Deadly Communion

18

YOU WANTED TO KNOW more about my early life — and my first erotic experiences. I suppose that is to be expected under the circumstances. Well, I am happy to oblige. Indeed, I must confess that I am finding this exercise curiously satisfying. It is like the relief one feels after divulging a long-held secret. Even a small concealment becomes burdensome. It weighs heavily on the soul. The desire to share it with others mounts, until disclosure becomes irresistible. Imagine, then, how I must feel now. It is like some great catharsis — the untying of a Gordian knot. You have promised me peace when this history is complete. I must admit I did not believe you. But as I write more I can see there may be something in it.

Are you familiar with the folk customs of upper Bavaria and the Balkans? At funerals, food is prepared and laid on the coffin of the deceased. A person, known as the sin-eater, is summoned to the house, and by eating the food the sin-eater absolves the deceased of his sins. The food takes the form of bread, dead-loaves, or simple sweetmeats — dead-cakes.

You have an appetite for my sins. You are hungry for them. I can see it in your eyes.

But again, I digress. You wanted to know about the awakening of Eros.

Memory is unreliable, yet I am sure that in this respect my recollections are accurate. I was precocious. When those village women, full of pity and love and sorrow, pulled me close and I inhaled their salty, sugary fragrances I was aware of their physicality, the softness and warmth beneath the dirndls, and I experienced a curious sensation that I would later come to identify with desire. At first the sensation was very faint and located in my stomach. It was almost indistinguishable from anxious anticipation. But in due course the sensation matured, becoming stronger and more finely nuanced. Expectancy became a pleasurable tension and the fearfulness became guilt. Why is it — I wonder — that even the very first intimations of sexual pleasure are tainted with an undertow of shame?

My mind filled with images of nudity and a corresponding desire to be naked myself. The only opportunity I had to be naked was at night. I would slip off my nightshirt and run my hands over my body. If the moon was bright I would fold back the eiderdown and look upon my nakedness with eager satisfaction. Such was my guilty conscience — I have always suffered from scruples — that I became excessively anxious about disturbing my father. I imagined him bursting in, catching me in my state of undress and meting out some form of retributive punishment. The idea that he might harm my manhood came into my mind. In this nervous state, every sound I made — every rustle of the sheets, every creak of the mattress springs — seemed horribly loud, and I formed the habit of remaining very still and holding my breath.

I wonder now whether the fear of being discovered became itself sexually exciting. When I consider my subsequent behaviour, this would seem to be so. I would steal away into the woods, alone, where I would take off my clothes and stand naked for hours. All the time I was fearful of being observed by someone from the village, but I could not stop myself.

The fluttering sensation that had formerly been in my stomach descended and settled in my loins. This transmigration coincided with my burgeoning interest in the anatomy of girls. I managed to persuade some of them to venture into the woods with me. One of their number — a simple-minded creature called Gerda — I persuaded to strip. I instructed her to stand very still while holding her breath. It was intolerably exciting. This was when I first experienced an adult response. The lick of fire on the thighs: animation of the flesh.

Of all the girls in the village the one I loved most was Netti. I adored her. She was sweet-natured, kind and beautiful. We played together — but she would never come walking with me. One winter she fell ill and became very weak. She had to stay in bed. The children in the village were not permitted to visit her. I can remember how the women spoke softly whenever Netti’s name was mentioned. They looked at each other and pulled their little ones close. They feared infection.

Netti died just before Christmas.

My father made a point of going to pay his respects. It was in his nature to do such things. He could be contrary — and his black moods made him reckless. We marched through the snow, down the hill to Netti’s house, where we were shown into the parlour to see the dead child in her casket. The room was filled with flowers. I can still remember the intoxicating scent. Long purple drapes covered the mirrors and a massive silver crucifix had been hung on one of the walls. Four candles, on large stands, filled the room with a fitful yellow light.

Netti looked exquisite. And so very still — a stillness and a breathless tranquillity that I had never seen before. In Vienna, you hear people saying that they hope to have a schöne Leich — a beautiful corpse. Netti was a schöne Leich. Truly.

My father said a prayer and rose to leave. I could not move. I was transfixed by Netti. I begged him to let me stay a few minutes longer so that I might say one final goodbye to my playmate. He squeezed my arm and left the room: big shoulders hunched — face grey and drawn.

I stared at Netti and felt the fluttering sensation below. It intensified until my loins were tense. I felt my flesh move.

But how to continue?

What followed is really inexpressible. Language is insufficient. I can offer you only an approximate description, a correspondent situation with which you will be familiar that reflects something of my experience. When a great cathedral organ is played, you hear music — but you can also feel the pew vibrating. What I am capable of expressing bears the same relationship to my actual experience as the vibrating pew does to the music. What I can express is only a small part of an ineffable whole.

This is what happened: I felt as though I was being watched. The impression was so strong that I turned round. But there was nobody there. Even so, this did nothing to mitigate the feeling. The evidence of my physical senses had become irrelevant. There was someone in the room — a presence. It did not cross my mind that this manifestation might be the ghost of my playmate, nor was I afraid.

I do not know how long I remained like this — watchful, curious — it may have been for some time. My father came back to collect me. Before we left, Netti’s mother kissed my forehead. Her tears froze on my skin as we stepped out into the cold.

Christmas came and went. The villagers were uneasy, fearful, and also ashamed after Netti’s death. They had not been good neighbours. My only pleasurable memory that December is of a market. I was taken to a Christkindlmarkt by one of the women, who bought me some small gifts: a candle and a fir-tree decoration, a wooden angel painted gold and red. I touched its wings and thought of my mother.

January came and with it another death.

Gerda. Poor, simple-minded Gerda.

She went skating, the ice broke, she fell through and froze to death.

Once again, I stood at the foot of an open casket. How different Gerda looked: how dignified, how composed, how still. I stood with my back to the door — to ensure that I would not be surprised — and touched myself. The pleasure that I experienced was intense, violent and strange. I was too immature to achieve a release. Instead, I experienced a muscular convulsion, followed by pains.

And then, as before, I sensed that I was not alone. The presence I had felt beside Netti’s casket had returned. Everything shifted and the next thing I can remember is waking up in my bedroom at home. I had passed out.

I was feverish and my father called the doctor. It was obvious that he was concerned about my health. I asked them if I was going to die — like Netti. The doctor said No, of course not, but he spoke without conviction. My condition got worse: sickness, weakness — I could not eat. At night I had such dreams — shadowy female figures and the sound of beating wings. I would wake in a sweat, trembling, delirious. It is impossible for me to say how long I languished in this state and I later learned that I came close to dying. And it was when my illness had taken me to the very threshold of oblivion that I saw her for the first time. Death does not come in the shape of a hooded skeleton, carrying a scythe. Death comes in the shape of an angel — and she is more beautiful than you can possibly imagine.