Memory and Desire

by Lisa Appignanesi

  He sometimes felt they were trapped in a frenzied mortal dance which propelled them forward with no volition of their own. Yet he was still enthralled by her: he continued to desire her with a passion which seemed unquenchable. It made him wonder about his own balance.

  Shortly after their life together had begun, she had taken to singing and playing the piano in a variety of clubs, mostly on weekends. He had not been averse to it. It was so exactly what she wanted to do. Initially, he had shared her excitement, accompanied her to a variety of haunts and watched her perform. The whole process made her glow with a feverish pleasure. Sylvie with a spotlight on her, her eyes and hair alight, her body sheathed in a tight dress, belting out a song, was an irresistible force. The hundred eyes focussed on her, desiring her, gave her a palpable strength.

  In the small hours of the morning, it was Jacob who was the sole recipient of her excitement. Their lovemaking had a frenzy which made everything else pale beside it.

  On some of those rare nights, she forgot herself so completely that she even allowed him to come inside her. Usually, it was the one prohibition. It troubled him that after all their months together, the prohibition still existed. He now thought he knew something about its conscious source, her fear of having children, her greater anxiety about being abandoned. But that was only half the picture. Knowledge did little to abate his gnawing sense of inadequacy. Sylvie still preferred to initiate their sexual encounters. He had never known a woman who could burn so hot and within twenty four hours freeze him with her iciness.

  Over the last months, the situation had been exacerbated. Sylvie instead of performing to a massed crowd had taken to singling out men in the audience and flirting with them outrageously, sitting down with them to have drinks, exciting their expectations. At the end of it all, she would come back to him as if nothing had happened. He felt increasingly like a pimp, a whoremaster. It was not a feeling he relished and he had begun to refuse to accompany her. She always came home, though the hours grew later and later. And it was on one such night that they had the tumultuous scene he was so ashamed of. His self-control destroyed, he had hit her, not hard, but hard enough. She had crouched in the corner, whimpering like an infant.

  He never knew whether Sylvie slept with any of the men she tantalised. She was too consummate an actress for that, provoking his fantasies then behaving like an innocent. As she herself told him when he confronted her cooly with his suspicions, whatever she said would not make one iota of difference to the truth of things or to his jealousy. He could as easily believe that she slept with all of the men she met as with none. In any case, he did not own her, just because he put his cock into her. Sylvie’s language, when roused, was hardly restrained.

  But it was Jacob’s restraint which always elicited her greatest wrath. If he asked her nothing about her movements, pretended sleep or indifference, she goaded him blithely. It was clear he cared nothing about her now. He enjoyed being a pimp, a lazy one to boot who couldn’t even bother to simulate arousal. She would throw her earnings from the club onto the bed and stomp off to sleep on the sofa.

  Jacob drained his pastis and shrugged inwardly. Where all this would lead to he had no idea. In any event, now something new and overridingly important had moved into his horizon: his child. His step light, he donned his coat and made his way to his consulting room. He would sleep there this evening. It would be best. And tomorrow he would go to see Violette.

  At dawn the next morning, Jacob was woken from restless sleep by the insistent peeling of the doorbell. He gazed blindly at his watch, stumbled across the study, pulling his trousers on in the process. His first thought was that some desperate patient had decided to seek him out at this unearthly hour. His second that something had happened to Sylvie.

  She stood at the door and gazed at him angrily. Then without any greeting, she strode past him and one by one threw open the doors of all the rooms in the apartment.

  ‘There is no one here but me, Sylvie,’ Jacob said firmly.

  She turned towards him, her face now childishly defenceless. ‘I’ve decided to come to Neuilly, after all.’ She swung her overnight bag ostentatiously to emphasize her point.

  ‘I’m glad.’ Jacob took her bag and lifted her coat from her shoulders. Beneath it, she was wearing one of the glittering dresses she preferred for her club performances. It sat on her now like a costume, plundered from another woman’s wardrobe. On her bare arms Jacob noticed a series of bruises, like a man’s fingerprints. He winced.

  ‘Have you been to sleep yet?’

  She shook her head. ‘When I didn’t find you at home, I came here.’ Tears gathered in her eyes. He read her fear in them. She rushed towards him and buried her face in his bare chest. Her arms clasped him tightly. He held her, stroking the wild tumble of her hair.

  Jacob was surprised after a moment to feel his arousal. It confused him. He lifted her gently in his arms and carried her to the divan. ‘You need some rest before we head off,’ he said gently.

  She looked up at him, a question on her face. He unbuttoned her dress and eased it down over her hips. Her beauty as he gazed at her nudity struck him again forcibly. But he tucked her in like a child and merely brushed her forehead with his lips. He could hear her soft crying as he closed the door behind him.

  Sylvie looked at Princesse Mathilde curiously and bristled faintly at her words.

  ‘I don’t know whether you realize how lucky you are to have a man like Jacob by your side.’

  There was no trace of wistfulness in the Princesse’s words. She spoke matter-of-factly. ‘I have never had the chance to say this to you before, but I hope you will be, are, very happy together.’

  Sylvie didn’t respond. But suddenly and strangely, she felt as if she had been given a benediction.

  They were sitting on the marble terrace at the back of the Princesse’s Neuilly house. A vast beautifully tended lawn stretched out in front of them and their eyes focussed on the group in the distance who were playing a version of football. Jacob, the Princesse’s two lanky teenage sons who had arrived that morning, Violette and her nanny. Violette romped amongst the others occasionally grasping the large ball with hoots of laughter and to the delight of everyone.

  The other guests had dispersed after the copious Sunday lunch and Sylvie had found herself alone with the Princesse. The day was unseasonably warm and they had installed themselves on the terrace where the sun shone most brightly.

  Although Sylvie had arrived at Neuilly the day before in a hostile frame of mind, ready to locate faults in everyone and everything, she had found herself peculiarly charmed by Princesse Mathilde. Nothing the older woman said could in the least be construed as insidious or offensive. Indeed, the Princesse had introduced Sylvie to her other guests as a long-time friend and a talented pianist and singer. Her tone was the same as she had always used with her in those distant days when Sylvie had admired the older woman, except now it had a note of greater equality. No matter how hard Sylvie tried to intercept secret glances between the Princesse and Jacob she had not been able to. The fact of the matter was that the Princesse had given her far more attention than him. It had perplexed Sylvie initially, but she had now given way to the Princesse’s charm and decided that despite her doubts the only link between her and Jacob was that of old friends.

  At first too, when Sylvie had met Violette and seen Jacob’s evident affection for the little girl, she had prickled with suspicion. Could this toddler so akin to Jacob in colouring be his daughter. The thought had hounded her. And then after lunch yesterday when Jacob had tossed the little girl into the air to her hilarious delight, the Princesse had suddenly laughed gaily and said in everyone’s presence, ‘Looking at the two of them, like this, one might suspect she was his daughter.’ She had turned to Sylvie and said pointedly, ‘Very soon now you must give him one of his own.’ All Sylvie’s suspicions had vanished.

  Now, as she watched Jacob tossing the little girl in the air again and running across
the lawn with her in his arms, Sylvie felt a peculiar longing. Perhaps the Princesse was right. Perhaps she should give Jacob a daughter, like those presents she used to bring to him in the early days of their courtship. Sylvie glanced down at the ring he had given her. She had chosen to wear it this weekend. She fingered it tentatively.

  The Princesse glanced surreptitiously at Sylvie and then settled back in her chair with an inward sigh. She felt as if she had been walking a precarious tightrope and had only now begun to ease herself down the pole which led to the safety of the ground. Ever since that momentous night which now seemed so distant when Jacob had driven down with her to Neuilly to meet Violette, she had realised that if she wanted Jacob to remain a part of her and Violette’s life without disastrous consequences, then Sylvie was the key stumbling block.

  She had not counted on the strength of Jacob’s instant interest in Violette. It both moved her and troubled her. He had been unable to take his eyes off the child and played with her with joyous delight. After Violette’s bedtime, he had made the Princesse recount to him with great detail all aspects of her life and character. He had wanted to return the following evening and the one after that.

  ‘But what about Sylvie?’ the Princesse had asked. ‘Won’t she wonder where you are, grow suspicious?’

  Jacob had clenched his fists and shrugged.

  ‘Well, you can come tomorrow. But after that, I suggest you bring Sylvie along,’ she had said with determined clarity.

  From days past, the Princesse knew Sylvie was unpredictable. She could be emphatically selfish, wild, could pronounce from the rooftops her belief that Jacob and Mathilde were having an affair. Jacob’s demeanour betrayed that things were in any case not altogether easy between them.

  The Princesse also realised that if she found herself alone with Jacob too much, her own feelings would be in even a greater state of turmoil. So she set herself the task of wooing Sylvie, making her a friend, taking her into her confidence. It was the only way of preventing disaster. Now she felt she had all but succeeded. There was only one more step to be taken to consolidate her position.

  As ultimately honourable as the Princesse’s intentions were, she had planned her campaign with Napoleonic shrewdness. It was not for nothing that she numbered him amongst her ancestors. After a few moments of silence between them, the Princesse turned to Sylvie.

  ‘There is something I have been wanting to give you for some time. Would you come up to my room with me while the others are busy with their football?’

  Sylvie followed the Princesse’s stately form through the house. The furnishings were so gilded and heavy that they oppressed her. She felt small, insignificant, an ungainly child. Only once they had made their way up the grand, curved staircase with its sweep of royal blue carpet and finely grained marble did she feel that she had regained her usual stature. The Princesse led her into an intimate room - her boudoir. From an ornate inlaid chest, she took a wine-red velvet box.

  ‘This came to me when my father died,’ the Princesse said. ‘When I studied it, I realised that the crest was that of your mother’s family. I have always wanted to give it to you.’ She handed Sylvie the box.

  Sylvie opened it and found a large pendant strung on a heavy old gold chain. Emblazoned on the crest was a unicorn and a strange bird, a phoenix perhaps. Sylvie traced the image with her fingertip. Dimly she remembered her mother saying something about fire and purity and new lives. With trembling hands, she took the pendant out of its box and lifted it over her head. It felt substantial, weighty. It anchored her.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said in a small voice.

  The Princesse looked at the young woman with the vast troubled eyes. ‘I knew your mother, Sylvie. You are not unlike her. She was exceedingly beautiful.’

  Sylvie recoiled. Her lips trembled under the Princesse’s insistent gaze. A small, unfamiliar, querulous voice leapt up in her. ‘She sent me away. She didn’t want me with them. At home.’

  The Princesse was silent for a moment. At last she said quietly, ‘Your mother was very young when she had you. Perhaps having a child was difficult for her. But I know she cared for you very much.’

  ‘She sent me away,’ Sylvie repeated stubbornly. ‘Banished me so I couldn’t make it up with Papush.’ Sylvie fingered the heavy pendant nervously. The gesture carried her back.

  There had been a cross in the pendant’s place then, a simple cross of old ruddy gold. Her fingers had traced its form, tugged at it as she lingered in her white cotton nightie by the great oak door of her parent’s room. Her mother had ordered her out, back to her own bed. She had had a nightmare and come running to them and her mother had ordered her away. They were arguing now, her father’s angry baritone against her mother’s lilting contralto.

  ‘I don’t want her running in here at every opportunity,’ her father’s voice. Sylvie pulled at the cross.

  ‘She’s your daughter. What happened wasn’t her doing. She’s just a child.’ Her mother, appeasing, low. ‘I can’t stand her pawing at me, wanting me, needing me. It makes me feel ill. Anyhow in your condition, it’s better if she’s away. The burden will fall on me.’ Papush’s voice rose. It was met by silence. Sylvie listened, tensed. Then her mother’s voice, exasperated. ‘Alright. I’ll send her away to school.’ ‘Do it soon,’ the muffled sound of her father. ‘Otherwise everyone will find out.’ Sylvie yanked the chain off her neck and let it fall tinkling to the floor.

  ‘Is that pendant too heavy for you?’ the Princesse’s even tones brought her back.

  Sylvie’s hand dropped stiffly to her side. She shook her head. ‘No, no, it’s fine. It’s exquisite. Thank you. Thank you.’

  The Princesse’s steady gaze assessed her. ‘Remember, Sylvie,’ she said slowly, quietly, ‘our families have known each other through generations. If you ever need a friend, need help, you can count on me.’

  The Princesse meant it.

  Next to Jacob, in the front seat of the Citroën on the drive home, Sylvie felt the memories clawing at her, forcing her to make little adjustments to her sense of the past, her sense of herself. Her mother was emerging in a new light, less enemy than protectress. If only she could talk to somebody from that time. Babushka. Babushka could tell her more about her mother. But they hadn’t let her see Babushka after it had happened. Babushka would have known, would have read it in her. They wanted to hush the whole thing up.

  With an effort Sylvie forced the past away. She gazed at Jacob: in the dusky light, he looked huge, strong, a bulwark against the world. He had that air of intense inner concentration which made him oblivious to her. It had almost become a habitual state when they were together.

  She touched his arm. He flinched. The car swerved slightly. ‘Jacob. Jacob, let’s not go back to Paris tonight.’ Let’s drive off into the country, go somewhere different, anywhere.’

  Jacob glanced at her wrapped in the folds of the leopard skin coat which so perfectly matched the golden aureole of her hair. Her eyes were alight with an expression he couldn’t decipher. He slowed the car and in two swift movements reversed their direction.

  The night darkened. Grand houses gave way to wooded countryside, dense with oak and elm. Sylvie’s hand rested lightly on his thigh, played with the wool of his trousers.

  Her face in the blaze of a passing car emerged nakedly white. He lifted her fingers to his lips. She twisted her hand away.

  ‘Let’s stop here. In the woods. Please.’ He caught the sudden note of urgency in her tone and he pulled up on the soft verge of the road. She leapt out of the car with the grace of a cat and ran amidst the bare trees finding her footing with a surprising sureness. Jacob, following a moment later, thought he had lost her. Then he saw her form flickering golden in the moonlight, the sound of her light footsteps on the crisp carpet of fallen leaves. Just when he thought he had caught up with her, she disappeared again.

  He heard the sound of her breath and turned to find her behind him. She was leaning against the vast tr
unk of an ancient elm looking in her leopard coat as if she were far more at home here than in the jungle of the cities which she normally inhabited. She moved sinuously against the bark, as if to evade him again.

  Desire flared in him. He caught her in his arms and kissed her fiercely, his hands moving through the open coat to embrace her slim form. Her breasts were taut against him.

  Sylvie could feel him hard against her belly, her thighs, his tongue hot in her mouth. Her body felt alight. Rough bark pressed into her. Yes, tonight, here. Here under the stars. She would exorcise the past. She ruched her dress up above her hips and fumbled with the buttons of his flies.

  Jacob paused as he always did at this juncture, unsure whether she would push him away from her in order to take him into her mouth. But no, tonight her hand guided him with unmistakable intent between her thighs. He thrilled to her, his penis hard, his desire now sure of its aim. Her little gasps urged him on. With one sure movement, he lifted her off the ground and arched into the folds of her. They came together almost instantly and with a violence so unexpected that it ruptured the silence of the night air.

  Sylvie kissed him lingeringly. There were tears on her cheeks. He held her close, rocking her gently and together they tumbled onto the carpet of leaves. ‘Again, please,’ she whispered to him. ‘Again, I want you inside me.’ Jacob trembled. Her words devastated him. He realised that he had conditioned himself to never hearing them on her lips and now that they were spoken, he was filled with an overarching joy.

  ‘I love you, Sylvie,’ he said simply.

  Then, he made love to her, slowly, intently and with a tenderness which was beyond excitement. As he moved inside her, Sylvie felt herself lulled, transported into another place. Her body arched against him with a rhythm she didn’t recognize. Her consciousness receded. She was floating. In a distant clearing she heard the harsh lashing double syllable of ‘Curva! Curva!’ sniffed Papush, with his lemon scent, glimpsed a pink stucco house, and the receding figure of a small waving boy. The images jostled, bobbed, merged. Another made its way towards her. What was it? What was it? She couldn’t quite grasp it. It vanished and in its place the tangible shape of the man who now held her, moved with her, gently, firmly, carrying her to a space where she felt washed clean, fresh. Like a new born child.