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ALSO BY JEANETTE WINTERSON

OrangesAre Not the Only Fruit Sexingthe Cherry Written on the Body Art and Lies Art Objects Gut Svmmetries

TilrPA55lo} JERNETTE

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GROVE PRESS NEW YORK

Copyright @1987 by JeanetteWinterson All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproducedin any form or by any electronic or mechanicalmeans including information storageand retrieval systemswithout permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer,who may quote brief passagesin a review. First publishedin Great Britain in 1987by BloomsburyPublishingLtd. Printed in the United States of America

Library of CongressCataloging-in-PublicationData Winterson,Jeanette,1959 The passion. I. Title. PR6073.I558P36 1988

823',.914 88-3427

(pbk.) ISBN 0-8021-3522-6 Grove Press 841 Broadway New York NY 10003 99 0001 r09E76543

For Pat Kavanagh My thanks are due to Don and Ruth Rendell whose hospitality gave me the spaceto work To everaoneat Bloomsbury, especiallyLiz Calder. To Philippa Brewster for her patience.

You have navigated with raging soul far from the paternal home, passing beyond the seas' double rocks and now you inhabit a foreign land.

CONTENTS One Two

The Emperor

The Queenof Spader Thrce The Zero Vinter Four Ihe Roch

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EMPDROB

It was Napoleon who had such a passion for chicken that he kept his chefs working around the clock. What a kitchen that ws, with birds in every state of undress; some still cold and slung over hooks, somenrrning slowly on the spit, but most in wastedpiles becausethe Emperorwasbusy. Odd to be so governedby an appetite. It was my first commission.I startedas a neck wringer and before long I wasthe one who carried the platter through inches of mud to his tent. He liked me becauseI am short. I flatter myself,He did not dislikeme. He liked no one exceptJos6phine and he liked her the way he liked chicken. No one over five foot two ever waited on the Emperor. He kept small servane and large horses.The horse he loved was seventeenhands high with a tail that could wrap round a man three times and still makea wig for his mistress.That horsehad the evil eye and there's been almost as many dead grooms in the stableas chickenson the table. The onesthe beastdidn't kill itself with an easykick, its master had disposedof because its coat didn't shineor the bit was green. 'A new governmentmust dazzleand amazer'he said. Bread and circusesI think he said. Not surprising then that when we did find a groom, he came from a circus himself and stood as high as the horse'sflank. When he brushed the beasthe used a ladderwith a stoutbottom and a triangletop, but when he rode him for exercisehe took a gteatleap and landed squareon the glossyback while the horse reared and snorted and couldn't throw him, not even with its nose in the dirt and ie back legs ton'ardsGod. Then they'd vanishin a curtain of dust and travel for miles, the midget clinging to the mane and whooping in his funny languagethat none of us could understand.

THE PASSION But he understoodwerything. He madethe Emperorlaughand the hone couldn't better him, sohe stayed.And I stayed.fuid we becamefriends. We were in the kitchentent one night whenthe bell star6 ringrnslike theDevithimselfis on the otherend.We all iumped up and onerushedto the spit while anotherspaton the siher and I hadto get my bootsbackon readyfor that trampacross the frozen ruts. The midget laughedand said he'd rather take a chancewith the horse than the master,but we don't laugh. Here it comessurroundedby parsleythe cookcherishesin a deadman'shelmet.Outsidethe flakesare so densethat I feel like the little figurein a child's snowstorm.I haveto screwup myeyesto follorrtheyellowsain ttratlightsup Napoleon'stent. No oneelsecanhavea light at this time of night Fuel'sscarce.Not all of this annyhavetents. WhenI go in, he'ssittingdone wittr a globein front of him. He doesn'tnoticeme,he goeson turningthe globeround and round,holdingit tenderlywith bothhandsasif it werea breast. I gve a shortcoughandhe looksup suddenlywith fear in his face. 'Put it hereandgo.' 'Don't youwantme to caryeit, Sir?' 'I canrnanag€. Goodnight.' I knonrwhathe means.He hardlysverasksmeto canreltonr. fu soonasI'm gonehe'll lift the lid andpick it up andpushit into his mouth.He wisheshis wholefaceweremouthto cranr a wholebird. In the morningI'll be luckyto find the wishbone. There is no heat,only degreesof cold, I don't rememberthe feeling of a fire againstmy knees.Even in ttre kitchen, the warmestplaceon anycarnp,the heatis too ttrin to spreadand the copperparn cloudover.I takeoff my socksonsea weekto

THE EMPEROR cut my toe-nailsand the otherscdl me a dandy.We're white with red nosesandblue fingers. The tricolour. He doesit to keephis chickensfresh. He useswinterlike a larder. But thatwasa longtime ago.In Russia. Nowadalnpeoplea[< aboutthe thingshe did as thoughthey madesense.fu thoughevenhis mostdisastrousmistakeswere onlythe resultof badluck or hubris. It wasa mess. Words like devastation, rape,slaughter,c:rnage,starvation are lock and key wordsto keepthe pain at bay.Words about war that areeasyon the eye. I'm tellingyoustories.Trust me. I wantedto be a drummer. The recruitingofficergaveme a walnutandaskedif I could crackit betweenfingerandthumb.I couldnot andhe laughed and saida drummermust havestronghands.I stretchedout my palm, the walnut restingthere,and offeredhim the same challenge.He colouredup andhada Lieutenanttakemeto the kitchentents.The cooksizedup my skinnyframeandreckoned I wasnot a cleaverrnan.Not for me themessof unnamedmeat that hadto be choppedfor the dailyste\r.He saidI waslucky, that I would be working for Bonapartehimselfl,and for one brief;,bright momentI imagineda training as a pastrycook buildingdelicatetowersof sugarandcream.Wewalkedtowards guardsby the flaps. a smalltentwith two impassive tBonaparte's ownstoreroomr' saidthe cook. The spacefrom the groundto the domeof the canvaswils rackedwith roughwoodencagesabouta foot sqwre with tiny corridorsrunning in benn'een, hardly the width of a man. In eachcagetherewere two or threebirds, beaksand clawscut

THE PASSION off, saring throughthe slatswittr dumbidenticaleyes.I amno cou'ardand I've seenplenty of convenientmutilationon our farmsbut I wasnot preparedfor the silence.Not evena rustle. They couldhavebeendead,shouldhavebeendead,but for the eyes.The cookturnedto go.'Your iob is to clearthemout and uningtheir necks.' I slippedawayto the docks,andbecause the stonewaswarmin that earlyApril andbecauseI hadbeentravellingfor daysI fell asleepdreamingof dnrmsanda red uniform.It wasa bootttrat wokeme, hard and shinywith a familiarsaddlesmell.I raised my headandsawit restingon my bellythewayI hadrestedthe walnutin my palm. The officer didn't look at me, but said, 'You're a soldierno\il and you'll get plenty of oppornrnityto sleepin the openair. On your feet.' He lifted his foot ffid, as I scrambledup, kickedme hard and still looking straight atreadsaid, 'Finn buttocks,that's something.' I heardof his reputationsoonenoughbut he neverbothered me.I ttrinkthe chickensmellkepthim away. I washomesickfrom the start I missedmy mother.f missed the trill wherethe sun slantsacrossthe vdley. I misseddl the everyday thingsI had hated.In springat homethe dandelions streakthe fieldsand the river nrns idle againafter monthsof rain. Whenthe armyrecruiment cameit wasa bravebandof us who laughedandsaidit wastimewe sawmorethanthe red barnandthe co$rswe hadbirthed.We signedup straightaway and thoseof us who couldn'tunite madean optimisticsmear on the page. Our villageholdsa bonfireeveryyearat the end of winter. We had beenbuilding it for weeks,all as a cathedralwith a blasphemous spireof brokensnaresandinfestedpallets.There in the would be plentyof wine and dancingand a sweetheart

THE EMPEROR dark and becausewe were leavingwe were allowedto light it. fu the sun went dorvnwe plunged our five burning brands into the heart of the pyre. My mouth went dry as I heard the wood ake and splinteruntil the first flamepushedits wayout. I wished I were a holy man then with an angel to protect me so I could iump inside the fue and see my sins burned away. I go to confessionbut there'sno fenour there. Do it from the heart or not at all. We're a lukewarmpeoplefor all our feastdaysand hardwork. Not much touchesus, but we long to be touched.We lie awake at night wiling the darknessto part and showus a vision. Our children frighten us in their intimacy, but we make sure they gro\il up like us. Lukewarm like us. On a night like this, hands and faceshog we can believethat tomorrow will shorvus angels in iars and that the well-knov"n woods will suddenly reveal anotherpath. Last time we had this bonfire, a neighbour tried to pull down the boardsof his house.He saidit wasnothingbut a stinkingpile ofdung dried meatand lice. He saidhe wasgoingto burn the lot. His wife wasftgging at his anns. She wasa big woman, usedto the churn and the field, but shecouldn't stophim. He smashed his fist into the seasonedwooduntil his handlookedlike a skinned larrb's head.Then he lay by the fue all night until the earlywind coveredhim in coolingash.He neverspokeofit. We neverspoke ofit. He doesn'tcometo the bonfire anymore. I sometimeswonder why none of us tried to stop him. I think we wanted him to do ig to do it for us. To tear doum our long-houredlives and let us start again.Clean and simplewith open hands.It wouldn't be like that, no more than it could have beenlike that when Bonaparteset fue to half of Europe. But what other chancehad we? Morning cameand we marchedawaywith our parcelsof bread and ripe cheese.There were tearsfrom the women and the men

THE PASSION slappedus on the backand said soldieringis a fine life for a boy.Onelittle gul whoalwap followedmearoundpulledat my hand,her eyebrows closetogetherwith worry. 'Will youkill people,Henri?' I droppeddown besideher. 'Not people,Louise, iust the enemy.t 'Whatis enemy?' 'Someone who'snot onyourside.' We wereon our wayto ioin the Armyof Englandat Boulogne. Boulogne, a sleepynothingportwith a handfulofwhorehouses, of Empire.Onlytwentymiles suddenlybecamethe springboard away,easyto seeon a clearday,wasEnglandandher arrogance. We knewaboutthe English;how they ate their children and ignoredthe BlessedVirgin. Hon' theycommittedsuicidewittt unseemlycheer lness.The Englishhavethe highestsuicide rate in Europe.I got that straightfrom a priesuThe English with their JotrnBull beefand frothingbeer.The Englishwho are evennow waist-highin the watercoff Kent practisingto drownthe bestannyin theworld. We areto invadeEngland. will snatch Bonaparte All Francewill berecruitedifnecessary. last out every drop. up his countrylike a spongeanduning We arein lovewith hitn. At Boulogne,thoughmyhopesof drummingheadhighat the front of a proudcolumnaredashed,I'm still headhigh enough becauseI knowI'll seeBonapartehimself.He comesregularly rattlingfromtheTuileriesandscanningtheseaslike anordinary rnancheckshis rain barrel.Dominothe midgetsaysthat being nearhim is like havinga grett wind nrsh aboutyour ears.He salnthat'showMadasredeStlel put it andshe'sfasrousenough to be right. Shedoesn'tlive in Francenow.Bonapartehadher shecomplainedabouthim censoringthe theatre exiledbecause I onceboughta bookof hers the newspapets. andsuppressing

THE EMPEROR from a travelling pedlar who'd had it from a ngged nobleman. I didn't underctandmuch but I learned the word ,intellectual, which I would like to apply to myself. Domino laughs at me. At night I dream of dandelions. The cook grabbeda chicken from the hook abovehis head and scoopeda handful of stuffing from the copper bowl. He was smiling. 'out on the town tonighg lads, and a night to remember, I swearit.' He rammed the stufhng inside the bird, trristing his hand to get an evencoating. 'You've all had a womanbefore I suppose?' Most of us blushedand someof us grggled. 'If you haven't then there'snothing sweeterand if you have, y.[r Bonapartehimself doesn't tire of the sameuste day after day.' He held up the chicken for our inspection. I had hoped to stay in with the pocket Bible given to me by my mother as I left. My mother loved God, she said ttrat God and the virgin were all she neededthough shewas thankful for her family. I've seenher kneeling before dawn, before ttre milking, before the thick porridge, arid singlng out loud to God, whoir she has never seen.We're more or liss religiousin our village and we honour the priest who tramps sevenmiles to bring is the wafer,but it doesn'tpierce our hearts. st Paul said it is better to marry than to burn, but my mother aught me it is better to burn than to marry. She wanied to be a nun. She hoped I would be a priest and savedto glve me an education while my friends plaited rope and trailed after the plough. - I can't be a priest becausealttrough my heart is as loud as hers I can pretend no ans\ileringrioi. I have shouted to God

THE PASSION and the Virgin, but they have not shouted back and I'm not interestedin the still smallvoice. Surely a god can meet passion with passion? She sap he can. Then he should. My mother's family were not wedthy but they were respectable. She was brought up quietly on music and suiable literanrre, and politicswere neverdiscussedat Able, evenwhen the rebels *etJ breaking down the doors. Her family were monarchists. When shewastrrelve shetold them that shewantedto be a nun' but they disliked excessand assuredher that marriagewould be more fuIfilling. She grew in secre! away from their eyes. Ounrardly she was obedient and loving, but inside she was that would havedisgustedthem if disgustitself feeding "iiotrg.r were not an excess.She read the lives of saintsand knew most of the Bible off by heart. She believed that the BlessedVirgin herself would aid her when the time came. The time camewhen shewas fifteen, at a cattle fair. Most of the tov,'nwasout to seethe lumbering bullocks and high-pitched sheep.Her mother and father were in holiday mood and in a rash moment her papa pointed to a stout, well-dressednun carrying a child on his shoulders.He said shecouldn't do better for a husband. He would be dining with them later and very much hopedthat Georgette(my mother)would singafter supp€r. When the cro\ild thickenedmy mother madeher escape,taking nothing with her but the clothesshe stood in and her Bible that shealwalncanied. Shehid in a haycartand set offttrat sunburnt wening out of the tovrn and slowly through_ttrequiet country until the cart reachedthe village of my bi!'th. Quite without fear, becauseshe believed in the power of the Virgin, hY mother presentedherself to Claude (my fatlrer) and askedto be aken io the nearestconvent. He was a slow-witted but kindly illan' ten yearsolder than her, and he offered her a bed for the night'

THE EMPEROR thinking to take her homethe next day and rnaFe collect a reward. Sheneverwenthomeandsheneverfoundtheconventeither. The daysturnedinto weeksand shewasafraidof her father, who sheheardwasscouringthe areaandleavingbribesat any religioushouseshe passed.Three monthswent by and she discoveredthat shehad a waywith plantsand that shecould quiet frightenedanimals.Claudehardlyeverspoketo her and neverbotheredher,but sometimes shewouldcatchhim watching her, sandingstill with his handshadinghis eyes. one nisht, late,assheslept,shehearda apping at the door and nrrningup her lamp sawclaude in the doorvay.He had shaved,hewaswearinghis nighahirt andhe smelledof carbolic soap. '\Mill youmarryme, Georgette?' she shookher headand he went away,returningnow and againas time continued,alwaysstandingby the door, clean shavenandsmellingof soap. she saidyes.She couldn'tgo home.she couldn'tgo to a colventsolongasherfatherwasbribingeveryMotherSuperior with a mind to a newdtar piece,but shecouldn'tgo on living with this quiet num and his alkative neighbourcunlesshL marriedher. He got into bed besideher and strokedher face andtakingher handput it to his face.Shewasnot afraid.She believedin the po\ilerof the Virdln. After ttraqwheneverhewantJdher, he apped at the doorin just the samewayandwaiteduntil shesaidyes. Then I wasborn. Shetold meaboutmygrandparents andtheir houseandtheir piano,anda shadowcrossedher eyeswhenshethoughtI would neverseethem,but I liked my anonymity.Everyoneelsein the villagehad stringsof relationsto pick fights *ittr and know about I madeup storiesaboutmine. Th.y were whateverI wantedthemto be depending on my mood. II

THE PASSION Thanls to my mother'seffortsandthe rustyscholarliness of ourpriestI learnedto readin myovmlang,rage, LatinandEnglish andI learnedarithmetic,the rudimentsof first aid andbecause the priestalsosupplemented his meagreincomeby bettingand Fmbling I learnedeverycardganeanda fewtricks.I nwer told mymotherthatthepriesthada hollon'Biblewith apackof cards inside.Sometimes he tookit to our seniceby misakeandthen the readingwasatwap from the first chapterof Genesis.The villagersttroughthelorredthecreationstory.He wasa goodrurn but lukewarm.I wouldhavepreferreda burningJesuit,perhaps thenI mighthavefoundtheextasyI needto believe. I askedhim why he wasa priesgand he saidif you haveto bossis best. work for anybodyan absentee lVe fishedtogettrerand he pointedout the girls he wanted and askedme to do it for him. I neverdid. I cameto women late like my father. When I left, Mother didn't cqr. It ynasClaudewho cried. She g4veme her little Bible,the onethat shehadkeptfor so many yeas, andI promisedher I wouldreadie 'New The cooksawmy hesiationandpokedmewittt a skewer. to it, lad?Don't be afraid.Thesegirls I knon' arc cleanas a whistleandwide asthe fieldsof France.'I got ready'washing myselfall overwith carbolicsoap. the Corsican.Bornin 1769'a Leo. Bonaparte, pde, moody,with an eyeto the funrreanda singular Short, In 1789ra'olution openeda closedworld abilityto concentrate. streetboyhadmoreon his sidethan meanest time the andfor a any aristocraLFor a youngLieutenantskilledin artillery,tlre chanceswerekind and in a few yearsGenerd Bonapartewas turningItaly into ttre fieldsof France. l2

THE EMPEROR '\ilhat is luck', he said, 'but the ability to exploit accidents?' He believedhe was the centre of the world and for a long time there wasnothing to changehim from this belief. Not evenJohn Bull. He was in love with himself and France ioined in. It was a romance. Perhaps all romance is like thaq not a contract betweenequal partiesbut an explosionof dreamsand desires that can find no outlet in everydaylife. only a drama will do and while the fireworla last the sky is a different colour. He becamean Emperor.He calledthe Popefrom the Holy city to cro\iln him but at the last secondhe took the crown in his own hands and placed it on his ovrn head. He divorced the only pe$on who understoodhim, the onlypersonhe everreallyloved, becauseshe couldn't give him a child. That was the only part of the romancehe couldn't manageby himself. He is repulsiveand fascinatingby turns. what would you do if you were an Emperor?would soldiers becomenumberc?Would battlesbecomediagrams? Would intellectualsbecomea threat?Would you end your dayson an island where the food is saltyand the companybland? He was the most powerful man in the world and he couldn't beatJos6phineat billiards. I'm telling you stories.Trust me.

The brothel was run by a giantessfrom Sweden.Her hair was yellowlike dandelionsand like a living rug it coveredher knees. Her anns were bare, the dressshewore had the sleevespushed up and fastenedwith a pair of garters. Around her neck on a leather thong she kept a flat-faced wooden doll. she saw me staring at it and drawing my head close forced me to sniff it. It smelledof musk and strangeflowers. 'From Martinique, like Bonaparte'sJosCphine.' I smiled and said, 'vive notre dame de victoires,' but the giantesslaughedandsaidthatJosdphinewould neverbecrowned r3

THE PASSION in WesUninsteras Bonapartehad promised.The cook told her sharply to mind her words, but she had no fear of him and led us to a cold stoneroom furnishedwith pallet beds and a long table stackedwith iars of red wine. I had erpectedred velvetthe way the priest had describedtheseseatsof temporarypleasure, but therewasno softnesshere,nothingto disgUiseour business. When the womencamein theywere older than I had imagined' not at all like the pictures in the priest's book of sinful things. Not snake-like,EveJike with breastslike apples,but round and resigned,hair thrown into hastybundles or drapedaround their shoulders.My companionsbrayed and whistled and shovedthe wine down their throats straight from the ian. I wanted a cup of waterbut didn't know how to ask. The cook moved first, slapping a woflIan on the rump and making someioke about her corset.He still wore his fat-sAined boots. The others started to pair off leaving me with a patient black-toothedwomanwho had ten ringSon one finger. 'I've that I iust ioined up,' I told her, hoping she'd realise didn't know what to do. 'That's what they all say,they think it She pinched my cheek. must be cheaper first time. Hard work I cdl it' like teaching billiards without a cue.' She looked over at the cook, who was squatting on one of the pallets trying to ge! lris cock out. His l"b*rn knelt in front of him, her armsfolded.Suddenlyhe slapthe talk for a moment. ped - her agoss the faceandthe snapkilled ,Help me, you bitch, put your hand in, can't You, or are you afraid of eels?' I saw her lip curl and the red mark on her cheek glowed despiteher rough skin. She didn't answer,iust pokgdher hand into his trouseri and brought it out like a ferret by the neck' 'In your mouth.t I wasthinking aboutPorridge. 'Fine man your friend,' saidmy woman' I wanted to go to him and ram his face in the blanket until r4

THE EMPEROR he had no breath left. Then he came with a great bellow and flopped bachn'ardson his elbows.His woman got up and very deliberatelyspatin the bowl on the floor, then rinsed her mouth with wine and spat that out too. she was noisy and the cook heard and askedher what shewas doing throwing his sperm to the sewersof France. 'What elsewould I do with it?' He cametowardsher with his fist raisedbut it neyerfell. My womansteppedforward and coshedhim on the back of the head with a wine iar. She held her companion for a moment and kissedher swiftly on the forehead. She would never do that to me. I told her I had a headacheand went to sit outside. We carried our leaderhome aking nrns in fours to bear him like a coffin on our shoulders,face dovr'nin casehe vomited. In the morning he swagBeredover to the officers and boastedhon, he'd madethe bitch srrallorrhim whole and how her cheekshad filled out like a rat's when she took him. '\Mhat happened your to head?' 'Fell over on the way back ' he said, looking at me. He went out whoring most nishs but I never went with him again. Apart from Domino and Patric\ the de-frocked priest l'ittr the eagle eye, I hardly spoke to anyone.I spent mt time learning how to snrff a chicken and slow don'n ttre cooking process.I waswaiting for Bonaparte. At lasg on a hot morning when the sea left salt cmters in betweenthe dock stones,he came.He cirmewith his Generals Murat and Bernadotte. He came wittr his new Admiral of ttre Fleet. He camewith his wife, whose grace made the roughest in the camp polish his boots rwice. But I saw no onJ but him. For years,ily mentor, the priest who had supported the Revolution, told me that Bonaparte was perhapr trr. Son of God comeagain.I learned his battlesand ia-prignr insteadof r5

THE PASSION I havelain with the prieston an old and historyandgeography. impossiblyfoldedmapof theworld lookingat theplaceshe had goneandwatchingthe frontiersof Francepushslowlyout.The priestcarrieda drawingof Bonapartenextto his drawingof the BlessedVirgin andI grewupwith both,unknownto mymother, who remaineda monarchistandwhostill prayedfor the soulof IVIarieAntoinette. I wasonly five whenthe RevolutionturnedParisinto a free man'scity andFranceinto the scourgeof Europe.Our village wasnot vety far downthe Seine,but we mighthavebeenliving on the m(x)n.No one reallyknewwhatwashappeningexcept thatKing andQueenwereimprisoned.We reliedon gossip,but the priestcreptbackand forttr relyingon his cloth to savehim fromthe cannonor theknife.The villagewasdivided.Most felt King andQueenareri$t thoughKing andQueenhadno care for us, exceptasrwenueandscenery.But thesearemywords, Aught to meby a clerterrtumwhostasno respecterof persoru. couldnot speakof For the mostpart, my friendsin the "illage their uneiuie,but I sawit in their shouldersastheyroundedup the cattle,siln it in their facesastheylistenedto the priestin church.We weredwayshelpless,whoeverwasin pos'er. The priest said we were living in the last da1n,that the Revolutionwouldbringforth a n€wMessiahandthemillerurium on earth.He nEyerwent as far asthat in church.He told me. Not the others.Not Claudewith his pails,not Jacquesin the not my motherwith her prayett.He darkwi& his sn'eetheart, took me on his knees,holdingme againstttre blackcloth that smelledof ageandhan andtold menot to be afraidof nrmours in our villagethat weryonein Pariswaseitherstarvingor dead. 'Christ said he cirmenot to bring peacebut a sn'ord,Henrtt rememberthaL' As I gfewolderandthenrbulent timessettledinto something like calm, Bonapartebeganto makea nirmefor himself.We calledhim otr Emperorlong beforehe had takenthat tide to r6

THE EMPEROR himself.And on our wayhomefrom the makeshiftchurchin the duskin winter,the priestlookedtowardsthe trackthat led awayandheld my ann too tight. 'He'll call your'he whispered, 'like GodcalledSamuel you'll go.' and we werenot hainingon the dayhe came.He caughtus out, prgtably on purpose,andwhenttre first exhausted messenger gallopedinto the campwarningusthatBonaparte wastravelling non-stopandwouldarrivebeforenoonweweresprawledin our shirt-sleeves drinkingcoffeeandplayingdice.The olficerswere wild with fear and beganorganisingtheir men as thougtrthe Englishthemselves had landed.There wasno receptionpreparedfor him, his speciallydesignedbivouachouseda pair of cannonandthe cookwasblind drunk. 'You.' I wasseizedby a capain I did not recognise.'Do somethingaboutthe birds.Nevermindyour uniform,you'll be busywhilewe'reon parade.' so this wasig no gloryfor me,iust a pile of deadbirds. In myrageI filled up thelargestfish-kettleI couldandpoured coldwaterall overthe cook.He didn't stir. fui hour later,whenthe birdsweresaggeredon the spis to cookin their turn, the Capain camebackveryagiatedandtold methatBonaparte wantedto inspectthekitchens.It wasalways a featureof his to interesthimselfin everydeait of his ermy, but this wasinconvenient 'Get that rnanout of here,' orderedthe capain as he left The cookweighedaroundzoo lbs, I wasscarcelyr2o. I tried raising his upper body and dragginghim, but I could only numagpa helplessshuffle. If I hadbeena prophetandthis cookthe heathenagentof a fdse gd I could haveprayedto the Lord and had a host of angelsmoyehim. As it wos,Dominocameto my aidwith some talk aboutEgSpt I knewaboutEglpt becauseBonapartehadbeenthere.His EsJptiancampaign,doomedbut brave,wherehe hadremained r7

THE PASSION immunefrom the plagueandthe feverandriddenmilesin the dustwithouta drop of water. 'How couldher' the priesthad said,'if he isn't protectedby God?' It wasDomino'splanto raisethe cookthewaythe Egptians raisedtheir obelisks,with a fulcrum, in our q$e an oar. We leveredthe oarunderhis bacb thendug a pit at his feet 'Now,' saidDomino.'Nl our weighton the end of the oar andhe'll goup.' It wasLazarusbeingraisedfrom the dead. We got him sandingandI wedgedthe oar beneathhis belt to stophim fallingover. 'Whatdo we do now,Domino?' Whilewestoodon eithersideof this moundof flesh,the tent flap parted and the Capain strode in, very proper. Colour drainedfrom his faceasthoughsomeonehadpulleda plug in movedbut his mouthandhis moustache his throat.He o,pened thatwasall. Pushingpasthim wasBonaparte. He walked trrice round our extribit and askedwho he was. 'The cook,Sir.A little bit drunk,Sh.Thesemenwereremwing him.' to get to the spit whereoneof the chickens I wasdesperate wasalreadyburning,but Domino steppedin front of me and, speakingin a roughlanguagehe latertold mewasBonaparte's Corsicandialect,he somehowexplainedwhat had happened and hon' we had done our best on the lines of his Egyptian When Dominohad done,Bonapartecameton'ards campaigR. me andpinchedmy earsothat it wasswollenfor dap. 'You see,Captainr'he said, 'this is what makesmy anny of eventhehumblest invincible,theingenuityanddetermination soldier.'The Capain smiledweaklnthen Bonapartenrrnedto me. 'You'll seegreatthingpand you'll eat your dirureroff an r8

THE EMPEROR En$ishman'splatebeforelong.Capain, seeto it that this boy Therewill be noweaklints in myanny, waitson mepersonally. to be asreliableasmy Generds.Domino, trwantmy attendants we areriding this afternoon.' I wrote to my friend the priest sraight away.This wasmore perfectthananyordinarymiracle.I hadbeenchosen.I didn't foreseethat the cook would becomemy sn'orn enemy.By nighdal most of the camphad heardthe story and had embroideredit, sothatwe hadburiedthe cookin a trench,beaten him unconscious, or mostbizaneof all,thatDominohadworked a spellon him. 'If onlyI knewhowr'he said.'\Mecouldhavesavedoursehes the digging.' The coob who soberedup with a thumpingheadand in a wotsetemperthan usual,couldn't stepoutsidewithout some soldierwinkingandpokingat him. Finallyhe cameto whereI satwith my little Bibleandgrabbedme closeby the collar. 'You ttrink you'resafebecauseBonapartewanByou.You're safenow,but thereareyearsahead.' He pushedme backagainstthe onionsacksand spatin my face.It wasa longtimebeforewemetagainbecause theCapain hadhim traruferredto the storesoutsideBoulogne. 'Forgethirn' saidDominowhenwe watchedhim leaveon the backof a cart. It's hard to rememberthat this daywill nevercomeagain. That the time is now and the placeis hereand that there are no secondchancesat a singlemoment.During the daln ttrat Bonapartesayed in Boulognetherewasa feelingof urgency andprivilege.He wokebeforeus andsleptlong afterus, going througheverydeail of our trainingand rallyingus personally. He stretchedhis handtorvardsthe ChannelandmadeEngland soundas thoughshealreadybelongedto us. To eachof us. That washisgift. He becamethefocusof our lives.The thought r9

THE PASSION of fightingexcitedus.No onewanrsto bekilledbut thehardship, the longhours,the cold,the ordemwerethingswewouldhave enduredanywayon the farrnsor in the towns.We werenot free men.He madesenseout of dullness. The ridiculousflat-bottomedbargesbuilt in their hundreds tookonthecertaintyofgalleons. Whenweputouttoseqpractising for that treacherous twenty-milectossing,we no longermade iokesaboutshrimpingnetsor howthesehrbswouldbetterserve washemomen. While he stoodon the shoreshoutingorderswe put our facesto thewindandlet ourheartsgooutto him. The bargeswere designedto carry sixty men and it was reckonedthat zo,oooof us would be lost on the way over or pickedoff by ttre Englishbeforewe landed.Bonapartettrought them god odds,he wasusedto losingthat numberin battle. Noneof us worriedaboutbeingoneof the zo,ooo.We hadn't ioinedup to worry. Accordingto his plan, if the French nalrycould hold the Channelfor itst sixhours,he couldlandhis armyandEngland wouldbe his. It seemedabsurdlyeasy.Nelsonhimselfcouldn't outwit us in six hours.We laughedat the Englishand mostof us hadplansfor our visit there.I particularlywantedto visit the Tou'er of Londonbecausethe priesthad told me it wasfull of parentsweretoo orphans;bastardsof aristocraticdescentwhose ashamedto keepthemat home.We're not like that in France, we welcomeour children. Domino told me that we were rumouredto be digginga tunnelreadyto pop up like molesin the Kentishfields.'It took us an hour to dig a foot pit for your friend.' Other stories concerneda balloon landing, a man-fuing cdlnon anda plan to blowup the Housesof Parliamentiust as Guy Fawkeshadnearlydone.The balloonlanditSwasthe one the Englishwereaking the mostseriouslyaod,to preventus, theybuilt tall ton'ersdong the CinquePorts,to spotus andto shootus dovm.

THE EMPEROR All folln but I think if Bonapartehad asked us to strap on wings and fly to St James's Palacewe would have set off as confidently as a child lets loosea kite. Without him, during nights and dayswhen affairs of sate took him back to Paris, our nights and dap were different only in the amount of light they let in. For myself,with no one to love, a hedgehogspirit seemedbest and I hid my heart in the leaves. I have a \ilay s'ith priests, so it came as no surprise that dong with Domino, my friend shouldbe Patrick,the de-frockedpriest with the eagleeye,imported from lreland. h ,799, when Napoleonwas still vying for power, General Hoche,a schoolboys'heroand onetimelover of MadameBonaparte, had landed in Ireland and almost succeededin defeating John Bull outright. During his say he hearda storyabouta certain disgracedpriest whoseright eyewasiust like yours or mine, but whoseleft eyecould put the best telescopeto strasre.Indeed he hadbeenforcedout ofthe churchfor squintingatyounsgrls from the bell tonrer.Whatpriest doesn'tl But in Patrick's case,thanks to the miraculouspropertiesof his eye,no bosomwassafe.A girl might be undressingnro villagesaway,but ifthe eveningwasclear and her shuttemwerebackshemight iust aswell havegoneto the priestand lain her underclothesat his feet. Hoche, a uun of the world, wil$iscepticalof old wives' tales, but soon found that the women were wiser than he. Though Patrick at first denied the chargeand the men laughedand said women and their fanasies, the women looked at the earth and said they knew when they were being watched.The Bishop had taken them seriously,not becausehe believedthe talk about Patrick's eye,but prefening the smoothshapesof his choirboys he found the affair exceedinglyrepulsive. A priest should havebener things to do than look at women. Hoche, caught in this web of hearsaStook Patrick drinking 2l

THE PASSION till the man could hardly stand, then half-walked, half-carried him to a hillock that afforded a clear view acrossthe valley for somemiles. They sat togetherand, while Paaick dozed,Hoche pulled out a red flag and wavedit for a couple of minutes. Then nudging Patrick awakehe commented,as one would, on the splendideveningand the beautiful scenery.Out of courtesyto his host Patrick forced himself to follow the sweepof Hoche's ann, muttering somethingabout the Irish having been blessed \ilith their portion ofparadiseon earth.Then he proppedhimself forward, screwedup one eye,and in a voice ashushedand holy as the Bishop's at communion said, 'Would you look at that now?' 'At what, that falcon?' 'Never mind the falcon, she'sas strong and brown as a co\r.' Hoche could seenothing, but he knew what Patrick could see. He had paid a tart to undressin a field somefifteen miles away, and placedhis men at regular intervalswith their red flags. When he left for France he took Patrick with hirn. At Boulogne, Patrick was usually to be found, like Simeon Stylites, on the top of a purpose-built pillar. From there he could look out acrossthe Channeland report on the whereabouts of Nelson's blockading fleet and warn our practising troops of any English threat French boae that strayedtoo far out of the harbourradiuswerelikely to be pickedoffwittr a sharpbroadside if the English were in the mood for patrolling. In order to alert us, Patrick had been given an Alpine horn as all as a nriur. On foggy nights this melancholy sound resounded as far as the Dover cli{fs, fuelling the rumour that Bonapartehad hired the Devil himself as a look-out. How did he feel aboutworking for the French? He preferred it to working for the English. Without Bonaparteto care for I spent much of my time with Patrick on the pillar. The top of it was about twenty feet by 22

THE EMPEROR fifteen, so there was room to play cards. SometimesDomino cameup for a boxingmatch.His unusualheightwasno disadvantage to him and, dthough Patrick had fists like cannonballs,he neveroncelandeda blow on Domino, whosetacticwasto iump about until his opponent sarted to tire. Judg*S his moment, Domino hit once and once only, not with his fists but with both feet, hurling himself sidewaysor bachrards or pushing offfrom a lightning handsand. These were play l matches,but I\e seenhim fell an ox simply by leaping at its forehead. 'If you were my size,Henri, you'd learn to look after yourself, you wouldn't rely on the good nahrreof others.' Looking out from the pillar I let Patrick describeto me the activity on deck beneath the English sails. He could see the Admirals in their white leggingsand the sailorsrunning up and down the rigging dtering the sail to makethe most of the wind. There wereplentyof floggings.Patricksaidhe sawa man'sback lifted offin one cleanpiece.They dippedhim in the seato save him from nrrning septic and left him on deck staring at the sun. Patricksaid he could seethe weevilsin the bread. Don't believethat one. Jub zoth, r8o4. Too early for dawnbut not night either. There's a restlessness in the trees, out at sea,in the camp. The birds and we are sleepingfitfu[y, wantingto be asleepbut tense\ilith the idea of awakening.In maybehalf an hour, that familiar cold grey light Then the sun. Then the seagullscrying out over the water. I get up at ttris time most days.I walk dovr'n to the port to watch the shipstethered like dogs. I wait for the sun to slashthe water. The last nineteen days have been millpond days. We have dried our clotheson the burning stonesnot peggedthem up to the wind, but today my shirt-sleevesare whipping rourd my anrurand the shipsare listing badly. We are on parade today. Bonaparte arrives in a couple of 23

THE PASSION hoursto watchus put out to sea.He wans to launch25rooo menin fifteenminutes. He will. This suddenweatheris uneryected.If it woreensit will be impossibleto risk the Channel. Patricksap the ctrannelis full of merrraids.He salnit's the mermaidslonelyfor a manthatpull softmy of us doum. watching the white cresb slappingagninstthe sidesof the ships,I wonderif this mischiefstonnis their doing? Optimisticallnit maypass. Noon. The rain is runningoffour nosesdownour iackesinto our boots.To talk to the next nun I haveto cup my hands aroundmy mouth. The wind has alreadyloosenedscoresof barges,forcingmen out chestdeepinto the impossiblewaters, rnakinga nonseruie of our bestknots.The ofhcerssaywe can't risk a practicetoday,Bonaparte,with his coatpulledroundhis head,sa)6we can.We will. JulVzoth, r8o4. Two thousandmenweredron'nedtoday. In galesso strongthat Patrickas look-outhad to be tied to barrelsof apples,we discoveredthat our bargesare children's tqnsafter all. Bonapartestood on the docksideand told his officersthatno stormcoulddefeatus. 'Why,if the heavens fell doumwewouldhold themup on the pointsof our lances.' Perhaps.But there'sno will and no weaponthat can hold backthe sea. I laynextto Patricb flat andstrapped,hardb seeingat dl for the spranbut everygapthe wind left shon'edme anothergap wherea boathadbeen. The mersraidswon't be lonelyanymore. We shouldhavenrrnedon him, shouldhavelaughedin his face,shouldhaveshookttredead-men-seaweed-hair in his face.

THE EMPEROR But his face is alwap pleadingwith us to prove him right. At night when the storm had dropped and we were left in soddentents with steamingbowls of coffee, none of us spoke out. No one said, Let's leavehim, let's hate him. We held our bowls in both handsand drank our coffeewith the brandy ration he'd sent speciallyto everyman. I had to servehim that night and his smile pushed awaythe madnessof arms and legs that pushedin at my earsand mouth. I was coveredin dead men. In the morning, 2,ooo new recruits marchedinto Boulogne. Do you ever think ofyour childhood? I think of it when I smellponidge. Sometimesafter Ite been by the docks I walk into town and use my nose tracking fresh bread and bacon.Always,passinga particular house,that sits like the others in a sort of row, and is the sameas them, I smell the slow smell of oae. Sweet but with an edge of salt. Thick like a blanket. I don't knon' who lives in the house, who is responsible,but I imagine the yellow fire and the black pot. At home we used a copper pot that I polished, loving to polish anythingthat would keep a shine. My mother made porridge, leaving the oats overnight by the old fire. Then in the morning when her bellows work had sent the sparks shooting up the chimnen she burned the oats brown at the sides,so that the sideswerelike brownpaperlining the pot and the insideslopped white over the edge. We trod on a flag floor but in the winter she put dovrn hay and the hay and the oats madeus smell like a maRger. Most of my friends ate hot breadin the mornings. I was happy but happy is an adult word. You don't have to ask a child about hrppy, you see it. They are or th.y are not. Adults alk about being happy becauselargely they are not. Talking about it is the sameas rying to catch the wind. Much 25

THE PASSTON easierto let it blow all over you. This is where I disagreewith the philosophers.Thry alk about passionatethings but there is no passionin them. Never talk happinesswith a philosopher. But I'm not a child any more and often the Kingdom of Heaveneludesme too. Now, words and ideaswill alwap slip themselvesin betweenme and the feeling. Even our birthright feeling which is to be happy. This morning I smell the oatsand I seea little boy watching his reflectionin a copperpot he's polished.His father comesin and laughsand offers him his shavingmirror instead.But in the shavingmirror the boy can only seeone face.In the pot he can seeall the distortionsof his face. He seesmany possiblefaces and so he seeswhat he might become. The recruits have arrived, most without moustaches,all with applesin their cheeks.Fresh country produce like me. Their faces are open and eager. They're being fussed over, gwen uniforms and duties to replacethe yell for the milk pail and the insistentpigs. The ofhcersshakehandswith them; a grown-up thing to do. No one mentionsyesterday'sparade.We're dry, the tentsare dryrng the soakedbargesare upflrned in the dock. The seais innocentand Patrick on his pillar is shavingquietly. The recruie arebeing dividedinto regiments;friends are separatedon principle. This is a new start. These boysare men. What souvenirsthey have brought from home will soon be lost or eaten. Odd, the differencethat a few monthsmakes.When I came here I was iust like them, still am in many wrys, but my companionsare no longer the shy boyswith cannon-fire in their eyes.They are rougher, tougher. Naturally you say,that's what army life is about. It's about somethingelse too, somethinghard to alk about. When we came here, we came from our mothers and our z6

THE EMPEROR sweethearts.We were still usedto our mothercwith their workhard anns that could clout the strongestof us and leaveour ears ringrng. fud we courted our sweetheartsin the country way. Slow, with the fields that ripen at harvest. Fierce, with the sowsthat rut the earth. Here, without women, with only our imaginationsand a handful of whores,we can't rememberwhat it is about women that can nrrn a man through passion into something holy. Bible words again, but I am thinking of my father who shaded his eyes on those sunburnt eveningsand learned to take his time with my mother. I am thinking of my mother with her noiqyheart and of all the^womenwaiting in the fields for the men t"ho drowned yesterdayand all ttre mothers' sonswho haveaken their place. We never think of them here. We think of their bodies and now and then we talk about home but we don't think of them as they are; the most solid, the best loved,the well knovrn. They go on. Whateverwe do or undo, they go on. There was a man in our village who liked to think of himself as an inventor. He spent a lot of time with pulleys and bits of rope and oflcuts of wood making devicesthat could raise a co\il or layrngpipes to bring the river water right into the house. He was a man with light in his voice and an easy way with his neighbours.Used to disappointrnent,he could alwaysilssuage the disappointrnentin others.And in a villagesubiectto the rain and sun there are many disappoinunents. All the while that he inventedand re-inventedand cheered us up, his wife, who neverspokeexceptt
THE PASSION Youcantell I likedthis man,andI'd bea fool to sayhe didn't work,thatwedidn't needhim andhis optimisticways.But when shedied,suddenlnat noon,the light went out of his voiceand his pipesfilled with mud and he couldhardlyharvesthis land let alonebring up six children. Shehadmadehim possible.In ttratsenseshewashis god. Like God,shewasneglected. New recruitscry when they comehere and they think about their mothersandtheir sweethearts andtheythink aboutgoing home.They rememberwhat it is abouthomettrat holdstheir hears;not sentimentor shou'but facestheylove.Most of these recruitsaren'tseventeen andthey'reaskedto do in a fewweeks whatvexesthe bestphilosophers for a lifetime;that is, to gather passion for life andmakesenseof it in the faceof death. up their They don't knon'hon' but theydo knon'hon' to forget,and little by little theyput asidethe burningsunmerin their bodies andall theyhaveinsteadis lust andrage. It wasafter the disasterat seathat I startedto keepa diary.I startedsothat I wouldn'tforget.Sottratin laterlife whenI was proneto sit by the fire andlook bacb I'd havesomethingclear and sure to set againstmy memorytricks. I told Domino; he said,'The wayyouseeit nowis no morered thanthewayyou'll seeit then.' I couldn'tagreewith him. I knewhorr old menblurred and it wasgone.Hadn't lied makingthepastalwa)Ethebestbecause Bonapartesaidsohimself? 'Look at you,t saidDomino,'! youngman broughtup by a priest and a piousmother.A youngnuurwho can't pick up a musketto shoota rabbit.What makesyou think you can see anythingclearly?What grvesyou the right to makea notebook and shakeit at me in thirty yeans,if we're still dive, and say you'vegot the truth?'

THE EMPEROR 'I don't careaboutthe facts,Domino,I careabouthowI feel. How I feelwill change,I wantto rememberthaL' He shruggedand left me. He nevertalkedaboutthe funue when drunb would he talk about his and only occasionally, past A pastfilledwith sequinedwomenanddoublemarvellous uiled horsesanda fatherwhomadehis living beingfued from a ciulnon.He camefrom somewhere in easternEuropeandhis skinwasthecolourof old olives.Weonlyknewhehadwandered into Franceby mistake,yearsago,andsavedthe ladyJosdphine from the hoovesof a runawayhorse.Shewasplain Madame Beauharnais then, recentlyout of the slimyprison of Carmes and recentlywidou'ed.Her husbandhad been executedin the Terror; she had only escapedbecauseRobespierewas murderedon themorningshewasto follon'him. Dominocalled her a ladyof goodsenseandclaimedthatin her penniless days play shehad challengedofficersto her at billiards.If shelost, theycouldstayto breakfast.If shewon,theywereto payoneof her morepressingbills. Sheneverlost. Yearslater,shehad reconrmended Dominoto her husband eagerfor a gxoomhe couldkeepandtheyhadfoundhim eating fire in somesideshow.His loyaltiesto Bonaparteweremixed, but he lovedbothJos€phine andthe horses. He told me aboutthe fortunetellershe'd knovmand hont crowdscameeveryweekto havetheir funrre openedor their pastrevealed.'But I tell you,Henri, thateverymomentyousteal from the presentis a momentyou havelost for ever.There's onlynow.t I ignoredhim andkeptworkingon my little bookandin August whenthe sunnrrnedthe grassyellow,Bonaparteannounced his CoronationthatcomingDecember. I wasgivenimmediateleave.He told me he'dwantmewith him afterthat.Told meweweregoingto do greatthings.Told

THE PASSION me he liked a smiling facewith his dinner. It's dways been the way with me; either everyoneignores me, or they take me into their confidence.At first I thought it was iust priests because priests are more intense than ordinary people. It's not iust priests,it must be somethingaboutthe way I look. When I started working for Napoleon directly I thought he spokein aphorisms,he neversaida sentencelike you or I would, it was put like a great thought. I vnote them all dorrn and only later realisedhow bizarre most of them were. They were lines from his memorabledeliveriesand I should admit that I wept when I heardhim speak.Evenwhen I hated him, he could still make me cry. And not through fear. He was gxeat Greatness like his is hard to be sensibleabout. It took me a weekto get home,riding where I could, walking the rest. News of the Coronationwas spreadingand I saw in the smilesof the people I travelledwith how welcomeit was. None of us thought that only fifteen yearsagowe had fought to do awaywith Kings for ever. That we had sworn never to fight again exceptin self-defence.Norv we wanted a ruler and we wanted him to rule the world. We are not an unusualpeople. In my soldier's uniform I was treated \ilith kindness,fed and cared for, given the pick of ttre haryest.In renrn I told stories about the campat Boulogneand how we could seethe English quakingin their bootson the oppositeshore.I embroideredand inventedand evenlied. Why not?It madethem happy.I didn't talk about the men who have married mermaids. All the farm lads wanted to ioin up straight away,but I advisedthem to wait until after the Coronation. 'When your Emperor needsyou, he'll call. Until then, work for Franceat home.' Naturally, this pleasedthe women. I had been away six months. When the cart I was riding in dropped me a mile or so from home I felt like turning back. I

THE EMPEROR wasafraid. Afraid that things would be different, that I wouldn't be welcome.The traveller alwayswants home to be iust as it was. The traveller expectsto change,to return with a bushy beard or a new baby or tales of a miraculous life where the streamsare full of gold and the weather is gentle. I was full of such stories,but I wanted to know in advancethat my audience was seated.Skirdng the obvioustrack, I crept up on my village like a bandit. I had alreadydecidedwhat they should be doing. That my mother would be iust visible in the potato field, that my father would be in the cowshed.I was going to run down the hill and then we'd have aparty. They didn't know to e{pect me. No messagecould havereachedthem in a week. I looked.They were both in the fields. My mother with her hands on her hipr, head pushed back, watching the clouds gather.She was expectingrain. She was making her plans in accordancewith the rain. Beside her, my father stood still, holding a sack in each hand. When I was small, I'd seen my father with two sacls like that, but ttrey had been full of blind moles,their whiskerestill rough with dirt. They were dead.We trappedthem becausethey ruined the fields but I didn't know that then, I only knew that my father had killed them. It was my mother who pulled me awayrigrd wift cold from my night vigil. In the morning the sackswere gone. I've killed them myself since,but only by looking the other way. Mother. Father.I love you. We stayed up late so many nights drinking Claude's rough cognacand sitting till the fire was the colour of fading roses. My mother talked about her past with galety, she seemedto believethat wittr a ruler on the throne much would be restored. She eventalked about $,riting to her parents. She knew they'd be celebratingtherenlrn ofamonarch.lwas surprised,Ithought she'd alwayssupportedthe Bourbons.Becomingan Emperor 3r

THE PASSION didn't make this man she'd hated into a man she could love surely? 'He's doing right, Henri. A country needs a King and a Queen,otherwisewho arewe to look up to?' 'You can look up to Bonaparte. King or not.t But she couldn't. He knew she couldn't. It was not simple vanity that wasputting this man on the throne. When my mother alked about her parents,she harboured the samehopesas the traveller who returns home. She thought of them unchanged,describedthe furniture as though nothing would have been moved or broken in more than twenty years. Her father's beard was still the samecolour. I understoodher hopes.We all had somethingto pin on Bonaparte. Time is a greatdeadener.Peopleforget, gro\il old, get bored. The mother and father she'd risked her life to escapefrom she no\trspokeof with affection. Had she forgotten?Had time worn awayher anger? She looked at me. 'I'm not so greedyas I get older, Henri. I takewhat there is and I\e stoppedaskingquestionsaboutwhere it comesfrom. It givesme pleasureto'think of them. It givesme pleasureto love them. That's all.' My face burned. What right had I to challengeher? To take the light out of her eyesand makeher think of herself as foolish and sentimenal?I knelt in front of her, my back to the fire, my chest resting againsther knees.She kept hold of her darning. 'You're like I ws,' she said.'No patience with a weakheart.' It rained for da1n.Thin rain that soakedyou in half an hour without the thrill of a real torrent. I went from home to home gossipingand seeing friends, helping with whatever had to be mended or gathered.My friend the priest was on a pilgrimage, so I left him long lettersof the kind I would mostlike to receive. I like the early dark. It's not night. It's still companionable. No one feelsafraid to walk by themselveswithout a lantern. The 32

THE EMPEROR girls sing on their way back from the last milking and if I iump out on them they'll shout and chase me but there'll be no pounding hearts. I don't know why it is that one kind of dark lan be io different from another. Real dark is thicker and quieter, it fills up the spacebenreenyour iacket and your heart. It getsin your eyes.When I haveto be out late at night, it's not knivesand kicks I'm afraid of, though there are plenty of those behind walls and hedges.I'm afraid of the Dark. You, who walk so cheerfully, whistling your way, stand still for fwe minutes. Stand still in the Dark in a field or down a track. It's then you know you're there on sufferance.The Dark only lets you take one step at a time. Step and the Dark closesround your back. In front, there is no spacefor you until you take it. Darknessis absolute. Walking in the Dark is like swimming underwater exceptyou can't come up for air. Lie still at night and Dark is soft to the touch, it's made of moleskin and is such a s\ileetsmotherer.In the country we rely on the moon, and when the moon is out no light can penetrate the windou'. The window is walled over and cast in a perfect black surface.Does it feel the sameto be blind? I used to think so,but I've beentold not. A blind pedlarwho visitedus regularly laughedat my storiesof the Dark and saidthe Darkwas his wife. We bought our pails from him and fed him in the kitchen. He 'I never spilt his stew or missed his mouth the way I did. can seer'hesaid,'but I don't usemy eyes.' He died last winter, 0y mother said. It's early dark now and this is the last night of my leave.We won't do anything unusual. We don't want to think that I'm going again. I havepromised my mother that she will come to Paris soon after the Coronation.I've neverbeenmpelf and it's the thought of that that makesit easierfor me to saygoodbye.Domino will be there grooming his preposteroushorse, teaching the mad beastto walk in a quiet line with Court animals.Why Bonaparte 33

THE PASSION has insisted on having that horse present at such an imporant time is not clear. It's a soldier's mount, not a creature for parades.But he's alwaysremindingus that he's a soldier too. when claude had finally goneto bed and we were alone,we didn't alk. We held handsuntil the wick burnt out and rhen we were in the dark. Parishad neverseenso much money. The Bonaparteswere ordering everything from cream to David. David, who had flattered Napoleon by calling his head perfecdyRoman,was giventhe commissionto paint the Coronation, and he was to be found each day at Notre-Dame making cartoonsand arguing with the workmen who were trying to do awaywith the ravagesof revolution and banknrptcy.Josdphine, gtvenchargeof the flowers,had not contentedherselfwith vases and arrangements.She had drav"nup a plan of the route to the cathedralfrom the palaceand was engagedas intently as David on her own ephemeralmasterpiece.I fitst encounteredher over the billiard able, where she was playrngMonsieur Talleyrand, a gentlemannot gifted \ilith balls. In spite of her dress,which spread out would easily have made a carpet all the way to the cathedral,she bent and movedas though she wore nothing at all, making beautiful parallel lines with her cue. Bonapartehad dressedme up asa footnranandorderedme to takeher Highness an afternoon snack. She was fond of melon at four o'clock. Monsieur Talley:and was to haveport This holidaymood of Napoleon'swasalmosta madness.He had appearedat dinner trro nights ago dressedas the Pontiff and lewdly askedJosdphinehow intimate she would like to be with God. I staredinto the chicken. Now, he had me out of my soldier's uniform and in Court dress.Impossiblytight. It made him laugh. He liked to laugh. It was his only relaxation apart from those hotter and hotter baths he took at any time of the day or night. In ttre palacethe

THE EMPEROR bathroom staff lived in the samestate of unrest as the kitchen staff. He might cry out for hot water at any moment, and woe betide the man on duty if the tub were not iust full, iust so. I'd only seenthe bathroom once. A great big room with a hrb the size of a line-ship and a huge furnace in one corner, where the waterwasheatedand drawnand pouredbackand reheatedover and over again until the moment came and he wanted it. The attendantswere speciallychosen from amongstthe best oxunestlersin France.Fellowswho could handlethe copperkettles like tea-cupsworked alone,strippedto the waisgwearingonly sailor'sbreechesthat caughtthe siweatand held it in dark stripes dovr'neach leg. Like sailors they had their liquor ration, but I don't knou'what it was made of. The biggest,Andr6, offered me a swig from his flask the time I poked my head round the door, gaspingat the steamand this huge man who looked like a genie.I acceptedout of politeness,but spat the brown stuff over the tiles, frantic at the heat. He pinched my arm the way the cook pinched spaghettistrings and told me that the hotter it is the honer the liquid you drink. '\ilhy do you think they drink all that rum in Martinique?' and he winked broadly, imitating her Highness'swalk. Now, here she was before me and I was too shy to announce the melon. Talleyrand coughed. 'I won't missbecauseyou gnrnt,'she said. He coughedagainand shelookedup, and seeingme sanding there put down her cue and movedto take awaymy tray. 'I know all the semants,but I don't know you.' 'I'm from Boulogne,Maiesty.I've cometo sene the chicken.' She laughedand her eyestravelledup and down my person. 'You don't dresslike a soldier.' 'No, Maiesty.My orderswere to dressas Court now that I'm at Court.t She nodded.'I think you might dressanywayyou like. I'll ask

THE PASSION him for you.wouldn't you prefer to vait on me?Melon is so muchsweeterthanchicken.t I washorrified.Had I comeall this wayiust to losehim? 'No, Maiesty.I couldn't do melon.I canonrydo chicken.I've beentrained.' (I soundlike a streeturchin.) Her handrestedon my arm for a second,andher eyeswere keen. tI canseehowzealous youare.Go now.t Thankfully I bowedout bachpardsand ran down to the servan6'hdl, whereI hada little roomof my o\iln;the privilege of beinga specialattendant.I keptmy few bookstheri, a flute I washopingto learnandmy iournal.I wroteabouther or tried to. she eludedme the way the arts in Boulognehad eluded me.I decidedto write aboutNapoleoninstead. After that, I waskeptbuqywirh banquetafterbanquetasall our conqueredterritoriescameto congratulate the Emperorto be. While the guestsfilled themselves on rare fish andvealin newlyinventedsauces,he kept to his chicken,eatinga whole oneeverynight,usuallyforgettingaboutthevegeables.No one Evermentionedit. He only neededto coughand the tablefell silent.Norr andagainI caughther MajestywatchingDe, but if our eyesmet,shesmiledin that half wayof hersandI dropped my eyes.Evento look at her wasto wronghim. she belonged to him. I enviedher that. In the weeksttrat followedhe grewmorbidlyafraidof being poisoned or assassinated, not for himselfi, but because thefuture of Francewasat stake.He had me tastedl his foodbeforehe would touchit and he doubledhis guard.Rumourhad it that heevencheckedhisbedbeforehe slept.Not thathesleptmuch. He was like a dog, he could closehis eyesand snorein a moment,but whenhis mind wasfull he wasableto suy awake for dayswhilehis Generalsandfriendsdroppedaroundhim. Abruptln at the end of Novemberandonly two weeksfrom 36

THE EMPEROR his Coronation, he ordered me back to Boulogne. He said I lacked a real soldier's training, that I would setre him better when I could handlea musketaswell asa caryingknife. Perhaps he saw how I blushed,perhapshe knew my feelings,he knew thoseof mostpeople.He trreakedmy ear in his maddeningway and promised there was a specialiob for me in the New Year. So I left the city of dreamsiust as it was about to flower and heard second-handreports of that gaudy morning when Napoleonhad taken the crown from the Pope and placedit on his own head before crowning Josdphine.They say that he boughtMadameClicquot'sentire stockfor the wholeyear.With her husbandlately dead and the whole weight of the business on her shoulders,she can only have blessedthe return of a King. She was not alone. Paris threw open everydoor and lit €verychandelierfor three days.Orly the old and ill botheredto go to bed, for the rest it wasdrunkennessand madnessand ioy. Q excludethe aristocrats,but they are not relevant.) In Boulogne,in the tenible weather,I trained for ten hours r dry and collapsedat night in a damp bivouacwith a coupleof inadequateblankets.Our suppliesand conditions had always been good,but in my absencethousandsmore men had ioined up, believingthrough the offices of Napoleon'sfenent clergy that the road to Heavenwasfirst the road to Boulogne.No one wasexemptfrom conscription.It wasup to the recruitittgofficers to decidewho should stayand who must go. By Chrisunas,the camphad swelledto over roo,ooomen and morewereexpected. We ran with packsthat weighedaround +o lbs, waded in and out of the sea,fousht one another hand to hand and used all the availablefarming land to feed ourselves.Even so, it was not enoughand,in spiteof Napoleon'sdislikeof supplycontractors, we got most of our meat from namelessregionsand I suspect from animalsthat Adam would not recognise.Two pounds of bread,4 oz of meat and 4 oz of vegetableswere rationedto us daily. We stole what we could, spent our wages,when we had

THE PASSION them, on tavern food and wreaked havoc on the communities who lived quietly round about. Napoleon himself ordered pioandiiresto be sent to specialcamps. Viaandiireis an optimistic army word. He sent tartswho had no reasonto be aiaantabout anything.Their food was often worse than ours, they had us as manyhours of the day aswe could standand the paywils poor. The well-paddedtown tarts took prty on them and were often to be seenvisiting the campswith blanketsand loavesof bread. The ztiaandiirawere runaways,strays,younger daughtersof too-largefamilies,servantgirls who'd got tired of giving it away to drunken masters,and fat old dameswho couldn't ply their trade anyrrhereelse. On arrival they were each gwen a set of underclothes and a dress that chilled their bosoms in the icy sea-saltdays.Shawlsweredistributedtoo,but anywomanfound coveringherself on duty could be reported and fined. Fined meantno moneythat weekinsteadof hardly anymoney.Unlike the town hffi, who protected themselvesand charged what they liked and certainly charged individually, the oiaanfswere expectedto serviceas many men as askedthem day or night. One woman I met crawling home after an officer's party said she'd lost count at thirty-nine. at thirty-nine. Christ lost consciousness Most of us that winter got greatsoreswhere the salt and wind had rubbed down our skin. Soresbetweenour toesand on our top lips were the most common. A moustachedidn't help, the hairs aggravatedthe rawness. At Chrisfinas,though theaiztandihahad no time off, we did, and we sataroundour fireswith extralogstoastingthe Emperor with our extrabrandy.Patrick and I feastedon a gooseI stole, cookingand eatingit in guilty ioy on top of his pillar. We should havesharedit, but as it was we were still hungry. He told me storiesabout Ireland, about the peat fires and the goblins that live under everyhill. 38

THE EMPEROR 'Sure and I've had my own bootsmadethe sizeofa thumbnail by the little people.' He said he'd been out poaching that it was a fine night in July, iust dark, dth the moon up and a greatstretch of stars.As he camethrough the wood he saw a ring of green fue burning as tall as a man. In the middle of the ring were three goblins. He knew they were goblins and not elvesby their shovelsand beards.'So I kept as quiet as the church bell on a Saturday night and crept up to them asyou would a pheasant.' He had heardthem discussingtheir treasure,stolenfrom the fairies and buried under the ground within the ring of fue. Suddenly one of the goblins had put his nose to the air and sniffed suspiciously. 'I smella manr' he said.'A dirty man with mud on his boots.' 'What Another laughed. does it matter?No one with mud on his bootscan enter our secretchamber.' 'Take no chances,let's be of{,' said the first and in a wink they were BoD€,ring of fire with them. For a few moments Patrick lay st'rllamongthe leavesturning overwhat he had heard. Then, checkinghe wasalone,he took offhis boog and crept to where the ring of fire had been. On the ground there was no sign of burning but the solesof his feet tingled. 'So I knew I wasin a magicplace.' He had dug dl night and in the morning found nothing but a coupleof molesand a pile of wonns. Exhausted,he had gone back for his boos and there they were. 'No biggerthan a thumbnail.' He searchedhis pocketsand handedme a tiny pair of boots, perfectlymade,the heelsworn down and the lacesfrayed. 'An' I swearthey fitted me once.' I didn't know whether to believehim or not and he sawmy eyebrowsworking up and down. He held out his hand for the boots. 'I walked all the way home in my bare feet and when I cameto take Mass that morning I could hardly hobble up to the 39

THE PASSION dtar. I was so tired that I gavethe congregationthe day off.' He smiled his crooked smile and hit me on the shoulder. 'Trust me, I'm telling you stories.' He told me other storiestoo. Storiesaboutthe BlessedVirgin and how shecouldn't be relied upon. 'The women,they're always the cleveronesr'he said. 'They alwayssenseour lying ways.The BlessedVirgin's a woman too, for all that she's HolR and there's no man I knon' can get his ovt'nwaywith her. You can pray dl day and dl night and shewon't hearyou. If you're a ruln, you'd much better stick with Jesushimself.' I said something about hon' the Blessed Virgin was our mediator. 'Sure she is, but she mediatesfor the women.Whn wete a statue at home, so lifelike you'd think it was the Holy Mother herself. Norv the women come in with ttreir tears and flou'ers and I've hidden behind a pillar and I'll swearon all the sainc that the statuemoves.Norr when the men comein, cap in hand, asking for this and that and saying their prayers, that statue's like the rock it's made ofl I've given them the tnrth over and overagain.Go straighttoJesus,I say(he'sgot a stanrenearby), but they don't heed becauseeveryman likes to think he's got a womanlisteningto him.' 'Don't you pray to her?' 'Sure an' I do not. We havean arrangementyou might say.I see to her, give her proper respectand we leave each other alone.She'd be different if God hadn't violatedher.' What was he talking about? 'See, women like you to treat them with respect. To ask beforeyou touch.Now I\e neverthoughtit wasright andproper of God to send his angel with no by your leave and then have his way before she'd evenhad time to comb her hair. I don't think she everforgavehim for that. He was too hasty.So I don't blasreher that she'sso haughtyno\f,r.'

THE EMPEROR I hadneverthoughtof the Queenof Heavenin this way. Patrickliked ttre girls and was not abovesneakinga look uninvited. 'But when it comesto it, I'd nevertake a womanwithout gling her time to combher hair.' We spentthe restof our chrisunasleaveon top of ttrepillar shelteringbehindthe applebarrelsand playingcards.But on New Year'sEvePatrickswungout his ladderandsaidwe were to goto Communion. tltm not a believer.t 'Then you'll comeasmy friend,' He caioledme with a bottleof brandyfor aftemardsand so wesetoffthroughthe frozenstreets to dreseaman's churchthat Patrickpreferredto annypraye$. It was fi[ing slowlywith men and womenfrom the town, muffledagainstthe coldbut in the bestclothestheycouldfind. we were the only ones from the camp. probabrythe only ones still sober in this desperateweather.The church was plain exceptfor the colouredwindorrsand the statueof the Queenof Heavendeckedin red robes.Despitempelf I made her a little bow and Patrick,catchingme, smiledhis crooked smile. we sangwittr our strongestvoicesand the warmth and nearness of otherpeoplethawedmyunbeliever's heartandI too sawGod throughthe frost. The plain windowsweretrellised with frost and the stonefloor that receivedour kneeshad the coldnessof the grave.The oldestweredignifiedwith smiling facesand the children,someof whomweie so poor that they kepttheir handswannin bandages, grewangelhair. The Queenof Heavenlookeddovrn. when we had put asideour stainedprayerbooksttrat onty someof us could readwe took communionwith cleanhmte-, and Patrick,who had clippedhis mousrache, whippedto the endof the queueandmanagedto receivethe hosttlvice.

THE PASSION 'Double the blessing,'hewhisperedto me. I had not intended to take communion at all, but my longing for strong anns and certainty and the quiet holinessaround me forced me to my feet and dov"n the aisle where strangersmet my eyes as though I had been their son. Kneeling, with ttre incensemakingme light-headedand the slou'repetition of the priest calming my banging heart, I thought again about a life with God, thought of my mother, who would now be kneeling too, far away and cupping her hands for her portion of the Kingdom. In my village,eachhousewould be emptyand silent but the barn would be full. Full of honestpeoplewho had no church making a church out of themselves.Their flesh and blood. The patientcattle sleep. I took the wafer on my tongueand it burned my tongue.The wine tastedof dead men, 2,ooo dead men. In the face of the priest I sawdeadmen accusingme. I sawtentssoddenat dawn. I sawwomenwith blue breasts.I grippedthe chalice,though I could feel the priest try and take it from me. I grippedthe chalice. When the priest gently curled away my fingers I saw the imprint of the silveron eachpalm.Werethesemy stigmatathen? Would I bleed for everydeathand living death?If a soldierdid, therewould be no soldiersleft. We would go under the hill wittl the goblins.We would marry the mermaids.We would never leaveour homes. I left Patrickat his secondcommunionand went out into the freezingnight. It was not yet twelve.No bells were ringing no flares were lit, heralding a new year and praising God and the Emperor. This year is gone, I told myself. This year is slipping away and it will neverreturn. Domino's right, there'sonly now. Forget it. Forget it. You can't bring it back.You can't bring them back. They saythat everysnowflakeis different. If that were uue'

THE EMPEROR hon' could the world go on? How could we ever get up off otr knees?How could we everrecoverfrom the wonder of it? By forgetting.We cannot keep in mind too many things. There is only the presentand nothing to remember. On the flagstones,still visibleunder a coatingof ice, somechild had scrawleda gameof noughtsand crossesin red tailor'schalk. You plan you win, you plaR you lose.You play. It's the playing that's irresistible. Dicing from one year to the next with the things you love,what you risk reveds what you value. I sat dorpn and scratching in the ice drew my own square of innocent noughts and angry crosses.Perhapsthe Devil would partner me. Perhapsthe Queenof Heaven.Napoleon,Jos6phine. Does it matterwhom you loseto, if you lose? From the church camethe roar of the last hymn. Not heard as half-heartedhymns are heard on monotonous Sundayswhen the congregationwould rather be in bed or with their sweethearts.This was no lukewarm appealto an exacting God but love and confidencethat hung in the rafters, pushed open the church door, forced the cold from the stone,forced the stonesto cry out. The church vibrated. My soul doth magnify the Lord. What gavethem this ioy? what madecold and huttgrypeopleso surethat anotheryear could only be better?Was it Him, Him on the throne? Their little Lord in his simple uniform? what doesit matter?why do I questionwhat I seeto be real? Dov"n the street towards me comesa woman with wild hair, her bootsmakingsparls orangeagainstthe ice. She'slaughing. She'sholding a babyvery close.She comesstraightto me. 'H.ppy New Year, soldier.' Her baby is wide awakewith clear blue eyes and curious fingers that move from buttons to noseto stretch at me. I wrap

THE PASSION myannsaroundthembothandwemakeastrangeshapeswayrng slightlynear the wdl. The hymn is orrerand the momentof silencetakesmeby surprise. The babyburps. Then the flaresgo out acrossthe Channelanda greatcheer from our camptwo milesawaycomesclearlyto wherewe stand. The womanpulls away,kissesme and disappearswith her sparkingheels.Queenof Heaven,gowith her. Here they come,with the Lord sEwnin their hearc for anotheryear. Ann in arm, huddledtogether,somerunning somewalkingwittr long strideslike weddingguess.The priest is at the door of the church,standingin a pool of light and besidehim,thealtarbqrsin theirscarlet,sheltertheholycandles from the wind. From acrossthe streetwhereI am standingI can seethroughthe door, downthe aisleand up to ttre altar. The churchis emptynosr,exceptfor Patrick,who is sanding with his backto me right up againstthe altar mil. By the time he comesout, the bellsareringrngcrazilyandat leasta dozen womenwhomI've nwer methavethroumtheir annsaroundmy neckandblessedme.Most of the menarein Foups of five or six, still by the church,but ttre womenare ioining handsand makinga greatcircle that blocksthe road and fills the space from one sideof the streetto the odter.They start to dance, goingroundandroundfasterandfasteruntil my eyesarc dizzy their songbut their wittrkeepingupwith them.I don'trecognise voicesarefull. my heart. Sequester Whereverloveis, I wantto be, I will followit assurelyasthe land-lockedsalmonfindsthe sea. 'Drink ttris,' said Patrick,pushinga bottle towardsme. 'You won't tastethe like again.' 'Wheredid you get it?' I smelledthe cork,it wasround and ripe andsensual.

THE EMPEROR 'From behind the altar. They dwap keep a good drop for themselves.t We walked the miles back to the camp, meeting a band of soldiers carrying one who'd throvrn himself into the sea as a New Yeargpsture.He wasn'tdead,but he wastoo cold to speak. They were taking him to a brothel to get wann. Soldiers and women. That's how the world is. Any other role is temporarJr.Any other role is a geshrre. We slept in the kitchen tent that night as a concessionto the unimaginablezero temperature.Unfeelabletoo. The body shuts dovrn when it has too much to bear; goes its own way quietly inside,waiting for a better time, leavingyou numb and half alive. Wittr frosty bodies all about us, drunken men sleeping off another year, we finished the wine and the brandy and shoved our feet under the poato sacks,boog of[, but nothing else. I listened to Patrick's regular breathing choke into a snore. He was lost in his world of goblins and treasure, alwayssure that he would find treasure,evenif it wasonly a bottle of claret from behind ttre altar. Perhapsthe Queen of Heaven did care for hitn. I lay awaketill the seagullsbegan to cry. It was New Year's Day, r8o5, and I wastwenty.

45

Two

the

QUEEr\r oF sParlEs

There is a city surrounded by water with watery allep that do for streetsand roadsand silted up back waysthat only the rats can cross.Miss your way,which is easyto do, and you may find yourself staring at a hundred eyesguarding a filthy palaceof sacksand bones.Find your way, which is easyto do, and you maymeet an old womanin a doorway.Shewill tell your fornrne, dependingon your face. This is the city of mazes.You maysetofffrom the sameplace to the sameplace everyday and nevergo by the sameroute. If you do so, it will be by misake. Your bloodhoundnosewill not lerye you here. Your coursein compassreading wiil fail you. Your confident instnrctions to passers-bywill send them to squaresthey have never heard o{, over canalsnot listed in the notes. - Nthough wherever you are going is alwap in front of you, there is no such thing as straight ahead.No as the crow hi.t short cut lvill help you to reachthe cafdjust over the water. The short cuts are where the cats go, through the impossiblegaps, round cornels that seemto takeyou the oppositeway. But hele, in this mercurial city, it is required you do awakeyour faith. With ffitr, rU things are possible. Rumour has it that ttre inhabiants of this city walk on water. That, more bizarrestill, their feet are webbed.Not all feet, but the feet of the boaunenwhosetrade is hereditary. This is the legend. When a boatnan's wife finds herselfpregnantshewais until the moon is full and the night empty of idlirs. Then she takes her husband'sboat and rows to a terrible islandwherethe dead are buried. She leavesher boat \dth rosemaryin the bows so that the limblessonescimnot return with her and hurries to the

THE PASSION graveof the most recentlydeadin her f"*ily. She hasbrought her offerings:a flask of wine, a lock of hair from her husband and a silvercoin. She must leavethe offeringson the graveand beg for a cleanheart if her child be a girl and boatrnan'sfeet if her child be a boy. There is no time to lose.She must be home before dawn and the boat must be left for a day and a night coveredin salt. trnthis way,the boaunenkeeptheir secretsand their trade. No newcomercan compete.And no boaunanwill take off his boots, no matter how you bribe him. I have seen tourists throw diamondsto the fish, but I have never seen a boaunantakeoff his boots. There was once a weakand foolish man whosewife cleaned the boat and sold the fish and brought up their children and went to the terrible island as she should when her yearly time was due. Their housewas hot in summer and cold in winter and there was too little food and too many mouths. This boatman, ferryrnga tourist from one church to another,happened to fall into conversationwith the man and the man brought up the questionof the webbedfeet. At the sametime he drew a purseof gold from his pocketand let it lie quietly in the bottom of the boat. Winter was approaching,the boaUnanwas thin and he thought what harm could it do to unlaceiust one boot and let this visitor seewhat there was. The next morning, the boat waspicked up by a coupleof priestson their way to Mass.The tourist was babbling incoherently and pulling at his toes with his fingers.There wasno boatrnan.They took the tourist to the madhouse,SanServelo,a quiet placethat catersfor the well-off and defective.For all I know, he's still there. And the boaunan? He wasmy father. I neverknewhim becauseI wasn'tborn whenhe disappeared. A few weeksafter my mother had been left with an empty boat she discoveredshewaspregnant.Although her funue was uncertain and shewasn't strictly speakingmarried to a boaftnan

THE QUEEN OF SPADES any more, she decidedto go aheadwith the gloomyrinral, and on the appropriatenight she rowed her way silently acrossthe lagoon. fu she fastenedthe boat, an orrl flew very low and caught her on the shoulderwith its wing. She was not hurt but shecried out and steppedback and, as shedid so, droppedthe sprig of rosemaryinto the sea.For a moment she thought of returning straight awaybut, crossinghersel{,she hunied to her father's graveand placedher offerings.She knew her husband should havebeen the one, but he had no grave.How like him, shethought,to be asabsentin deathashe wasin life. Her deed done,shepushedoff from the shorethat eventhe crabsavoided and later coveredthe boat in so much salt that it sank. The BlessedVitgtn must haveprotectedher. Even before I wasborn she had married agatn.This time, a prosperousbaker who could afford to take Sundaysoff. The hour of my birth coincidedwith an eclipseof the sun and my mother did her best to slow down her labour until it had passed.But I was as impatient then as I am now and I forced my head out while the midwife was downstairsheating some milk. A fine headwith a crop of red hair and a pair of eyesttrat madeup for the sun's eclipse. A girl. It wasan easybirth and the midwife held me upside dov,'nby the anklesuntil I bawled.But it waswhen they spreadme out to dry that my mother fainted and the midwife felt forced to open anotherbottle of wine. My feet were webbed. There neverwas a girl whosefeet were webbedin the entire history of the boaunen.My mother in her swoonhad visionsof rosemaryand blamedherself for her carelessness. Or perhaps it was her carefreepleasurewith the baker she should blame herselffor? She hadn't thought of my father sincehis boat had sunk. she hadn't thought of him much while it was afloat The midwife took out her knife with the thick blade and proposed 5r

THE PASSION to cut off the offendingpartsstraightaway.My motherweakly nodded,imaginingI wouldfeelnopainor thatpainfor amoment wouldbebetterthanembarrassment for a lifetime.The midwife tried to rnakeanincisionin the translucenttrianglebetweenmy fint nro toes but her knife spnmgfrom the skin leavingno mark.Shetried againandagainin betweenall the toeson each foot Shebentthe point of the knife,but thatwasall. 'It's the Virgin's will,' she said at last, finishing the bottle. 'There'sno knife cangetthroughthat.' My motherstartedto weepand wail and continuedin this wayuntil my stepfathercamehome.He wasa manof theworld andnot easilyput offby a pair of webbedfeet. 'No onewill seesolongasshewearsshoesandwhenit comes to a husbmd,whyit won'tbe the feethe'll be interested in.' This comfortedmymothersomewhat andwepassedttrenext eighteenyearsin a normd familyway. SinceBonaparte capnrredour city of mazesn ry97, we've moreor lessabandoned ourselves to pleasure. Whatelseis there to do whenyou\e lived a proud and free life and suddenly you'renot proudandfreeanymore?We becamean enchanted islandfor the mad,the rich, thebored,thepelverted.Our glory dayswerebehindus but our excess wasiust beginning.That man demolishedour churcheson a whim and looted our treasures. That womanof his hasjewelsin her cros'nthat come out of St Mark's. But of all sorrows,he hasotu living horses castby menwho stretchedtheir annsbetweenthe Devil and God andimprisonedlife in a brazenform. He tookthemfrom the Basilicaandhasthrownthemup in somereadymade square in that tart of to\rns,Paris. Therewerefour churchesthat I loved,whichstoodlooking out acrossthe lagoonto the quietislandsthatlie aboutus. He tore them dov,'nto makea public garden.Why did we want a publicgarden? And if wehadandif we hadchosenit ourselves wewouldneverhavefilledit with hundredsof pineslaid out in

THE qUEEN OF SPADES regimenalro\ils.They sayJosdphine's a botanist Couldn't she havefound us somethinga little more exotic?I don't hatethe French.My fatherlikesthem.They'vemadehis businessthrive with their cravingfor foolishcakes. He gavemea Frenchnametoo. Villanelle.It's prettyenough. I don't hatethe French.I ignorethem. When I was eighteenI startedto work the Casino.There aren'tmanyiobs for a girl. I didn't want to go into the bakery andgrowold with redhandsandforeamslike thiglu. I couldn't be a dancer,for obviousreasons,iilrd what I wouldhavemost liked to havedone,worked the boats,Trilsclosedto me on accountof my selc I did takea boat out sometimes, rowingalonefor hotrs up anddownthecanalsandout into thelagoon.I learnedthe secret wa]'sof boatnren,by watchingandby instinct. If everI sawa sterndisappearing donn a black,inhospiablelookingwatemay,I follorredit and discoveredthe city within the city that is the knorrledgeof a few. In this inner city are thievesandJevn and childrenwith slanteyeswho comefrom the easternwastelands withoutfatheror mother.They roamin packslike the catsandttreratsandtheygoafterthe samefood. No oneknonnwhytheyarehereor on whatsinistervesselthey arrived.They seemto die at twelveor thirteenandyet theyare alwaysreplaced.I've watchedthem takea knife to eachother for a filthy pile of chicken. There are exilestoo. Men and womendriven out of their gleamingpalacesthat openso elegantlyon to shiningcanals. Men andwomenwho areofficiallydeadaccordingto the registersof Paris.They'rehere,with the oddbit of goldplatestuffed in a bagastheyfled. so long astheJeunwill buy ttreplateand the plate holds out, they sunive. When you seethe floating corpsesbellyupwards,youknowthe goldis ended. Onewomanwhokepta fleetof boatsanda stringof cas and

THE PASSION dealt in spiceslives here no$r,in the silent city. I cannottell hon' old she may be, her hair is green with slime from the walls of the nook she lives in. She feedson vegetablematter that snags againstthe stoneswhen the tide is sluggish.She has no teeth. She has no need of teeth. She still wears the curtains that she draggedfrom her drawing-roomwindow assheleft. one curtain she wraps round herself and the other she drapes over her shoulderslike a cloak. She sleepslike this. I've spokento her. When she hears a boat go by her head pokesout of her nook and sheasksyou what time of dayit might be. Never what time it is; she'stoo much of a philosopherfor that. I sawher once, at evening,her ghoulish hair lit by a lamp she has. She was spreadingpiecesof rancid meat on a cloth. There werewine gobletsbesideher. 'I'm havinggueststo dinnerr'she shouted,asI glidedpaston the other side.'I would haveinvited you, but I don't know your na[le.t 'Villanelle,'I shoutedback. tYoutre a Venetian,but you wear your name as a disguise. Bewarethe dice and gamesof chance.' She nrned backto her cloth and, althoughwe met again,she nEverusedmy name,nor gaveany sign that she recognisedme. I went to work in the Casino, raking dice and spreadingcards and lifting wallets where I could. There was a cellarful of champagnedrunk every night and a cruel dog kept hungry to deal wittr anyonewho couldn't pay. I dressedas a boy because that's what the visitors liked to see. It was part of the game, rying to decide which sex was hidden behind tight breeches and extravagnntface-paste.. . It was August. Bonaparte'sbirthday and a hot night. We were due for a celebrationball in the PiazzaSanMarco, thoughwhat we Venetianshad to celebratewas not clear. In keeping with

THE QUEEN OF SPADES our customs,the ball wasto be fancydressand the Casinowas arrangingoutdoorgamingtablesand boothsof chance.Our city swarmedwith French and Austrianpleasure-seekers, the usual bewilderedstreamof Englishand evena party of Russiansintent on finding satisfaction.Satisfyingour guestsis what we do best. The price is high but the pleasureis exact. I made up my lips with vermilion and overlaid my face with white powder.I had no need to add a beautyspot, havingone of my own in iust the right place. I wore my yellow Casino breecheswith the stripedown eachsideof the leg and a pirate's shirt that concealedmy breasts.This was required, but the moustacheI addedwas for my own amusement.And perhaps for my o\iln protection. There are too many dark alleysand too many drunken handson festivalnights. Acrossour matchlesssquarethat Bonapartehad contempnrously called the finest drawing-roomin Europe, our engineers had rigged a wooden frame alive with gunpowder.This was to be triggered at midnight and I wasoptimistic that,,nith so many headslooking up, so manypocketswould be vulnerable. The ball beganat eight o'clock and I beganmy night drawing cardsin the booth of chance. Q3reenof spadesyou wq Ace of clubs you lose. Play again. Whatwillyou risk?Yourwatch?Yourhouse? Yourmistress? I like to surellthe urgencyon them.Eventhe calmest,the richesghavethat smell.It's somewhere betweenfearandsex.PassionI suppose. There's a man who comes to play Chance with me most nightsat the Casino.A largemanwith padsof fleshon his palms like baker's dough. When he squeezesmy neck from behind, the sreat on his palms makes them squeak. I always carry a handkerchief.He wears a green waistcoatand I've seen him stripped to ttrat waistcoatbecausehe can't let the dice roll without following it. He has funds. He must have.He spends in a momentwhat I earn in a month. He's cunning though, for dl his madnessat the table. Most men wear their pocketsor 55

THE PASSION their purseson their sleeveswhen they'redrunk. They want everyone to knorvhowrich theyare,howfat wittr gold.Not him. He hasa bagdownhis trousersandhe dipsinto it wirh his back turned.I'll neverpick thatone. I don't knoruwhatelsemightbe downthere. He wondersthe samething aboutme. I catchhim saring at my crotch and now and againI weara codpieceto taunt him. My breasBare small,so ttrere'sno cleavageto giveme away, andI'm all for a girl, especially a Venetian. I wonderwhathe'd sayto my feet. Tonight,he'swearinghisbestsuitandhismousachegleams. I fan the cardsbeforehim; closethem,shufllethem,fan them again.He chooses. Too low to win. Chooseagain.Too high. Forfeit.He laughsandtossesa coinacrossthe counter. tYou'vegrowna moustache sincenro daysilgo.t '[ comefroma hairyfamily.' 'It suitsyou.' His eyesstrayasusual,but I am firmly behind the booth.He takesout anothercoin. I spread.The Jackof hearts.An ill-omenedcardbut he doesn'tthink so,hepromises to return and aking theJackwith him for luck mwes overto the gamingable. His bottomstrainshis jacket.They'realwap takingthe cards.I wonderwhetherto get out anotherpackor iust cheatthe next customer.I think ttrat will dependon who the nextcustomermightbe. I lovethenight.In Venice,alongtimeago,whenwehadour on'n cdendarandsayedalooffrom the world,we beganthe dap at night.Whatusewasthesunto uswhenour tradeandour secrets andourdiplomacy depended ondarkness? In thedarkyouarein disguiseandthis is the city of disguises. In thosedays(I cannot placethemin timebecausetime is to dowith daVItSh$, in those dayswhenthesunwentdovmweopenedourdoorsandslidalong theeelywaterswith ahoodedlightin ourprosr.All ourboatswere blackthenandleft nomarkon thewaterwheretheysaLWewere 56

THE QUEEN OF SPADES dealingin perfume and silk. Emeraldsand diamonds.Affairs of State. We didn't build our bridges simply to avoid walking on water.Nothing so obvious.A bridge is a meetingplace.A neutral place.A casualplace.Enemieswill chooseto meeton abridgeand end their quarrel in that void. One will crossto the other side. The other will not return. For lovers, a bridge is a possibility, a meaphor oftheir chances.And for the traffic inwhisperedgoods, where elsebut a bridge in the night? We are a philosophicalpeople,conversantwith the nattre of greed and desire, holding hands with the Devil and God. We would not wish to let go of either. This lioing bridge is tempting to all and you may loseyour soul or find it here. And our o\rn souls? They are Siamese. Nowadays,the dark hasmore light than in the old dap. There are flares everywhereand soldiers like to seethe streen lit up, like to see some reflection on the canals.ThQy don't trust our soft feet and thin knives.None the less,darknesscan be found; in the under-used watemays or out on ttre lagoon. There's no dark like it. It's soft to the touch and heary in the hands. You can openyour mouth and let it sink into you dll it makesa close ball in your belly. You can iuggle with it, dodge iq swim in it. You can open it like a door. The old Venetians had eyes like cats that cut the densest night and took them through impenetrablewap without snrmbling. Evenno\il, ifyou look at us closelyyou will find that some of us haveslit eyesin the daylight. I used to think that darknessand death were probably the same. That death was the absenceof light. That death was nothing more than the shadow-landswhere peoplebought and sold and lovedasusualbut with lessconviction.The night seems more temporary than the day, especiallyto lovers, and it also seenrsmore uncertain. In this way it sums up our lives, which are uncertain and temporary.We forget about that in the day. 57

THE PASSION In the day we go on for ever. This is the city of uncertainty, whereroutesand faceslook alike and are not. Deathwill be like that. We will be forever recognisingpeoplewe havenever met. But darknessand deathare not the same. The one is temporary,the other is not. Our funeralsarefabulousaffairs.We hold them at nighg returning to our dark roots. The black boae skim the water and the coffin is crossedwith iet. From my upperwindorvthat overlooks two intersectingcanals, I oncesawa rich man'scorttge of fifteen boats(the number must be odd) glide out to the lagoon.At the samemoment,a pauper'sboat, carryinga coffin not varnished but coveredin pitch, floated out too, rowed by an old woman with scarcelyenough strength to drag the oarc. I ttrought they would collide, but the rich man's boatmenpulled away.Then his widow motioned with her hand and the cortegeopenedthe line at the eleventhboat and maderoom for the pauper,tossing a rope round the prow so that the old worum had only to guide her craft. They continued thus towards the tenible island of San Michele and I lost sight of them. For myse6 if I am to die, I would like to do it alone,far from the world. I would like to lie on the wann stone in May until my strengthis gone,then drop gentlyinto the canal.Such things are still possiblein Venice. Nowadays,the night is designedfor the pleasure-seekers and tonight,by their reckoning,is a tourdefora.There arefire-eaters frothing at the mouth with yellow tongues.There is a dancing bear. There is a troupe of little girls, their sweetbodieshairless and pink, carryingsugaredalmondsin copperdishes.There are women of every kind and not dl of them are women. ln the centre of the square,the workers on Murano havefashioneda huge glass slipper that is constantly filled and re-filled with champagne.To drink from it you must lap like a dog and hon' 58

T H E Q U E E NO F S P A D E S thesevisitorslove it. One hasalreadydrowned,but what is one deathin the midst of so much life? From the wooden frame abovewhere the gunpowderwaits there are also suspendeda number of nets and trapezes.From here acrobatsswingover the square,castinggxotesqueshadows on the dancersbelow. Now and again,one will dangleby the kneesand snatcha kiss from whoeveris standingbelow. I like such kisses.They fill the mourh and leavethe body free. To kisswell one must kisssolely.No gropinghandsor stammering hearts.The lips and the lips alone are the pleasure.Passionis sweeter split strand by strand. Divided and re-divided like mercurythen gatheredup only at the last moment. You see,I am no strangerto love. It's getting late,who comeshere with a maskover her face? Will shetry the cards? She does.She holds a coin in her palm so that I haveto pick it out. Her skin is warm. I spreadthe cards.She chooses.The ten of diamonds.The threeof clubs.Then the Queenof spades. 'A lucky card. The symbolof Venice.You win.' she smiled at me and pulling awayher maskrevealeda pair of grey-greeneyeswith flecks of gold. Her cheekboneswere high and rouged.Her hair, darkerand redder than mine. 'Play again?' She shookher head and had a waiter bring over a bottle of champagne.Not any champagne.MadameClicquot. The only goodthing to comeout of France.She held the glassin a silent toast,perhapsto her ourngood fornrne. The Queen of spades is a seriouswin and one we are usually careful to avoid. Still she did not speak,but watched me through the crysal and suddenlydraining her glassstroked the side of my face. only for a secondshe touchedme and then she was goneand I was left wittr my heart smashingat my chestand three-quartersof a bottle of the bestchampagne.I wascarefulto concealboth. I am pragmaticabout love and have aken my pleasurewith

THE PASSION both men and women, but I have never neededa guard for my heart. My heart is a reliable orgnn. At midnight the gunpowderwas triggered and the sky aboveSt Mark's broke into a million coloured pieces. The fireworks lasted perhapshalf an hour and during that time I was able to finger enoughmoneyto bribe a friend to take over my booth for a while. I slipped through the press towards the st'rll bubbling glassslipper looking for her. She had vanished.There were facesand dressesand masks and kissesto be had and a hand at everynrrn but she was not there. I was deained by an infantr5rmanwho held up two glass balls and askedif I would exchangethem for mine. But I was in no mood for charming gamesand pushed past him, my eyes beggingfor a sign. The roulette table. The gaming table. The fornrne tellerc. The fabulous three-breastedwoman. The singrng ape. The double-speeddominoesand the tarot She was not there. She wasnowhere. My time was up and I went back to the booth of chancefull of champagneand an empty heart. 'There was a woman looking for your' said my friend. 'She left this.' On the able wasan earring.Romanby the look of ig curiously shaped,made of that distinct old yellow gold that these times do not know. I put it in my ear and, spreadingthe cards in a perfect fan, took out the Queen of spades.No one else should win tonight" I would keep her card until she neededit. Gaiety soon ages. By three o'clock the revellenswere drifting awaythrouglr the archesaround St Mark's or lying in piles by the cafds,opening

THE QUEEN OF SPADES earlyto provide strongcoffee.The gamingwasover.The Casino tellers were packing away their gaudy stripes and optimistic baize. I was off-duty and it was almost dawn. Usually, I go straight home and meet my stepfattreron his way to the bakery. He slapsme about the shoulder and makessome ioke about hourmuch moneyI'm making. He's a curious man; a shmg of the shoulders and a wink and that's him. He's never thought it odd that his daughter cross-dressesfor a living and sells second-handpurseson the side. But then, he's never thought it odd that his daughterwasborn with webbedfeet. 'There are strangerthings,'he said. And I supposethere are. This morning, there's no going home. I'm bolt upright, my legs are restlessand the only sensiblething is to borrow a boat and calm myself in the Venetianway; on the water. The Grand Canal is alreadybusywith vegetableboats.I am the only one who seernsintent on recreation and the others eye me curiouslR in betrreen steadyinga load or arguing with a friend. These are my people, they can eye me as much as they wish. I push on, under the Rialto, that strangehalf-bridge that can be drawn up to stop one half of this city warring with the other. They'll sealit eventuallyandwe'll be brothersand mothers.But ttrat will be the doom of paradox. Bridges ioin but they also separate. Out now, past the houses that lean into the water. Past the Casinoitself. Pastthe money-lendersand the churchesand the buildings of state. Out now into the lagoon with only the wind and the seagullsfor company. There is a cerainty that comeswith the oars,with the sense of generationafter generationsanding up like this and rowing Iike this with rhythm and ease.This city is linered with ghosts 6t

THE PASSION

seeing to their own. No family would be complete without its ancestors. Our ancestors.Our belonglng.The funrre is foretold from the past and the future is only possiblebecauseof the past. Without past and future, the present is partial. All time is eternallypresentand so all time is ours. There is no sensein forgetting and every sensein dreaming.Thus the present is maderich. Thus the presentis madewhole. On the lagoonthis morning,with the pastat my elbow,rowing besideme, I seethe future glitteringon the water.I catchsight of myselfin the water and seein the distortionsof my facewhat I might become. If I find her, how will my funrre be? I will find her. Somewherebetweenfear and sexpassionis. Passionis not so much an emotionas a destiny.What choice have I in the face of this wind but to put up sail and rest my oars? Dawn breaks. I spentthe weeksthat followedin a hectic stupor. Is there such a thing?There is. It is the condition that most resemblesa particularkind of mentaldisorder.I haveseenones like me in San Senelo. It manifestsiself as a compulsionto be foreverdoing something,howevermeaningless. The body must movebut the mind is blank. I walked the streets,rowed circles around Venice,woke up in the middle of the night with my coversin impossibleknos and my musclesrigrd. I took to working double shifts at the Casino,dressingas 0 womanin the afternoonand a youngman in the evenings.I atewhen food wasput in front of me and slept when my body was throbbing with exhaustion. I lost weight. I found myself staring into space, forgetting where I was going. I wascold.

THE qUEEN OF SPADES I nevergo to confession;God doesn'twant us to confess,he wants us to challengehim, but for a while I went into our churchesbecausethey were built from the heart. Improbable hearts ttrat I had never understoodbefore. Hears so full of longing that theseold stonesstill cry out with their extaqr.These are wann churches,built in the sun. I sat at the back,listeningto the music or mumblingthrough the semice.I'm nevertemptedby God but I like his trappings. Not temptedbut I begin to understandwhy others are. With this feeling inside,with this wild love ttrat threatens,what safe placesmight there be?Where do you store gunpowder?How do you sleepat night again?If I were a little different I might turn passioninto somethingholy and then I would sleepagain. And then my extasywould be my extasybut I would not be afraid. My flabby friend, who has decidedI'm a woman,has asked me to marry hfun.He has promised to keep me in ltxury and all kinds of fancy goods,provided I go on dressingas a young man in the comfort of our own home. He likes that. He says he'll get my moustachesand codpiecesspecially made and a rare old time we'll have of it, playrng games and getting drunk. I was thinking of pulling a knife on him right there in the middle of the Casino, but my Venetian pragmatism stepped in and I thought I might have a little game myself, Anything no$' to relieve the ache of never finding her. I've alwayswondered where his money comes from. Is it inherited?Does his mother still settlehis bills? No. He earnshis money.He earnshis money supplyingthe French anny with meat and horses.Meat and horseshe tells me that wouldn't normallyfeed a cat or mount a beggar. How doeshe get awaywith it? There'sno oneelsewho cansupplysomuchsofast,an5'where; as soonas his orders arrive, the suppliesare on their way. 63

THE PASSION It seemsthat Bonaparrewins his battlesquickly or not at all. That's his way. He doesn't need quality, he needsaction. He needshis men on their feet for a few days' march and a few days'battle.He needshorsesfor a singlecharge.That's enough. what does it matter if the horses are lame and the men are poisonedso long as they last so long as they're needed? I'd be marryinga meat man. I let him buy me champagne.only the best. I hadn't tasted Madameclicquot sincethe hot night in August.The rush of it along my tongueand into my throat brought back other memories. Memories of a single touch. How could anything so passingbe so pervasive? But Christ said,'Follow h€,' and it was done. Sunk in these dreams,I hardly felt his hand along my leg, his fingerson my belly. Then I was remindedvividly of squid and their suckersand I shookhim off shoutingthat I'd nevermarry him, not for all the Veuve Clicquot in France nor a Venice full of codpieces.His facewasalwaysred so it washard to tell what he felt about these insults. He got up from where he'd been kneelingand straightenedhis waistcoat.He askedme ifl wanted to keepmy iob. 'I'll keep my iob becauseI'm good at it and clients like you comethrough the door everyday.' He hit me then. Not hard but I was shocked.I'd neverbeen hit before.I hit him back.Hard. He startedto laugh and coming towardsme squashedme flat againstthe wall. It was like being under a pile of fish. I didn't try to move,he wasnrice my weight at leastand I'm no heroine. I'd nothing to loseeither,havinglost it alreadyin happiertimes. He left a stain on my shirt and threw a coin at me by way of goodbye. 6q

THE QUEENOF SpADES Whatdid I expectfrom a meatman? I wentbackto the gamingfloor. Novemberin Veniceis the beginningof the catarh season. Catarrhis part of our heritagelike St Mark's. Long ago,when the Councilof Three ruled in mpteriousways,anytraitor or to havedied hapless onedoneawaywithwasusuallyannounced It's the fog ttrat of catarrh.In thisway,no onewasembarrassed. rolls in from the lagoonandhidesone end of the Piazzafrom anotherttrat brings on our hateful congestion.It rains too, mournfullyandquietlRandthe boatmensit undersoddenrags and starehelplesslyinto the canals.Suchweatherdrivesaway the foreignersandthat'sthe onlygoodthingthat canbe saidof it. Eventhe brilliantwater-gateat the Fenicenrns grey. On anafternoonwhenthe Casinodidn'twantmeandI didn't wantmpelf, I wentto Florian'sto drink andgazeat the Square. It's a fulfi[ing pastime. I hadbeensittingperhapsan hour whenI hadthe feelingof being watched.There was no one near me, but there was someonebehinda screena little wayoff. I let my mind retreat agnin.What did it matter?We aredwap watchingor watched. The waitercameoverto mewith a packetin his hand. I openedit It wasan earring.It wasthe pair. And shestoodbeforeme and I redisedI wasdressedas I had beenthat night becauseI waswaitingto work. My hand wentto my lip. 'You shavedit off' shesaid. I smiled.I couldn'tspeak. Sheinvitedme to dinewith her the follon'inga'eningand I andaccepted. tookher address In the Casinothat night I uied to decidewhat to do. She thoughtI wasa youngrnan.I wasnot. ShouldI go to seeher asmyselfandioke aboutthe mistakeand leavegrace lly?My heartshrivelledat this thought.To loseher againsosoon.fud

6s

THE PASSION what was myself?Was this breechesand boots self any less real than my garters?What was it about me that interested her? You play,you win. You play,you lose.You play. I was careful to steal enough to buy a bottle of the best champagne. Lovers are not at their best when it matters.Mouths dry up, palms sweat, conversationflags and all .the time the heart is threatening to fly from the body once and for all. Loverc have been knorunto haveheart attacks.Lovers drink too much from nervousnessand cannot perform. They eat too little and faint during their ferventlywishedconsunrmation.They do not stroke the favouredcat and their face-paintcomesloose.This is not all. Whatever you have set store bR your dress, your dinner, your poetrI, will go wrong. Her housewas gracious,sanding on a quiet watenvay,fashionable but not nrlgar. The drawing-room, enonnous with great windorrs at either end and a fireplacethat would havesuited an idle wolfhound. It was simply furnished; an oval table and a chaise-hngue. A few Chineseornarnentsthat she liked to collect when the shipscamethrough. She had alsoa strangeassorment of deadinsectsmountedin caseson the wdl. I had never seen such things before and wonderedabout this enthusiasm. She stood close to me as she took me through the house, pointing out certain pictures and books. Her hand guided my elbon' at the sairs and when we sat down to eat she did not arange us formally but put me besideher, the bottle in between. We alked about the opera and the theatre and the visitors and the weather and ourselves.I told her that my real father had been a boaunanand shelaugtredand askedcould it be tnre that we had webbedfeet? 'Of courser' I saidand shelaughedthe more at this ioke. 66

THE QUEEN OF SPADES We had eaten. The bottle was empty. She said she had married late in life, had not expectedto marry at all being shrbbornand of independentmeans.Her husbanddealtin rare booksand manuscriptsfrom the east.Ancientmapsthat showed the lairs of griffins and the hauntsofwhales.Treasuremapsthat claimedto know the whereaboutsof the Holy Grail. He was a quiet and cultured man of whom shewasfond. He was away. We had eaten,the botdewasempty.There wasnothingmore that could be saidwithout strain or repetition.I had beenwith her more than five hours alreadyand it wastime to leave.As we stood up and she moved to get somethingI stretchedout my ann, that was all, and she hrrned back into my anns so that my handswere on her shoulderbladesand hers along my spine. We stayedthus for a few momentsuntil I had courageenough to kissher neckverylightly. Shedid not pull away.I grewbolder and kissedher mouth, biting a litde at the lower lip. She kissedme. 'I can't makelove to your'she said. Relief and despair. 'But I can kissyou.' And so, from the first, we separatedour pleasure.She lay on the rug and I lay at right anglesto her so that only our lips might meet. Kissing in this way is the strangestof distractions.The greedybody that clamou$ for satisfactionis forced to content itself wittr a single sensationsod, iust as the blind hear more acutely and the deaf can feel the grass grow, so the mouth becomesthe focus of love and all things passthrough it and are re-defined.It is a sweetand precisetorture. When I left her housesometime later,I did not setoffstraight away,but watchedher movingfrom room to room extinguishing the lights. Upwards shewent, closing the dark behind her until there was only one light left and that washer own. She said she often read into the small hours while her husband was away. 67

THE PASSION Tonight shedid not read.She pausedbriefly at the windou' and then the housewasblack. What was she thinking? What was she feeling? I walked slowly through the silent squares and across the Rialto, where the mist wasbrooding abovethe water. The boats were covered and empty apart from the cats that make their homes under the seat boards. There was no one, not even the beggars who fold themselves and their rags into any doomay. How is it that one day life is orderly and you are contenq a little cynicd perhaps but on the whole iust so, and then without warning you find the solid floor is a trapdoor and you are now in another place whose geographyis uncerain and whose customsare strange? Travellers at least have a choice. Those who set sail knon' that thingp wi[ not be the same as at home. Explorens are prepared.But for us, who travel along the blood vessels,who come to the cities of the interior by chance,there is no preparation. We who were fluent find life is a foreign language. Somewherebetweenthe s\ilampand the mountains.Somewhere betweenfear and sex.SomewherebetweenGod and the Devil passion is and the way there is sudden and the way back is wotse. I'm surprised at m1nelf alking in this way. I'm young the world is before me, there will be others. I feel my first streak of defiance since I met her. My first upsurge of selfl I won't see her again. I can go home, throw aside these clothes and move on. I can move out if I like. I'm sure the meat man can be persuaded to take me to Paris for a favour or two. Passion,I spit on it. I spat into the canal. 68

THE qUEEN OF SPADES Then the moon camevisiblebetweenthe clouds,a full moon, and I thought of my mother rowing her way in faith to the terrible island. The surfaceof the canalhad the look of polishediet. I took off my boots slowly,pulling the lacesloose and easingthem free. Enfolded benreen each toe were my own moons. Pale and opaque.Unused. I had often played with them but I never thought they might be real. My motherwouldn't eventell me if the rumours were real and I have no boating cousins. My brothers are gone away. Could I walk on that water? Could I? I faltered at the slippery steps leading into the dark. It was November, after all. I might die if I fell in. I tried balancing my foot on the surface and it dropped beneath into ttre cold nothingness. Could a womanlove a womanfor more than a night? I stepped out and in the morning they say a beggar was running round the Rialto talking about a young man who'd walked acrossthe canal like it was solid. I'm telling you stories.Trust me. When we met afain I had borrowed an officer's uniform. Or, more precisely,stolenit. This is what happened. At the Casino,well after midnight, a soldier had approached me and suggestedan unusual wager. If I could beat him at billiards he would make me a presentof his purse. He held it up before me. It was round and nicely paddedand there must be someof my father'sblood in me becauseI haveneverbeen ableto resista purse. And if I lostl I wasto makehim a presentof my purse. There was no mistakinghis meaning. 69

THE PASSION We played,cheeredon by a dozenbored gamblersmd, to my surprise,the soldierplayedwell. After a few hoursat the Casino nobodyplays anythingwell. I lost. We went to his room and he was a man who liked his women facedown, arms outstretchedlike the crucified Christ. He was ableand easyand soonfell asleep.He wasalsoaboutmy height. I left him his shirt and boots and took the rest. She greetedme like an old friend and askedme straight away aboutthe uniform. 'You're not a soldier.' 'It's fancydress.' I beganto feel like Sarpi, that Venetianpriest and diplomat, who saidhe nevertold a lie but didn't tell the truth to everyone. Many times that eveningaswe ate and drank and played dice I preparedto explain.But my tonguethickenedand my heartrose up in self-defence. 'Feet' shesaid. 'What?' 'Let me strokeyour feet.t SweetMadonna,not my feet. '[ never take off my booreawayfrom home. It's a nervous habit.' 'Then take offyour shirt instead.' Not my shirt, if I raisedmy shirt she'd find my breasts. 'In this inhospiable weatherit would not be wise. Everyone has catarrh. Think of the fog.' I saw her eyesstray lower. Did she expect my desire to be obvious? What could I allow; my knees? Instead I leaned forward and began to kiss her neck. She buried my head in her hair and I becameher creature. Her smell, my aturosphere,and later when I was alone I cursed my

THE QUEENOF SPADES nostrilsfor breathingthe everyday air andemptyrngmybodyof her. As I wasleavingshesaid,'My husbandreturnstomorro\il.'

oh.

fu I wasleavingshesaid,'I don't knowwhenI will seeyou ag3in.t Does she do this often?Does shewalk the streets,when her husbandgoesaway,looking for someonelike me?Everyonein Venice has their weaknessand their vice. Perhapsnot only in Venice.Does sheinvite them to supperand hold them with her eyesand e4plain,a little sadly,that shecan't makelove?Perhaps this is her passion.Passionout of passion'sobstacles.A,ndme? Every game threatensa wild card. The unpredictable,the out of control. Evenwith a steadyhand and a crystalball we couldn't rule the world the way we wanted it. There are stonns at sea and there are other stonns inland. Only the convent windows look serenelyout on both. I went backto her houseandbangedon the door.She opened it a little. She looked surprised. 'I'm a woman,' I said, lifting up my shirt and risking the catarrh. She smiled.'I kno\il.' I didn't go home.I stayed. The churches prepared for Chrishas. Every Madonna was flded and everyJesusre-painted. The priests took out their glorious goldsand scarles and the incensewasespeciallysweet. I took to going to servicetwice a day to bask in the assurance of our Lord. I've never had a conscienceabout basking. In summer I do it againstthe wdls or I sit like the lizards of the Levant on top of our iron wells. I love the way wood holds hea! and if I can I take my boat and lie directly in the parh of the sun for a day. My body loosensthen, my mind floae away and I wonder if this is what holy men feel when they talk about their 7r

THE PASSION trances?I've seenholy men comefrom the easternlands.We hadan exhibitof themonceto makeup for the law prohibiting bull-baiting.Their bodieswereloosebut I haveheardit's to do with the foodtheyeat. thesameresults Baskingcan'tbecalledholy,but if it achieves will Godmind?I don'tthink so.In the Old Testamentthe end alwaysiust'rfiedthemeans.We undersundttratin Venice,being people. a pragmatic The sunis goneno\ilandI mustdo mybaskingin otherwa]'s. Church baskingis takingwhat's there and not payrngfor ia Taking the comfortand ioy and ignoringthe rest. Chrisunas but not Easter.I neverbotherwith church at Easter.It's too gloomy,andbesidesthesun'soutby then. That I crossIf I wentto confession, whatwouldI confess? dress?So did Our Lord, sodo thepriests. That I steal?Sodid Our Lord, sodo thepriests. That I amin love? The obiectof my lovehasgoneawayfor Chrish.as.That's what they do at this time of year.He and she.I thoughtI'd mind,but sincethe first few days,whenmy stomachandchest werefull of stones,I've beenhappy.Relievedalmost.I've seen my old friends and walkedby myselfwith almostthe same sure-footedness that I usedto. The reliefcomesfrom no more clandestinemeetings.No more snatchedhours.There srasa particularweekwhensheatetrn'obreakfastseveryday.One at homeand onewith me. One in the drawing-roomand one in the Square.After that her luncheswerea disaster. She is muchproneto goingto the theatre,andbecausehe doesnot enioyttrestageshegoesalone.For a timesheonlysaw oneactof everything.In the intervalshecirmeto me. Veniceis full of urchinswhowill carrynotesfrom oneeager pdm to another.In the hours we could not meet we sent messages of loveandurgency.In the hourswe couldmeetour passionwasbrief andfierce.

THE QUEEN OF SPADES She dressesfor me. I haveneverseenher in the sameclothes twice. Now, I am wholly gtven over to selfishness.I think about mlnel{, I get up when I like, insteadof at the crack of dawniust to watch her open the shutters.I flirt with waiters and gamblers and rememberthat I enioy that. I sing to myself and I bask in churches.Is this freedomdeliciousbecauserare?Is any respite from lovewelcomebecausetemporary?Ifshe were gonefor ever these days of mine would not be lit up. Is it becauseshe will return that I Ake pleasurein being alone? Hopeless heart that thrives on paradox; that longs for the belovedand is secretlyrelievedwhen the belovedis not there. That gnawsawayat the night-time hourc desperatefor a sign and appearsat breakfast so self-composed.That longs for certainty, fidelity, compassion,and plaln roulette with anything precious. Gamblingis not a vice, it is an e4pressionof our humanness. We gamble.Some do it at the Samingable, somedo not. You plaS you win, you plan you lose. You play. The Holy child hasbeenborn. His mother is elevated.His father forgonen.The angelsare singingin the choir salls and God sits on the roof of eachchurch and pours his blessingon to those below.What a wonder, ioining yourself to God, pining your wits agninsthim, knowingthatyouwin andlosesimulaneously.Where else could you indulge without fear the exquisitemasochismof the victim?Lie beneathhis lancesandcloseyour eyes.Where else could you be soin control?Not in love, certainly. His need for you is greater than your need for him because he knorvsthe consequences of not possessing You,whereasyou, who know nothing, can thron'your capin the air and live another day. You paddle in the water and he never crossesyour mind, but he is buqy recording the precise force of the flood around your ankles.

THE PASSION Baskin it. In spiteof what the monkssay,you can meet God without getting up early. You can meet God lounging in the pew. The hardshipis a man-madedevicebecauseman cannot existwithout passion.Religion is somewherebetweenfear and sex. And God? Truly? In his own right, without our voices speakingfor him?ObsessedI think, but not passionate. In our dreamswe sometimesstruggle from the oceansof desire up Jacob's ladder to that orderly place. Then human voiceswakeus and we drown. On New Year's Eve, a processionof boats alive with candles stretcheddown the Grand Canal. Rich and poor shared the samewater and harbouredthe samedreamsthat next year, in its own woy, would be better. My mother and father in their bakerybest gaveawayloavesto the sick and the dispossessed. My fatherwasdrunk and had to be stoppedfrom singlngverses he had learnt in a French bordello. Fartherout, hiddenawayin the inner city, the exileshad their own observation.The dark canalswere as dark as ever but a closerlook revealedtatteredsatin on yellowbodies,the glint of a gobletfrom somesubterraneanhole. The slant-eyedchildren had stolen a goat and were solemnlyslitting its throat when I rowed past. They stoppedtheir red knives for a moment to watch me. My philosopherfriend was on her balcony.That is, a couple of cratesfastenedto the iron rings on either side of her nook. She was wearing somethingon her head, a circle, dark and heavy.I slid pasther and sheaskedme what time it might be. 'Almost New Year.' 'I know it. It smells.' She went back to dipping her cup into the canal and taking deep swigs.Only when I had gone on did I realise that her crownwasmadeout of rats tied in a circle by their tails. I sawno Jews.Their businessis their own tonight. 74

THE QUEENOF SPADES It was bitterly cold. No wind but the rcy air that freezesthe lungsand bitesat the lips. My fingerswerenumb aboutthe oars and I almost thought of tyrns up my boat and hurrying to ioin the crowd pushinginto St Mark's. But this was not a night for basking.Tonight the spirits of the dead are abroadspeakingin tongues.Thosewho maylistenwill learn.Sheis at hometonight. I rowed by her house,softly lit, and hoped to catch sight of her shadow,her ann, any sign. She wasnot visible,but I could imagineher seated,reading,a glassof wine by her side. Her husbandwould be in his study, poring over some new and fabuloustreasure.The whereaboutsof the Crossor the secret tunnelsthat leadto the centreof the earthwherethe fire dragons are. I stoppedby her water-gate,and climbing up the railing lookedin through the window. Shewasalone.Not readingbut saring at the palms of her hands. We had comparedhands once,mine areverylined andhers,thoughtheyhavebeenlonger in this world, havethe innocenceof a child. What wasshetrying to see?Her future?Another year?Or was she trying to make senseof her past?To understandhow the past had led to the present.Was shesearchingfor the line of her desirefor me? I wasaboutto tap on the window when her husbandentered the room, stardingher. He kissedher foreheadand shesmiled. I watchedthemtogetherand sawmorein a momentthan I could haveponderedin anotheryear. They did not live in the fiery furnace she and I inhabited,but they had a calm and a way that put a knife to my heart. I shiveredwith cold, suddenlyrealisingthat I wastwo store]4s in mid-air. Evena lover is occasionallyafraid. The great clock in the Piazzastmck a quarter to twelve. I hurried to my boat and rowedwithout feelingmy handsor feet into the lagoon.In that stillness,in ttrat quiet, I thought of my own future and what future there could be meetingin caf6sand dwaysdressingtoosoon.The heartis soeasilymocked,believing 75

THE PASSION ttratthe suncianrisetrriceor that rosesbloombecatsewewant themto. In this enchantedcity ail thingss€empossible.Time stops. Heartsbeat.The lawsof therealworld aresuspended. God sis in the raftercandmakesfun of the Devil and the Devil pokes Our Lord with his ail. It has dwap been so. They saythe boamenhavewebbedfeet and a beggarsayshe sawa young rnanwalkon weter. If youshouldleavemq my heartwill trrn to waterandflood away. The Moors on the greatclock smingbacktheir hammersand strikein turn. Soonthe Squarewill be a rush of bodies,their wann breath ascendingand shapinglittle cloudsabovettreir heads.My breathshootsout straightin front of melike the fue dragon's.The ancestorscry from aboutthe water and in St Mark's the organbegins.In benreenfreezingand melting.In betweenloveand despair.In betweenfear andsex,passionis. My oarslie flat on thewater.It is Nen'Year'sDay,r8o5.

76

Three

the

nERo wrrTTEB

There's no such thing as a limited victory. Every victory leaves another resentrnent,another defeatedand humiliated people. Another place to guard and defend and fear. What I learned about war in the years before I came to this lonely place were thingp any child could havetold me. 'Will you kill people, Henri?' 'Not people,Louise, iust the enemy.' "[4/hatis enemy?' tSomeonewhotsnot your on side.t No one's on your side when you're the conqueror. Your enemiestake up more room than your friends. Could so many shaightforward ordinary lives suddenly become men to kill and women to rape?Austrians,Prussians,Italians, Spaniards, Egrptians,English,Poles,Russians.Thosewerethe peoplewho were either our enemiesor our dependants.There were others, but the list is too long. we never did invade England.we marchedout of Boulogne leaving our litde bargesto rot and fouglrt the Third Coalition instead.We fought at Ulm and Austerlitz. Eylau and Friedland. we fought on no rations, our boots fell apart, we slept two or three hours a night and died in thousandseveryday.Two years later Bonapartewasstandinson a bargein the middle of a river hugging the czar and sayingwe'd never have to fight agan. It pas theEnglishin our nay and pith Russiaon our sidetheEnglish pouldhoaetoleoueu alone.Nomorecoalitions,no moremarches. Hot breadand the fields of France. We believedhim. We alwaysdid. I lost an eyeat Austerlitz. Domino wils woundedand patrick, who is still with us, neverseesmuch pastthe next bottle. That should have been enough. I should have vanished the way

THE PASSION soldiersdo. Taken anothernatne,set up shopin somesmall village,got marriedperhaps. I didn't eryectto comehere.The viewis goodandthe seagulls take bread from my windon'. One of the othershere boils seagulls, but onlyin thewinter.In sumnerthey'refull ofwonns. Winter. The unimaginable ?rctowinter. 'We marchon Moscowr'he saidwhenthe Czarbetrayedhim. It wasnot his intention,he wanteda speedycampaign.A blow to Russiafor daringto setherselfagainsthim again.He thought he couldalwalawin battlesthe wayhe haddwap won battles. Like a circusdog he thoughteveryaudiencewould marvelat his tricks, but the audiencewas geaing used to him. The Russiansdidn't Eyenbotherto fight the GrandeArm€ein any seriousway,they kept on marching burning villagesbehind them,leavingnothingto ea! non'hereto sleep.They marched into winter andwe follon'edthem. Into the Russianwinter in our sunrmerovercoats.Into the snowin otrr glued-together boos. Whenour horsesdiedof the coldwe slit their belliesand sleptwith ourfeetinsidetheguts.Oneman'shorsefrozearound him; in the morningwhenhe tried to takehis feetout theywere stuck,entombedin the brittle entrails.We couldn't free him, we hadto leavehirn. He wouldn'tstopscreaming. Bonaparte travelledbysledge,sendingdesperate ordersdown the lines,trying to makeus oumancwre the Russiansin iust one place.We couldn't ouunaneuwethem.We could hardly walk. The consequences of burningthe villageswerenot onlyour consequences; theywerethoseof the peoplewho livedthere. Peasanswhoselivesranwiththesunandmoon.Like mymother andfather,theyaccepted eachseason andlookedforwardto the harvest.Theyworkedhardin thehoursofdaylightandcomforted

THE ZEROWINTER themselves with storiesfrom the Bible andstoriesof the forest Their forestswerefull of qpirits,somegoodsomeno! but every familyhada happystoryto tell; howtheirchildwassavedor their onlycowbroughtbackto life bytheagencyof a spirit. Theycalledthe czer 'the Little Father',andtheyworshipped him astheyworshippedGod. In their simplicityI sawa minor of my own longingand understoodfor the first time my oym needfor alittle fatherthathadled methisfar. Theyarea hearth people,contentto bolt the doorat night andeatthick soupand blackbread.They singsongsto ward ttre night awayand like us, theytaketheir animalsinto the kitchenin winter.In winter the coldis too muchto endureandthe groundis harderthana soldier'sblade.They can only light the lampsand live on the foodin the cellaranddreamof the spring. when the armyburnedtheir villages,the peoplehelpedto setfire to ttreir ownhomes,to their yearsof work andcommon sense.They did it for the litde father.They nrrnedthemselves out into the zerowinter andwent to their deathsin onesand twosor in families.They walkedto the woodsand sat by the lozen rivem,notfor long thebloodsoonchills,but longenough for someof themto bestitl singingsongsaswepasseduy.ttriir voiceswere caughtin the fierce air and carriedthrouglrthe stubbleof their housesto us. we hadkilled themall withoutfiring a shot.I prayedfor the snowto fall andbury themfor ever.Whenthe snowfalls you candmostbelievethe world is cleanagain. Is everysnowflakedirfferent? No oneknouns. I haveto stopvniting no\r. I haveto take my exercise.They expectyou to takeyour exerciseat the sametime eachdry otherwisethey start to worry aboutyour health.They like io keepus healthyheresothatwhenthevisitonrcometttrf so away satisfied.I hopeI will ha'.'ea visitortoday. 8r

THE PASSION Watching my comradesdie was not the worst thing about that war, it was watching them live. I had heard stories about the human body and the human mind, the conditions it can adapt to, the ways it choosesto sunive. I had heard tales of people who were burnt in the sun and grew another skin, thick and black like the top of overcookedponidge. Others who learned not to sleepso that theywouldn't be eatenby wild animals.The body clings to life at any cost. It eveneatsircelf. When there's no food it nrrns cannibd and devours its fat, then its muscle then its bones.I\e seensoldiers,mad with hunger and cold, chop off their own anns and cook them. How long could you go on chopping?Both anns. Both legs. Ears. Slices from the trunk. You could chop yourself down to the very end and leave the heart to beat in its ransackedpalace. No. Take the heart first. Then you don't feel the cold so much.The pain somuch.With the heartgone,there'sno reason to stayyour hand.Your eyescan look on deathand not tremble. It's the heart that betraysus, makesus weep, makesus bury our friends when we should be marchingahead.It's the heart that sickensus at night and makesus hate who we are. It's the heart ttrat sings old songs and brings memories of warm daysand makesus waver at another mile, another smouldering village. To survive the zero winter and that war we made a pyre of our heartsand put them asidefor €ver.There's no pawnshop for the heart. You can't take it in and leaveit awhile in a clean cloth and redeemit in better tirnes. You can't make senseof your passionfor life in the face of death, you can only gue up your passion.Only then can you begrnto survive. And if you refuse? If you felt for everyman you murdered, everylife you broke in two, everyslowand painful harvestyou destroyed,everychild whosefunrreyou stole,madnesswould thron'her noosearound

THE ZERO WINTER your neck and leadyou into the dark woodswhere the rivers are polluted and the birds are silent. When I sayI lived with heardessmen, I use the word correctly. As the weekswore on, we talked about going home and home stoppedbeinga placewherewe quarrelaswell aslove.It stopped being a place where the fire goesout and there is usually some unpleasantiob to be done. Home becamethe focus of ioy and sense.We began to believe ttrat we were fighting this war so that we could go home. To keep home safe, to keep home as we started to imagine it Non' that our hearB were gone there was no reliable org"anto stem the steadytide of sentiment that snrckto our bayonetsand fed our damp fires. There wasnothing we wouldn't believeto get us through: God wason our side,the Russianswere devils. Our wives dependedon this war. France dependedon this war. There was no alternativeto this war. And the heaviestlie? That we could go home and pick up where we had left off. That our heartswould be waiting behind the door with the dog. Not all men fie as fortunate as Llllnses. Our sustaininghope as the temperahres dropped and we gave up speechwasto reachMoscow. A greatcity where there would be food and fire and friends. Bonapartewas confident of peace once we had dealt a decisive blou'. He was dready uriting surrendernotices,filling the spacewith humiliation and leaving iust enoughroom at the bottom for the Czarto sign. He seemed to think we were winning when dl we were doing was rururing behind. But he had furs to keep his blood optimistic. Mosconr is a city of domes, built to be beautiful, a city of squaresand worship. I did see it, briefly. The gold domes lit yellow and orangeand the people gone. They set fire to it. Even when Bonapartearrived, dap ahead 83

THE PASSION of the rest of the armn it was blazing and it went on blazing. It was a dilhcult city to burn. We campedawayfrom the flamesand I servedhim that night on a scrawnychicken surroundedby parsleythe cook cherishes in a dead man's helmet I think it was that night that I knew I couldn't stay any longer. I think it was ttrat night that I started to hate him. I didn't knon'what hate felt like, not the hate that comesafter love. It's huge and desperateand it longs to be proved wrong. And everyday it's proved right it growsa little more monstrous. If ttre love was passion,the hate will be obsession.A need to seethe once-lovedweak and corvedand beneathpity. Disgust is closeand dignity is far away.The hate is not only for the once loved, it's for yourself too; how could you Eyerhaveloved this? When Patrick arrived some dayslater I searchedfor him in the blistering cold and found hirn wrapped in sackswith a iar of somecolourlessliquid besidehirn. He was still look-ouq this time watching for surpriseenemymovements,but he was never soberand not dl of his sightingswere taken seriously.He waved the iar at me and saidhe'd got it in exchangefor a life. A peasant had beggedto be dlowed to die with his family in the honourable way, in the cold dl together, and had offered Patrick the iar. Whateverwas in it had put him in a gloomy temper. I smelled it. It smelt of ageand hay. I startedto cry and my tears fell like diamonds. Patrick picked one up and told me not to wastemy salt Mediatively, he ate it 'It goeswell with this spirit it does.' There is a story about an exiled Princesswhosetears nrrned to iewels as she walked. A rnagpiefollowed her and picked up dl ttre iewelsand droppedthem on the windowsill ofa thoughtrul Prince. This Prince scouredthe land until he found the Princess and ttrey lived happily eyer after. The magpiewas made a royal bird and given an oak forest to live in and the Princesshad her 84

THE ZERO WINTER tears made into a great necklace,not to wear, but to look at whenevershe felt unhappy.When she looked at the necklace, she knew that shewasnot. 'Patrick, I'm going to desert.Will you comewith me?' He laughed.'I may.onlybe half alivenow, but sure as I know I'd be fully deadif I set outwith you in this wilderness.' I didn't try to persuadehirn.We sattogethersharingthe sacks and the spirit and dreamedseparately. Would Domino come? He didn't speakmuch sincehis iniury, which had blovrnaway one side of his face. He wore a cloth wrappedround his head and overlappinghis scarsto mop up the bleeding.If he stayed out in the cold for too long the scarsopenedand filled his mouth with blood and pus. The doctor explainedit to him; something about the wounds going septic after he'd had himself stitched up. The doctor shrugged.It was a battle, he'd done what he and could but what could he do with anns and legs everynvhere nothing but grapebrandyto easethe pain and still the wounds? Too manysoldiersarewounded,it would be better if they died. Domino was hunched up in Bonaparte'ssledgein the rough tent where it waskept and he slept.He waslucky, looking after Bonaparte'sequipmentiust asI wasluckyworkingin the officers' kitchen.We were both wanner and better fed than anyoneelse. That makesit sound cosy. . . We avoidedthe worst ravagesof frostbite and we got food everyday. But canvasand poatoes do not challengethe zero winter; if anythin& they deniedus the happyoblivion that comes with dyrngof cold. When soldiersfinally lie down,knowingthey won't get up agah, most of them smile. There's a comfort in fallittg asleepin the snow. He looked ill. 'I'm goingto desert,Domino. Will you comewith me?' He couldn't talk at all that day,the pain was too bad, but he wrote in the snow ttrat had drifted still soft under the tent. 85

THE PASSION CRAZY.

'I'm not cruny,Domino, you\e been laughingat me since I ioined up. Eight yearsyou've been laughing at me. Take me seriously.' He wrote, wHy? 'BecauseI can't say here. These wars will never end. Even if we get home,there'll be anotherwar. I thoughthe'd end wars for ever,that's what he said. One more, he said,one more and then there'll be peaceand it's alwaysbeen one more. I want to stop now.' He wrote, FUTURn.And then he put a line throughit. What did he mean?His future?My future?I thought back to those sea-saltdayswhen the sun had nrrned the grassyellow and men had married mermaids.I startedmy little book then, the one I still haveand Domino had turned on me and called the future a dream.There'sonlythepresent, Hafi. He had nevertalked of what he wantedto do, where he was going he neverioined in the aimlessconversations that clustered round the idea of somethingbetter in anothertime. He didn't believein the future, only the present,and as our future, our years,had turned sorelentlesslyinto identicalpresents,I understood him more. Eight yearshad passedand I was still at war, cookingchickens,waiting to go home for good. Eight yearsof talkingaboutthe future and seeingit nrrn into the present.years of thinking, 'In anotheryear,I'll be doing somethingdifferent,' and in anotheryear doing iust the same. Future. Crossedout. That's what war does. I don't want to worship him any more. I want to make my own mistakes.I want to die in my own time. Domino was looking at me. The snow had alreadycovered his words. He wrote,you co. He tried to smile.His mouth couldn't smilebut his eyeswere 86

THE ZERO WINTER bright, and iumping up in the old waR in the way he'd iumped to pick applesfrom the allest trees, he snatchedan icicle from the blackenedcanvasand handedit to me. It was beautiful. Formed from the cold and glittering in the centre.I looked again.There was somethinginside it, running through the middle from top to bottom. It was a piece of thin gold that Domino usuallywore round his neck. He calledit his talisman.What had he done with it and why was he giving it to me? Making signswith his handshe mademe understandthat he could no longer wear it around his neck becauseof his sores. He had cleanedit and hung it out of sight and this morninghad seenit so encased. An ordinary miracle. I tried to gtveit back, but he pushedme awayuntil I nodded and said I'd hangit on my belt when I left. I think I had knownhe wouldn't come.He wouldn't leavethe horces.They were the present. When I got back to the kitchen tent, Patrick waswaiting for me with a woman I had never met. She was a aiaandihe. Only a handfulwereleft and theywerestrictly for the officers.The pair of them were wolfing chickenlegsand offered one to me. 'Restyour heart,' said Patrick,seeingmy horror, 'thesedon't belongto Our Lord, our friend here cameby them and when I came looking for you, she was already in here doing a bit of cooking.' 'Where did you get them?' 'I fucked for them, the Russianshavegot plenty and there's still plenty of Russiansin Moscow.' I blushedand mumbled somethingaboutthe Russianshaving fled. She laughed and said the Russianscould hide under the snowflakes.Then shesaid,'They're dl different.' 87

THE PASSION 'What?' 'Snorrflakes.Think

of that.' I did think of that and I fell in love with her. When I said I was leaving that night she askedif she could comewith me. 'I can help you.t I would havetaken her with me €venif she'd been lame. 'Ifyou're both going,' said Patrich draining the last of his evil spirit, 'I'll comealongtoo. I don't fancyit here on my own.' I wastakenabackand for a moment consumedwith jealousy. PerhapsPatrick loved her?Perhapsshe loved him? Love. In the middle of a zero winter. What was I thinking? we packedthe restofher food anda goodded ofBonaparte's. He tnrsted me and I had never given him reasonnot to. Well, evengreatmen can be surprised. We took what there wasand she returned urrappedin a huge fur, anotherof her souvenirsof Moscow.As we setoff, I slipped into Domino's tent and left him as much of the food as I dared spareand scrawledmy namein the ice on the sledge. Then we were gone. We walked for a night and a day without stopping. Our legs assumedan ungainly rhythm and we were afraid to stop in case our lungs or our legs buckled under us. We didn't talk, we wrapped our nosesand mouths as tightly as we could and let our eyespoke out like slits. There wasno fresh snow.The hard ground rang at our heels. I remembereda womanwith her babR her heelssparkingthe cobbles. 'Happy New Year, soldier.' Why do all happy memoriesfeel like yesterdaythough yeils havepassed? We were heading in the direction we had come, using the charred villages as gruesomesignposts,but our progress w,ls 88

THE ZERO WINTER slow and we were afraid to stick directly to the roads for fear of Russiantroopsor someof our o\iln army,greedyand desperate. Mutineers, or traitors as they were more usuallycalled, found no leniencyandweregwenno opporhrnityto maketheir excuses. We camped where we could find some natural shelter and huddled togetherfor warmth. I wanted to touch her, but her body wascoveredall over and my handswere gloved. On the seventhnight" coming out of the forest, we found a hut full of primitive muskets,a dump for the Russiantroops we supposed,but there was no one. We were weary and took our chancein there, using dregsof gunpowderfrom the barrels to light a fire. It was ttre first night we had had enough shelter to ake off our boots and Patrick and I were soon stretching our toesat the blaze,risking pennanentdamageto our feet. Our companionloosedher lacesbut kept her boots on, and seeingmy surpriseat forgoingthis une{pectedlunrry said,'My fatherwasa boatrnan.Boatnen do not take offtheir boots.'We were silent, either out of respect for her customs or sheer exhaustion,but it was she who offered to tell us her story if we choseto listen. 'A fire and a tater' said Patrick. 'Now all we need is a drop of somethinghot' and he fathomed from the bottom of his unfathomablepocketsanotherstopperediar of evil spirit. This was her story.

I havealwaysbeen a gambler.It's a skill ttrat comesnanrrally to me like thieving and loving. What I didn't know by instinct I picked up from working the Casino, from watching others play and learning what it is that people value and therefore what it is they will risk. I learned horv to put a challengein such a way as to make it inesistible. We gamblewith the hope of winning but it's the thought of what we might losethat excitesus. Howyouplay is a temperamenAlthing; cards,dice,dominoes, 89

THE PASSION iacks,such preferencesare frills merely.All gamblerssweat.I comefrom the city of chances,where everythingis possiblebut where everythinghas a price. In this city great fornrnesare won and lost overnight.It has alwaysbeen so. Ships that carry silk and spices sink, the senant betrays the master, the secret is out and the bell tolls another accidenal death. But penniless adventurershavealwaysbeenwelcomehere too, they are good luck andveryoften their goodluck rubs offon themselves.Some who comeon foot leaveon horsebackand otherswho tnrmpeted their estatebeg on the Rialto. It hasalwaysbeenso. The astutegambleralwayskeepssomethingback,something to play with anothertime; a pocket watch, a hunting dog. But the Devil's gamblerkeepsback somethingprecious,something to gamblewith only once in a lifetime. Behind the secretpanel he keepsit, the valuable,fabulousthing that no one suspectshe has. I knew a man like.that; not a drunkard sniffing after every wager nor an addict stripping the clothes off his back rather than go home. A thoughdul man who they say had trade wittr gold and death.He lost heavily,asgamblersdo; he won surprisingly, asgamblersdo, but he nevershowedmuch emotion,never led me to suspectthat rnuch important wasat stake.A hobbyisg I thought, dismissinghim. You see,I like passion,I like to be amongthe desperate. I was wrong to disrnisshim. He was waiting for the wager that would seducehim into risking what he valued. He was a tnre gambler, he was prepared to risk the valuable, fabulous thing but not for a dog or a cock or the casualdice. On a quiet evening when the ables were half empty and the domino setslay in their boxes,he wasthere, wandering,fluttering drinking and flining. I was bored. Then a man cameinto the room, not one of our regulars,not one any of us knew, and after a few half-hearted games of 90

THE ZERO WINTER chancehe spied this figure and engagedhim in conversation. They talked for upwardsof half an hour and so intently that we ttrought they must be old friends and lost our curiosity in the assumptionof habit. But the rich rnanwith his strangelybowed companionby his side askedleaveto make an announcement, a most remarkablewager,and we clearedthe centralfloor and let him speak. It seemedthat his companion,this stranger,had come from the wastesof the Levant, where exotic lizards breed and all is unusual.In his counry, no man botheredwith paltry fortunes at the gamingable, they playedfor higher stakes. A life. The wagerwas a life. The winner should take the life of the loser in whatsoeverway he chose.However slowly he chose, with whateverinstrumentshe chose.What was certain was that only one life would be spared. Our rich friend was clearlyexcited.His eyeslookedpastthe facesand ables of the gamingroom into a spacewe could not inhabit; into the spaceof pain and loss.What could it matter to him that he might lose fornrnes? He had fortunesto lose. What could it maner to him that he might lose mistresses? There are womenenough. What would it matter to him that he might lose his life? He had one life. He cherishedit. There were those ttrat night who beggedhim not to go on with it, who saw a sinister aspectin this unknown old man, who were perhapsafraid of being rnadethe sameoffer and of refusing. What you risk revealswhat you vdue. Thesewere the terms. A gameof three. The firsq the roulette,where only fate is queen. The second,the cards,where skill hassomepart. 9r

THE PASSION The third, the dominoes,where sl'ill is paramountand chance is there in disguise. Will shewearyour colours? This is the city of disguises. The tenns were agreedand strictly supervised.The winner was two out of three or in the event of someonlooker crying Nay! a tie, chosenat random,by the managerof the Casino. The terms seemedfair. More than fair in this cheatingworld, but there were still some who felt uneasyabout the unknown man, unassumingand unthreateningas he seemed. If the Devil playsdice, will he comelike this? Witl he comeso quietly and whisperin our ear? If he cameas an angelof light, we should be immediatelyon our guard, The word was given: Play on. We drank throughout the first game,watchingthe red and black spin under our hands,watching the bright sreak of meal d"lly with one number, then another,innocent of win or lose. At first it seemedas though our rich friend must win, but at the last moment the ball sprangout of its slot and spun againwith ttrat dwindling sickeningsound that marks the last possiblechange. The wheel cameto rest. It was the strangerwhom fornrne loved. There was a moment's silence,we expectedsome sign, some worry on one part, somesatisfactionon another, but with faces of wax, the nro men got up and walked to the optimistic baize. The cards. No man knows what they may hold. A man must tnrst his hand. Swift dealing.These were accustomedto the game. They played for perhaps an hour and we drank. Drank to keep our lips wet, our lips ttrat dried everytime a card fell and

THE ZERO WINTER the strangerseemeddoomedto victory. There wasan odd sense in the room that the strang€rmust not win, that for all our sakes he must lose.We willed our rich friend to weld his wits with his luck and he did. At the cards,he won and they were even. The two men met each other's gar;efor a moment before they seatedthemsehesin front of the dominoesand in eachfacewas somethingof the other. Our rich friend had assumeda more calculating expression,while his challenger's face was more thoughdul, lesswolfish than before. It was clear from the start that they were evenly matched at this game too. They played deftlS iudgng the gaps and the numbers,making lightnins calculations,baflling eachother. We had stoppeddrinking. There was neither sound nor movement savethe clicking of the dominoeson the marble able. It was past midnight. I heard the water lapping at the stones below. I heard my saliva in my throat. I heard the dominoes clicking on the marble table. There were no dominoesleft. No gaps. The strangerhad won. The two men stood up simultaneously,shook hands. Then the rich man placedhis handson the marble, and we sawthey were shaking.Fine comfortablehandsthatwere shaking.The stranger noticedandwith a little smilesuggestedtheycompletethe terms of their wager. None of us spokeup, none of us tried to stop him. Did we want it to happen?Did we hope that one life might substinrte for many? I do not know our motives,I only know that we were silent. This wasthe death:dismembermentpieceby piecebegfuming with the hands. The rich man nodded almost imperceptibly imd, bowing to

THE PASSION us, left in the companyof the stranger.We heard nothing more, neversaweither of them again,but one daR monthslater, when we had comforted ourselvesthat it was a ioke, that they had parted at the corner, out of sight, grven each other a fright, nothing more, we receiveda pair of hands,manicuredand quite white, mounted on grcen bane in a glasscase.Between the finger and thumb of the left was a roulette ball and betrreenthe finger and thumb of the right, a domino. The managerhung the caseon the wall and there it hangs today. I havesaidthat behind the secretpanellies a valuable,fabulous thing. we are not alwaysconsciousof it, not alwaysaware of what it is we hide from prylng eyesor ttrat those prying eyes may sometimesbe our olvn. There wasa night, eight yearsago,when a hand that took me by surpriseslid the secretpanel and shoruedme what it was I kept to myself, My heart is a reliable organ, how coutd it be my heart?My everyday,work-hard heart that laughedat life and gavenothing away.I haveseendolls from the eastttrat fold in one upon the other, the one concedingthe other and so I know that the heart mayconcealitself, It was a gameof chanceI enteredinto and my heart was the wager.Such gamescan only be playedonce. Such gamesare better not playedat all. It was a woman I loved and you wilt admit that is not the usualthing. I knew her for only five months.We had nine nights together and I never saw her again. You will admit ttrat is not the usual thing. I havealwayspreferred the cardsto the dice so it should have come as no surpriseto me to have dravrna wild card. The Queenof spades. She lived simply and elegantlyand her husbandwas some-

THE ZERO WINTER times called awayto examinea new rarity (he dealt in booksand maps);he was called awaysoonafter we met. For nine daysand nights we stayedin her house,never openingthe door, never looking out of the windorv. We were nakedand not ashamed. And we were happy. On the ninth day I was left alone for a while becauseshe had certain household affairs to attend to before her husband's return. On that day the rain splashedagainstthe windows and filled up the canalsbelow, churning the rubbish that lies under the surface,the rubbish that feedsthe ramand the exilesin their dark mazes.It wasearb in the New Year. She had told me she loved me. I never doubtedher word becauseI could feel how tme it was.When she touched me I knew I was loved and wittt a passionI had not felt before.Not in anotherand not in mpelf. Love is a fashiontheseda]ryandin this fashionablecitywe know how to make light of love and how to keep our hearts at bay. I thoughtof myselfasa civilisedwomanandI found I wasa savage. WhenI ttroughtoflosingher I wantedto drorrnboth ofus in some lonelyplacerather than feel myselfa beastthat hasno friend. On the ninth night we ate and drank as usual alone in the house,the servantsdismissed.She liked to cook omeletteswith herbs and thesewe ate with hot radishesshe had got from a merchant. Occasionally our convercation faltered and I saw tomorrow in her eyes. Tomorrou' when we would part and resume our life of strange meetings in unfamiliar quarters. There wasa caft we usuallywentto, full of snrdentsfrom Padua and artists seekinginspiration.She was not knovrnthere. Her friends could not find her out. Thus we had met and met too in hours that did not belong to us, until tttis Stft of nine nights. I did not meether sadness;it wastoo heavy. There is no sensein loving someoneyou can neverwake up to exceptby chance. The gambleris led on in the hope of a win, thrilled with the

THE PASSION fear of losingand whenhe wins he believeshis luck is there, ttrathewill win again. If ninenightswerepossiblewhynot ten? So it goesand the weekspasswaiting for the tenth nighq waitingto win againandall thetimelosingbit bybit thatvduable fabulousthing thatcannotbe replaced. Her husbanddedt onlyin whatwasunique,he neverbought a treasuresomeone elsemighthave. Wouldhe buymy heartthenandgiveit to her? I hadalreadywageredit for ninenights.In themorningwhen I left I did not sayI wouldnot seeher again.I simplymadeno iurangement. Shedid not pressmeto do so,shehadoftensaid thatasshegotoldershetookwhatshecouldof life but expected little. Then I wasgone. Everytime I wastemptedto go to her I went to the casino insteadandwatchedsomefool humiliatinghimsetfat the ables. I could gambleon anothernighq reducemyselfa little more, but afterttretenthnightwouldcometheeleventhandthetnelfth andso on into the silentspacethat is the pain of neverhaving enough.The silent spacefull of sarving children.She loved her husband. I decidedto marry. Therewasa manwho hadwantedme for sometime, a man I had refused,cursed.A manI despised. A rich manwith fat fingerc.He liked me to dressas a boy.I like to dressasa boy nowandthen.We hadthatin common. He cameto the casino everynight, playrngfor high stakes but not gamblingwith anythingtoo precious.He wasno fool. He claspedme with his terriblehands,with fingertipsthat had the feelof boilsburstingandaskedmeif I'd changed my mind abouthisoffer.We couldtraveltheworldhe said.Justthethree of us.Him, meandmy codpiece. 96

THE ZERO WINTER

The city I come from is a changeablecity. It is not always sar size. Sreets appearand disappearovernight, new the same waterwaysforce themselvesover dry land. There are dayswhen you cannotwalk from one end to the other, so far is the iournen and there are days when a stroll will ake you round your kingdomlike a tin-pot Prince. I had begun to feel that this city containedonly trro people who sensedeachother and never met. WheneverI went out I hoped and dreadedto seethe other. In the facesof strangersI sawone face and in the mirror I sawmy own. The world. The world is surelywide enoughto walk without fear. We were marriedwithout ceremonyand set off straightaway to France,to Spain,to Constantinopleeven.He wasas good as his word in that respect and I drank my coffee in a different place eachmonth. There was,in a certaincrtywhere the climatewasfine, a young Jewishman who loved to drink his coffeeat the pavementcafds and watch the world go by. He saw sailors and travellers and women with swans in their hair and all manner of fanciful distractions. One dayhe sawa youngwomanflytt g past,her clothesflying out behind her. She wasbeautiful and becausehe knew that beautymakesus good he askedher to stop awhileand sharehis coffee. 'I'm running awayr'she said. 'Who are you running awayfrom?' 'Myself.' But she agreedto sit awhilebecauseshewaslonely. His namewas Salvadore. They talked about the mountainrangesand the opera.They talked about animals$'ith metal coatsthat can swim the length of a river without coming up for air. They talked about the

THE PASSION valuable,fabulousthing that everyonehas and keepsa secret. 'Here,' said Salvadore,'look at this,' and he took out a box enamelledon the outsideand softly lined on the inside and on the insidewashis heart. 'Give me yours in exchange.' But shecouldn't becauseshewasnot trave[ingwith her heart, it wasbeatingin anotherplace. she thankedthe young man and went back to her husband, whosehandscrept over her body like crabs. And the youngnuln thoughtoften of a beaut'rfulwonurnon that sunnydaywhen the wind had pushedout her earringslike fins. We travelled for two years, then I stole his watch and what moneyhe had on him and left him. I dressedasa boy to escape detection,and while he snoredoff his red wine and most oi a gooseI lost myselfin the dark that hasalwaysbeena friend. I got odd iobs on shipsand in grandhouses,learnedto speak five languagesand did not see that city of destiny for another three years,then I caughta ship home on a whim and because trwantedmy heart back. I should haveknorunbetter than to risk my luck in the shrinking city. He soon found me out and his fury at beingrobbedandabandonedhad not abated,eventhough he wasliving with anotherwomanby then. A friend of his, a sophisticatedman, suggesteda little wager for the two of us, a way of solvingour differences.We were to play cardsand if I won, I shouldhavemy freedomto comeand go asI pleasedand enoughmoneyto do so.If I lost, my husband should do with me as he pleased,though he was not to molest or murder me. What choicehad I? At the time, I thought I playedbadly, but I later discovered by chancethat the packwasfixed, that the wagerhad beenfixed from the start.As I told you, my husbandis no fool. It wastheJack of heartsthat caughtme out. 98

THE ZERO WINTER When I lost, I thought he would force me home and that would be an end to it, but insteadhe kept me waitingthree days and then senta messagefor me to meet him. He waswith his friend when I arrived and an o{ficer of high nrnk, a Frenchmanwhom I discoveredto be GeneralMurat. This officer looked me up and down in my woman's clothes then asked me to changeinto my easy disguise.He was all admiration and, turning from me, withdrew a large bag from within his effectsand placedit on the tablebetweenhimselfand my husband. 'This is the price we agreedthen,' he said. And my husband,his fingerstrembling countedit out. He had sold me. I wasto ioin the army,to ioin the Generalsfor their pleasure. It was,Murat assuredme, quite an honour. They didn't give me enough time to collect my heart, gnty my luggage,but I'm grateful to them for that; this is no place for a heart. She was silent. Patrick and I, who had not uttered a word nor moved at all saveto shield our scorching feet, felt unable to speak.It wasshewho broke the silenceagain. 'Passme that evil spiri! a story deservesa reward.' She seemedcarefreeand the shadowsthat had crossedher face throughout her story had lifted, but I felt my own iust beginning. Shewould neverlove me. I had found her too late. I wantedto ask her more about her waterycity that is never the same,to seeher eyeslight up for love of somethingif not for love of me, but she was already spreadingher furs and settlingto sleep.Cautiously,I put my hand to her faceand she smiled, reading my thoughts.

THE PASSION

'when we get through this snow, I'll ake you to the city of disguisesand you'll find one that suitsyou.' Another one.r'm alreadyin disguisein thesesoldiers'clothes. I want to go home. During the night, while we slept,the snowsbeganagain.we couldn't push open the door in the morning not patrick nor I nor the three of us together.We had to break down the wood where it had splinteredand becauseI am still skinny,I was the one bundledfacefirst into a snowdriftbankedtaller than a man. - with my handsI beganscoopingawaythat deadlyheadystuff that temptsme to plungein and neverbother to comeout. Snorv doesn'tlook cold,it doesn'tlook asthoughit hasanytemperature at all. And when it falls and you catch thosepieCesof nothing I your hands,it seemsso unlikely that they could hun anyone. Seemsso unlikely that simple multiplication can make such a difference. Perhapsnot. Even Bonapartewas beginning to learn that numbers count. In this vast country there are miles and men and snowflakesbeyondour resources. I - took offmy glovesto keepthem dry and watchedmy hands alter from red to white to beautifulseablue wherethe veinsrear up almostpurple, almost the colour of anemones.I could feel my lungs beginning to freeze. At home, on the farrn, ttre frost at midnight brightens the ground and hardensthe stars.The cold there slashis you like a whip, but it is never so cold that you feel yourself ireezing from the inside. That the air you brlathe is ieizing the fluids and mists and turning them into lakes of ice. When I drew breathI felt as though I were being embalmed. It took me mostof the morningto clearawaythe snowenough to open the door. we left with gunpowderand very little rooa and_triedto go on tracingour waytowardspoland,or the Duchy of Warsaw as Napoleon had designatedit. our plan *.r to skirt along the borders,then dorvnthrough Austria, acrossthe IOO

THE ZERO WINTER Danube,headingfor Veniceor Trieste ifthe ports were blocked. A iourneyof somer,3oo miles. Villanelle was skilful with the compassand maP; she said it of sleepingwith Generals. wasone of the advantages Progresswasslowerthan usualfor us thanksto the snowdrifb, and we might havedied lessthan two weeksafter we'd set out if it hadn't been for a detour we were forced to make that led us to a cluster of housesawayfrom the spreadof our armies. When we saw the smoke rising in the disunce we thought it was another desolatesacrifice,but Patrick siworehe could see rooftops,not shells,and we had to Eust that it was not the evil spirit guidins us. If it was a burning village, troops would be closeat hand. On Villanelle'sadvice,we pretendedto be Poles.She spoke the languageaswell asRussian,and explainedto the suspicious villagersthat we had been capturedby the French for semice but had murderedour guardsand escaped.Hencethe uniforms, stolento avoiddetection.When the Russianpeasantsheardwe had murderedsomeFrenchmen,their faceswere alivewith ion and they hurried us indoorswith promisesof food and shelter. From them, through Villanelle'sinterpretation,we learnedhow little of the country had been spared,how comprehensivehad beenthe burnings.Their own homeshad escapedbecausethey were sufficiently remote and mainly becausea Russian high ranker was in love with the dauglrter of the goatherd. An odd storyof a chanceseductionthat had excitedhis heart aswell as his imagination.This Russianhad promisedto sparethe village and re-routed his troops accorditgly, so that when we French followed we too had gone anotherway. Love it seemscan sunive evena war and a zerowinter. Like our host explained,love is like that, and the snow-raspberries, he told us how theseflimsydelicaciesappearalwaysin February, whateverthe weather,whateverthe prospects.No one knows why, when pines are withered at the roots and rough sheephave IOI

THE PASSION to be kept indoorc, theseimpossiblehot-house things still grow. The goatherd'sdaughterwassomethingof a celebrity. Villanellehad pretendedsheand I were married andwe were put to sleepin the samebed, while poor Patrick had to share with their son,who wasan amiableidiot. on the secondmorning we heard cries coming from Patrick's loft and found him pinned on his back by the son,who was the sizeof an ox. This boy had a wooden flute and was playrns runes of a kind while Patrick groanedbeneath.We couldn't move him and it was only our host's wife who, grving him a flick wittr her cloth, sent the boy roaring and weeping out into the snorry.A little later, he crept in and lay at his mother's feet, his eyeswide open, staring. 'He's a good boy,' shetold Villanelle. It seemedhe had been visited by a spirit at birttr and this spirit had offered him brains or strength. our host's wife shrugged.what good were brains in this place wirh the sheep and goats to care for and the trees to fell? They had thanked the spirit and asked for strength, and now their son, who was only fourteen, could carry five men or lift a cow acrosshis shoulderslike a lamb. He ate from a bucket becausethere was no dish large enoughto comfort his appetite.And so at meals the three of us sat with our bowls and the peasantand his wife with their hard breadmd, at the end of the able, their sonwith his shouldersblocking the window and his ladle dtppitts in and out of his bucket. 'Will he marry?'Villanelle asked. 'Yes indeed,' said our host, Iooking surprised.'Any woman would want such a fine strong rnan for her husband.We will find someonefor him in time.' At night I lay awake next to villanelle and listened to her breathing.She slept curled up with her back towardsme and nevermade any sign that shewanted to be touched.I touched her when I was sure shewas asleep.Ran my hand up her spine ro2

THE ZERO WINTER and wonderedif all women felt so soft and so firm. One night shefirrned over suddenlyand told me to makelove to her. 'I don't know how.' 'Then I'll makelove to you.' When I think of that night, here in this placewhere I will always be, my handstrembleandmy musclesache.I loseall senseof day or nighq I lose all senseof my work, writing this story, trying to conveyto you what really happened.Trying not to makeup too much. I can think of it by mistake,my eyesblurring the words in front of me, my pen lifting and stayinglifted, I can think of it for hours andyet it is alwaysthe samemomentI think of. Her hair as shebent overme,red with streaksofgold, her hair on my faceand chestandlookingup at her throughher hair. Shelet it fall overme and I felt I waslying in the long grass,safe. When we left the villagewe left with a seriesof short cuts drawn for us on our mapand morefood than theyshouldhavespared.I felt guilty becauseapart from Villanelle, they should havekilled us. Whereverwe went we found men and womenwho hatedthe French. Men and women whosefutures had been decidedfor them.Theywerenot articulatethinkingpeople,theywerepeople of the land who were content with little and zealousin their worship of custom and God. Although their lives were not much changed,they felt slightedbecausetheir leadershad been slighted,they felt out of control and resentedthe armiesand the puppet Kings Bonaparte left behind. Bonaparte always claimed he knew what was good for a people, knew how to improve, how to educate.He did; he improved whereverhe went, but he alwaysforgot that even simple people want the freedomto maketheir own mistakes. Bonapartewantedno misakes. In Poland we pretended we were all Italian and received r03

THE PASSION the sympathydue to one occupied race from another. When Villanelle revealed her Venetian origins, hands flew across mouthsand saintlywomencrossedthemselves.Venice,the city of Satan.Was it really like that?and eventhe most disapproving creptup to her and askedwhetheror not thereweretnrly r r,ooo prostitutesall richer than Kings? Villanelle, who loved to tell stories,wove for their wildest dreams.She evensaid that the boaunenhad webbedfeet, and while Patrick and I could hardly srrallow our laughter, the Polesgrewwide-eyedand one evenrisked excommunicationby suggestingthat perhapsChrist had been able to walk on the water thanla to the sameaccidentof birth. As we navelled, w€ heard about the Grande Armie, how many thousandshad died and I was sick to hear of so much wasteand for no purpose.Bonapartesaid that a night in Paris with the whoreswould replenisheveryone.Maybe,but it would take seventeenyea$ for them to grow up. Eventhe Frenchwerebeginningto get tired. Eventhe women without ambitionwantedsomethingmore than to produceboys to be killed and girls to grow up to producemore boys.We were gettingweary.Talleyrand wrote to the Czarand said, TheFrauh penpleare ciailised,their leafur is nnt . . . We are not especiallycivilised,we wanted what he wanted for a long time. We wantedglory and conquestand slavesand praise.His desireburned for longer than ours becauseit was never likely that he would pay for it with his life. He kept his valuable,fabulousthing behind the secretpanel until the last moment,butwe, who hadsolitde exceptour lives,weregambling with all we had from the start. He sawwhat we felt. He reflectedon our losses. He had tents and food when we were dyrng. He wastrying to found a dynasty.We werefighting for our lives.

r04

THE ZERO WINTER There's no such thing as a limited victory. One conquest only leadson, inelucably, to another,to protect what hasbeenwon. We found no friends of France on our iourney, only crushed enemies.Enemieslike you and me with the samehopes and fears, neither good nor bad. I had been taught to look for monstersand devilsand I found ordinarypeople. But the ordinary people were looking for devils too. The Austrians in particular believed the French to be brutal and beneath contempt. Still believing us to be lalian, they were generousto a fault and compiued us favourablyin everyway with the French. And if I had throvrn off my disguise?What then,would I haveturnedinto a devilbeforetheir eyes?I worried that they would smell me, that ttreir noses,so disdainful and attuned to hate anything ttrat had a whiff of Bonaparte,would detectme sraight away.But it seemswe are aswe appear.What a nonsensewe makeof our hatredswhen we can only recognise them in the most obviouscircumstances. We were close to the Danube when Patrick beganto behave oddly. We had been travelling for more than two months and we found ourselvesin a valleysurroundedby pine forests.We were at the bottom like ants in a great green cage.We were making good time now that we were out of the snow and the worst of the cold. Our spirirc were high; another two weeks perhaps and we might reach ltaly. Patrick had been singrng songssincewe left Moscow. Unintelligble, tunelesssongsbut soundswe had gxownaccustomedto, that we marchedto. For the last day or so he had been silent, hardly eating and not wanting to talk. As we sataround our fire in the valleythat night, he started to talk about Ireland and how much he wanted to be home. He waswonderingwhetheror not he could persuade the Bishop to give him a parish again. He had liked being a priest, 'fuid not iust for the girls, though there was that, I know.t r05

l

THE PASSION He said it madesense,whetheryou believedor not, it made senseto go to church and think,aboutsomeonewho wasn'tyour family or your enemy. I saidit washypocriticaland he saidDomino wasright about me; that I was a purian at heart, didn't understandweakness and messand simplehumanness. I was very much hurt by this, but I think what he said was tnre and it is a fault in me. Villanelle told us about the churchesin Venice with their paintingsof angelsand devilsand thievingmen and adulterous womenand animalseverywhere.Patrickbrightenedand thought he might try his luck in Venicefirst. He wokeme in the middle of the night. He wasraving.I tried to hold him down, but he's strong and neither I nor Villanelle daredrisk his flailing fists and feet. He wassweatingdespitethe cold night and therewasblood on his lips.We piled our blar*ets over him and I set off into the dark that still terrified me to find more dry wood and build up the fire. We built him a fiery furnacebut he couldn't get warm. He sweatedand shook and shoutedthat he was freezingto death, that the Devil had got into his lungs and wasbreathingdamnationat him. He died at aboutdawn. We had no shovels,no way of penetratingthe black earth,so we carried him betweenus to the beginningof the pine forests and coveredhim with brackenand branchesand leaves.Buried him like a hedgehogwaiting for summer. Then we wereafraid.What had he died of and couldwe have caught it? Despite the weatherand our need to move on, we went to the river and washedourselvesand our clothes and shiveredin the weak afternoonsun by the fire. Villanelle was talking gloomily about catarrh, but I knew nothing then of that Venetiandiseasethat now attacksme everyNovember. When we left Patrick behind we left our optimism with hirn. We had begun to believethat we would finish our iourney ro6

THE ZERO WINTER and now that seemedlesspossible.If one can go why not three? We tried to ioke, rememberinghis face when the ox-boy had sat on him, rememberinghis wild sightings;he onceclaimedto havespottedthe BlessedVirgin herself touring the heavenson a gildeddonkey.He wasalwaysseeingthingsandit didn't matter how or what, it matteredthat he sawand that he told us stories. Storieswere all we had. He had told us the storyof his miraculouseyeand when he had first discoveredit. It wason a hot morning in County Cork and the church doors were wide open to let out the heat and the smell of sreat that even a good wash can't get rid of after six daysin the fields. Patrick was preachinga fine sennon about Hell and the perils of the fleshand his eyesroamedthe congregation; at least his right eye did, he found that his left eyewas focusedthree fields awayon a pair of his parishionerswho were committing adultery under God's Heavenwhile their spouses knelt in his church. After the sermon,Patrickwasdeeplyperplexed.Had he seen them or washe like StJeromeand subiectto lustful visions?He wafted round to visit them that afternoonand,aftera few chance remarks,iudged from their guilty facesttrat they had indeed been doing what he thought they'd beendoing. There was a womanof the parish,very devoutwith a bosom that precededher, and Patrick found by sanding in his little rurnsehe could seestraightinto her bedroomwithout anynrlgpr telescope.He did look occasionally, iust to checkthat shewasn't in sin. He reckoned,after all, that the Lord must havegranted him this eyefor somerighteouspurpose. Hadn't he grantedSamsonstrength? 'And Samsonwasa one for the womentoo.' Could he seeus now?Could he look down from his placenext to the BlessedVirgin and seeus walking awaythinking of him? r07

THE PASSION Perhapsboth his eyeswere nou'far-sighted.I wantedhim to be in Heaveneventhough I didn't believethere could be such a place. I wantedhim to seeus home. Many of my friendswere dead.There was only one boy left of thosefive of us who had laughedat the red barn and the cows we had birthed. Others I had cometo knorvover the yearsand grown used to had been faally wounded or recorded missing on one battlefield or another. A fighting man is careful not to make too many ties. I saw a cannonballblow a stonemasonin two, a man I liked and I tried to drag his nn'ohalvesoffthe field, but when I cameback for his legs they were indistinguishable from the other legs. There was a carpenterthey had shot for carvinga rabbit out of his musket-butt. Death in battle seemedgloriouswhen we were not in battle. But for the menwho werebloodiedand maimedand madeto run throughsmokethatchokedtheminto enemylineswherebayonets werewaiting deathin battleseemedonlywhatitwas.Death.The curiousthingis thatwealwayswentback.The GrandeArm6ehad more recruitsthan it could train andveryfew desertions,at least until recently.Bonapartesaidwar wasin our blood. Could that be orue? And if it is tnre there will be no end to thesewars.Not now, not ever. Whenever we shout Peace!and run home to our sweetheartsand till the land we will be not in peacebut in a respite from the war to come.War will alwaysbe in the funrre. The funrre crossedout. It can't be in our blood. Why would a peoplewho love the grapeand the sun die in the zero winter for one man? Why did I? BecauseI loved him. He was my passionand when we go to war we feel we are not a lukewarm people any more. ro8

THE ZERO WINTER What did Villanelle thinh? Men are violent. That's all there is to it. Being with her was like pressingyour eyeto a particularly vivid kaleidoscope.She was all primary colour and although she underctoodbetter than I the ambiguitiesof the heart she was not equivocalin her thinking. 'I comefrom ttre city of mazes,'shesaidr'but if you askme a direction I will tell you straightahead.' We were now in the Kingdom of It"ly, and it washer plan to take a boat to Venice,where we could staywith her family until it was safefor me to return to France.In return, shewould ask of me a favour and that favour concernedthe re-possessionof her heart. 'My lover still has it. I left it there. I want you to help me get it back.' I promisedher my help but there was somethingI wanted too; why had she nevertakenher boots off? Not evenwhile we sayed with the peasantsin Russia?Not evenin bed? Shelaughedand drew backher hair, and her eyeswere bright with nro deepfurrorvsbenreenthe eyebrows.I thought shewas the most beautifulwomanI had ever seen. 'I told you. My father was a boaunan.Boatmendo not take offtheir boots,'and that wasall shewould say,but I determined on my arrival in her enchantedcity to find out more about these boaunenand their boots. We were fornrnatein a fair passageand on that calm glittering seathe war and the winter seemedyearsaway.Someoneelse's past.And so it was that in May r8r3 I had my first glimpseof Venice. Arriving at Venice by sea, as one must, is like seeing an invented city rise up and quiver in the air. It is a trick of the early light to make the buildings shimmer so that they seem r09

THE PASSION never still. It is not built on any lines I can fathom but rather seemsto havepusheditself out, impudendy,here and there.To have swelled like yeast in a shapeof ia olvn. There are no preliminaries,no docks for the smaller craft, your boat anchors in the lagoonand in a momentwith no more ado you are in St Mark's Square.I watchedVillanelle'sface;the faceof someone coming home, seeingnothing but the homecoming.Her eyes flickered from the domesto cats,embracingwhat she sawand passinga silent messagethat shewas back. I enviedher ttraf I wasstill an exile. We landed and taking my hand she led me through an impossiblemaze,past somethingI seemedto translateas the Bridge of Fists and evenmore unlikely,the Canalof the Toilet" until we arrivedat a quiet watenvay. 'This is the back of my house,'she said,'the front door is on the canal.t Their front doorsopenedinto the water? Her mother and stepfathergreetedus with the kind of raphre I had alwaysimagined to have been the luck of the Prodigal Son. They drew up chairsand satcloseby so that all our knees touched and her mother kept leaping up and running out to fetch traysof cakesand iugs of wine. At everyone of our stories, her father slappedme on the back and went 'Ha Ha', and her mother raised her hands to the Madonna and said, 'What a mercyyou are here.' The fact that I was a Frenchmandidn't bother them at all. 'Not everyFrenchmanis NapoleonBonaparte,'said her father. 'I haveknownsomegood ones,thoughVillanelle'shusbandwas not sucha goodone.' I looked at her startled. She had never said that her fat husband was a Frenchman. I presumed her facility for my languagehad comewith living aroundso manysoldiersfor most of her life. IIO

THE ZERO WINTER She shrugged, her usud gesftre when she didn't want to explain and askedwhat had happenedto her husband. 'He comesand goes,like always,but you can hide.' The thought of hiding the nro of us, fugitives for different reasons,appealedenonnouslyto Villanelle'sparents. 'When I was married to a boatrnanr'said her mother, 'things were happeningeveryday,but the boat people are clannish and now that I am married to a baker,' she tneaked his cheek,'they go ttreir waysand I go mine.' Her eyesnarrowedand sheleaned forwardsso closethat I could smell her breakfast.'There are storiesI could tell you, Henri, that would makeyour hair stand on end,' and she slappedme on the knee so violently that I fell back in my chair. 'Leave the boy alone,' said her husband,'he's iust walked from Moscow.t 'Madonna,' exclaimedshe,'horr could I?' and she forced me to eat anothercake. When I wasreeling \rith cakesand wine and almostcollapsed with exhaustion,shetook me aroundthe houseand showedme in particular the little gd[e with a mirror positioned at such an angleasto revealthe identity of any caller at the water-gate. 'We won't alwaysbe here and you must be sure who it is if you are to open the door. As a further precaution I think you should shaveoff your beard. We Venetiansare not hairy and you will standout.' I thankedher and slept for trro days. On the third day I awoke to a quiet house and my room completelydark becausethe shutterswere so tightly closed.I threw them backand let in the yellowlight that touchedmy face and broke in spearsacrossthe floor. I could seethe dust in the sunlight.The roomwaslow and unevenand the wallshad faded spaceswhere pictureshad hung. There was a wash-standand a full iug, ice cold, and after so much cold and in this warmth, I III

THE PASSION could only bearto dip in my fingers and rub awaythe sleepfrom my eyes.There wasa mirror too. Full length on a woodensrrivel stand.The mirror was silveredin places,but I sawmyself,tnin and bony,with a too largeheadand a ruffian's beard.They were right. I must shavebefore I went out. From my window which overlookedthe canal I sawa whole world going about in boarc. Vegetableboats,passengerboats,boatswith canopiescovering rich ladiesand bonesasthin asa knife-bladewith raisedprotrys. Thesewerethe sEangestboatsof all becausetheir ownersrowed them standingup. fu far as I could see,the canalwas marked at regular intends with SailVstriped poles, some with boats butting againstthem, others, their gold tops peeling in the sun. I threw the filthy water I used along with the remains of my beard into the canal and prayed that my past had sunk for ever. I got lost from the first. Where Bonapartego€s,straight roads follow, buildings are rationalised,street signs may changeto celebratea battle but they are alwaysclearly marked. Here, if they bother with street signs at all, they are happy to use the same ones over again. Not even Bonaparte could rationalise Venice. This is a city of madmen. Everyrvhere,I found a church and sometimesit seemedI found the same squarebut with different churches.Perhaps here churchesspring up overnightlike mushroomsand dissolve as quickly with the dawn. Perhapsthe \&netians build them overnight?At the height of their powers they built a galleon every day, fully fitted. Why not a church, fully fined? The only rational place in the whole city is the public gardenand even there, on a foggy nighg four sepulchral churches rise up and swampthe regimentalpines. I did not return to the baker'shome for five daysbecauseI could not find my way and becauseI felt embarrassedto speak French to thesepeople.I walked,looking for breadstalls,snilEng tt2

THE ZEROWINTER like a trackerdo& hopingto catcha clueon the air. But I only

.T,t;l|1'1il;ro

a comer, a corner r swear r had*r"ru .

huntlredtimesbeforeandI sawVillanelleplaitingher hair in a boat. 'We thoughtyou'd gonebackto Francer' she said. ,Mama wasbrokenhearted.Shewantsyouto be her son.' 'I needa map.t 'It won't help.This is a living city. Thingschange.' 'Villanelle,citiesdon't.' 'Henri, theydo.' Sheorderedme into theboat,promisingfoodon the way. 'I'll takeyou on a tour, thenyouwon't go missingagain.' The boat smelledof urine and cabbagesand I askedher whoseit was.Shesaidit belonged to a manwhobredbearc.An admirerof hers.I waslearningnotto askhertoomanyquestions; truth or lie, the answerswereusuallyunsatisfactory. We slid out of the sun,dov,'nicy nrnnelsttratsetmy teethon edgeandpastdampworkerbarges,hauledup with their ftrmelesscargo. 'This city enfoldsuponitself.Canalshideothercanals,dleywayscrossand criss-crossso that you will not knowwhich is which until you havelived here all your life. Evenwhen you havemasteredthe squaresandyou canpassfrom the Ridto to the Ghettoandout to the lagoonwith confidence, therewill still be placesyou canneverfind and if you do find themyou rnay neverseeSt Mark's again.Leaveplentyof time in your doings andbepreparedto goanotherway,to do somethingnotplanned if thatis wherethe streetsleadyou.' Werowedin ashapethatseemed to beafigureofeightworking backon ieelf, WhenI suggested to Villanellethatshewasbeing deliberately mysterious andtakingmeawayI wouldneverrecogniseagain,shesmiledandsaidshewastakingmedovmanancient waythatonlyaboaunancouldhopeto remember. I13

THE PASSION

'The cities of the interior do not lie on any map.' We passedransackedpalaces,their curtains srn'ingingfrom shutterlesswindows and now and againI caught sight of a lean figure on a broken balcony. 'These arethe exiles,the peoplethe French droveout. These peopleare deadbut they do not disappear.' We passeda group of children whosefaceswere old and evil. 'I'm takingyou to seemy friend.' The canal she turned into was littered with waste and ras floating pink belly up. At times it was almost too narrow for us to passand shepushedoffthe walls,her oar scrapinggenerations of slime.No one could live here. 'What time might it be?' Villanellelaughed.Yisiting time. I've brought a friend.' She drew in her boat to a stinking recessand squatting on a ledgeof precariouslyfloating crateswasa worran so sunkenand filthy &at I scarcelythought her a human at all. Her hair was glowing, some curious phosphorescentmould clung to it and gaveher the appearanceofa subterraneandevil. Shewasdressed in folds of a heavy material, impossible to place in colour or design.One of her handshad only three fingers. 'I've beenawan' saidVillanelle.'Away a long time,but I won't go awayagain.This is Henri.' The old creaturecontinuedto regardVillanelle. She spoke. 'You\e been awayas you tell me and I have watched for you while you were gone and sometimesseen your ghost floating this way. You have been in danger and there is more to come but you will not leaveagain.Not in this life.' There was no light where we sat huddled. The buildings on either side of the water closedin like an arch aboveour heads. So closethat the roofs seemedto touch in places.Were we in the sewers?'I brought you fish.' Villanelle took out a parcel which the old woman sniffed before putting beneathher skirts. Then sheturned to me. II4

THE ZERO WINTER 'Bewareof old enemiesin new disguises.' Tl/ho is she?'I askedas soonaswe were safelyaway. Villanelle shruggedand I knew I would get no real answer. 'She's an exile. She used to live there,' and she pointed out a forgottenbuilding with a double water-gatethat had been left to sink.so that the watersnow lappedinto the lorverroorns.The top floors were used for storageand a pulley hung out of one of the windows. 'When she lived there, they say the lights never went out before dawn and the cellarshad wines so rare that a man might die if he drank more than a glass.She kept ships on the seas and the shipsbrought home commoditiesthat madeher one of the wealthiestwomenin Venice.When otherstalkedof her, they did so with respectand when they referredto her husbandthey calledhim "The Husbandof the Lady of Means". She lost her meanswhen Bonapartetook t fancy to them and they say that Josdphinehasher iewels.' Josdphinehasmost people'siewels,'I said. We rowedout ofthe hiddencity into squaresofsunlight andwide canalsthat huggedthe boatseightor nine acrossandstill left room for the flimsypleasurecraft ofthe visitots.'This is the time ofyear for them.And ifyou staytill AugustyoucancelebrateBonaparte's birthday. But he may be dead by then. In that caseyou must certainlysay till August and we'll celebratehis funeral.' She had stoppedour boat ouside an imposingresidencethat rose up six floors and commandeda choice place on this clean and fashionablecanal. 'In that house,you will find my heart. You must break in, Henri, and get it back for me.' Was she mad?We had been talking figuratively. Her heart was in her body like mine. I tried to explain this to her, but she took my hand and put it againsther chest. 'Feel for yourself,' II5

THE PASSION I felt andwithouttheslightestsubter gemovedmyhandup and down.I could feel nothing.I put my ear to her bodyand crouchedquite still in the bottomof the boat and a passing gondoliergaveus a knowingsmile. I couldhearnothing. 'Villanelle,you'dbe deadif youhadno heart.' 'Thosesoldiersyoulivedwith, do youthink theyhadhearts? Do youthinkmyfat husbandhasa heartsomewhere in hislard?' Now it wasme shruggrng my shoulderr.'It's a wayof putting it, youknowthat.' 'I knowthatbut I\e told youalready.This is anunusualcity, we do thingsdifferentlyhere.' 'You want me to go insidethat houseand searchfor your heart?' tYes.t

It was fantastic. 'Henri, when you left

Moscow, Domino gaveyou an icicle with a thread of gold running through it. Where is it?' I told her I didn't know what had happenedto it, I guessed it had meltedin my pack and I had lost the threadof gold. I was ashamedof having lost ig but when Patrick died I forgot to take care of the things I loved for a while. 'I haveit.t 'You have the gold?' I was incredulous,relieved.She must havefound it and so I hadn't lost Domino after all. 'I havethe icicle.' She fished into her bag and drew it out as cold and hard as the day he had plucked it from the canvasand sent me away.I nrrned it over in my hands.The boat bobbed up and down and the seagullswent their ordinary way. I looked at her, my eyes full of questions,but she only drew up her shouldersandnrrnedher facebacktowardsthe house.'Tonight, Henri. Tonight they'll be at the Fenice.I'11brit g you here and wait for you, but I'm afraid to go in in caseI can't bring myself to leaveagain.t r16

THE ZERO WINTER She took the icicle from me. 'When you bring me my heart, I'll giveyou your miracle.' 'I loveyou,' I said. 'You're my brotherr' she said and we rowed away. We ate supper together, she, me and her parents, and they pressedme for deails of my famity. 'I come from a village surrounded by hills that stretch away bright green and spattered with dandelions. There is a river runs by that floods ia banks every winter and chokes in mud everysummer.We dependon the river. We dependon the sun. There iue no streetsand squareswhere I come from, only smdl houses,one storey usually and paths in betweenmade by so runy feet not so many designing hands. We have no church, we use the barn, and in winter we have to squeezein with the hay. We didn't notice the Revolution. Like you, it took us by surprise. Our thoughts are on the wood in our hands and the grain we grow and now and again on God. My mother was a devoutwomanandwhen shedied my fathersaidshewasholding out her arms to the Holy Mother and her face was lit up from within. She died by chance.A horse fell on her and broke her hip and we haveno medicine for such ffrgt, only for colic and madness.That was two yeats ago. My father still draws the plough and catchesthe molesthat gashthe fields. If I can, I'll get home for harvestand help hirn. It's where I belong.' '\4/hataboutyour brains, Henri?' askedVillanelle, half sarcastic. 'A man like you, taught by a priest and ravelled and fought. What will you think about back wittl the cattle?' I shrugged.'What use are brains?' 'You could makeyour fornrne herer' said her father, 'there's chanceshere for a young man.t 'You can staywith us,' saidher mother. But she saidnothing and I could not stayand be her brother when my heart cried out to love her. r17

THE PASSION 'You knowr' said her mother, catching my ann, tthis is not a city like any other. Paris?I spit on it.' She spat. "Vllhat'sParis? Just a few boulevardsand some e4peruiveshops. Here, there are mysteriesthat only the dead knonr.I tell you, the boamen here havewebbedfeet. No, don't smile,it's tnre. I was married to one that's hou' I knou'and I brought up sonsby my previous marriage.'She poked her foot in the air and tried to reach her toes.'In benreeneachtoe, you'll find a web and with thosewebs they walk on water.' Her husbanddidn't roar and bang the water iug ashe usually did when he found somethingfrnny. He met my eyesand gave his little half smile. 'A man has to keep an open mind. Ask Villanelle.' But shewastight-lipped and soonleft the room. 'She needs a new husband,' said her mother, her voice 'once almost pleading, that man's out of the way . . . accidents happen very often in Venice, it's so dark and the waterc are so deep. Who would be surprised if there was another death?' Her husband laid his hand on her arm. 'Don't tempt the spirits.t After the meal was over and her father was snoozingwhile her mother embroidereda cloth, Villanelleled me dovrnto the boat and we slipped black along the black water. She had exchangedher cabbageand urine boat for a gondola and she rowed standingup in their off-centre graceful way. She said it was a better disguise; gondoliers often hung round the grand houseshoping for business.I was about to ask her where she had got the boat, but the words died in my mouth when I saw the markingson the prow. It wasa funeralboat. The night was chilly but not dark with a bright moon that castour shadowsgrotesquelyon the water. We were soonat the water-gateand, as shehad promised,the houseseemedempty. r18

THE ZERO WINTER 'How will I get in?' I whisperedas shetied her boatto an iron ring. 'With this.' Shegaveme a key.Smoothand flat like a gaoler's key. 'I kept it for luck. It neverbrought me any.' 'How will I find your heart?This houseis six storeys.' 'Listen for it beating and look in unlikely places.If there's danger,you'll hear me cry like a seagullover the water and you must hutry back.' I left her and steppedinto the wide hall, coming face to face with a full-sized scaly beastwith a horn protnrding from ia head. I gavea little cry, but it was stuffed. In front of me was a woodenstaircasethat bent round half-wayup and disappeared into the middle of ttre house.I determinedto start at the top and make my way down. I expectedto find nothing but unless I was able to describeeachroom to Villanelle, shewould force me here agarkr.Iwascerain of that The first door I openedhad nothing in it but a harpsichord. The secondhad fifteen stained-glass windows. The third had no windows and on the floor, side by side, were nro coffins, their lids open,white silk inside. The fourth room was shelved from floor to ceiling and those shelveswere filled with books trn'odeep. There was a ladder. In the fifth room a light burned and covering the whole of one wall was a map of the world. A m"p with whalesin the seas and terrible monsters chewing the land. There were roads marked that seemedto disappearinto the earth and at other times to stop abruptly at the sea'sedge. In each corner sat a connorant, a fish stnrggling in its beak. The sixth room wirs a sewing room, a tapestrysome threequarte$ done lay in its frame. The picture was of a young womancross-leggedin front of a packof cards.It wasVillanelle. The seventh room was a study; the desk wiu covered in I19

THE PASSION iournals covered in a tiny spidery hand. Writing I could not read. The eighth room had only a billiard table and a little door leading off at one side. I was drawn to this door md, opening it, found it to be a vast walk-in closet racked with dressesof every kind, smelling of musk and incense.A woman's room. Here, I felt no fear. I wantedto bury my facein the clothesand lie on the floor with the smell about me. I thought of Villanelle and her hair acrossmy face and wonderedif that was how she had felt with this sweet-smelling,seductivewoman.Around the sidesof the room were ebonyboxes,monogrammed.I opened one and found it packedwirh litde glassphials. Inside were the aromasof pleasureand danger.Each phial containedat most five drops and so I iudged them to be essencesof great value and potency.Hardly thinking, I put one in my pocket and nrrned to leave.As I did so, a noise stoppedme. A noise not like the soundof miceor beetles.A regularsteadynoise,like a heartbeat. My own heart misseda beat and I began to fling back go\rrn after gown,scatteringshoesand underclothesin my haste-I sat on my heelsand listenedagain.It waslow-dorrn,concealed. on my handsand kneesI gawled under one of the clothes rails and found a silk shift wrappedround an indigo iar. The iar was throbbit s. I did not dare to unstopperit. I did not dare to check this valuable,fabulous thing and I carried it, still in the shift, down the last two floors and out into the empty night. Villanelle washunchedin the boat staring at the water. When sheheardme shereachedout her handto steadyme andwithout asking a question rowed us swiftly away and far out into the lagoon.when shestoppedat last, her sweatshiningpale under the moon, I handedher my bundle. She gavea stgh and her handstrembled, then she bade me turn away. I heard her uncork the iar and a sound like gas escaping. Then shebeganto maketerrible snalloruingand choking noises t20

T H E Z E R OW I N T E R and only my fear kept me sitting at the other end of the boaq perhapshearingher die. There was quiet. She touched my back and when I nrrned round took my hand agatnand placedit on her breast. Her heartwasbeating. Notpossible. I tell you her heart wasbeating. She askedme for the key and, placingboth the key and the shift in the indigo jar, she tossedit into the water and smiled such a smile of radiancethat had this all been folly, it would havebeen worth it. She askedme what I saw and I told her of each room and at each room she askedof another room and then I told her aboutthe tapesbry.Her facewhitened. 'But you sayit wasnot finished?' 'It wasthree-quartersfinished.' 'And it wasme?You're sure?' Why was she so upset?Becauseif the tapestryhad been finishedand the womanhad wovenin her heart,shewould have beena prisonerfor ever. 'I don't understandany of this, Villanelle.' 'Don't think about it any more, I have my heart, You have your miracle.Now we can enioy ourselvesr'and she unravelled her hair and rowed me home in her red forest. 'Bewareof I sleptbadly,dreamingof the old woman'swords, old enemiesin new disguises,'but in the morning when Villanelle's mother woke me with eggsand coffee, the night gone and its nightmaresseemedpart of the samefantasy. This is the city of madmen. Her mother sat by my bed and chatted and urged me to ask Villanelleto marry me when shewasfree. 'I had a dream last night,' she said. 'A dream of death. Ask her, Henri.' When we were out togetherthat afternoonI did askher, but sheshookher head. r2l

THE PASSION 'I can't grveyou my heart.' 'I don't have have to it.' 'Perhapsnot, but I needto grveit. You're my brother.' when I told her mother what had happened,she stoppedin her baking.'You're too steadyfor her, she goesfor madmen.r tell her to calm down but she never will. She wants it to be Pentecosteveryday.' Then she muttered somethingabout the terrible island and blamedhersel{,but I neverquestiontheseVenetianswhen th.y mutterl it's their own affair. I beganto think of leavingfor France and though the thought of not seeingher eachdayfroze my heartmore cleanlythan any zerowinter, I rememberedwords of hers, words she had used when Parick and she and I lay in a Russianhut drinking evil spirit. . . There'sn0 sensein louingsnmenne ynu can only nake up to by chance. They saythis city can absorbanyone.It doesseemthat every nationalityis here in somepart. There are dreamersand poets and landscapepainterswith diny nosesand wandererslike me who camehere by chanceand never left. They are all looking for something,travellingtheworld andthe ,"o.r ,.", but lookini for a reasonto stay.I'm not looking I've found what it is I **t and I can't have it. If I sayed, I would be saying not out of hope but out of fear. Fear of being alone,of being parted from a womanwho simplyby her presencemakesthe rest of my lite seemshadows. I sayI'm in love with her. What doesthat mean? It meansI review my future and my past in the light of this feeling. It is as though I wrote in a foreign langu"g thrt I am suddenlyable to read. Wordlessly,she explainsme to myself. Like genius,she is ignorantof what she does. I was a bad soldier becauseI cared too much about what t22

THE ZERO WINTER happenednext. I could neverlose myselfin the cannonfire,in the moment of combat and hate. My mind ran before me with picturesof deadfields and all that had takenyearsto make,lost in a day or so. I stayedbecauseI had nowhereelseto go. I don't want to do that again. Do all loversfeel helplessand valiant in the presenceof the beloved?Helplessbecausethe need to roll over like a pet dog is never far away.Valiant becauseyou know you would slay a dragonwith a pocketknife if you had to. When I dream of a future in her arms no dark daysappear' not evena headcold, and though I know it's nonsenseI really believewe would alwaysbe happy and that our children would changethe world. I sound like those soldierswho dream of home . . . No. She'dvanishfor daysat a time andI'd weep.She'dforget we had any children and leaveme to take care of them. She'd gambleour house awayat the Casino, and if I took her to live in Franceshe'd grow to hate me. I know all this and it makesno difference. She'd neverbe faithful. She'd laugh in my face. I will alwaysbe afraid of her body becauseof the power it has. And in spite of thesethings when I think of leaving,my chest is full of stones. Infatuation.First love. Lust. My passioncan be explainedaway.But this is sure: whatever shetouches,she reveals. I think about her body a lot; not possessingit but watching it nrist in sleep.Sheis neverstill; whetherit be in boag or running full tilt with an armful of cabbages.She's not nenous, it's unnatural for her to be still. When I told her how much I like r23

THE PASSION to lie in a bright green field watching the bright blue sky she said, 'You can do that when you're dead,tell them to leavethe top offyour coffin.' But she knowsaboutthe sky. I can seeher from my window in her boat rowing very slowly looking up at the faultlessblue for the first star. She decidedto teach me to row. Not iust row. Venetianrow. We setoffat dawnin a red gondolathat the policeused.I didn't bother to askhow she'd got it. She wasso happythesedaysand often she took my hand and put it to her heart as though she were a patient grvena secondchance. 'Ifyou're determinedto be a goatherdafter all, the leastI can do is sendyou home with one real skill. you can make a boat in your quiet momentsand sail down that river you talk about and think of me.' 'You could comewith me if you liked.' 'I wouldn't like. what would I do with a sackfulof molesand not a gamingtable in sight?' I knew it but I hatedhearingit. I was not a natural rower and more than once I tipped the 9or! so badly that both of us fell in and Villanelle grabbedme by the scruff of the neck and screamedshewasdrolvning.,you -under, live on the water,' I protestedwhen she draggedme yelling at the top of her voice. 'That's right. I live on it, I don't live in it.' Amazingly,she couldn't srim. (Boaunen don't needto srrim. No boaonanwould end up like this. we can't go home till we're dry I'll be madefun of.' Not even her enthusiasmcould help me get it right and at wening shesnatchedbackthe oars,her hair still damp,and told me we were going to the Casinoinstead. 'Maybe that's what you're good at.'

r24

THE ZERO WINTER I had never been to a Casino before and I was disappointed the way the brothel had disappointedme years earlier. Sinful places are always so much more sinful in the imagination. There's no red plush as shockingly red as the red you drearr up. No womenwith legs as long asyou think they'll be. And in the mind theseplacesare alwaysfree. 'There's a whipping room upsairs,' she said, 'if you're interested.'No. I'd be bored. I knew aboutwhipping. I'd heard it all from my friend the priest. Saintslove to be whipped and I\e seen pictures galore of their extatic scars and longing glances.Watching an ordinary personbeing whipped couldn't havethe sameeffect. Saintly flesh is soft and white and dways hidden from the day. When the whip finds it ouq that is the moment of pleasure,the moment when what was hidden is revealed. I left her to it and when I'd seenwhat there was to see of cold marble and iced glassesand scarredbaize,I retreatedto a window seatand restedmy mind on the shining canalbelow. So the past had gone.I had escaped.Such things are possible. I thought of my village and the bonfire we hold at the end of winter; doingawaywiththe thingswe no longerneed;celebrating the life to come.Eight soldieryearshad goneinto the canalwith the beard that didn't suit me. Eight yearsof Bonaparte.I saw my reflection in the window; this was the face I had become. Beyondmy reflectionI sawVillanellebackedup againstthe wall with a man standingin front of her blocking her way. She was watchinghim evenly,but I could seeby ttre lift of her shoulders that she was afraid. He was very wide, a great black e4panselike a matador's cloak. He stood with his feet planted apart, one ann leaning on the wall blocking her wa5 the other fixed in his pocket. She pushed r25

THE PASSION him, swiftly and suddedy, and iust as swiftly his hand flew from his pocket and slappedher. I heard the noise and, as I iumped up, she duckedunder his arm and ran past me down the stairs. I could think of nothingbut gettingto her beforehe did and he was alreadyin pursuit. I openedthe window and iumped into the canal. I came spluttering to the surfacewith a faceful of weed and s\ram to our boat, looseningthe tie, so that when she leapt in like a cat, I was shouting at her to row and rying to scramble over the side. She ignored me and ron'ed and I was dragged behind like the tame dolphin a man on the Rialto keeps. 'It's him,' she said, as I finally nrmbledin a heapat her feet 'I thought he wasstill awan my spiesare good.' 'Your husband?' She spat.'My greasy,cock-suckinghusband,yes.' I sat up. 'He's following us.' 'I know away; I'm a boatman'sdaughter.' I grew dbzy with the circles she rowed and the speed she rowed at. The musclesin her arrns stood out threateningto breakthe skin and whenwe passedsomelight I sawthe outcrop of her veins.Shewasbreathinghard, her body wassoonaswet We were heading down a stretch of water that got narrower and narro\iler and stoppedabsolutelyin a blank white wall. At the lastsecond,whenI e4pectedto hearour boatsplinter like drifnvood, Villanelle swung an impossiblecurve and pulled us up an inlet that led through a dripping tunnel. 'Home soon, Henri, keepcalm.' It was the first time I had ever heard her use the word calm. We pulled up againsther water-gatebut, as we preparedto fasten our boat, a silent pro\il slid from behind us and I was staring into the face of the cook. The cook. The flesh around his mouth moved into a suggestionof a smile. He was much heavierthan when I had known him, with rz6

THE ZERO WINTER iowls that hung like dead moles and a plump caseof skin that held his head to his shoulders.His eyeshad recededand his eyebrows,alwa5nthick, now loomed at me like sentries. He foldedhis handson the edgeof the boat,handswith rings forced over the knuckles.Red hands. 'Henri,' he said.'My pleasure.' Villanelle'squestioninglook to me wrestledwith her look of pure disgustfixed on him. He sawher conflict and touchingher lightly so that she winced said, 'You could say Henri was my good luck. Thanks to him and his little tricks I was drummed out of Boulogneand sentto Paristo mind the Stores.I've never been one to mind anything that didn't have somethingin it for me. Aren't you pleased,Henri, to meet an old friend and see him so prosperous?' 'I don't want anything to do with you,' I said. He smiled again and I sawhis teeth this time. What was left of them. 'But you do, you clearlywant somethingto do with my wife. My wife,' and he enunciatedthe words very slowly.Then his facetook on an old expression,I knew it well. 'I'm surprised to seeyou here, Henri. shouldn't you be with your regiment) This is not a time for holidayrn& not evenif you're a favourite of Bonaparte's.t 'It's none of your business.t 'Indeed not, but you won't mind me mentioning you to a fent of my friends,will you?' He hrrned to villanelle. 'I have other friends who'll be interestedto know what's happenedto you. Friendswho paid a lot of money to get to knorv you. It will be easierif you come with me nolil.t She spatin his face. What happenednext is still not clear to me eventhough I have had years to ttrink about it. Calm yeani with no distraction. I remember he leaned fonrard when she spat and tried to kiss t27

THE PASSION her. I rememberhis mouth opening and coming towardsher, his hands loosedfrom the boat side, his body bent. His hand scrapedher breast.His mouth. His mouth is the clearestimage I have.A palepink mouth, a cavernof fleshand then his tongue, iust visible like a wonn from its hole. She pushedhim and he lost balancebetweenthe trro boats and fell on to me, nearly crushingme.He put his handsto my throatandI heardVillanelle cry out andthrorvher knife towardsme,within reach.A Venetian knife, thin and cruel. 'Soft side,Henri, like seaurchins.' I had the knife in my hand and I thrust it at his side. As he rolled I thrust it in his belly. I heard it sucklehis guts. I pulled it out, angryknife at being so torn away,and I let it go in again, through the years of good living. That gooseand claret flesh soonfell away.My shirt wassoakedin blood.Villanelledragged him off me, half off me, and I stood up, not unsteadyat all. I told her to help me nrn him over and shedid so,watchingme. When we had him belly up and running blood I tore his shirt from the collar down andlookedat his chest.Hairlessandwhite, like the flesh of saints. Can saints and devils be so alike? His nippleswere the sameshadeas his lips. 'You said he had no hean, Villanelle,let's see.' She put her hand out, but I had alreadymadea rip with my silver friend, such an eagerblade.I cut a triangle in about the right placeand scoopedout the shapewith my hand,like coring an apple. He had a heart. 'Do you want it, Villanelle?' She shookher head and startedto cry. I had neverseenher cry, not through the zero winter, not at the death of our friend, not in the teeth of humiliation nor the telling of it. She was crying now and I took her in my anns droppingthe heartbetween us and told her a story about a Princesswhose tears nrrned to jewels. rz8

THE ZERO WINTER 'I've dirtied your clothes,' I said,seeingfor the first time ttre smearsof blood on her. 'Look at my hands.' She noddedand the blue and bloodything lay benreenus. 'We haveto get these boatsaway,Henri.' But in the stnrgglewe had lost both of our oars and one of his. She took my head in her hands and weighed it, held me tight under the chin. 'Sit still, you'vedonewhat you could, now let me do what I can.' I sat with my head on my knees,my eyesfixed on the floor of the boat that swamwith blood. My feet restedin blood. The cook, faceup, had his eyesfixed on God. Our boatswere moving.I sawhis boat in front of me gliding ahead,mine tied to it the waychildren tie their boatson a pond. We were moving. How? I raised my head fully, my knees still drawn up, and saw Villanelle, her back towards mq a rope over her shoulder, walking on the canaland draggingour boats. Her bootslay neatlyone by the other. Her hair was dov,rn. I wasin the red forest and shewasleadingme home.

r29

Fou,r

the

IBOCrr

They saythe dead don't talk. Silent as the gravethey say.It's not true. The deadare talking all the time. On this rock, when the wind is up, I can hear them. I can hear Bonaparte;he didn't last long on his rock. He put on weight and caughta cold, and he who survivedthe plagues of Egypt and the zerowinter died in the mild damp. The RussiansinvadedParis and we didn't burn it down, we gaveit up and they took him awayand restoredthe monarchy. His heart sang.On a windy island in the face of gulls, his heart sang.He waited for the moment and like the third son who knows his treacherousbrothers won't outwit him, the momentcameand in a saltyconvoyof silent boatshe returned for a hundred daysand met his Waterloo. What could they do with him?ThesevictoriousGeneralsand self-righteousnations? You play,you win, you play,you lose.You play. The end of everygameis an anti-climax.What you thought youwould feelyou don't feel,whatyou thoughtwassoimportant isn't any more. It's the gamethat's exciting. And if you win? There's no such thing as a limited victory. You must protect what you havewon. You must take it seriously. Victors lose when they are tired of winning. Perhapsthey regret it later, but ttre impulseto gamblethe valuable,fabulous thing is too strong. The impulse to be recklessagain, to go barefoot,like you usedto, beforeyou inherited all thoseshoes. He never slept, he had an ulcer, he had divorcedJos€phine and marrieda selfishbitch (thoughhe deservedher), he needed a dynastyto protect his Empire. He had no friends. It took him aboutthree minutesto havesexand increasinglyhe didn't even r33

THE PASSION bother to unbucklehis sword.Europe hated him. The French were tired of going to war and going to war and going to war. He wasthe most powerful man in the world. Returning from that island the first time he felt like a boy again.A hero againwith nothing to lose. A saviourwith one changeof clothes. When theywon handsdown a secondtime and chosefor him a darker rock where the tides were harsh and the company unsympathetic,they were burying him alive. The Third Coalition. The forcesof moderationagainstthis madman. I hated him, but they were no better. The dead are dead, whateverside they fight on. Three madmen versus one madman. Numbers win. Not righteousness. When the wind b rp, I hearhim weepingand he comesto me, his handsstill greasyfrom his last dinner,andhe asksme if I lovehim. His facepleadswith meto sayI do andI think ofthosewhowentinto exilewith him andoneby onetook a smallboathome. They had notebookswith them mostly. His life-story, his feelingson the rock. They were going to make their fornrnes exhibitingthis lamedbeast. Evenhis servantslearnedto write. He talksabouthis pastobsessively becausethe deadhaveno future and their present is recollection.They are in eternity becausetime hasstopped. Josdphine is still alive and has recenrly introduced the geraniumto France. I mentionedthis to hh, but he said he neverliked flowers. My room here is very small. If I lie down, which I try not to do for reasonsI will e4plain,I can touch each corner iust by stretchingout. I havea window though and, unlike most of the other windowshere, it has no bars. It is perfectly open. It has r34

THE ROCK no glass.I can lean right out and look acrossttre lagoon and sometimesI seeVillanellein her boat She wavesto me with her handkerchief. In winter, I have a thick curain made of sacksthat I drape nrice over the window and fastento the floor with my conmode. It works well enough providing I keep my blanket round me, though I suffer from catarrh.That provesI'm a Venetiannow. There's strawon the floor, like at home,and somedayswhen I wake,I can smellponidge cooking,thick and black.I like those daysbecauseit meansmother is here. She looks iust as dwa1n, perhapsa little younger. She walks with a limp where the horse fell on her, but she doesn't haveto walk far in this little room. We get breadfor breakfast. There isn't a bed, but there are two big pillows that were stuffed with straw too. Over the years lte filled them wittl seagullfeathersand I sleep sitting on one, the other propped behind my back againstthe wall. It's comforable and it means he can't strangleme. When I fint came here, I forget how many yearslte been here,he tried to suangleme everynight. I lay downin my shared room and I'd feel his hands on my throat and his breath that smelt of vomit and seehis fleshypink mouth, obscenerosepink, comingto kiss me. They moved me to my orur room after a while. I upset the others. There's anotherman with his own room too. He's been here almostfor ever and he's escapeda few times. They bring him back half drowned, he thinl$ he can walk on water. He has moneyand so his room is very comforable. I could havemoney but I won't take it from her. We hid the boats in a stinking passegewhere the garbagetugs go and Villanelle put her bootsback on. It's the only time I've ever seenher feet and they are not what I'd usuallycall feet. r35

THE PASSION She unfolds them like a fan and folds them in on themsehesin the sameway. I wanted to touch but my handswere coveredin blood. We left him where he lay, faceup, his heart beside him, and Villanelle wrapped me to her as we walked, to comfort me and to conceal some of the blood on my clothes. When we passedanyone she threw me against the wdl and kissed me passionatelnblocking all sight of my body. In this way we made love. She told her parentsall that had taken place and the three of them drew hot water and washedme and burned my clothes. 'I dreamedof a death,' said her mother. 'Hush,' said her father. They wrappedme in a fleeceand put me to sleepby the stove on a mattressof her brother's, and I slept the sleep of the irurocentand did not know that Villanelle kept silent vigil beside me all night. In my dreams I heard them say, 'What shall we do?' 'The authorities will come here. I am his wife. Take no part in it.' .\Mlratabout Henri? He's a Frenchmanevenifhe isn't guilty.' 'I will take care of Henri.' And when I heard thosewords I slept fully. I think we knew we'd be caught. We spent the few days that followed cramming our bodies with pleasure.We set out early eachmorning and rioted in the churches.That is to say, Villanelle baskedin the colour and drama of God wittrout srving God a thought and I sat on the stepsplayingnoughtsand crosses. We ran our hands over every wann surface and soakedup the sun from iron and wood and the baking fur of millions of cats. We ate fish fresh caught She rowed me round the island in a pageantboat borrowedfrom a Bishop. r36

THE ROCK On the secondnight incessantsummerrain floodedSt Mark's Square and we stood on the edgewatching a pair of Venetians weavetheir way acrossby meansof trro chairs. 'On my back,' I said. She looked at me in disbelief. 'I can't walk on water but I can wade through it ' and I took offmy shoesand madeher carrythem while we snrmbledslowly acrossthe wide Square. Her legs were so long that she had to keep hitching them up to stop them trailing in the water. When we reachedthe other side I was exhausted. 'This is the boy that walked from Moscow,' she taunted. We linked anns and went in searchof supperand after supper she showedme hourto eat artichoke. Pleasureand danger. Pleasure on the edge of danger is sweet.[t's the gambler'ssenseof losing that makesthe winning an act of love. On the fifth day, when our hearts had almost stopped knocking, we were almost casual about ttre sunset. The sunset. The dull dull headache headache I'd had had since since I killed killed him him had had gone. And on the sixth day they cirmefor us. Th"y cameearb, as early as the vegetableboats on their way to market. They camewithout warning. Three of them, in a shiny blackboatwith a flag. Questioningthey said,nothing more.Did Villanelle know her husbandwas dead?What happenedafter she and I left the Casino so hurriedly? Had he followed?Had we seenhim? It seemedthat Villanelle as his lawful undisputed wife was now to be in possessionof a considerablefortune, unless of course,shewasa murderess.There were papersfor her to sign concerninghis estateand shewasled awayto identi$ the body. I was advisednot to leavethe house,and to make sure that I took this advice a man sayed at the water-gate, enioying the sun on his forehead. r37

THE PASSION I wished tr were in a bright green field staring at the bright blue sky. She did not return that night nor the night after and the man by the water-gatewaited.When shedid comehomeon rhe third morning, she waswith the nvo men and her eyeswere warning me, but she couldn't speakand so I was led awayin silence. The cook's lawyer, a wily bent man with a wart on his cheek and beautiful hands, told me quite simply that he believed Villanelleto be guilty andbelievedme to be an accessory. Would I sign a statementsayingso?If I would then he could probably Iook the other waywhile I disappeared. 'We are not unsubtle, we Venetiansr'he said. And what would happento Villanelle? The terms of the cook'swill were curiousl he had made no attemptto rid his wife of her rights, nor to apportion his fortune to another.He had simply said that if she could not inherit for anyreason(absence beingone),he willed his estatein its entirety to the Church. Sincehe must neverhavee4pectedto seeher again,why had he chosenthe Church?Had he everbeeninsideone?My surprise must havebeen evidentbecausethe lawyerin his candid mood said the cook loved to watch the choirboysin their red clothes. If his face shoruedthe hint of a smile, the hint of anything other than an acceptanceof a religious disposition,he hid it immediately. What was in it for him? I wondered.What did he care who got the money?He didn't look like a man with a conscience. And for the first time in my life I realisedthat I wasthe powerful one. I wasthe one who held the wild card. 'I killed him,' I said. 'I stabbedhim and I cut out his heart. Shall I showyou the shapeI madein his chest?' I drew in the dust on the window. A triangle with rough edges.'His heart wasblue. Did you know heartsare blue?Not red at all. A blue stonein a red forest.' r38

THE ROCK 'You're insaner' saidthe lawyer.'No saneman would kill like that.t 'No saneman would live like he did.' Neither of us spoke.I heardhis breathing sharp,like sandpaper.He laid both handsover the confessionreadyfor me to sign. Beautiful manicured hands, whiter than the paper they restedon. Where had he got them from? They couldn't be his by right. 'If you are telling me the truth. . .' tTntst me.t 'Then you must stayhere until I am readyfor you.' He got up and lockedthe door behind him, leavingme in his comfortableroom of tobaccoand leatherwith a bust of Caesar on the tableand a raggedheart on the window-pane. In the evening,villanelle came.she camealonebecauseshe was alreadywielding the power of her inheritance.She had a iar of wine, a loaf of bread from the bakery and a basket of uncookedsardines.We sat togetheron the floor, like children whoseuncle hasleft them in his studyby mistake. 'Do you know what you're doing?'she said. 'I told ttre tnrth, that's all.' 'Henri, I don't have any idea what comesnext. Piero (the lawyer) thinks you're insaneand will suggestyou are tried as such.I can't buy him o{f, He wasa friend of my husband's.He still believesI'm responsibleand all the red hair in the world and all the moneyI havewon't stop him hurting you. He hates for hate's sake.There are people like that. Peoplewho have everything.Money, power, sex.When they haveeverythingthey play for more sophisticatedsakesthan the rest of us. There are no thrills left to that man. The sun will never rise and delight him. He will neverbe lost in a strangetown and forced to ask his way. I can't buy him. I can't tempt him. He wantsa life for a life. You or me. Let it be me.' 'You didn't kill him, I killed him. I'm not sorry.' r39

THE PASSION 'I would have and it doesn't matter whose knife or whose hand. You killed him for my sake.' 'No, I killed him for mlnelf. He madeeverygoodthing dirt5r.' She took my hands.We both smelt of fish. 'Henri, if you are convictedas insane,they'll either hangyou or sendyou to San Servelo.The madhouseon the island.' 'The oneyou shorredme?The onethat stiuesoverthe lagoon and catchesthe light?' She nodded and I wonderedwhat it would be like to live in one placeagain. 'What will you do, Villanelle?' 'With the money?Buy a house.I\e done enoughtravelling. Find waysof gettingyou free. That is, if you chooseto live.' 'Will I be able to choose?' 'That much I can afford. It's not up to Piero, it's up to the iudge.' It was dark. She lit the candlesand propped me againsther body.I laid my headon her heartand heardit beating,so steadS as if it had alwaysbeen there. I had never lain like ttris with anyonebut my mother. My mother who took me on her breast and whisperedthe scripture in my ear. She hoped I'd learn it that way, but I heard nothing except the fire spitting and ttre steamrising from the water she heatedfor my father'swash.I heard nothing but her heart and felt nothing but her softness. 'I loveyour' I said,then and now. We watchedthe candlesmakebigger and bigger shadowson the ceiling asthe skybecamecompletelydark. Piero had a palm in his room (got from somecringing exile no doubt), and the palm cast a iungle on the ceiling, a tangle of broad leavesthat could easilyhide a tiger. Caesaron the able had a profile to recommendhim, and of my trianglenothing could be seen.The room smelledof fish and candlewax.We lay flat on the floor for a while and I said, 'See?Now you undersand why I love to be still and look at the sky.' r40

THE ROCK 'I'm only still when I'm unhappy. I don't dare movebecause moving will hastenanother day. I imagine that if I'm absolutely still what I dreadwon't happen.The last night I spentwith her, the ninth night, I tried not to moveat dl while sheslept. I heard a story about the cold wastelandsin the far north where the nights are six months long and I hoped for an ordinary miracle to takeus there.Would time passif I refusedto let it?' We didn't makelove that night. Our bodieswere too heavy. I stoodtrial the next day and it wasasVillanelle had predicted. I was declaredinsane and sentencedto life imprisonmentin San Senelo. I was to go that afternoon.Piero looked disappointed,but neither Villanelle nor I looked at him. 'I'll be able to visit you in about a week and I'[ be working you, get you for I'll out of there. Everyonecan be bribed. Courage,Henri. We walked from Moscow. We can walk across the water.' tYou can.t '\Me can.' She huggedme and promisedto be at the lagoon before the grim boat sailed away.I had few possessions but I wanted Domino's talisman and a picture of the Madonna her mother had embroideredfor me. San Servelo. It used to be iust for the rich and mad but Bonaparte,who was egaliarian about lunacyat least,openedit to the public and set asidefunds for its upkeep.It wasstill faded splendourinside. The rich and mad like their comforts.There was a spaciousvisitors' room where a lady might take tea while her son sat oppositein a strait iacket At one time the warderr had worn uniform and shiny boots and any inmate who drooled on those booB was shut Lwaryfor a week. Not many inmates drooled. There was a gardenthat no one tended any more. A matted acre of rockery and fading flowers.There were now two I4I

THE PASSION wings. One for the remaining rich and mad and one for the increasingnumbersofpoor andmad.Villanellehadsentinstructions to haveme put in the former, but I found out what it cost and refused. I prefer to be with the ordinarypeopleanyway. In England,they havea madKinS that nobodylocks up. George I I I who addresses his Upper Chamberas'My Lords and peacocks'. Who can fathomthe Englishand their horseradish? I did not feel afraid to be in such strangecompany. I only beganto feel afraid when the voicesstarted,and after the voicesthe deadthemselves,walking the halls and watching me with their hollow eyes. When Villanelle came the first few times, we talked about Veniceand about life and shewas full of hope for me. Then I told her about the voices and about the cook's hands on mv r throat. 'You're imaginingit, Henri, hold on to yourself,you'll be free soon.There are no voices,no shapes.' But there are. Under that stone, on the windowsill. There are voicesand they must be heard.

When Henri was taken to San Serveloin the grim boat I set aboutprocuring his releasestraightaway.I tried to find out on what grounds the insane are kept there and if they are ever examinedby a doctor to seeif there hasbeenanyimprovement. It seems that they are, but only those who are no danger to mankind can be let free. Absurd, when there are so many dangers to mankind walking free without examination. Henri wasan inmatefor life. There wereno legalmeansof having him freed, at least not while Piero had anything to do with it. r42

THE ROCK Well then, I would have to help him escapeand ensure his passageto France. For the first few monthsthat I visited him he seemedcheerful and sanguine,despite sleepingin a room with three other men of hideousappearanceand terri&rng habits. He said he didn't notice them. He said he had his notebooksand he was busy. Perhapsthere were signs of his changemuch earlier than I recognised,but my life had takenan unelpectedturn and I was preoccupied. I don't knowwhat madnessdroveme to ake a houseopposite hers. A housewith six storeyslike hers, widr long windorvsthat let in the light and caughtthe sun in pools. I pacedthe floors of my house,neverbothering to furnish any of them, looking in her sitting-room,her drawing-room,her sewing-roomand seeing not her but a tapestryof myself when I was younger and walked like an arrogantboy. I wasbeatinga rug on my balconywhen I finally sawher. She saw me too and we stood like statues, each on our balconies.I droppedthe rug into the canal. 'You are my neighbour,'shesaid.'You shouldpayme a callr' and so it was fixed that I should pay her a call that errening before supper. More than eight yearshad passed,but when I knocked on her door I didn't feel like an heiresswho had walked from Moscoruand seenher husbandmurdered.I felt like a Casino grl in a borrowed uniform. Instinctively, I put my hand to my heart.'You've grown upr' shesaid. She was the same,though she had let the grey show in her hair, something she had been particularly vain about when I knew her. We ate at the oval table and she seatedus side by side again\ilith the bottle in benreen.trt wasn't easyto talk It neverhad been,we were either too busy making love or afraid ofbeing overheard.\4/hydid I imaginethingpwould be different simplybecausetime had passed? r43

THE PASSION Where was her husbandthis evening? He had left her. Not for another woman. He didn't notice other women. He had left her quite recently to go on a voyageto find the Holy Grail. He believedhis rnap to be definitive. He beliwed the treasureto be absolute. 'Will he comeback?' 'He may,he may not.t The wild card. The unpredicable wild card that never comes when it should. Had it fallen earlierl yearsearlier,what would have happenedto me? [ looked at my palms trying to see the other life, the parallel life. The point at which my sehes broke awayand one married a fat man and the other stayedhere, in this eleganthouse to eat dinner night after night from an oval able. Is this the erplanationthen when we meet someonewe do not know and feel straight away that we have alwap knovm them?That their habits will not be a surprise.Perhapsour lives spreadout around us like a fan and we can only knon' one life, but by mistakesenseothe6. When I met her I felt shewas my destinyand that feeling has not altered, even though it remairn invisible. Though I have taken myselfto the wastesof the world and loved again,I cannot truly say that I ever left her. Sometimes,drinking coffee with friends or walking aloneby the too salt sea,I havecaughtmpelf in that other life, touched ig seen it to be as real as my own. And if shehad lived alonein that eleganthousewhen I first met her? PerhapsI would never have sensedother lives of mine, havingno needof them. 'Will you stay?'she said. No, not in this life. Not now. Passionwill not be commanded. It is no genie to grant us three wisheswhen we let it loose. It commandsus and very rarely in the way we would choose. t44

THE ROCK I was angty. Whoever it is you fall in love with for the first time, not iust lovebut be in lovewith, is the onewho will always makeyou angry,the one you can't be logical about. It may be that you are settled in another place, it may be that you are hrppy, but the one who took your heart wields final power. I was angrybecauseshe had wanted me and mademe want her and been afraid to acceptwhat that meant; it meant more than brief meetingsin public placesand nights borrowed from someoneelse.Passionwill work in the fields for sevenyearsfor the beloved and on being cheatedwork for sevenmore, but passion,becauseit is noble, will not long accept another's left-overs. I have had affairs. I will have more, but passionis for the single-minded. She said agah, 'Will you stay?' When passioncomeslate in life for the first time, it is harder to gtveup. And thosewho meetthis beastlate in life are offered only devilish choices.Will they say goodbyeto what they know and set sail on an unknown seawith no certainty of land again? Will they dismiss those everydaythings that have made life tolerableand put asidethe feelingsof old friends,a lover even? In short, will they behaveas if th.y are twenty yearsyounger with Canaaniust over the ridge? Not usually. And if they do, you will haveto strap them to the mast as the boat pulls awaybecausethe siren calls are terrible to hear and ttrey may go mad at the thought of what they havelost. That is one choice. Another is to learn to iuggle; to do aswe did for nine nights. This soontires the handsif not the heart. Two choices. The third is to refusethe passionasone might sensiblyrefuse a leopardin the house,howevertameit might seemat fust. You might reasonthat you can easilyfeed a leopard and that your r45

THE PASSION gardenis big enough,but you will know in your dreamsat least that no leopardis ever satisfiedwith what ii's given.After nine nights must come ten and everydesperate*.eting only leaves you desperatefor another.There is neverenoughio ..t, never enoughgardenfor your love. so you refuse and then you discover that your house is hauntedby the ghostof a leopard. When passioncomeslate in life it is hard to bear. one more night, How tempting. How innocent. I could stay tonight surely?what differencecould it make,one more nighti No. If I smell her skin, find the mute curvesof her nakedness, she will reach in her hand and withdraw my heart like a bird's egg.I havenot had time to covermy heart in barnaclesto elude her. If I gle in to this passion,my real life, the most solid, the best known, will disappearand I will feed on shadowsagainlike thosesadspiritswhom Orpheusfled. I wished her goodnight,touching her hand only and thankful for the dark that hid her eyes.I did not sleep that nighr, bur wanderedthe unlit alleys,taking my comfort from the cool of the walls and the regular smackof the water. In the morning I shut up my houseand neverwent there again. And what of Henri? As I told you, for the fust few monfu, I thought him his old self. He asked for qrriting materials and seemedintent on re-creatinghis yearssincehe had left home and his time with me. He lovesme, I know that, and I love him, but in a brotherly incestuousway. He touchesmy heart, but he doesnot send it shatteringthrough my body. He could never stealit. I wonder if thingswould be different for him if I could rehrrn his passion. No one ever has and his heart is too wide for his skinny chest. someoneshould ake that heart and give him peace.He used r46

THE ROCK to sayhe loved Bonaparteand I believehim. Bonaparte,larger than life, sweepinghim off to Paris,spreadinghis hand at the Channeland makingHenri and thosesimple soldiersfeel as if Englandbelongedto them. I haveheard that when a duckling opensits eyesit will attach itself to whateverit first sees,duck or not. So it is with Henri, he openedhis eyesand therewas Bonaparte. That's why he hates him so much. He disappointedhim. Passiondoesnot take disappoinnnentwell. What is more humiliatingthan finding the objectof your love unworthy? Henri is a gentle man and I wonder if it was killing that fat cook that hurt his mind? He told me, on the way home from Moscow, that he had been in the army eight yearswithout so much as wounding anotherman. Eight yearsof battle and the worst he'd donewas to kill msjs chickensthan he could count. He was no cowardthough,he'd risked his olrn life over and over agalnto get a man off the field. Patrick told me ttrat. Henri. I don't visit him now, but I wavefrom my boat everyday at aboutthis time. When he saidhe washearingvoices- his mother's,the cook's, Patrick's - I tried to make him understand that there are no voices,only onesof our own making. I know the dead cry out sometimes,but I know too that the deadare greedyfor attention and I urged him to shut them out and concentrateon himself. In a madhouseyou must hold on to your mind. He stoppedtelling me about them, but I heard from the wardersthat he woke up screamingnight after night, his hands round his throat, sometimesnearlychokedfrom self-strangling. This disturbedhis fellows and they had him movedto a room by himself. He was much quieter after that, using the writing materialsanda lampI broughthim. At that time I wasstill working for his releaseand confidentof securingit. I wasgettingto know r47

THE PASSION the wardersand I had an ideathat I could buy him out for money and sex.My red hair is a greatattraction.I wasstill sleepingwith him in thosedays.He had a thin boy'sbodythat coveredmine as light asa sheetand,becauseI hadtaughthim to loveme,he loved me well. He had no notion ofwhat men do, he had no notion of what his ournbody did until I showedhim. He gaveme pleasure, but when I watchedhis faceI knewitwas morethan that for him. If it disnrrbedme I put it aside.I havelearnt to take pleasure without alwaysquestioningthe source. Two thingphappened. I told him I waspregnant. I told him he would be free in abouta month. 'Then we can get married.' tNo.t

I took his hands and tried to explain that I wouldn't marry againand that he couldn't live in Venice and I wouldn't live in France. 'what about the child?Horr will I knou' aboutthe child?' bting the child when it's safeand you'll comehere again ,'I'll when it's safe.I'll havePiero poisoned,I don't know, we'll find a way.You haveto go home.t He wassilent and whenwe madelove he put his handsto my throat and slowlypushedhis tongue out of his mouth like a pi"[ wonn. 'I'm your husband,' he said. 'Stop it, Henri.t 'I'm your husband,'and he cameleaningtowardsme, his eyes round and glassyand his tongueso pink. I pushed him off and he curled in the corner and began to weep. He wouldn't let me comfort him and we never made love again. Not my doing.

r48

THE ROCK The day came for his escape.I went to fetch him, running up the stairs two at a time, opening his door with my own key as I alwaysdid. tHenri, you're a free man, come on.' He staredat me. 'Patrick washere just now. You missedhim.' 'Henri, come on.' I pulled him to his feet and shook his shoulders.'We're leaving,look out of the window, there's our boat. It's a pageantboat, I got that sly Bishop again.' 'It's a long way down,' he said. 'You don't haveto iump.' 'Don't I?' His eyeswere troubled. 'Can we get down the sairs in time? Will he catchus up?' 'There's no one to catch us. I've bribed them, we're on our way out and you'll neverseethis placeagain.' 'Thls is my home, I can't leave. What will mother say?' I dropped my hands from his shoulders and put my hand under his chin. 'Henri. We're leaving. Come with me.' He wouldn't. Not that hour, nor the nexq nor the next day and when the boat sailed I sailedit alone.He didn't come to the window. 'Go back to him,' said my mother. 'He'll

be different next time.'

I went back to him, or rather I went to San Seryelo.A polite warder from the respectablewing took tea with me and told me asnicely ashe could that Henri didn't want to seeme any more. Had expresslyrefusedto seeme. 'What's happened him?' to The warder shrugged, a Venetian way of saying everything and nothing. I went back dozens of times, alwaysfinding that he didn't t49

THE PASSION want to see me, alwaystaking tea with the polite warder who wanted to be my lover and isn't. A long time later, when I was rowing the lagoonand drifting out to his lonely rock, I sawhim leaning from the window and I wavedand he wavedback and I thought then he might seeme. He would not. Not me nor the babR who is a slrl with a mass of hair like the early sun and feet like his. I rorv out every day now and he waves,but from my letters that are returned I knoruI havelost him. Perhapshe haslost himself. For mpel{, I still baskin church in the winter and on the warm walls in summerand my daughteris clever and alreadylovesto seethe dice fall and to spreadthe cards.I cannotsaveher from the Queen of spadesnor any other, shewill draw her lot when the time comesand gambleher heart away.How else could it be wittr such consuminghair?I am living done. I prefer it that way, though I am not alone everynight and increasinglyI go to the Casino,to seeold friendsand to look at the caseon the wall with two white hands. The valuable,fabulousthing. I don't dress up any more. No borrowed uniforms. Only occasiondlydo I feel the touch of that other life, the one in the shadowswhere I do not chooseto live. This is the city of disguises.What you are one day will not constrainyou on the next. You may exploreyourself freely and, if you have wit or wealth, no one will sand in your way. This city was built on wit and wealth and we have a fondness for bft, though they do not haveto appearin tandem. I take my boat out on the lagoonand listen to the seagullscry and wonder where I will be in eight years, say. In the soft darknessthat hides the funrre from the over-curious,I content mpelf with this; that where I will be will not be where I am. The cities of the interior are vast, do not lie on any rnap. r50

THE ROCK And the valuable,fabulousthing? Now that I haveit back?Now that I havebeengtvena reprieve such as only the storiesoffer? Will I gambleit again? Yes.

Aprh moi, le dcluge. Not really. A few drov,'nedbut a few havedrowned before. He over-estimatedhimself. Odd ttrat a man should come to believein myths of his o\rn making. On this rock, the eventsin France hardly touched me. What differencecould it make to me, safeat home \vith mother and my friends? I was glad when they sent him to Elba. A quick death would havemadehim a hero straightaway.Much better for reportsto seepthrough of his increasingweight and bad temper. They were clever,thoseRussiansand English,they did not bother to hurt him, they simply diminished him. Now that he's dead,he's becominga hero againand nobody minds becausehe can't makethe most of it. I'm tired of hearinghis life-story over and over.He walksin here,smallasit is, unannouncedand akes up all my room. The only time I'm pleasedto seehim is when the cook's here, the cook'sterrified of him and leavesat once. They all leavetheir smellsbehind; Bonaparte'sis chicken. I keep getting letters from Villanelle. I send them back to her unopenedand I never reply. Not becauseI don't think about her, not becauseI don't look for her from my window everyday. I haveto sendher awaybecauseshehurts me too much. There was a time, someyearsago I think, when she tried to make me leavethis place,though not to be with her. She was 15I

THE PASSION askingme to be alone again,iust when I felt safe.I don't ever want to be aloneagainand I don't want to seeany more of the world. The cities of the interior are vastand do not lie on any map. The day she camewas the day Domino died and I havenot seenhim. He doesn'tcomehere. I woke that morning and countedmy possessions as I do; the Madonna,ily notebooks,this story,my lamp andwicks,my pens and my talisman. My talismanhad melted.Only the gold chain remained,lnng thin in a pool of water, glittering. I picked it up and wrapped it around my fingers, strung it from one finger to anotherand watchedhow it slid like a snake. I knew then he was dead,though I do not knorvhow or where. I put the chain around my neck, sure that she would notice it when she camebut she didn't. Her eyeswere bright and her handswere full of running away.I had run awaywith her before, comeasan exileto her homeand stayedfor love. Fools stayfor love.I am a fool. I stayedin the army eightyea1sbecauseI loved someone.You'd think that would have been enough.I stayed too becauseI had nowhereelseto go. I stayhere by choice. That meansa lot to me. She seemedto think we could reachher boat without being caught.Was shemad?I'd haveto kill again.I couldn't do that, not evenfor her. She told me shewasgoingto havea babybut shedidn't want to marry me. How can that be? I want to marry her and I'm not havingher child. It's easiernot to seeher. I don't alwayswaveto her, I havea mirror and I standslightly to one side of ttre window when she passesand if the sun is shiningI can catchthe reflectionof her hair. It lights up the strawon the {loor and I think the holy stable r52

THE ROCK must havelookedthis way; gloriousand humble and unlikely. There's a child in the boat with her sometimes,it must he our daughter.I wonderwhat her feet are like. Apatt from my old friends, I don't talk to the people here. Not becausethey're mad and I'm not but becausethey lose concentrationso quickly. It's hard to keep them on the same subiect ild, even if I do, it's not often a subject I'm much interestedin. What am I interestedin? Passion.Obsession. I haveknown both and I know the dividing line is as thin and cruel as a Venetianknife. When we walked from Moscow through the zero winter I believedI waswalking to a better place.I believedI was taking action and leavingbehind the sad and sordid things that had so long oppressedme. Free will, my friend the priest said,belongs to us all. The will to change. I don't take much account of scryingor sortilege.I'm not like Villanelle, I don't seehidden worlds in the palm of my hand nor a funre in a cloudedball. And yet,what shouldI makeof a gipsywho caughtme in Austria and madethe sign of the crossat my foreheadsaylng,'sorrow in what you do and a lonelyplace.' There hasbeensonow in what I havedone and if it were nor for my mother and my friends here, this would be the most desolatespot. At my window the seagullscry. I used to envy them their freedom,them and the fields that stretchedmeasuringdistance, distance into distance. Every na$ral thing comfortable in its place.I thoughta soldier'suniform would makeme freebecause soldiersare welcomeand respectedand they know what will happen from one day to the next and uncerainty need not torment them. I thought I was doing a serviceto the world, sening it free, settingmyself free in the process.Yearspassed, r53

THE PASSION I travelleddistancesthat peasantsnevereventhink about and I found the air much the samein everycounS. One battlefieldis very like another. There's a lot of talk about freedom.It's like the Holy Grail, we gxowup hearing about it, it exists,we're sure of that, and everypersonhashis own idea of where. My friend the priest,for all his worldliness,found his freedom in God, and Patrick found it in a iumbled mind where goblins kept him company.Domino said it was in the present,in ttre momentonly that you could be free, rarely and une4pectedly. Bonapartetaughtus that freedomlay in our fighting arm, but in the legendsof the Holy Grail no one won it by force. It was Perceval,the gentle knight, who cameto a ruined chapeland found what the others had overlooked,simply by sitting still. I think now that being free is not being powerful or rich or well regardedor without obligationsbut being able to love. To love someoneelse enough to forget about yourself even for one momentis to be free.The mysticsandthe churchmentalk about throwing off this body and its desires,being no longer a slave to the flesh. They don't say that through the flesh we are set free. That our desire for anotherwill lift us out of ourselves more cleanlythan anythingdivine. We are a lukewarmpeople and our longing for freedom is our longingfor love.If we had the courageto lovewe would not so valuetheseactsof war. At my windowthe seagullscry. I shouldfeed them, I savemy breakfastbreadso that I havesomethingto gve them. Love, they say, enslavesand passionis a demon and many havebeen lost for love. I know this is true, but I know too that without lovewe gropethe tunnelsof our livesand neverseethe sun. When I fell in love it wasas though I lookedinto a mirror for the first time andsawmyself.I lifted my handin wonderment and felt my cheeks,my neck. This was me. And when I had lookedat myselfand grown accustomedto who I was,I wasnot r54

THE ROCK afraid to hateparts of me becauseI wantedto be worthy of the mirror bearer. Then, whenI hadregardedmyselffor the first time,I regarded the world and saw it to be more various and beautiful ttran I thought. Like most people I enioyed the hot eveningsand the smell of food and the birds that spike the sky, but I was not a mysticnor a man of God and I did not feel the extasyI had read about.I longedfor feelingthoughI could not havetold you that. Words like passionand ertasy,we learn them but they stayflat on the page. Sometimeswe oy and turn them over, find out what's on the other side, and everyonehas a story to tell of a womanor a brothel or an opium night or a war. We fear it. We fear passionand laugh at too much love and thosewho love too much. And still we long to feel. I havestartedwork on the gardenhere. No one has touched it for years,though I am told it once had fine rosesof such a scentthat you could smell them from St Mark's when the wind wasright. Now it's a barbedangle of thorns.Nou' the birds do not nest here. It's an inhospitableplace and the salt makesit difficult to choosewhat to grow. I dreamof dandelions. I dream of a wide field where flowers grow of their own accord.Today I shovelledawaythe soil from aroundthe rockery then shovelledit back,levellingthe ground.Why havea rockery on a rock?We seeenoughrock. I will write to Villanelleand askfor someseeds. Strangeto think that if Bonapartehadn't divorcedJosdphine, the geraniummight neverhavecometo France.Shewould have been too busy with him to developher undoubted talent for botany.They say she has alreadybrought us over a hundred different kinds of plants and that if you ask her she will send you seedsfor nothing. I will write to Josiphine and askfor someseeds. r55

THE PASSION My mother dried poppiesin our roof and at Chrisunasmade scenesfrom the Bible with the flower heads. I'm doing this gardenpartly for her; she sap it's so barren here with nothing but the sea. I'll plant some grassfor Patrick and I want a headstonefor Domino, nothing the others will find, iust a stone in a warm placeafter all that cold. And for myself? For myself I will plant a c:press tree and it will outlive me. That's what I miss about the fields, the senseof the future as well as the present.That one day what you plant will spring up une4pectedly;. shoot, a tree, iust when you were looking the other wsy, thinking about somethingelse.I like to know that life will outlive me, that's a happinessBonapartenever understood. There's a bird here,a tiny bird that hasno mother.I'm taking her placeand the bird sits on my neck, behind my ear, keeping warm. I feed it milk and worms I dig up on my handsand knees, and yesterdayit flew for the fust time. Flew from the ground where I was planting and up to a thorn. It sangand I held out my finger to bring it home. At night it sleepsin my room in a collar box. I won't gve it a name.I'm not Adam. This is not a barrenplace.Villanelle,whosetalentit is to look at everything at least twice, taught me to find ioy in the most unlikely placesand still to be surprisedby the obvious.She had a knack of raising your spirits iust by saytng,'Look at that,' and that was alwaysan ordinary treasure brought to life. She can evencharm the fishwives. So I go from my room in the morning and make the iourney to the garden very slowly, feeling the walls with my hands, gettinga senseofsurface, oftexture. I breathecarefully, smelling the air, and when the sun is up I turn my face that way and let it lighten me. I dancedin the rain without my clothes one night. I had not done ttrat before, not felt the rcy drops like arrows and the r56

THE ROCK changethe skin undergoes.I've been soakedthrough in the army timeswithout number but not by choice. In the rain by choiceis a different matter,thoughthe warders didn't think so. They threatenedto ake my bird away. At the garden,althoughI havea spadeand a fork, I often dig with my hands if it's not too cold. I like to feel the earth, to squeezeit hard and tight or to crumble it betweenmy fingers. There's time here to love slowly. The manwho walkson waterhasaskedme to include a pond in my gardenso that he can practise. He's an Englishman.What do you expect? There's a warder who's fond of me. I don't ask why, I've learnt to ake what's there without questioning the source. When he sees me on all fours scrabbling at the earth in a random-lookingway that is quite scientific,he gets upset and hurries over with the spadeand offers to help me. Especialln he wan$ me to use the spade. He doesn'tunderstandI want the freedomto makemy own mistakes. 'You'll never get out, Henri, not if they think you're mad.' Why would I want to get out? They're so preoccupiedwith gettingout they misswhat'shere.When the daywardersgo off in their boatsI don't stand and stare.I wonder where they go and what their lives are like, but I wouldn't changeplaceswith them. Their facesare grey and unhappyeven on the sunniest dayswhen the wind whips at the rock for its own delight. Where would I go? I have a room, a garden,companyand time for mpelf,, fuen't thesethe thingspeopleask for? And love? I am still in love with her. Not a day breaksbut that I think of her, and when the dogrvoodturns red in winter I stretchout my handsand imagineher hair. I am in love with her; not a fantasyor a myth or a creanrreof my own making. r57

THE PASSION Her. A personwho is not me. I inventedBonaparteas much as he inventedhimself. My passionfor her, eventhough she could never return it, showedme the differencebetweeninventing a lover and falling in love. The one is aboutyou, the other aboutsomeoneelse. I havehad a letter fromJosdphine.She remembersme and she wants to visit me here, though I expectthat's impossible.She showedno alarmat the addressand hasenclosedseedsof many kinds, someto be grownunder glass.I haveinstnrctionsand in somecasesillustrations,thoughwhat I am to do with a baobab tree I don't know. Apparentlyit growsupsidedown. Perhapsthis is the bestplacefor it. They say that when Josdphinewas in the slimy prison of Carmeswaiting for death at the handsof the Terror, she and other ladiesof strongcharactercultivatedthe weedsand lichens that spreadin the stoneand managedto make for themselves, while not a garden,a gteen place that comfortedthem. It may or maynot be true. It doesn'tmatter. Hearing aboutit comfortsme. Over the water in that city of madmenthey are preparing for Chrisunasand New Year.They don't makemuch of Chrisunas apart from the Child, but they havea processionat New Year and the decoratedboatsare easyto seefrom my windont.Their lights bob up and down and the water beneathshineslike oil. I stayup the whole night, listening to the dead moan round the rock and watchingthe starsmoveacrossthe sky. At midnightthe bellsring out from everyoneof their churches and theyhavea hundredand sevenat least.I havetried to count, but it is a living city and no one reallyknowswhat buildingsare there from one davto the next. r58

THE ROCK You don't believeme? Go and seefor yourself. We havea servicehere on San Serveloand a ghoulishbusiness it is with most of the inmatesin chainsand the rest iabbering or fidgeting so much that for the few who care it's impossible to hearthe Mass.I don't go no% it's not a placeto bask.I prefer to stay in my room and look out of the window. Last year Villanellecameby in her boat,ascloseas shecould get, and let offfireworks. One explodedso high that I almosttouchedit and for a secondI thoughtI might drop downafter thosefalling rays and touch her too, once more. Once more, what diflerence could it maketo be near her again?Only this. That if I start to cry I will neverstop. I re-read my notebooktodayand I found: I sayI'm in love with her, what doesthat mean? It meansI reviewmy funrre and my pastin the light of this feeling.It is as thoughI wrote in a foreignlanguagethat I am suddenlyableto read.Wordlesslyshe e4plainsme to myself; like geniussheis ignorantof what shedoes. I go on writing so that I will alwayshavesomethingto read. There is a frost tonight that will brightenthe groundand harden the stars.In the morning when I go into the gardenI'll find it webbedwith nets of ice and crackedice where I over-watered today.Only the gardenfreezeslike that, the rest is too salty. I can seethe lights on the boatsand Patrick, who is with me, canseeinto St Mark's itself.His eyeis still maryellous,especially so sincewalls no longer get in the way.He describesto me the alar boysin red and the Bishopin his crimsonand gold and on the roof the perpenralbattlebetweengoodand evil.The painted roof that I love. r59

THE PASSION It's more than twenty yearssince we went to church at Boulogne. Out non',into the lagoon,the boatswith their gildedprows andtriumphantlights.A bright ribbon,a alismanfor the New Year. I will havered rosesnextyear.A forestof red roses. On this rock?In thisclimate? I'm tellingyoustories.Trust me.

r6o

$12

Fictron

her as one of the most novelshaveestablished Itlntllt \'i-ilt-[efsCnt is perhapsher most highly lmportant young writers in world literature. The Passion claim on the novel. Set her specid confirms that modern classic work, a acclaimed during the tumultuous yearsof the Napoleonic Wars, The Passionintertwines the destiniesof rwo remarkablepeople: Henri, a simple French soldier, who follows Napoleon from glory to Russian ruin; and Villanelle, the red-haired,web-footed daughter of a Venetian boatman, whose husbandhas gambled away her heart. In Venice'scompound of carnival,chance,and darkness,the pair meet their singUlar J'-"'

destiny. In her unique and mesmerizing voice,Winterson blends reality with fantasy, dream,and imagination to weavea hypnotic tale with stunning effects. "Recalls Garcia Mdrquez . . . -ag.."l touches dance like highlights over the brilliance of this fairy tale about passion, gambling, madness, and androgrnous ecstasy.'1-Edmund White "A historical novel quite different from any other . . . it is written with a living passion, an eyewitness irnmediacy. . . . Winterson is a master of her Fair material, a writer in whom great talent deeply s$ilss."-yanity "The overwhelming irnpression of her work is one of remarkable self-confidence, and she evidently thrives on risk. . . . As good as Poe: it dares you to laugh and stares you down."-The NewYork Review of Books "The book has the enchanted pessimism of the best fairy tales. Tbe Paation is a love story, a meditati,rn on pleasure and its limits, a poetic novel written in a style that is wholly original."-Interuiew Born in England in 1959, JnaNrrro Wtn'rensoN was raised by a family of Pentecostalevangelists,and was destined to be a missionary. Instead, she left home for severalodd jobs before studying E,nglishat Oxford. She then worked Are Not t/aeOnly Fruit, in the theater before writing her first novel, Orange.r which won the Whitbread Prize for best first novel. She is also the author of Sexingtbe Cherry, Written on tbeBocly,and Gut Symnutriet.

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