The Water and the Wine

by Tamar Hodes

  Leonard stayed in bed a long time. Marianne fed him as if he were a baby bird, spooning tiny helpings of Kyria Sophia’s broth into his dry mouth. Much of the time his eyes were closed and he moved seamlessly between sleep and wakefulness, calling out in his dreams. When he was able to, he told Marianne some of his hallucinations:

  ‘There were swans with great beaks and in each one there was a watch with a silver chain. I had to gather as many watches as I could, but it was impossible as the beaks wouldn’t release them and besides there were guards nearby…’

  ‘Ssh, Leonard,’ said Marianne, stroking his forehead. ‘Sleep some more, my love.’

  Although his prose was praised, it was becoming clear that it was his poetry and songs that touched people’s hearts. Bird on a Wire was now often played on radio: listeners identified with its longing for purity and rebellion in an ugly world.

  ‘I must be mad but I think I could make a living from poetry and songs. Just don’t tell my mother,’ he croaked.

  It seemed ironic to Marianne that while his body was ailing, like a beautiful exotic bird recovering from a bullet wound, his work was taking flight. Sometimes she worried about how long their love would last. He would become famous and in demand – and he deserved to be – but their relationship would turn to ash. In a sense, when he was there in bed with her seated beside him, she could keep their love going just that bit longer. At least she knew where he was.

  Although these weeks were a struggle and the weather was bad, it brought some surprise benefits. With Kyria Sophia and Marianne in charge of Leonard’s diet, he was eating better than he had done for months. Also, they hid the amphetamines and only gave them to him when he made a fuss. Too weak to type, he was compelled to lie in bed and the rest was helping him. They brought him paper and a pen when he demanded it. Sometimes he slept for twelve hours in a row and they let him. Marianne kept Axel Joachim away even when the child called out through the closed door for his absent friend, ‘Cone! Cone!’

  Gradually, Leonard’s health improved. The colour returned to his cheeks and his eyes shone again. Even his hair was sleeker, his body a little fleshier although he was never fat. Marianne kept the shutters closed against the rain which they could hear battering the windows. With the help of Kyria Sophia, who had been like a mother to her, she nursed Leonard back to health again.

  ‘I hardly know how to thank you,’ he said, holding her hand. ‘My heart is plump with your love.’

  Once he grew stronger, Marianne carried his typewriter to his bed, where, supported by pillows, he could work. She heard the familiar tapping, albeit muffled by the bedding. Marianne felt that she could leave him for a few days in charge of her son and go to visit Magda in the prison in Athens.

  Once again, she made the arduous journey: the boat to Piraeus with Alexis; a bus to the prison. It was a huge concrete building which looked as if an architect had been told to design something as hideous as possible, as if that were part of the punishment. After the beauty of the sea, it was a shock to see iron railings, barbed wire and concrete slabs.

  At the gates to the women’s wing, Marianne had to show her identity card and visitor’s pass and was then led through to a hall where guards stood menacingly at the side and prisoners could briefly meet friends and family.

  Marianne was told to sit down at one of the tables. She waited for a few minutes and then a woman dressed in a grey uniform, her chalky hair tied back in a rubber band and her face ashen, sat in front of her.

  ‘Marianne,’ she said softly. ‘It is so good of you to come all this way.’

  ‘Magda?’ asked Marianne, trying to adjust to the altered face. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I am surviving. The conditions here are very basic and the cell is horrible, but I can get through this. I try to fill my head with poetry and visions of nature and delicious food, and my lovely Alexander.’

  Marianne felt tears fill her eyes and wiped them away. ‘Why did you agree to take the punishment for that awful husband of yours? You have done nothing wrong.’

  ‘I can’t talk about that now, Marianne.’ The guard behind her shifted, checking his watch irritably. ‘How is Leonard?’

  ‘He has been in a bad way. A kind of breakdown. He was working too hard and not eating properly, taking pills he shouldn’t, and he ended up in bed for weeks. But I feel that he is slowly getting better. Kyria Sophia has been wonderful, feeding us, helping in any way she can. Axel Joachim has found it hard as they had grown so close and how can you explain to a baby that his friend is ill?’

  ‘Leonard is a genius and the world will recognise that at some stage.’

  ‘It’s starting to happen, especially in America, but no-one knows the pain behind the glory, do they?’

  ‘No, Marianne. He is lucky to have you. You are his Nordic pixie, and mine. I miss you so much.’

  ‘How is Alexander?’

  ‘He has gone back to Czechoslovakia to be with my mother.’ Marianne thought of Momo and how she had saved her when the family was fragmenting.

  ‘There is a large family there with my sister and cousins. He will be well looked after.’

  Marianne noticed that not only was Magda’s hair and uniform grey, but her eyes had lost their sheen, as if all shine had been removed on entry, along with her possessions.

  ‘Is there anything you need, Magda, anything that I can send you?’

  ‘We are not allowed luxuries.’

  ‘What about books? I can post you Leonard’s novel when it comes out.’

  ‘I don’t know. We will have to find out. Do not worry about me, Marianne. I have not lost hope. I know that eventually I will leave here and come back to Hydra and my friends and I know that I am loved.’

  ‘Always.’

  A guard shouted, the prisoners stood up, scraping their chairs on the concrete floors and Magda was ushered out. As she left, she smiled at Marianne through the bars and disappeared.

  On the long journey home, Marianne could not stop thinking about her friend. How could someone’s appearance and personality alter so quickly? What remained when you took away a person’s home, clothes, belongings and freedom?

  On the boat home to Hydra with Alexis, Marianne searched the deep velvet water and could find no answers. The pinpricked stars reflected in the sea, so that some areas were jewelled with hope, but then there would be large parts where the stars were swallowed up by the slate darkness.

  Marianne could not dispel the image of the wan Magda from her mind. She thought of her friend alone in her cell and of Leonard’s imprisonment in his bed. She could not understand why the good suffered and the bad prospered. There seemed to be no logic to it.

  On the bumpy night-time donkey ride back to their house, the mule boy was grumpier than ever, hitting the animal with a stick even when it paused for a second to shit or shake the fleas from its ears.

  Back at home, Marianne opened the door. The baby would be asleep, Kyria Sophia would be in her own home looking after her family and Leonard would probably still be in bed. She entered quietly so as not to disturb anyone but to her delight Leonard was reading in the living room. The shutters closed against the hostile night, candle flames danced in glass jars and a pile of coals glistened on a silver tray.

  ‘Leonard,’ she cried, ‘you’re up! How are you?’

  ‘I thought I’d surprise you.’ He smiled warmly, his skin still sallow but his eyes regaining some of their previous radiance. ‘I still feel weak but I am on the mend, thanks to you. How was Magda?’

  ‘Amazingly strong, given the horrendous prison she is in. You would not put a dog in there. It is squalid.’

  ‘Come and sit by me.’ She did so and he poured her a glass of retsina. ‘What would we all do without you, my angel? I have had a phone call from my publisher in New York. He wants me to do a tour, performances, interviews.’

  ‘Do you think you are well enough? I don’t.’

  ‘I do feel much stronger but I will tell you more about it tomo
rrow. For now, let us spend time together: Lay your sleeping head, my love / Human on my faithless arm.’

  xxi

  ‘When you say a tour,’ said Marianne, the following day, ‘when do you have to leave?’

  ‘I’m not sure exactly. It won’t be for a few weeks.’

  ‘A few weeks! Oh no. Do you think you are able to travel?’

  ‘I am feeling much better, due to your wonderful care. I have some more time to rest still but I do need to go. I’m sorry, Marianne.’ He held her hand in his, rubbed his fingers over her soft skin. ‘We need the money. Hydra is idyllic, but idylls don’t pay the bills. The novels won’t make me anything. I need to build a reputation as a poet and singer-songwriter.’

  ‘I know. I understand. But I do not want you to go.’

  Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

  Marianne noticed that he did not invite her to go with him and it stung.

  ‘The thought of being here without you is so painful.’

  ‘I am always with you, my love, even when we are apart. I carry you in my heart day and night.’

  ‘I will have to find something to do.’

  ‘Your modelling and posing for paintings has gone so well. Why don’t you go to Paris?’

  ‘Paris? Who do I know there?’

  ‘My friend Madeleine. She has a lot of contacts in the modelling world and her boyfriend Derek May knows people in films. I can write to them if you like. We are old friends; they live in the Latin Quarter.’

  ‘And where would Axel Joachim go?’

  ‘To Axel and Sonja?’

  ‘Absolutely not. They wouldn’t care for him properly. Axel hasn’t even seen him for weeks, he is so wrapped up in himself.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I will have to think.’

  Over the next few weeks, plans were finalised for Leonard to go to the USA and Marianne to Paris. Her mother had agreed to meet her there and take Axel Joachim back to Oslo. She missed him badly and it would be a chance for her to be a grandmother.

  As the day of departure approached, Marianne and Leonard felt closer than they had ever been before.

  ‘I am scared,’ she confessed one evening as they sat on the terrace and watched the sun bleed across a granite sky, ‘that we will never meet again and that this is the end.’

  Leonard turned to face her.

  ‘No, Marianne. Our separation is only the affirmation of our love.’

  Paris in autumn had a particular glow and elegance, as if the trees chose which leaves to wear and, rather than be covered in bushy mounds, they simply selected a few of ochre and russet to adorn themselves with. As she looked out through Madeleine’s large windows over the grey ribbon of the Seine, Marianne thought: a plate with little on it is so much more graceful than a heap of meat stew.

  Leonard had, as promised, arranged it all. Marianne stayed with Madeleine. She did not worry about Axel Joachim: he would be well looked after by her mother.

  It began well. The dark-haired Madeleine and the blonde-haired Marianne became friends and soon Marianne had photo shoots arranged.

  One day, Marianne wore a tight black dress, lined in red, with a zip running up the whole back, like a narrow road. The photographer, Pierre, placed her on a checked black and white backdrop so that she looked as if she were reclining on a huge chess board. Marianne did not mind posing: she had become used to it and she found herself stretching, bending, curling like a cat. Pierre gave strong instructions and clear orders. The day went well but at the end, Pierre came so close to her that she could see each hair on his beard.

  ‘You would like to come to bed with me?’ he whispered. ‘I would enjoy that very much.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Marianne. ‘I have a partner.’

  And how she missed Leonard and Axel Joachim.

  More photo shoots, more assignments, and to each of them, Marianne wore a ring made from a yellow-orange gem. The stone had belonged to her paternal grandmother. On one shoot, the ring bothered her and she took it off.

  Later that day her mother told her that her granny had died.

  Marianne went back to Oslo and was reunited with Axel Joachim, stayed for the funeral and did not return to Paris. All she had to show for the trip was a strip of black and white photos, given to her by Pierre. She could not help but feel disappointed. Another possible opening had led nowhere.

  Being back in Norway was a mixed experience. With her mother and Axel Joachim, they went to the house at Larkollen and Marianne showed him where she had learned to feed the birds. She saw the garage where the old car was kept, which Momo had said was really a horse. She remembered her grandmother’s stories of princes and faraway lands and her beautiful singing voice.

  She recalled meeting Axel and thinking how clever he was. He had taken her to The Theatre Café where young writers aired their views. She’d hung on every word he said. And he’d taken her drinking at Doverehallen, a student bar where people with shiny eyes and new ideas discussed the world. It had given her a break from her parents’ home where she would hide under the table and wait for their quarrels to end.

  She wondered if maybe she was too easily led, too impressed, by others, especially men. As a child, she had fantasised about Genghis Khan, imagining herself on horseback with him, galloping through vast, tented deserts, her bright scarves trailing in the wind.

  Now, in the evenings, she sat with her mother when Axel Joachim was in bed. They were cautious with each other, avoiding contentious subjects.

  Marianne did not say: my childhood was difficult, even before my brother and her father were both ill. She remembered her father having to give up his law practice as tuberculosis took hold of him and visiting him in the Mesnali sanatorium, staring at the pale man with closed eyes and thinking: is this man really my father? She did not accuse her mother: did you protect me enough?

  Her mother did not say: you could have married any man you liked, Marianne, and you chose Axel, a man from a broken home, a university drop-out who was never going to hold down a proper job. You were blown away by his writing and his charm and the books he lent you – Jung, Nietzsche – and the jazz records he played you: Duke Ellington, Charlie Parker. Now you are a single woman with a child and a new lover, with no permanent home.

  Instead they chose their words carefully and listened to each other. From her mother, Marianne had learned stoicism. When her parents used to argue, her mother was strong, answering back, retaining her dignity through it all.

  Marianne remembered how erratic Axel was, even in those early days. He would suddenly be impulsive, angry, wild. There was that dramatic time when, at a party in Bygdoy, he was so drunk that he put his hand on the kitchen table and drove a knife through it. Other times he was crazy, losing his temper for no reason, shouting.

  And that is how Marianne and her mother survived those few weeks, with caution, as if they knew they had too much to lose and might need each other in the future. They edged around each other, in the kitchen, with the baby, with their movements.

  Marianne was aware that her mother, living alone, had her own set routines. Her mother had an expression: if you have to break a glass, make sure it is a mustard glass and not the crystal. Marianne often wondered what she meant by this and thought, maybe what she was saying was, always value what is precious in your life and make do with the everyday pain that life brings: enjoy the wine but also learn to love water.

  Leonard was staying at the Chelsea Hotel in New York: the rooms were bright and large as if sending him a message of hope. The foyer gleamed with marble and mirrors, the silver and the white trying to outshine each other. He was sleeping well, had put on some weight and was feeling healthy. He was pleased that his work, at last, was being recognised.

  He wrote to Marianne:

  My dear Marianne,

  I am so sorry to hear about your grandmother. As we say in Judaism, I wish you long life.

  And it is a life that I wish to share with you. I miss y
ou so.

  A peach eaten without you lacks flavour.. A rainbow seen without you is grey. A sea dipped in without you is dry.

  You would love the Chelsea Hotel. The family who own it are the Bard family. Originally Jewish refugees. How can I not write with that name here? I hope someday that you will see it. Twelve storeys high, red brick, with black railings, it has something Gothic about it, like something out of Edgar Allan Poe. There is a staircase which rises all the way to the top. To be here is humbling as I am so aware of all the great people who have stayed here before: Janis Joplin, Andy Warhol, Arthur Miller are just some. Dylan Thomas even drank himself to death here.

  The tour is going well. I have met Bob Dylan and Joan Baez and they are helpful. I played some songs to Judy Collins and she said that she would back me. While we have been living on that Greek rock, music has exploded. People seem to like the poetry and the songs. I have been booked for some festivals. All of this makes me want to write more. I am torn constantly between paper and the guitar.

  Send my love to that sweet boy of yours. I am sure that Kyria Sophia will keep our house warm.

  I dream of being with you in our Aegean shuttered home and making love day and night with you. That is what sustains me.

  Your loving, Leonard.

  His letters became increasingly full of longing for Hydra and for Marianne.

  My dear Marianne,

  I cannot bear another day without you.

  It is going well here. Flowers for Hitler and Beautiful Losers are selling and I have been asked to sing in concerts and do interviews. This means more money too, hopefully, so that I can support you and that dear little boy who I love as if he were my own.

  I count the days, hours and minutes till I can hold you in my arms again.

  What is the point of life if I can’t share it with you?

  Your loving, Leonard

  The letters from Leonard comforted Marianne hugely. She stared at her strip of black and white photos from Paris and was sad that she had no further modelling deals. She had hoped that the shoot would have led to more work, but no. She wondered sometimes if she were enough for Leonard. Here he was, a sparkling star, and who was she? A pretty Norwegian girl without a career.