by Bel Mooney
There was something so strange, almost animal-like about the way she then grasped the hamburger firmly and bit it with concentrated intensity, that Antoine Perrin drained his wine at a gulp, watching the speed at which she ate.
‘You like it?’ he asked politely.
‘Very much,’ she mumbled, her mouth full of food – adding, despite herself, ‘This is the first time I have ever eaten a hamburger.’
It’s sharp and sweet at once, the bread moist, the juices running into my mouth, the texture firm on my tongue, the onions slippery … and this is a hamburger. A hamburger!
‘The first time? Impossible!’
Ana shovelled chips, then some salad into her mouth. He watched, fascinated, leaving his own food untouched. At first she was unaware of his gaze; then, excitement and hunger assuaged, she began to eat in a more decorous fashion, conscious that she had aroused his curiosity. She kept her eyes lowered. Antoine Perrin picked up his knife and fork at last and began cutting his hamburger into neat, bite-sized pieces, conveying them slowly to his mouth without removing his eyes from her face.
‘Maybe I am wrong, but I think they sell hamburgers in London?’ he said at last.
Ana looked up. The eyes, behind the metal spectacles, were pale blue-grey, like the sky above the mountains outside Gex. She could not tell what thoughts lay behind that steady gaze, but the dryness of his question was unmistakable.
‘I think, Monsieur …’
‘Antoine – please!’
‘I think … er … I must tell you the truth. I am not English – I am Romanian.’
He put down his knife and fork and slapped his head, causing one or two of the youths to glance briefly in their direction. ‘Ah! I thought you did not look like an Englishwoman. Your hair … your face …’ He was leaning forward now, with a look close to triumph on his face. It made Ana more uncomfortable than ever.
‘Maybe … maybe I should explain. You see, my son … Oh, it’s too much. Such a long story …’
‘Yes, yes.’ He looked abstracted, and asked her nothing, staring at her so intently she instinctively leaned back in her seat. ‘So you are a refugee? And you are really going to Paris?’
‘Yes, my son is there. I have to find him …’
‘And you have no visa? Am I right?’
Taken aback by his abruptness, she simply nodded.
He beckoned the waitress, and ordered another glass. ‘Et pour Madame aussi.’
‘No,’ said Ana, but he waved her protest aside.
There was silence for a few minutes. Ana felt anxious and awkward – and also, unaccountably, disappointed. She remembered the American reporter, Ted (already, she realized guiltily, his surname had vanished) and his ready sympathy – and realized that she had expected the same from others. If, that is, she reached a point where she trusted them with her tale. This man was not really interested, she knew that. He was looking at her with an unfathomable expression, making her nervous.
‘Cigarette?’
She took one with clumsy fingers, nearly dropping it into the remains of food on her plate. For some reason she remembered the immaculate sitting-room of his home, and the onyx ashtray placed exactly in the centre of the coffee table – and was surprised. Her eyes smarted. The room seemed to shiver. She found herself reaching up to steady his hand as he offered the match, but which of them was off-target she could not tell. His flesh was as cool as it was pale. She smelt eau de cologne.
‘Please don’t worry – I’ll take you to Dijon. I would drive you to Paris if that was possible, but I’m afraid … Still, I will make sure you find the right train.’
His voice was low and gentle. Sudden gratitude flooded Ana’s eyes, and she leaned back once more, reassured. Alcohol and nicotine whirled in her head; she closed her eyes briefly as a radio began to play at the back of the café. It was a song she had heard once before, although she could not remember when. She opened her eyes, trying to remember, but the rhythm of the guitar teased her, carrying memory away. ‘Sweet dreams are made of this … Sweet dreams are made of this …’
He paid the bill. Ana was comforted by the sensation of being looked after – especially when he took her bag with old-fashioned courtesy, this time locking it in the luggage boot. She glimpsed cardboard boxes, and some folders containing papers.
‘What is it – your job?’ she asked.
‘I am a … I sell things,’ he said shortly, putting his briefcase on the rear seat where her bag had been before. Then he felt in his pocket and took out a small oblong of white card. ‘Look,’ he said.
Ana was unfamiliar with business cards, and fingered it curiously. ‘Thank you,’ she said, not sure what to do with it. She remembered Michael Edwards had a similar card, and then thought of his arms holding her, in bed. It was unbearable; she pushed the thought away. ‘You sell – what things?’
‘They are what you might call souvenirs – some for devotion. Carved wood, very beautiful, made by craftsmen in this region – not really like souvenirs, if you understand. There are frames for photographs and boxes, and things you put books’ – he made a gesture as if putting bookends each side of a row – ‘and small statues too, of the Virgin Mary.’ He waved a hand, as if to brush away the topic.
He seemed impatient now, opening her door and nodding, almost curtly, at her to get in. ‘Let me take your jacket,’ he added, ‘it will be hot on the journey. Let me take it.’ He held out his hand. Ana put the card in her trouser pocket, then handed him her coat and that too was laid on the back seat. ‘Now,’ he said, settling himself in his seat. ‘The road to Lons is very beautiful. How do you say that word in your own language?’
‘Frumos …’
‘It sounds beautiful too. But I think it is because of your mouth …’
Ana looked down, unsure of what she had heard. Then she decided that because Antoine Perrin’s English was less fluent than her own he had made a mistake, not a clumsy attempt at a compliment.
‘You are quite comfortable?’
‘Yes, thank you, you are very kind.’
Very kind, very kind, kind, kind, kind – why do I keep saying this, why am I here accepting the kindness of strangers? The youth workers, that lorry driver, the woman at the Red Cross, the Tamil family, and now these people – all kind, so very kind, and yet I want to be free of their kindness. I want my son! Michael wanted to be kind to me, and for a second I thought of allowing him to come with me, of waiting for him. But why should I wait for anyone? We have spent our lives waiting. But we looked up in the end, and we killed them. We had been waiting to kill them for years; there would have been no point in being kind. They had to be sacrificed: from their death, our life – the possibility of going forward…
This man beside me hasn’t asked me a single question about Romania. Is it because he is being polite, or has he no interest? Yet his voice was kind when he said he would drive me to Paris if he could, so maybe he is trying to spare my feelings. He thinks if he asks me about Ion I will cry. That is certainly true …
She slid forward slightly in the seat. The heater was blasting hot air now, and she felt drowsy. Antoine Perrin reached forward and switched on the radio again, pushing buttons until he found what he wanted. The car was filled with the murmur of voices, talking in French, about politics she guessed, hearing the word socialisme. For a few minutes she tried to understand, but quickly gave up. The voices were soporific; soon she let her head loll gently to one side, and fell asleep.
She was being shaken from side to side, very gently, and found herself back in her bed, in the old apartment, Ion’s hand on her shoulder: ‘Wake up, Mama, wake up!’
She laughed and burrowed back under the blanket, telling him it was too early, but the small shaking became even more insistant, as he cried, ‘Please wake up, it’s time to go. Hurry up!’
‘Where are we going, Ionica?’
‘On our journey, of course! Have you forgotten?’
She rose, and found she was already dresse
d – in trousers of soft blue wool, and a green shirt with shoulder-pads, under a brightly striped cardigan. Ion pointed at her clothes and laughed. ‘They don’t fit you, Mama! And they won’t keep you warm on our journey.’
Ana was sad. She looked down at her clothes, and they had already disappeared, the old ones in their place, worn and ugly. But Ion was pulling at her hand, and so she had no time to grieve. He led her to the door of the apartment, and suddenly she was beset by a terrible fear.
‘Don’t open the door, Ion!’ she cried.
‘Why, Mama! We have to open the door to go on our journey,’ he laughed, tugging at her, drawing her nearer and nearer.
‘I don’t want to go on a journey,’ she said. ‘Let’s stay here, Ion, where we’re safe. Come back inside. We’ll play our game, and if you win I’ll give you a prize.’
‘What prize, Mama?’
She thought hard, but her mind was a blank. ‘I’ll go out, Ion, and try to find you a … a … an apple!’
He frowned. ‘I don’t like apples; I want a banana and some chocolate. And if you don’t find me some, I’ll tell the teacher what you said about our Mother and our Father. I’ll tell!’
They stared at each other in silence, and suddenly she wondered who he was, this child who reminded her of her own reflection, and yet was a stranger – pouting, sulking. Then she was pulling him, tugging at his hand, running for the door. ‘No, Ion, let’s go now! Let’s get away!’.
They were right by the door, and she pressed an ear to its wood. The other side she could hear voices, many voices, murmuring in discussion, but they were speaking a foreign language and she could not understand. ‘Who is it?’ she whispered.
No one replied. The voices ceased for a moment, as if listening to her, then began their babble again, this time in many tongues. And Ion called out to them then, uttering words in a strange high voice in a language she did not recognize. And he was opening the door, while she stood frozen, watching him.
Outside the landing, always dark, was filled with a swirling mist lit with pearly light. Ana found herself thinking that it was heaven, it was as she had imagined the after-life in dreams within dreams: opalescent and empty, with no reunions, only the voices of those loved in the past echoing in the distance, lost forever, even there. Ion walked forward, calling ‘Come on, Mama!’ over his shoulder, his face alight with excitement.
But she could not follow him. She was stuck to the threadbare linoleum, watching in anguish as he ran forward, and somebody’s hands reached out to hold his, and he disappeared into the mist.
‘Ion!’ she called, struggling to break the grip of whatever it was that held her. Then she knew what to do. She bent to unlace her shoes, and felt the linoleum cold beneath her naked feet. Stepping forward fearfully, she found that she could indeed walk, leaving the old shoes rooted behind her. ‘Ion,’ she called, and began to run, the distance to the threshold lengthening as she approached, the soft white light dimming gradually. She could smell onions, and began to panic, reaching out, leaping across the doorframe. Then all was darkness, and she found herself falling into the blackness, tumbling for miles with sickening speed until she landed with a thud, winded. It was pitchy-black, and there was no sound except the lapping of water. She felt herself move slightly, swaying, bumping, rocking imperceptibly back and forth as if in a boat, or a cradle. ‘Ion?’ she called, but there was no sound. Then she thought she heard voices talking in French, until sharply, they ceased.
‘Ion!’ she whispered into the darkness, knowing he was there, somewhere. Then she was rewarded for her faith. She heard a small sound, like a baby’s snuffle, and felt the softest pressure on her breast. She knew in that instant that a miracle had occurred, as she had trusted it would – one day. She knew that Ion had been transformed into a baby once more, all the lost time redeemable, all the love renewable – and that he was hungry and needed her to feed him. He needed her. He was there in the darkness, seeking her milk, and she would give it gladly and joyfully, already unbuttoning her old shirt… ‘Come, dragă, come, Ionica!’
She woke. Everything was still, no sound of the radio, or the engine. Confused, she dragged herself back to consciousness, and thought (although she could not be sure) that she heard a quick rustle beside her. Somebody moving away – but who was he? So soft the touch on her breast… Ion?
Ana sat up. The car had stopped; they were in the countryside, parked at what appeared to be the entrance to a field. She heard a hectic chorus of birds.
‘I had to stop.’ He stared straight ahead. His knuckles were blue-white.
‘How long – was I sleeping?’
‘One hour maybe. Or not so long …’
‘I am sorry.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I think it is not polite to sleep – when you are being so kind, Monsieur.’
He turned to her, irritated. ‘Antoine! My name is Antoine – I told you! I am Antoine and you are Ana.’ He pushed his spectacles up his nose with the quick, impatient movement.
‘I am sorry – Antoine.’
There was a short silence. Ana sat very still, expecting him to get out of the car and stretch his legs. Then she wondered if he wanted to relieve himself, yet was embarrassed. What should she do? Years of appeasement made her bend her will to his, wanting it to be easy for him, because he was helping her, because she needed his help.
‘I think I will get out for a moment, to breathe the air,’ she said.
‘No!’ he said loudly, making her jump. Then he turned to her with that odd wide smile, which contained no humour, repeating, more quietly, ‘No. I … want to show something to you. Please stay there. Please.’
She saw that he was sweating slightly, small beads of moisture standing out on the shiny expanse of his forehead. Maybe he felt ill. He looked paler than ever, his grey eyes bulging slightly behind the metal spectacles, which again and again he pushed up his nose.
‘Are you … well?’ she asked, feeling vaguely uneasy.
Without replying he opened his door and got out. Ana relaxed; she had been right – he wanted to relieve himself, and would come back in a few minutes, allowing them to go on their way to Dijon. But he was opening his briefcase on the back seat, turning over the papers. Then he was back in the driver’s seat, a large brown paper envelope on his lap. When his hands fiddled with its flap, she saw they were trembling.
Perrin pulled out a magazine from the envelope, and repeated, ‘I want to show you.’ It was as if his voice came from a long way away, liquefying. He held it out to her, without letting go, and said, ‘Look.’
Ana glanced down, then raised her head quickly, looking at him in amazement – aware only of an expanse of flesh, and the girl’s buttocks thrust outwards.
‘Look. I want you to look at it with me,’ he whispered, turning the pages, opening it at random. Ana’s eyes were drawn irresistibly towards the magazine, which showed a large colour picture of a woman being pinned down by two men, while another held himself, hugely erect, preparing to mount her. The woman’s legs were spread wide, and her head was thrown back, mouth a sticky scarlet circle, but whether in agony or ecstasy Ana could not tell. The men were all wearing grotesque animal masks. Across the bottom of the image was the caption, ‘La Belle et les Bêtes … et Elle Dit – Encore!’
Ana looked up at him in horror. His watery eyes were blinking at her from behind the spectacles.
‘You like this?’ he whispered hoarsely.
She could not speak. He opened another page and pushed the magazine at her, as if proffering a gift. She saw a headless woman in pitiless close-up.
‘No,’ she managed to say at last, averting her eyes, looking deliberately out of the window. ‘Please, can we go now?’
‘I want you to look!’
Ana was frightened now. His voice, though constricted, had a cold, steely note to it, and he was breathing heavily. He muttered something in French, but she could not understand. All the time he flicked through the magazine,
pausing to stare at this picture then that, each time holding it out for her to see. ‘Look!’ he repeated.
She put her hand on the door handle, but he pressed the central locking button. The tiny click imprisoned her.
‘Please let me go,’ she said quietly.
‘No,’ he said, in a flat dead voice. ‘You must stay. There is nowhere for you to go. You have no visa. I can take you to the police station at Lons. Do you want that?’
She shook her head, dumb.
‘Good. So – you do something for me. Then I am going to take you to Dijon. But now …’
He put the magazine in her lap, and swiftly unzipped his trousers, fumbling for himself without taking his eyes from her face. She stared at him in disbelief, stunned (even in the midst of her fear) by the incongruity between the meek appearance of this plain, skinny man and what was happening.
‘Your mouth … beautiful mouth …’ he breathed, reaching out to cup his hand around the back of her neck, applying a gentle pressure downwards. The magazine slipped to the floor. Transfixed with revulsion and terror, Ana looked down.
And in the library, with the old director, I used to kneel on the books and open my mouth for him, day after day, or sprawl across his desk. After a while you stop wanting to vomit, you get used to it; you even get used to being used. Because he wasn’t the first; what of Robert, good-looking Robert with his cigarettes and that spicy-smelling perfume he put on his chin? All these years I have told myself it was mutual, that I wanted nothing from him except what he gave and what I took. But you lied to yourself, Ana, pathetic as you are. You thought he would write to you at least, knowing that for you to get a letter with a London postmark would have been extraordinary – something to have been proud of. It would have shown kindness, not love, and yet he did not bother even with that. He used you, Ana, like the old librarian – no difference between them, go on, admit it, admit it! The soldiers were honest at least; they did not pretend to be other than beasts; God, when you’ve known that, what else can hurt you? I was kind to Luca, poor fat Luca, weeping and weighing me down with his leg. And what would you say about this, Michael Edwards …? You used me too, you cared nothing for me: now Romania is free we can fuck Romanian women without fear. That’s all – that’s ALL!