The White Hotel

by D. M. Thomas

  The plum who marries

  an ox can anticipate

  great sorrow, great joy.

  She did not think it amusing, as her friend did; she found it disturbing, moving, even erotic. She put herself in the position of the plum, exuding its dewy moisture and trembling in the marriage bed as the hour for the coming of the ox drew near. She anticipated the fearsome breaking of her hymen, the horrific penetration. It made her shiver and break into a sweat.

  But she knew she ought not to feel that way. This was what was making her depressed; and finally, while they were eating a lemon sherbet, she explained. She wondered if she had grown obsessed with sex. She admitted to thinking about it almost all the time. She even enjoyed, in her heart, the dirty word for it which had brought a blush to her cheeks when she overheard the English major say it, when the cat had scratched him. And other words she was ashamed even to know. She rejoiced in them because they were so dirty. She had never told anyone else about this wickedness of hers.

  He smiled indulgently, and took her hands. She removed them from his grasp and ran them, absently and in agitation, round her coffee cup.

  “It’s not as if,” she said, “the world around me is sexual. It would excuse me, to some extent, if it were. If there were fish spawning in millions, grapes loading the vines, dates weighing the palm trees, peaches lusting for the bull to come in the night.”

  She looked up from the coffee cup, looking for his green eyes to help her; but he avoided her gaze by resting his cheek on his finger and looking round at the band. His refusal to help angered her, because he was much to blame for her obsessions. Before meeting him, she had held them under control.

  “And if I’m not thinking about sex, I’m thinking about death,” she added bitterly. “Sometimes both at the same time.” She took a knife from the cheese board, and twisted it in tense hands.

  She did not add that she had foreseen the deaths of Madame Cottin, and of the Japanese student, and of the lady with one breast, and all the others; or that she foresaw his death, and her own.

  The young woman cheered up after he had bought her a liqueur at the bar and taken it through to the pleasant terrace to catch the last warm rays of the sun. Some of the newcomers were eager to talk to them, knowing they had actually witnessed the tragedy of the ski lift. The new arrivals wore looks of horror and pity, but beneath that played a much more powerful feeling of excitement at the stunning drama they had just missed; as well as an infinite relief that the break had occurred today rather than tomorrow.

  Vogel, standing or swaying beside Bolotnikov-Leskov, in a near-by group of newcomers, was drunk. He was saying in a very loud voice that it might have been worse—there were a large number of Yids among the victims. He was thinking of Madame Cottin and the young members of the Dutch family.

  It was an unspeakably offensive remark, in the presence of the old Dutch couple and of the invalid young woman. A hush fell. His Russian friend, embarrassed, led Vogel away. When he returned, he apologized to the Jews who had heard Vogel’s words. It was inexcusable, he said; but they must in charity recall that Vogel had suffered more than most from the disasters of the white hotel, having lost a cousin in the flood, a dear friend in the fire, and his sister in the landslide. Also, he—Bolotnikov-Leskov—and Vogel had both had extremely narrow escapes, since they had gone to the ski lift ahead of the main party, intending to take a ride, but had changed their minds at the last minute owing to the uncertainties of the weather. They themselves could have been falling down through the air.

  So one could perhaps excuse Vogel for getting drunk and giving vent to deranged remarks. Though—he had to say it—he was not the nicest of men at the best of times.

  One of the newcomers, a Belgian doctor, asked if they thought the broken strand might have been an act of political terrorism. Bolotnikov-Leskov said it might conceivably be the case. If so, he deplored it; though he thought such desperate acts were bound to continue so long as there was injustice in the world, and violence against the people.

  The new guests were beginning to get uneasy with this talk of violence and terrorism, and the conversation on the terrace turned gradually to more pleasant themes, such as the likelihood tomorrow of firm snow and calm water.

  The young lovers took themselves off to bed, where they were disturbed by nothing more ominous than the faint but frequent ringing of the telephone in the depths of the hotel. The calls were almost always requests for rooms, because the white hotel was extremely popular and there were, summer and winter, more requests than they could possibly accommodate. From this point of view alone, the catastrophic deaths of the past few days were a godsend; but even this unusually rapid turnover could not keep pace with the demand, and many had to be turned away. The hotel staff worked wonders in fitting as many people in as possible. On the very day of Madame Cottin’s death, the young lovers heard a camp bed being dragged in next door, so that room could be found for a young married couple and their child.

  A place was found, too, for another young couple who had a baby well on the way. There was really no room for them, but the girl was crying and distraught, so finally a trunk room was cleared. The lovers were woken by the girl’s cries in the night; after which they heard the tireless staff scurrying about with towels and hot water and other necessaries of childbirth. It was another night of bitter cold and snowfall, and it was a mercy that room had been found for the poor young woman. Though it was foolish of them to have come, without being sure of a room, so far on in her pregnancy.

  It was to the credit of the overworked staff that they never grumbled. They were simply marvellous—a description that occurred, in various guises, over and over again in the guest book…“Wonderful food, and nothing too much trouble. See you next year”…“The best of everything. We were treated like royalty”…“Thanks for having us. Tip-top service and accommodation. We’ll be back”…“Good value”…“Nowhere else like it. Enjoyed every minute.” The whole staff, from shoe-cleaner to manager, piled in to help restore the damaged wing, in their time off, so that all the rooms should be available. Even the chef, the portly beaming chef, took a hand in the refurbishing—embarrassingly, for one day the lovers were disturbed by a scraping at their window, and when they looked across they saw the jolly chef beaming in, paint brush in hand. The young woman was being mounted from behind; pink with shame, she tried to pretend she was kneeling in prayer. But they were so far gone, and he gave them such a jolly wink, that there seemed no harm in calling him in and asking him to join them. And he must have been good for more things than steaks, because, with her eyes closed and her face buried in the pillow, she could not tell which of them was making love to her, it was all equally rare, tender and full of good juice. She felt happy that part of her body was occupied by someone else. The spirit of the white hotel was against selfishness.

  Sometimes she felt uneasy and closed in, but if she suggested going out, he took her in his arms again and said they had so little time. Outside, it was sad not to see the familiar baker, casting his nets in the middle of the lake. The baker’s lad flying his kite. The old priest reading in his deck chair. Madame Cottin sharing a laugh with the cheeky young waiter. But swans were soaring between the mountain peaks; whether gliding down to the lake or rising to leave it. Their feathers were so white, the dazzling peaks seemed grey in comparison.

  3

  Frau

  Anna G.

  In the autumn of 1919 I was asked by a doctor of my acquaintance to examine a young lady who had been suffering for the past four years from severe pains in her left breast and pelvic region, as well as a chronic respiratory condition. When making this request he added that he thought the case was one of hysteria, though there were certain counter-indications which had caused him to examine her very thoroughly indeed in order to rule out the possibility of some organic affection. The young woman was married, but living apart from her husband, in the home of an aunt. Our patient had had a promising musical career interrup
ted by her illness.

  My first interview of this young woman of twenty-nine years of age did not help me to make much progress in understanding her case, nor could I glimpse any sign of the inner vitality I was assured she possessed. Her face, in which the eyes were the best feature, showed the marks of severe physical suffering; yet there were moments when it registered nothing, and at these times I was reminded of the faces of victims of battle traumas, whom it had been my melancholy duty to examine. When she talked, it was often difficult for me to hear, on account of her hoarse and rapid breathing. As a consequence of her pains, she walked with an awkward gait, bending forward from the waist. She was extremely thin, even by the standards of that unhappy year, when few in Vienna had enough to eat. I suspected an anorexia nervosa, on top of her other troubles. She told me the mere thought of food made her ill, and she was living on oranges and water.

  On examining her I understood my colleague’s reluctance to abandon the search for an organic basis for her symptoms. I was struck by the definiteness of all the descriptions of the character of her pains given me by the patient, the kind of response we have come to expect from a patient suffering from an organic illness—unless he is neurotic in addition. The hysteric will tend to describe his pain indefinitely, and will tend to respond to stimulation of the painful part rather with an expression of pleasure than pain. Frau Anna, on the contrary, indicated where she hurt precisely and calmly: her left breast and left ovary; and flinched and drew back from my examination.

  She herself was convinced that her symptoms were organic, and was very disappointed that I could not find the cause and put it right. My own increasing conviction that I was, despite appearances to the contrary, dealing with an hysteria was confirmed when she confessed that she also suffered from visual hallucinations of a disordered and frightening nature. She had feared to confess to these “storms in her head,” because it seemed to her an admission that she was mad and should be locked away. I was able to assure her that her hallucinations, like her pains and her breathing difficulties, were no sign of dementia; that indeed, given the intractable nature of reality, the healthiest mind may become a prey to hysterical symptoms. Her manner thereafter became a little more relaxed, and she was able to tell me something of the history of her illness and of her life in general.

  She was the second child and only daughter of moderately wealthy parents. Her father came from a Russian Jewish family of the merchant class, and her mother from a cultivated Polish Catholic family which had settled in the Ukraine. In marrying across racial and religious barriers, Frau Anna’s parents proved their own liberated ideals but suffered the consequence of being cut off from their families. The only close relative who did not turn against the couple was the patient’s aunt (with whom she was now living), her mother’s twin sister. This woman had married a Viennese teacher of languages, of her own faith, whom she had met when he was attending a conference in Kiev, the sisters’ native city. Hence the two sisters were forced to live far apart, but their close bond remained undiminished.

  As a result of her loyalty to her twin, Frau Anna’s aunt also became increasingly estranged from her family, with the exception of her father, who came to live with her in his old age. The patient felt that her own life had been impoverished by these family estrangements. Nor were there many relatives of her own generation to compensate. Her mother had given birth to a son early in her marriage, followed five years later by Anna. The aunt, to her sorrow, had remained childless.

  The patient had the fondest memories of her mother. She possessed a warmly maternal nature, handsome looks, a creative spirit (she was a water-colourist of some talent) and an impulsive gaiety. If she had grey moods, usually in response to miserable autumn or winter weather, she indulged her children all the more when they were over. She and Anna’s father made a handsome couple. The father also had great energy and charm, and the child adored him though she wished he were not so busy. He had worked immensely hard, without parental support, to establish himself in business. Shortly after Anna’s birth, he had moved his family to Odessa, where he became the owner of a grain-exporting firm. Almost his only relaxation was sailing: he was the proud owner of a splendid yacht.

  In the pleasant seaport, each summer, they were joined by the patient’s uncle and aunt. The little girl looked forward to these visits, which, thanks to the Viennese custom of long summer vacations, lasted for several weeks. With the family guests, and with pleasant yachting weather, her father took more days away from his business, becoming more genial and approachable; and her mother positively spread her leaves with the arrival of her beloved sister and the sun, together. Naturally her sister, childless herself, was devoted to her little niece. The aunt was of a quiet and devout disposition. A gifted pianist, she preferred the tranquillity of the music room to the possible turbulence of the yacht. Anna’s uncle was more outgoing: a hearty, jovial man, as uncles are supposed to be. The patient recalled his fondness for jokes, such as donning a white officer’s cap for sailing. Her uncle and aunt were important to Anna, as her only “family” apart from her parents and her brother—and to her brother she was not strongly attached.

  If I had not been familiar with the idealizing tendencies of our adult years, I should have believed that the patient’s early childhood held no tedious or unpleasant interludes, but consisted entirely of building castles of sand on the beach, and gliding along in her father’s yacht, under the blue sky, past the cliffs of the Black Sea coast; and that this happy state lasted interminably. In fact, these happy and vivid memories extended only to her fifth summer; for the shadow of the event which would bring a cruelly sudden expulsion from her paradise was already hanging over her—her mother’s death.

  Her mother was in the habit of varying the tedium of the winter by making occasional visits to Moscow, for the shops, galleries and theatres. For Anna, there were two consolations: she had her father to herself, and her mother always came back laden with presents. This year, just before Christmas, she did not return with the expected gifts. Instead, a telegram arrived with the news of a fire that had destroyed the hotel in which she was staying. To Anna’s immature mind the news meant only that her mother would be away a few days longer. Yet, as she was being undressed for bed, she was disturbed by her nurse’s crying. She recalled lying awake, wondering where her mother could be, and listening to the storm which happened to be raging. Two of her recurrent hallucinations in adult life—a storm at sea, and a fire at a hotel—clearly related to this tragic event.

  Her grief-stricken father withdrew more or less completely into his business affairs; and in any case preferred the company of his son, now old enough to hold a sensible conversation. Anna was left in the hands of her nurse and her governess. There were no more visits from her aunt and uncle, for by a melancholy coincidence her uncle also died, a few months later, of a heart attack. As a teacher, his income had not been large, and his still youthful widow was forced to sell her home, move into a cheap apartment, and make a meagre living by teaching the piano. Except for letters and occasional small gifts, the burdened and unhappy woman lost touch with her sister’s children. Neither she nor the patient’s father had ever remarried.

  One may easily conceive the young girl’s loneliness and misery, deprived so cruelly of her mother, abandoned by her aunt and uncle (as it must have seemed), and treated indifferently by her father. Fortunately she was in the care of sensible and devoted attendants, particularly her governess. By the age of twelve or thirteen, Anna could speak three languages besides her native Ukrainian, was familiar with good literature, and demonstrated a considerable degree of talent in music. She enjoyed dancing, and was able to attend ballet classes at the lycée. This had the advantage of giving her an opportunity to form friendships, and she became, by her own account, quite sociable and popular. Altogether, then, she survived the loss of her mother better than many, or perhaps most, children would have done.

  When she was fifteen, an unpleasant incident occurr
ed which left its mark on her. There were political disturbances; an uprising of the fleet; violence and street demonstrations. The patient, with two friends, ventured imprudently into the docks area of the city, to observe events. Because of their genteel dress and appearance they were threatened and insulted by a group of insurgents. No physical harm was done to the girls, but they were badly frightened. What affected the patient more was the attitude of her father, when she returned home. Instead of comforting her, he coldly rebuked her for having exposed herself to danger. Perhaps he was merely hiding his concern, and was genuinely upset at the grave risk his daughter had run; but for the young girl his hostile air was the final proof that he cared nothing for her. Henceforth she returned reserve for reserve, coldness for coldness. It was not long after this episode that she had her first experience of the breathless condition, which was treated as asthma but to no avail. After several months it subsided of its own accord.

  Shortly after her seventeenth birthday, she left Odessa, and her father’s house, for St Petersburg, on no other basis than the prospect of an audition with a ballet school. She was without friends in the capital, and had no means of support except for a small inheritance from her mother which she was now old enough to claim. She was successful in her audition, and lived frugally in a rented room in a poor quarter of the city. She formed an attachment with a young man living in the house: a student, A., who was strongly involved in the movement for political reform. He introduced her to a circle of friends of like commitment.

  Her interest in the political struggle was wholly subordinate to her involvement with A. She brought to her first love all the pure and generous ardor of that state; their relationship was an affaire de cœur, not of the flesh. But after a while he abandoned her for more important concerns—the coming conflagration. Almost at the same time she was abandoned by her chosen profession: not because she failed in skill or application, but simply that she was becoming a woman, and gaining flesh which she could not lose, even though she was eating next to nothing. She was forced to conclude that nature did not intend her for a prima ballerina. Fortunately, at this distressing time, one of her ballet teachers, a youthful widow who lived alone, befriended her, and invited her to share her home until she had planned what to do with her life. Madame R. became her mentor as well as her friend. They went to concerts and theatres together, and during the day, while Madame R. was at the ballet school, Anna read from her well-stocked library or went for pleasant walks. It was a quiet and happy period in her life, restoring her to good spirits.