by Alan Burns
She cut out coloured materials and put them on her head; she ran through hoops to the sound of a gong; she made small cakes for her father. He made her stop her needlework for fear that it might injure her eyes – she made umbrellas out of coloured paper. She sat talking to me, her hand on an animal – she had a dog of her own; when she had pains in her ears she touched the dog’s ears; when she could not see, she touched his eyes; when she had broken bones in her feet, she stroked his feet. She cut out of stone a channel for running water in the form of the face of a dog, and she floated cups down the stream to other children waiting below.
Her father took charge. He ordered the commander’s death to be marked by two stone monuments, a stone platform, a stone column eight feet high surmounted by four banners inscribed in four languages, iron-coloured tiles, an iron covering. A bell was cast. It was fifteen feet high and fourteen in diameter; the knob of the bell by which it was suspended was seven feet high; the thickness of the iron was seven inches. It weighed twelve tons. It was carved with characters inside and outside: the characters were each an inch in size, and close together like the teeth of a comb; they were written by a scholar; they echoed the words written on the banners. One banner asked: “What is religion?” Three banners answered: “Fear.” The bell was suspended. The tower was levelled and the bell buried in the ground. The bell was removed. A second tower was constructed, fifty feet in height: it was square below and round above; there were windows on all sides; a circular staircase ascended on the left and descended on the right; each stair was carved; above the bell sprawled a bronze dog being knifed by a man; the bell hung in the centre – pure bronze, exactly upright, with a fine sheen. I never heard it sound. It was the year of hope not to be realized – not for years, not in the way expected.
Her father ordered the completion of the bridge – the bridge that had been begun before, the bridge that had been talked about, the link between the old town and the new. It was nothing unusual. The bridge crossed the river, it passed the town; there was nothing, then it ran – it was impossible to prevent. There were tunnels, a strip of metal; it carried; it was built; rocks were moved and heaped up under mountains; the bridge was built in terror, the work was finished with songs – she sang; the earth was moved, step by step – filling bags with earth, she worked. Other hands attempted – failed; she stayed there, bending. She longed for a jug of milk; a drink of water was the taste of apple in her mouth, a touch on the shoulder, a smile. She picked up a piece of sacking to wipe her hands; it was soaked in oil – it made her hands glisten. She worked for thirty hours, alternately lashed and praised. Her brain was nailed in a box.
Her father shouted, his voice against the noise, boastful of the labour and colossal expense, the cubic yards and thousand tons. She struggled, a patch of sweat under her lip.
She slept close to his animals, his valuable hounds. In the corner of her room she kept a dog, kissed his teeth – she adored his sharp teeth; clinging to his teeth she turned, falling onto a sloping table. I said: “Something of yourself.” “And so?” she replied. “Was it not you?” Her face began to speak of home. She had returned to her family, waving her hand; then a piece of lead replaced her slow hand; her lips moving, she came towards me. We did not meet – she had no reason to tell the truth. She left, motioning with her hand towards my cool recess, a table placed between columns, pieces of furniture within an archway, musical instruments, elegant clothing, gentlemen gazing at lakes.
She worked on the line. She took the risk, by regulation forbidden, when the smoke came, to leap off the line. She came to me. A sinister fact. It was the rule to choose to do without. She jumped and clung to her need for the new. There was no wall, no wire, but terror was their weapon; there were all the signs; the blocks were kept ready in huts. The rest were imprisoned by the familiar, the family wall.
I was not bound by their regulations. I asked for information. I was told that the work could be seen in steel. I measured the steel and asked again. I was referred to the inspectors; I saw none.
She lifted the wheel, walked in a circle, prevented the wheel from slipping back. She worked on the hardest roads, her skin a blanket, a leather bag; she could not drink water; her comfort lessened; she scraped the hillside; she was thrown, slipped down; her feet caught; she lay like a stick on the ground. Drivers passed in rock-filled trucks; lines of trucks on the roads, the rock path; rock blast, engineering to the end that two towns should be joined by a bridge, a railway track, a great high road. Watchmen guarded the iron; they did not notice her while the trains were in motion with a wild air – brass encased in patterns of brick red and black with pieces of mirror, crowned with iron and patterns of red, with a high front, brass lower down, tints of bright lights and wide areas of iron clapping against metal or wall, rock, iron held in fire, wheels working, streaks daubed on cement walls and the name branded on stone – her family name – slate-tinted, slab-sided, gaunt and hideous beacons of usefulness hurling themselves over walls.
I heard her breathing. She refused my help. I could not protest or protect as she scuffled past, hollow, narrow, unknown. She had shaved her head; she was dry earth, burnt grass, blackened wire, torn and scrubbed; she worked on uneven ground, crawled, moved, marched, portrayed the work – a show of work. She led the shouting; all messages and questions sounded sinister, and shouting was greeted with cheers and shouting. She carried her shoes round her neck – she would not wear shoes; her yellow shirt was red with sweat because of rage; her sweat stinging, her skin dotted with a fine white growth, she alternately drooped and shouted. On a platform a propaganda man – plump, with white teeth – his full mouth quivered with laughter; beneath the poster the torn remains of an early proclamation… inviolability of person and dwelling, unlimited freedom of religion, speech, press, assembly, strikes and unions, freedom of movement and occupation, election by the people of army officers and recall of any of them, at any time, by the will of the majority of the electors, replacement of the police and the standing army by a general arming of the people, eight-hour workday for all hired labour – allowing, in case the work is continuous, for not less than one hour’s time for eating, complete prohibition of overtime work… She threw away her shoes, unwilling to be the one with shoes; she was sweating, her body closely covered with grey cloth. The bones of her face were still good. I had eyes. “When I leave, will you come with me?” I was about to say more, but that was sufficient. Slowly she began to lose control. “I’ve had enough.” Her eyes inflamed. There seemed to be no danger; calm was a sign of strength. “I could not do so – I might want to – the frontier’s closed.” I pulled her down in the heat; there was no room; the roof moved, the ground was forced up, her knees touched the ground – the skin was hurt by the stones; she was forced to stay in that low place – she tried to get away, but was jerked under.
Friendship was survival in the face, the rock foundations of the bridge and the songs moved forwards slowly. She organized the dance; they followed her, shouting in time, circled the fire, died down, sat and slept by the fire. Some were accused of sabotaging labour discipline. They were expelled by soldiers with bayonets drawn, piled into lorries and driven off at top speed. We built brick structures; the earth was loaded, the rock tipped; the earth rose up, compressed by stamping. The towers of bricks held the weight of the bridge, which would open by swinging or lifting – a counterpoise bridge supported by beams resting on abutments on either side, having lattice girders, a hanging scaffold, a railed plank extending. She wheeled a load of stones along a path of planks; her feet were bandaged – the bandages on her crippled feet were tied with cords. I observed her straining her legs forwards, stumbling over the wheelbarrow, her movements as she practised moving forwards in bounds, her convulsive grip and struggling climb, the proud look on her father’s face; he appeared at ease on the observation platform, but wanting nerve. For the first time he climbed down; his clean shoes sank in the clay; he held her arm firmly; h
e was in a good temper; she had to climb the slope at speed – he helped her up. He was sixty-eight years old, short and stout, with a round flushed face, with a pipe the feature of his dress in all his portraits, the hand covered the pipe. The detective who always stood behind turned hastily, entangled his sleeve in the sleeve of the leader; the pipe fell to the ground; those surrounding him formed a close circle, and the damage was repaired. She was not trying; she kicked at the loose stones, she struggled up the floor of rock – a long slope with sides of stone, stones pulled off a wall, a new wall built over the mountains, a line across a map.
I walked carefully along the track, made a map of the new line where it paralleled the frontier for twenty miles and branched south-west a few miles from the town. The workers were sent in trucks from the town to the camp; they crossed the track at two points. Heavy supplies in armoured trains travelled at dusk or at night. I hid at night and watched the guard through a window in order to note when he left his post. The door opened, he looked in my direction, walked back towards the bridge; the man failed – his back was turned when he was meant to guard.
The skilled dynamiters split the rock more slowly in the last hour of work. The great rock shook. A ruined engine with roaring coals crashed into the shattered trucks; twisted metals flung the trucks with violence on their sides, an ammunition truck loaded with shells exploded, in two places the track was obliterated by splintered rock. I saw her running in the middle of the track – she escaped a collapsing wall; two others were killed. One armoured train had been derailed, twenty-three trucks turned over by the explosion. My job was done. I should have cleared out at once and returned home, but I could not leave the dozens of men on the ground; foolishly I went to help the dead – I worked at speed, rounded up rescuers and cranes. I opened the gates, held them open, cut the ropes across the road; as they fought to get free of the wreckage, they threw themselves over the rubble. The wind raised clouds of dust from the rubble, then the dust was laid by rain. I was not wearing shoes; my bare feet slipped on the moistened dust on the rotten planks which led to the bridge. The bridge was cut in two – half lay in water, half on land. I leapt across a strip of water; I tried to reach her; it was dangerous; water was already flowing between my feet. I was sixty yards away – it was unsafe: water ran down the wall; the roof started to give way; I was forced against the wall; it was useless to try – I turned back; I was trapped by a rush of water; it was hard to keep my balance; I steadied myself and waded through; I pushed against water up to my mouth; I felt her with my hand – I leant against her; I could not keep awake. I saw furniture – the room was mine: the front room, the living room; words could be heard, someone was walking; there was only one; the wind blowing the dust. I went through rooms to go to the lavatory; I knocked the light over; I could not put my foot on the ground, I could not open the door; I lit the lamp – the glass was broken – it was not safe; the light went out; the glass fell to pieces. No light showed the way – lamps would not keep alight in water. Listening to the water rush, I felt for the plank, crossed the darkness. Stones fell from the roof; I heard the stretcher crack – it made no difference. I was careful to crouch. The others were hurrying back to warn us; they delayed us. Her desperate face: “I have no pay. I have not worked a full week. I have made a bad start.”
Chapter 12
She was an asset to the state. If they discovered her attempt to escape, she would be taken back immediately, and I would be carrying dynamite if a shot should strike my back. There was a safe area a mile to the south of the town, well away from view at night; from there it would be easy. There was a moon. I was confident. The guard was lying dead – I would be him returning home, my papers in order. I carried the actual papers of a real man, including the photographs of his girl. Silently we crouched by the side of the road; the broken moon gave light; there was nothing; a whisper. I could explain everything to everybody. I was complete. We lay down by the hedge until it was light. The weather was very cold. They would not know where to look.
The straight white road, the trees by the side of the road, the man mending the wall, the narrow poles with white faces turned backwards and forwards from the town; we left the road to see the slabs of rock.
On a ridge of boulders – a hut of boulders frozen over – we set about building a shelter: we made a tent by drawing together the edges of a piece of cardboard, with a slanting roof as a precaution against falling stones; we worked together to weave a tent to shelter a whole family. Drawn together, essential to each other, we slept covered by tough sheeting to keep out the cold and preserve the warmth generated by our bodies.
I returned home with food. We sat and repaired our home. I was putting on my boots when men approached us and asked us what we were doing there. They could not understand our language. We had to wait while they checked our papers. I said we were there to admire the palaces and see the fortress pulled down.
She knew she was threatened with capture. She had been given her freedom after being kept locked in for years, and in the end liberty would lead again to capture. Some troops approached – a company of fifteen, part of a regimental band – whose music we had heard before, not far away. One of them played the clarinet; the wood shone black in the sunlight. She kept apart from them; I diverted their attention from her by conversing with them. I learnt that in the plains below for some days there had been heavy rains – the floods were out – with the result that some troops had been drowned, valuable equipment had been abandoned, one of their dogs could not be found, the families of some of the men had lost their homes. Their senses were dulled, their powers reduced; they stood on the ground trying to practise the same tune. Two young drummers sat on the stone wall a few yards away, demoralized, helpless. They tapped out the same rhythm over and over again. One of them undid the heavy leather harness and placed his drum beside him on the wall. He was warned by an officer: “You could be shot.”
A yellow bar of light dissolved; we lay on the rough sand, the last light of the sun in her mouth. A footstep warned. We retired quietly into the depth of our home, to lie low. She would have run, flown. But her injured, tired body was incapable, due to her slight build, her habit of running, the painful shocks she had had. I told her it would be better, more effective, to hide. We enclosed an area on which she could lie flat on her back – an area protected on all sides by a series of stones raised to form a sort of diamond, irregular but strong, with a vein of stone running across obliquely to the outer edge. She lay back, safe, and smiled with her fine teeth. Her head lay in a small clear area where the sand was a dark colour and the stones made a straight edge, hard and sharp. With flint I entirely removed the roughness where the grains projected. We were not alone in bed. Built around us in successive layers were old patterns, fixed in design, immovable without breaking the body.
I used my hands to alter the ground, the patterns, until we reached perfection, giving complete smoothness around us both, to our eyes an indescribable beauty, magnificent, costly. The strength of each stroke was the slow and careful elaboration, the only style which had success. My hands used her like an object, carried her forwards. She judged my caresses by their weight – the lightest being the best. I felt a vibration between us – we communicated – and though we no longer completely overlapped, a space was formed, enclosed: the outer surface formed a box. I moved slightly in – tentative, intermittent, then more restrained. Suspicious, she appeared to recede. Then the two were exactly symmetrical; in our peculiar bends and convolutions we corresponded perfectly. I left her easily, attempted again without success; certain muscles hardened in that position, then attained the perfect state. With unusual patience, without injury to the delicate structure, we found the desired position. She seemed not quite happy, to be making a conscious effort, by crossing one leg over the other so that the position became unintelligible. Then everything – the sand, the rocks, the structure of the building enclosing us – everything was used, until that tim
e, and another time, became equally perfect. If a part went dead and had to be moved, the suggestion was reversed, and the same seemed the same. She was quite silent. Her love came from joy. She invited me to come to her – expected me to come and join her. I was unable to discover any fault. I remained quiet – carefully, she saw me retreat, quietly – she remained quiet. I went towards her again, merely for my own pleasure, for the pure joy of life. It was interesting to attempt to force her to retreat into her own dwelling, and find both of us in one home.
Hearing songs, I thought they were being broadcast, but the band was being drilled – marching and counter-marching into itself. We were near the end – the outside was closing in on us. She covered her legs. We could both appreciate the music; the band was making itself a life – we were swamped by the big sound of the band. She was seen: she wanted to sit in the sunshine to hear the music and watch them exercise their dogs. She had grown young: she was not lined in any way – her skin had been carefully smoothed. We had only just room to turn round; our building, commenced at the beginning of winter, was merely a winter shelter – not right for the spring; though I could have enlarged it, perfected the smoothness of its walls, it was still not a home – merely a shelter. The whole of the labour had been performed, but the place must now be left and the labour wasted. I knew that, though she did not. We were really in the earth, simply lying on the surface of the earth. She pushed off the roof, like a lid. It was not a question of escape, but of moving.
She listened to the cries of the dogs, stretched after us, moving in leaps. Fleeing from the dogs with the speed of a greyhound, her life a struggle against attack, she knew how to reserve her strength when running. She kept ahead just enough to avoid being caught. Occasionally dodging to one side or turning suddenly, she changed her direction and followed their steps, jumped a gate, forced through a hole in a fence, leapt five feet, running at full speed. She escaped by mingling with them.