed by it, it’s not as if
God fills the waters with mad spawning shapes
or loads the vine with grapes, the palm with dates,
or makes the bull dilate to take the peach
or the plum tremble at the ox’s reek
or the sun cover the pale moon. Your son
crashed through my modesty, a stag in rut.
The staff were wonderful. I’ve never known
such service as they gave, the telephones
were never still, nor the reception bell,
honeymoon couples, begging for a bed,
had to be turned away, as guests moved out
a dozen more moved in, they found
a corner for a couple we heard weeping
at being turned away, we heard her screaming
somewhere the next night, the birth beginning,
waiters and maids were running with warm linen.
The burnt-out wing was built again in days,
the staff all helped, one morning when my face
lay buried in the pillow, and my rump
taking his thrusts was coming in a flood
we heard a scraping, at the window was
the jolly chef, his face was beaming, hot,
he gave the wood a fresh white coat, and winked,
I didn’t mind which one of them was in,
the steaks he cooked were rare and beautiful,
the juice was natural, and it was good
to feel a part of me was someone else,
no one was selfish in the white hotel
where waters of the lake could lap the screes
of mountains that the wild swans soared between,
their down so snowy-white the peaks seemed grey,
or glided down between them to the lake.

2

The
Gastein
Journal

S
he stumbled over a root, picked herself up and ran on blindly. There was nowhere to run, but she went on running. The crash of foliage grew louder behind her, for they were men, and could run faster. Even if she reached the end of the wood there would be more soldiers waiting to shoot her, but these few extra moments of life were precious. Only they were not enough. There was no escape except to become one of the trees. She would gladly give up her body, her rich life, to become a tree, frozen in humble existence, the home of spiders and ants. So that the soldiers would rest their rifles against the tree, and feel in their pockets for cigarettes. They would shrug away their mild disappointment, saying, One did not matter, and they would go home; but she, a tree, would be filled with joy, and her leaves would sing her gratitude to God as the sun set through the trees around her.

At last she collapsed in the bitter earth. Her hand touched something hard and cold; when she cleared away the leaves she found the iron ring of a trapdoor. She pushed herself up on to her knees, and tore at the ring. For some time there had been silence, as though the soldiers had lost her; but now again she heard them crashing through the undergrowth, close behind her. She tugged at the ring with all her strength but it would not give. A shadow fell across the fallen leaves. She closed her eyes, expecting everything to explode inside her head. Then she looked up into the frightened face of a small boy. He was naked like her, and blood poured from a hundred gashes and scratches. “Don’t be frightened, lady,” he said. “I’m alive too.” “Be quiet!” she told him. The iron ring would not budge, and she told the boy to crawl after her through the undergrowth. Perhaps the soldiers would mistake the blood on their backs for the crimson stain of the leaves. But as she crawled she felt bullets pumping into her right shoulder, quite gently.

The ticket collector was shaking her, and, apologizing, she fumbled with the clasp of her handbag. She felt stupid because, like the iron ring, the clasp would not give. Then it opened, she found her ticket, and gave it to him. He punched a hole in it and gave it back. When he had closed the door of the compartment she brushed down her black-and-white striped dress, and moved herself into a more comfortable and seemly position. She glanced at the soldier opposite who had joined her in the compartment while she slept; felt herself blush as she met his stare, and started tidying the contents of her handbag. She noticed that the young man with whom she had slept (in a manner of speaking) had placid green eyes. She took up her book and began reading again. Occasionally she looked out of the window, and smiled.

It was very peaceful: the rattle of the rails, the turn of a leaf, the rustle of her companion’s newspaper.

The young man wondered how anyone could smile while looking out at the monotonous ochre plain. It did not seem a smile of happy memory or expectation, but simply of pleasure at the scene outside the window. The smile transformed her pleasant, dull features. She carried rather too much weight, but her figure was well proportioned.

One of her smiles turned into a yawn, which she stifled quickly. “A nice sleep,” he said to her boldly, folding his paper in his lap and giving her a friendly smile. Her cheeks reddened. She nodded, glancing again out of the window; “Yes,” she said, “or dead, rather than asleep.” He found her reply disconcerting. “It’s the lack of rain,” she went on. “Yes, indeed!” said the young man. Still he could think of nothing more to say, and she returned to her book. She lost herself in her reading, for a few pages; then again her eyes slipped to the dry plain, behind flying telegraph poles, and her smile returned.

“Interesting?” he asked, nodding at her lap. She offered him the open book and stayed leaning forward. He was puzzled for a moment by the black and white dots which jumped about on the page to the train’s rhythm, like the stripes on her dress. Thinking to find a light novel, he found it hard to adjust to the strange language, and at first he thought—for some reason—that the book was in Tamil, or some other outlandish tongue. He was on the point of saying, “So you’re a linguist?” Then he realized it was music. There were words in Italian between the staves, and when he glanced at the book’s stiff cover (the binding crackled in his hands) he saw the name Verdi. He returned the book to her, saying that he could not read music.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, running her fingers over the cover. She explained that she was taking this opportunity to learn a new role. Only it was frustrating not being able to let her voice ring out, since the part was so tuneful. He told her to go right ahead and sing—it would relieve the boredom of this damnable plain! That was not, she said, smiling, what she had meant; her voice was tired and she had to rest it. She had been forced to cut short her tour and go home a month early. The only consolation was that she would see her little boy again. Her mother was looking after him; but although he liked his grandmother it was not much fun for him being cooped up all the time with an elderly woman. He would be overjoyed to see her come back early. She had not wired to let them know she was coming, as she wanted it to be a surprise.

The young man kept nodding sympathetically during her dull explanation. “Where is his father?” he inquired. “Ah! who knows?” She dropped her gaze to the operatic score. “I am widowed.” He murmured a regret, and took out a cigarette case. She declined, but said she enjoyed the smell of smoke, and it would not bother her throat. She would not be singing for some time to come.

Closing her score, she looked out of the window sadly. He thought she was remembering her husband, and tactfully kept silent as he smoked. He saw the attractive bosom of her black-and-white striped dress rising and falling in agitation. Her long straight black hair framed a somewhat heavy face. The pleasantly curved lips did not altogether compensate for the large nose. She had a darkish, greasy complexion, which he enjoyed, because he had spent three years on a very inadequate diet.

The young woman was thinking of the smoke of the train being carried away behind them. Also she saw this friendly young
soldier lying frozen in his coffin. She managed at last to bring her breathing under control. To divert her mind from these terrible things, she started questioning her companion, and found he had been a prisoner of war and was returning to his family. Her compassionate expression (he was thin and pale) changed to one of astonished pleasure when she caught the words “Professor Freud of Vienna.” “Of
course
I’ve heard of him!” she said, smiling, all her sadness forgotten. She was a great admirer of his work. She had even thought, at one stage, of consulting him; but the need had passed. What was it like to be the son of such a famous father? Not unexpectedly, he screwed up his face and gave a wry shrug.