by D. M. Thomas
On a roasting, windless day, Richard Lyons drove her in an army jeep further down the lake shore. Her mother wanted to meet her somewhere where it was quiet. He stopped the jeep under the shade of some fig trees, and told her to walk over the dune. On the crest of the dune she looked towards the lake, with the hills of Judaea beyond, and saw a woman standing. The woman’s face was turned away, as if engrossed by the cloud of red dust over her shoulder on the horizon. Not even the hem of her dress was stirring. When she turned her face towards Lisa, Lisa saw that all the left side consisted of dead skin.
They walked along the shore together. They did not know what to say. Finally Lisa broke the silence by saying that she was sorry about the burns on her face.
“Yes, but I deserve it; and wonderful healing goes on over here.” Her daughter recognized that voice from half a century ago, and her breast churned.
The woman looked intently into Lisa’s face and began to recognize features of her child. Noticing the cross, she said, “It’s mine, isn’t it? I’m glad you’ve kept it.”
Still there was embarrassment and shyness between them.
Lisa, to break the painful silence, asked her what conditions were like in her settlement, which was the one at Cana.
Her mother gave a sad smile. “Well, it’s not the lowest circle, by any means.”
Lisa smiled too, politely, but was puzzled; she remembered her mother’s irritating habit of never answering questions directly.
“Your aunt is coming over,” said her mother.
“Oh! When?”
“Soon.”
A raven flew across the water, a morsel of bread in its mouth.
“Yury too, quite soon.” Her mother’s wistful, beautiful hazel eyes glanced sideways at Lisa. “You should get to know your brother. Of course I’m sure he was jealous when you came along. You’re very different; he takes after his father, that’s plain.”
Lisa took her mother’s hand. Their hands were fumbling and awkward. “Your father’s here, did you know that?” her mother asked. “He’s in isolation.”
“He always was!” said Lisa; and the quip made them both chuckle, and broke the ice finally.
Lisa said: “Are you in touch with him?”
“Oh yes.”
“Will you give him my love?”
“Yes, of course. Oh, and his folk—and mine—send their love, and they’re very anxious to meet you.”
The young woman nodded, pleased. They had fallen into step, walking quietly over the sand. Lisa opened her mouth to ask a question; but thought better of it. It was much too early. Besides, it was really just curiosity; it wasn’t important to know. The only important, terrible thing had been the death, and now she knew that didn’t apply, for her mother had not died, she had emigrated.
But as if by intuition her mother sighed, and said, “I expect you know what happened?”
“I know the bare facts. Not the circumstances. But you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. It’s really not that important. I’d have been just as shocked if you’d been attending a conference of nuns.”
Her mother laughed. “That wouldn’t have been likely! No, I don’t mind talking about it. Your uncle’s a nice man. He didn’t have an easy time with Magda. He was healthy and normal, but her desires ran in an entirely different direction. She could do very little for him. She’s not to be blamed for that; she didn’t find out until it was too late. We were both terribly innocent when we got married. And young. As ignorant as may flies. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Lisa. “Yes, it’s beginning to make sense.”
“She knew what was happening between us—at least in the beginning—and I had the feeling she was even quite relieved.” She looked anxiously at her daughter.
“So in fact,” said Lisa, as the mistiness began to clear, “when all three of you…she really wanted—?” She looked at her mother, blushed, and looked away again.
“Yes, probably. It was her suggestion. Franz and I found it very embarrassing. But later on she wanted all of it to stop—I suppose because she was lonely and jealous—so your uncle and I had to meet in secret. That was the unforgivable sin.”
“Did Father know?”
“He knew, but it was never mentioned. We hadn’t been sleeping together since—practically since Yury was born. Well, that’s not quite true—of course! Once in a blue moon. He was very busy. He had his work, his espionage, his mistress. He didn’t care what I did, so long as appearances were kept up.”
The sun was at its fiercest, and Lisa started to feel unwell. It was a draining experience, hearing her mother’s confession. She asked if they might sit down; there was a rock which provided a little shade. They sat, resting their backs against the burning rock. Her mother asked anxiously if she felt all right, and Lisa said she just felt a bit faint, because of walking in the hot sun. Her mother asked her if she would like a drink, and when Lisa said yes she unbuttoned her dress and put her arm round her daughter to draw her to her breast. The first refreshing drops cooled Lisa’s blood and her head stopped spinning. She took her lips away, and rested her hand reverently on her mother’s ample white breast, tipped with the orange nipple. “I remember it!” she said with a smile. Her mother returned her smile, saying, “Drink as much as you like. I’ve always been blessed with plenty of milk.”
“But how—?” said Lisa; and her mother said, with a sigh, “There are so many orphans being sent over. There are never enough wet-nurses. It’s a way of making myself useful.”
Lisa sucked contentedly, first at one nipple and then the other. Her hand, embracing her mother inside her dress, felt the stiff bones, and she smiled to herself to think that her mother still wore the old-fashioned corselet. When she had finished drinking and her mother had fastened her dress, she undid her blouse and let her mother suck. She felt very happy with the lips sucking her nipple, and remarked, stroking her mother’s still thick, blond hair, that she envied her the experience of suckling babies. Fastening her blouse, blushing at her mother’s question, she explained that she had milk because of the young English lieutenant. She said how much she liked him, and he seemed to need feeding and comforting, he brought out her maternal feelings.
Feeling fresh and strong again, they stood up and resumed their walk along the lake shore. Marya Konopnicka said, “I felt I was being kind to your uncle, in much the same way. Without, I thought, hurting anyone unduly. Consoling him. Of course we partly deceive ourselves.”
“Yes, I saw you consoling him!” the young woman said, with a sly sidelong grin.
“I know! Oh, that was terrible! It almost gave us heart failure! We could only pray you were too young to understand, but obviously you weren’t. I’m sorry, Lisa darling. You see, we had no idea you were still on the yacht. Sonia had strict instructions to—”
“I didn’t mean that time: I meant, in the summer-house!” She smiled teasingly, but her mother was serious, puzzled. “We never did anything in the summer-house; or anywhere where we might be seen. It was nearly always on the yacht; if your father was at work and your aunt preferred to stay behind. We were always very careful.”
She coloured as light dawned. “Wait! Oh yes, I remember now! Yes, just once! Oh, that was very foolish of us! Did you see us? I didn’t think you were even walking then! Yes, of course I remember! I was painting, wasn’t I, on the beach? My thoughts were straying…. It must have been a dreadful picture! It was a very warm day, wasn’t it? Almost like this. Then your uncle and aunt strolled down, and Magda wanted to lie in the sun, so Franz and I went for a walk in the grounds. Oh yes, heavens!” She smiled, and the flush, on the unburned side of her face, deepened. “We were only kissing, weren’t we?”
Lisa shook her head vigorously, mischievously. “You were only half naked!”
“Was I? Oh my God! It’s true! I remember! We must have been mad!” She let out a sudden, rich laugh, and Lisa saw the pearly, even teeth she knew so well. “There was a very strong sexual attr
action, I have to admit that. Of course I tried to persuade myself I was in love. And, you know, I’d quote Pushkin: ‘When we meet again / In the shade of olive trees / Beneath a sky that’s always blue, / My dearest, we will share love’s kiss…’—that sort of thing, by the ream! It’s always hard for us women to admit it’s mainly sexual desire. You’d probably find it more forgivable if it had been an immortal love; but I honestly can’t say it was.”
“No, you’ve got me wrong,” said Lisa. “I’ve nothing to forgive. I just find it interesting.” She took her mother’s hand again. “In fact I can understand it. The excitement of travelling in a train to meet your lover, knowing he was travelling, just as excitedly, towards you. I used to think quite a lot about that.”
“Yes!” admitted her mother, smiling sadly.
“Converging lines moving across the map! Sick with desire—hardly able to wait! And the pleasure of its being forbidden.”
Her mother inclined her head. “Yes, that too! It was a great sin.”
“Well, even if it was, it’s the future that counts, not the past. I know that sounds banal, but it’s true.”
Her mother stopped, put her head in her hands, and stood shuddering. “The fire! That was awful, awful!” She went on shuddering for a long time. Then she lowered her hands and said, in a shaky voice: “It was the second night, I think. We hadn’t seen each other for three months, and we were engrossed in each other. You must know how it is, when you’re lying in bed with someone, your senses are less acute, everything outside you is shut out. We didn’t hear or smell anything. Then, when we had finished, we smelt smoke and started coughing. We heard a roaring sound outside our door. Franz went to open the door, and outside it was simply an inferno.” She writhed, as if caught by a flame again; herself like a flame.
“Well, it’s over,” said Lisa, taking her mother’s hand. Gradually the woman became calm.
“Anyway,” continued Lisa, “I think wherever there is love, of any kind, there is hope of salvation.” She had an image of a bayonet flashing over spread thighs, and corrected herself hastily: “Wherever there is love in the heart.”
“Tenderness.”
“Yes, exactly!”
They strolled further along the shore. The sun was lower in the sky and the day cooler. The raven came skimming back, and a shiver ran up Lisa’s spine. She stopped. “Is this the Dead Sea?” she asked.
“Oh, no!” said her mother, with a silvery laugh; and explained that it was fed by the Jordan River, and that river, in turn, was fed by the brook Cherith. “So you can see the water is always pure and fresh.” Her daughter nodded, greatly relieved, and the two women walked on.
White was the wind that came off the hills. The sun set on the desert, and its light through a distant dust storm streaked into circles and formed the likeness of a rose.
Their walk along the lake brought them to a small village, and they went into a tavern to have something to eat. The two women felt strange, as there were only men in the tavern—fishermen discussing their day’s catch, over a glass of wine. The men politely ignored the strangers. The landlord, who welcomed them courteously, was very old, quavery, and slow in his reactions. When he shuffled across to refill their glasses, he paused when Lisa’s glass was two-thirds full, and she put her hand over it to indicate that she didn’t want any more. But the landlord resumed his hospitable act, and the wine flowed on to the woman’s hand, and from there streamed steadily on to the table. She did not move her hand away, and the landlord kept on pouring. Lisa thanked him, with a grave face, but as he shuffled away with the empty bottle, the two women shook with silent laughter. Lisa’s mother didn’t know what to do with herself, she clasped her arms over her stomach, twisted in her chair, put her head in her hand to hide the tears that sprang from her eyes, bit her lip, pointed at Lisa’s wet hand and went into another spasm.
There was a telephone booth in the tavern. Lisa was still choking with mirth when she went into it and picked up the phone. She asked for the number her mother had given her. When her father answered, it was hardly any different from the old days:
“How are you, Father?”
“Quite well. How are you?”
“Oh, I’m fine.”
“Do you need any money?”
“No, I’m all right.”
“Well, let me know if you need anything. Take care of yourself.”
“Yes. And you.”
But at least she had spoken to him, over the bad line, and some day they might even have a conversation.
By the time Lisa had returned to the camp, a full moon was shining, in a sky of tranquil stars. But there was nothing tranquil about the scene that met her. In the camp grounds, and stretching far out into the desert, there were tents, standing, or in the process of being erected. They stretched away to the horizon on every side. Young officers were directing the huge operation. Lisa caught sight of Richard Lyons, his thin face gleaming with sweat in the moonlight, and the scar livid. He was darting about here and there, his one good arm directing his toiling helpers in their tasks, his baton flickering like a shaman’s stick. He caught sight of Lisa, ordered his sergeant to “carry on,” and came over to her. “Why, it’s the r-rose of Sharon!” he said, smiling. It was the teasing, affectionate nickname he had given her. He explained that more than a dozen train loads had come in today. Each day there were more. The faster extra huts were built, the sooner they were filled and more were needed. But no one could, or would, be turned away; for they had nowhere else to go. Sticking his baton in his belt, he fished a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, opened it, took out a cigarette, put it in his mouth, fished out a box of matches, opened it, struck the match, lit his cigarette, put match box and cigarette packet back in his pocket—all with the one adroit hand. He puffed the cigarette and watched with her the silently frenzied moonlit scene.
“Where Israel’s tents do shine by night!” he quoted.
Many thousands of immigrants were waiting, standing by their pathetic wooden suitcases and holding their bundles of rags tied up in string. They looked, not sad—listless; not thin—skeletal; not angry—patient. Lisa sighed. “Why is it like this, Richard? We were made to be happy and to enjoy life. What’s happened?” He shook his head in bafflement, and breathed out smoke. “Were we made to be happy? You’re an incurable optimist, old girl!” He stubbed the cigarette, and took the baton from his belt. “We’re desperately short of nurses,” he said. “Can you help?” He pointed his baton towards the casualty unit. Camp beds had spilled out on to the grounds. White figures were scurrying among them. “Yes, of course!” she said. She hurried towards the unit, breaking into a run; and only then did she realize that all day her pelvis had not hurt, nor her breast.
She smelt the scent of a pine tree. She couldn’t place it…. It troubled her in some mysterious way, yet also made her happy.