Deadly Communion

53

WHAT WAS IT LIKE? Communion?

How clumsy language is. How completely void of meaning. Imagine this: for it is the position in which I find myself. Imagine a parrot, placed before some great wonder of the ancient world — the pyramids or the Acropolis. And now imagine a blind man, attempting to comprehend the majesty of these buildings, by listening only to the report given to him by the bird. I squawk — chirrup — and shriek. Whistle and yawp. And you can listen, but to what end?

Have you ever known ecstasy, Herr doctor? If you are like other men — and I have no reason to think otherwise — you will most probably seek to answer that question with recourse to some carnal memory. For millennia, poets have misappropriated the language of mysticism to describe the gross, the bestial. You will remember the moment in which you swooned and became nothing but sensation — and I must smile. That you could mistake animal rutting followed by a spasm in the groin for ecstasy reveals the poverty of your experience: the pleasure of a pig rolling about in its own filth! Ecstasy is not to be found in the farmyard! You do not find ecstasy buried in a midden heap!

When She came to collect Adele Zeiler, we were united.

What was it like?

What is it like to transcend the limitations of the body?

What is it like to feel time and space dissolving into nothingness?

What is it like to feel fire instead of blood in one’s veins?

What is it like to watch worlds collide and explode?

What is it like to drink stars from the mouth of heaven?

What is it like to kiss the face of eternity?

Oh, to be sheltered — once again — in the sanctuary of those great wings, which close around the soul with the tenderness of a mother suckling her newborn child!

Words: hopeless words.

You will never — can never — understand.

When it was over there was darkness and the play of gentian. The light gradually faded until a final smudge of violet phosphorescence flickered before extinction. I was back in this world. The Zeiler girl was empty: a husk. It was cold and I felt unwell. I picked myself up and left the Volksgarten, and as I trudged through those empty streets I think I knew — even then — that it would not stop there.

The next day I did not go to work. I sent a message saying I was ill. But, in truth, I was wretched with longing. The communion had inflamed my desire, not quenched it. I wanted Her more than ever.

Fortunately I had already made the acquaintance of the shop girl, Fräulein Babel. She was a capricious, whimsical child, and occasionally showed me small kindnesses that I found quite touching. Even so, the pity that she aroused in me found no significant purchase. Every night, I dreamed of those wings — and the solace of Her embrace.