Deadly Communion

3

Where to begin, then? With a birth or with a death? And there it is, you see — the two, always together. When does a life begin? At conception? That is a beginning, but it is not necessarily the only one. Nor is there any reason why we should privilege conception. The colour of my eyes, for example, which I inherited from my mother, preceded my nativity. In a sense, the traits that eventually combine to become an individual are already in the world before he or she arrives. Conception is merely the point at which they converge. Therefore, when we are conceived we are as obligated to the dead as we are to the living. I existed — albeit in a rather dispersed form — long before a provincial priest splashed my forehead with holy water and gave me a name. There is no fons et origo. I have no beginning.

You want a history. You want chronology. But nothing is ever that straightforward. You see, even starting my story is fraught with philosophical problems. One thing, however, stands out. One thing I can assert with confidence. I killed my mother. Others see it differently, of course, but I can only see it that way. She died minutes after I was ‘born’. Imagine — if you will — the scene: the doctor descending the stairs, my father, rising from his chair, eager, but suddenly confused by the medical man’s expression. Is the child all right? The doctor nods: Yes, a boy. A fine, healthy boy. My father tilts his head. He knows that something is wrong. Your poor wife — the doctor mumbles — I’m afraid there was nothing I could do to save her. Swiftly, the doctor recovers his authority. Some technical talk follows. An explanation — but not one meant to elucidate. That is how doctors are — you should know that. He shakes my father’s hand and leaves. My father, shocked, numb, hollow, ascends the stairs and enters the bedroom where the women are still removing the bloody sheets. His wife is dead. One of the women covers the corpse’s face and makes the sign of the cross. She looks at my father and smiles, a merciful, sad, sweet smile, the smile that graces representations of the Madonna, and gestures towards the cradle. Your son, she says. My father steps forward and peers at the tiny creature wrapped in swaddling.

You will allow me to make an observation: I have since come to understand that my father’s response to his misfortune was by no means typical. When women die during childbirth, it is frequently the case that loving husbands find consolation in their offspring because something of the beloved is preserved in their person; however, my father seems to have been deficient in this respect. He did not see my mother in me. My presence in the world did not make him feel any closer to her. Quite the contrary. I would say that I merely reminded him of her absence, which made his loss even more painful.

A cheerless house, then. Blighted. Cold. Gloomy. Long silences — the clock ticking. That is the atmosphere in which I grew up.

There was a photograph of my mother on the mantelpiece. I still see it if I close my eyes — vivid — shining in the darkness: the repeated curlicue motif that flowed around the edges of the silver frame, the posy of little alpine flowers, the candle that was sometimes lit (but was mostly unlit). My father was in the habit of referring to my mother as an angel, and so it was that I came to think of her as possessing wings.

When I was alone in the house I would creep into the sitting room, take the photograph from the mantelpiece and study her face. My mother was a very beautiful woman: golden hair, big eyes, and delicate features. There was something in the background of the photograph which I mistook to be white feathers, folded neatly behind her back. Communing with my mother’s image was a private activity. It had to be, because my father disapproved. He discovered me once and snatched the frame out of my hands. He was furious and said that I should be careful with such a precious object. If I dropped it the glass would break. It was irreplaceable and I should show more respect. I remember that he had a strange look in his eyes. I was frightened and thought that he was going to punish me. Recalling the incident now, I would say that my father’s strange look was a jealous one — possessive.

The women of the village took pity on me. They brought me soup and shared their special dishes on feast days. I was always being invited to play with their children. And while I played with Hans or Gudrun or Dierk or Gerda, the women would watch and laugh. But I would sometimes catch sight of them as they exchanged glances and I would see tears of sympathy. Just before my departure, they would stuff my pockets with gingerbread, kiss me, and hold me close. All of these women had the same distinctive smell — a salty but sweet fragrance — a smell that combined perspiration with confectionery. I loved being enfolded in their plump red arms. But it was never enough. They could never replace my mother — they did not possess wings.

I enjoyed school. The other children hated it, but for me it was a welcome release from home and my father’s black moods. I was fond of our little classroom: the whitewashed walls, the blackboard, the potbellied stove. My favourite subject was history, largely due to the lively instruction provided by our teacher, Herr Griesser: avuncular, bald but for two comic tufts that sprouted out from above his ears, spectacles, and prone to illustrate points with wild gesticulations. With the tip of his finger, he could trace an exotic horizon — pyramids, ziggurats — and transport us to Giza or Elam. Greek legends were brought to life with vivid descriptions of their heroism. Theseus was as real to me as the baker.

In addition to being an excellent teacher, Herr Griesser was also a keen amateur archaeologist. He once found a prehistoric axe-head in the Wachau and gave it to the Natural History Museum. They put it on display in a cabinet and it can still be seen today in the room dedicated to Bronze Age artefacts.

It was Herr Griesser who first told me about mummies. I was absolutely fascinated. And when he told me that there were mummies in Vienna — real mummies — I was eager to see them. I pleaded with my father, begged him to take me but, predictably, he refused.

My interest in mummies was curiously practical for a boy. I became preoccupied with the mechanics of preservation, how it was accomplished. The Egyptian method of embalming is actually described by Herodotus. It is a crude but effective process. After the entrails and brain are removed, the body is scoured with palm wine and purified with spices. It is then soaked in a saline solution for seventy days, bathed, and wrapped in strips of linen. Finally, the body is placed in a wooden case.

The Egyptians also took great care with respect to the appearance of corpses, particularly those of women. The bust was preserved with stuffing and nipples were refashioned using copper buttons; wigs were worn; the body was painted in yellow ochre and the nails were tinted with henna.

Ingenious.

But I digress.

Such facts are of little interest to you. You want to know more about me.