Cretan Teat

by Brian W Aldiss

  I said, ‘Excuse me,’ as I stepped on the toe of one of a group standing just behind me.

  ‘Oh, you are English!’ she said, and burst into laughter. She was a buxom blonde, one of a group of four, who laughed with her. ‘That’s funny.’

  ‘You speak English?’ I asked, not entirely pleased.

  ‘We all can speak English if we bother,’ said one of the men, wearing a T-shirt with a map of the state of Maryland printed on it, and they laughed again.

  I said to the woman who had spoken first, ‘You are wasting your time with these guys. Come with me and have some witty conversation. I’m not drunk like them.’

  ‘You are too old,’ she said, looking not displeased.

  ‘Not too old for some things.’

  The man with the T-shirt advertising Maryland said something sharp in his native tongue. She answered something which must have been the local equivalent of ‘balls’, took my arm, and pushed with me through the crowd.

  ‘Where did you come from? How are you here?’ She was not particularly pretty. I explained I was a friend of Ingrid’s, that we had met in Crete and so forth.

  ‘It must seem bad to come to this place and find it full of drunken Danish people. I am from Jutland. You must become drunken yourself. Then it will not feel so bad. There’s vodka. I know where.’

  Music was playing, harsh rock ’n’ roll. Suddenly it changed to something of an earlier period, sweeter and slower.

  As she pushed our way into the kitchen, she said, ‘It’s Herb Alpert and the Tiwana Band. For Jannick. He likes them. It’s his period. Maybe yours too?’

  She poured us two generous jiggers of Absolut vodka. Beyond the kitchen was a conservatory, unlit, unoccupied. I took her in there, drained my glass, flung the empty onto a wicker chair, took her in my arms and began to dance with her.

  ‘We don’t dance this way no more.’

  ‘Any more. See what you’re missing.’ I kissed her. She turned her face, so that my kiss landed on her cheek.

  The guy with the Maryland T-shirt came in at this juncture and pulled the blonde away from me.

  ‘I would hit you if you were not old,’ he said, looking pretty offended.

  ‘I was in the Commandos. You touch me and you’re on the floor with a broken neck, sonny, okay?’

  ‘She’s my girlfriend.’

  ‘Is she? Too bad. She told me she was sick of your company and your breath smelt bad, and being in bed with you was like being shagged by a camel.’

  At this, the girl burst out laughing. She was still laughing – and giving me a wave – as they disappeared back into the rabble.

  The vodka must have gone to my head. I went and poured myself another dose, sank back into the wicker chair in the gloom, and took the drink slowly.

  Lights came on in the conservatory, other people milled about, paying me no attention. Music in the main rooms was noisier now. I roused when Ingrid stood over me, saying brightly, ‘Darling, I’d like you to meet my husband, Sven Andersson.’

  I rose and shook hands with a gaunt man of bony feature, whose hair was plastered flat across his skull.

  He asked me what part of England I was from. My answer puzzled him. ‘Salisbury? Salisbury? I been many times to England. Never heard of Sainsbury.’

  ‘Salisbury.’

  ‘Quite, quite. Somewhere to the north of Southampton, I imagine?’

  ‘Most places are.’

  ‘I mean to say Northampton. No, you’re getting me confused. Is there a football team calling itself East Hampton?’

  ‘Oh, stop this!’ Ingrid exclaimed. ‘What does it matter? You’re plainly drunk, Sven. Come on, both of you. Supper is prepared.’

  ‘But the question isn’t answered…’ Nor was his question ever answered.

  A large table had been laid, aglow with candles, cutlery and silverware. We lost Sven, happily, as he took a diversion towards the bar. ‘The bastard’s pissed again,’ said Ingrid, over her shoulder.

  The meal consisted of a number of dainty courses, mainly fish, some hot, many cold. All were washed down with an excellent white wine. Conversations ran sporadically up and down the table. We sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to Jannick, after which Ingrid rose to her feet.

  ‘I love you all! You are all lovely people. Also you are intelligent – with a few exceptions. So I beg you now, for just a little while, to speak in English for the sake of our English friend by my side, who naturally does not speak Dansk.

  ‘Since I love you all, I will come round to kiss some of you. We play Confessions! Those whom I kiss must then say if they are happy or not in this life and give reasons. Just a sentence or two and then you get another kiss, or a bite on the ear.’

  The speech raised a lot of laughter and comment. I thought she staggered slightly as she started on her rounds. At Jannick’s chair, she stopped and gave him a lingering kiss on the lips, to which he responded warmly, wrapping an arm round her shoulders.

  ‘Oh, what a brother!’ she gasped. ‘Why have we never committed incest? Jannick, say if you are happy or not in this life.’

  Jannick stood up rather drunkenly, laughing, to say, ‘With such a sister like this one, who could be unhappy? Yes, my life’s okay, Ingrid, sweetheart, and one day before I am too bald I will become manager of my company.’

  ‘Then we can all be rich!’ Ingrid shrieked. She was well into her performance now, calling as she went, amid sly remarks from the other guests, ‘I love you so much, I sleep with you all and you all sleep with each other.’

  The game went on, with Ingrid rushing round about the table, waving her arms excitedly. Most people declared their happiness at being present on this occasion. An elderly lady, having received Ingrid’s kiss, said, ‘My husband died since five years. Frankly, it was a relief. I don’t wish for any sex, only pleasant male company. I have a little house on the Swedish archipelago, where I remain in the summer. There I sun myself and take it easy. I would say I am content.’

  A pretty blonde young cousin, not more than twenty-five years old, was next for the kiss. Ingrid flung herself upon her, kissed her deeply, rubbed her breasts, while the girl squeaked. ‘Oh, you are so gorgeous, Liss, I could easily have an affair with you! Once I was like you, long before men ruined me. You honey-pot, tell me you are happy with your life!’

  The girl, looking considerably flustered, said, ‘Please, Ingie, I can’t tell if I’m happy. We are all so spoilt and so prosperous. What do we do with our lives? Are we just supposed to be like this, having parties and sex and drink and drugs and everything – in a world starving, and with many wars? I am so useless. I think it always.’

  Ingrid’s response was admirable in my eyes. She kissed the girl more gently, saying, ‘You make us all happy by being here. Now, that is not useless!’

  The kisses and confessions continued. Ingrid was getting drunker, snatching drinks from guests’ glasses as she passed. Everyone was excited, urging her on, laughing, cheering.

  When she reached my chair, we kissed deeply. She proclaimed in a scream, ‘This is the man I love the most!’ to great applause. She had already made such an announcement twice before to others.

  ‘We cannot expect to be happy all the time. It is sufficient to be happy tonight, and to be in company with people like Jannick and Ingrid. I say – may tonight continue forever!’

  As I sat down, she whispered, ‘Meet me outside in ten minutes.’

  Many people were on their feet now. Jannick took over his sister’s role, and ran about kissing the girls, hardly waiting for them to make their statement. Under the pretence of looking for the toilet, I sneaked out of the back door. The chill of evening hit me. I was dizzy with drink. I peed into a bush.

  In the front of the house, the cars were whales beached on the pavement. I tried several doors. Finding one that opened, I got in and sat there. With English instinct, I had chosen the left-hand door, and so found myself behind the steering wheel. By luck, I had picked Ingrid’s car; in a minute, she came an
d sat in the front seat, throwing herself on me.

  We kissed.

  ‘Oh, Ingrid, what fun you are!’

  ‘We must not be bored. The evening was getting boring.’

  She was searching in her handbag for something. I saw a glint of keys in there, reached in, snatched the keys out. The one that was clearly the car ignition key I thrust into the ignition, starting the engine.

  ‘What’re you doing? Are you mad?’

  I backed out of the narrow space and swung the car onto the road, to charge down it at a great pace in first gear.

  ‘Stop, you fool, stop! What do you do? You can’t drive in Denmark!’

  ‘Left or right at the end? Quick! Quick! Which way?’

  ‘No, no, we must stay at the party. It’s right, turn right! They will miss us!’

  ‘They’re pissed.’ I swung hard over to the right, flipping on the headlights as we ran onto a broader road. A man out walking his dog jumped for his life.

  ‘You nearly killed him! Stop! Stop! You’re mad!’

  ‘He was in the bloody way. Now where?’

  ‘You’re on the wrong side of the road.’

  ‘Bugger!’ I swerved violently, to avoid an oncoming car by inches.

  ‘Oh, Christ! Left here. Slow down, will you?’

  Houses and lights swept away in a blur.

  ‘Ingrid, apologies, but I’ve got to get you back to the fucking summerhouse. I must have it up you.’

  ‘So you kidnap me! Slow down. Mind these people. Turn right here.’

  We were on the back road. I managed to drive without going into the ditch. I slowed. I stopped. I got out and went round the car to help her out. But she was out already. Slamming the door shut, we ran to their garden and into the summerhouse.

  ‘No lights! The girls might see us.’

  ‘I don’t care. I must have it up you, I must! Shit!’

  I was falling over, trying to get out of my trousers.

  ‘What are you doing, for God’s sake? Can’t we talk? You’re pissed!’

  ‘Get your clothes off. I’ve longed for you all day. Come here.’

  ‘But the party – ’

  ‘What do you think I came to Denmark for?’ I was laughing, she giggling.

  ‘Torskerogn,’ she kept saying, in answer to my question. ‘Torskerogn, of course.’

  ‘Your fanny! Understand? I must kiss your fanny.’ We were struggling in the dark, she fending me off feebly, as if it were a game.

  ‘No, no, you can’t. I must go back to the party.’

  ‘I must kiss your gorgeous fanny first.’

  Her panties were flimsy little things. I dragged them down her legs. She kicked them away, and was making a struggle of some kind, maybe to add to the excitement. Once I had my hand on her fanny, there was no more resistance. ‘Oh, oh, sweetheart…’ she murmured, incoherently.

  We were perched on the edge of a sofa. Sliding off onto my knees, I managed to get my tongue between her lower lips. She was not particularly hairy. I hardly heard her groans, since I was making similar noises of delight myself, as she slid closer to the horizontal, parting her thighs to allow me deeper into that hot little grotto. How I loved its creamy contents, the taste, the feel, the experience, the conflagration at the centre of the glow-worm world! Then I began to rub the charmed spot. As she writhed, so she slipped down beside me.

  ‘Grab my prick!’

  She grabbed it and began kissing its stem, whilst keeping up a low-intensity squeak of desire. Could we see in the dark?

  It was as if neither of us could let go of the prize we had at our fingertips. How can I describe that great ocean of feeling in which we were being carried? If you have swum in its depths, then you will understand; if you have never swum there… Well, what is my book doing in a monastery?

  As for those murmured nothings, when set down on the page they do not carry with them the fragrant breezes of desire that once filled their sails.

  ‘Oh, I love you so. I always did. I need you inside me. Stick this thing inside me.’

  As rabbit into rabbit hole… Female flesh encloses you. Your entire sensibility pursues it.

  ‘Oh, that delectable quim of yours… I always desired you! I’m in there! Right in!’

  ‘Oh, I need it. Why fool about? More, more…’

  She was practically on top of me. I munched on a breast like a mango. Then she plunged her lovely tongue deep into my mouth. All our salivas were functioning, and we were gasping at the same time, ‘Oh, you’re mine, you’re mine. I’ve needed you…’ And other such incoherencies. ‘You can’t know how I feel…’ ‘I feel the same…’

  ‘Brilliant…’

  ‘Beautiful…’

  With our breathed words went that continued movement, rocking back and forth, little more than six inches in either direction, yet making irresistible progress towards fulfilment…

  This is hardly the time for interruptions, but if you are worried about adultery, let me tell you that when you reach my age, all the women who are attractive come with blokes attached. The ones who are free are rejects from the pastures of sex. Once you draw your old age pension, adultery attains, if not legality, compulsory status. It’s okay – you have only a few years to go.

  Wave on wave of fruitful feeling, on and on, striving strongly, out into the most orchidaceous of oceans, lovely Ingrid and I, afloat together, blissful, naked bums going like fiddlers’ elbows.

  Then we were beached at last. ‘Next time, from behind,’ she whispered.

  Chapter Seven

  It is much to be regretted, not least by any serious critic, that I should have wasted time describing my insignificant pleasures in Denmark. However, they were far from insignificant to me. One thing that made me feel triumphant afterwards was that my little soldier had stood up for himself, and did not perform his usual cowardly act of retreating before a shot was fired. I could hardly imagine how it had happened. Perhaps it was because I had not been thinking about it.

  Of course, while Ingrid and I were in the throes, much more important events were taking place in the great world where Archie Langstreet operated and the World Health Organisation did its good work for humanity.

  Langstreet had gone back to Crete. He had resigned from the WHO, only three months before his retirement was due.

  Now he was once more in Kyriotisa – a Kyriotisa which, said the mayor, was now ‘on the map’. Langstreet sat listening to Mayor Paskateris in the mayor’s little hot parlour looking on to Memorial Square. The mayor was a man in his forties, pleasant if rather ordinary-looking, clean-shaven, thin, and at present anxious to please.

  Paskateris spent a while praising Langstreet’s fortitude in returning to the town. Langstreet had been badly treated on his previous visit to Crete, for which treatment he, as mayor, was deeply ashamed. Despite which, Langstreet and his family had shown great good will towards Crete and, indeed, to Kyriotisa itself; for which he, the mayor, and indeed the whole of Kyriotisa, and places beyond, were grateful.

  In particular, Langstreet had drawn the world’s attention to this poor, humble town, as a repository of works of art dating from the distant past. But it was by that generous gesture that difficulties were accumulating which were entirely beyond the resources of a poor town to resolve.

  Visitors were flocking to Kyriotisa to view the chapel in which the original painting of Agia Anna hung. They consisted mainly of two kinds: visitors who were arriving out of curiosity, and the more religiously minded – pilgrims, in fact. Many visitors of both kinds were Americans. They were full of complaints. They could not acquire brochures or souvenirs. There was no good camera shop. There was no adequate accommodation. Also, the way to the little chapel was so long, and difficult to negotiate in high heels. The lane was narrow, winding, and choked with coaches. There were no comfort stations on the way.

  As yet, the stream of visitors was but a tinkle (said the mayor). As it grew, so problems would increase intolerably. They had some illness probl
ems, and ladies with twisted ankles. Yet the nearest hospital was in Hania. This was why he, Mayor Paskateris, was seeking advice from Langstreet. What should they do? How might the tourists be satisfied? More importantly – but it was the same question, he said, with a melancholy gesture – how could Kyriotisa benefit from this extraordinary turn of events?

  While they discussed the matter, the mayor wished to reveal a further difficulty he was facing. Here he requested his secretary to leave the room, so that he might speak confidentially to his distinguished guest. Many visitors who had seen the shrine and the crude painting of Agia Anna, defaced by time, had expressed disappointment. The ikon they had seen reproduced, which had lured them to this inaccessible region of Crete, had been so clear and pure. The actual painting seemed to them fraudulent.

  In the wall-painting, the eyes of both Anna and the Holy Child had been scratched out. Why, tourists were asking, were the eyes not reinstalled and the painting repainted?

  ‘You see, my dear sir, more funding is required. Iraklion will grant us no more funds. Between us, I may say, sir, that Iraklion is jealous of our success, since we draw the crowds from visiting the palace at Knossos.’

  ‘Possibly I can be of some assistance. At least we might have the lane paved.’

  ‘It would be a start.’

  In a rear parlour, a light lunch was served. The two men drank mineral water with their taramasalata and feta salad.

  Over coffee, Langstreet asked to see a map of the area. Paskateris went to phone a local architect, to whom he had lent his only map. When the architect turned up, he proved to be a bright young Athenian, by name Takis Constantinou, and the compiler of the map – of which he brought a photocopy to spread before them.

  The mayor introduced Langstreet as Director of ACDW. Langstreet corrected him; he was now retired.

  Constantinou traced, with a well-manicured finger, the route from Kyriotisa, off the main road, down the lane, to the olive grove where the Agia Anna chapel stood.

  The mayor said, ‘The coaches must stop on the road here. Then the visitors and pilgrims must walk down the lane for two kilometres, and into the field to the chapel. It’s a bad arrangement.’