House of the Lost

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Zoia had heard people say the Black House was filled with ghosts, but she always denounced such remarks as superstitious nonsense. People who claimed the Black House was haunted were simply letting themselves be influenced by its slightly sinister appearance. Zoia would allow the sinisterness, but ghosts were tales for the credulous. She liked living in this shadowy old mansion with its tucked-away corners and twisty stairways and empty halls. It was one of the many things for which she was grateful to Annaleise.

Annaleise… Even touching the name in her mind brought a deep satisfaction. It was Annaleise who had brought Zoia to the Black House, and Zoia would have coped with far worse than living in this decaying grandeur to please her. She coped with the children who came here and was firm with them because she knew it was what Annaleise wanted. Occasionally some of them had to be punished, and Zoia did so efficiently and with detachment. She had been punished herself as a child – her father had a heavy hand with his leather belt and the belt had a thick buckle that cut her skin when it hit her bare bottom. No sense in beating a child through its clothes, he used to say, lifting his daughters’ skirts and taking down their cotton undergarments, his thick labourer’s hands lingering over the smooth young skin of their thighs.

Zoia, who was beaten more often than her sisters, had wept at the pain and the humiliation of those beatings, and crept into a corner afterwards to hide, but looking back she could not see that any of it had done her any lasting harm. Punishing the children at the Black House would not do them any lasting harm either.

It was unfortunate that the inquisitive child, Mara, had found the babies’ room. A punishment would have to be administered to her – something that would enable Zoia to show Annaleise how sensible, loyal and firm she, Zoia, was. She did not allow herself to think, even for a second, that this was the only means she had of impressing Annaleise nowadays, because such thoughts might have made her maudlin, and Annaleise would have no patience with that. She had no patience with sentiment or with any emotion. It had taken Zoia a long time to understand that and even longer to accept it.

Particularly since Annaleise had not always been so unemotional.

It had been more than fifteen years ago when they met. Zoia had been seventeen, a student, shy and awkward in the bewildering university world, determined to conceal her background from everyone. She was ashamed of her family who worked on the land for a pittance and who all thought Zoia had ideas above her station. Her father had always said it was enough if you could read a little, write your name and add up your accounts. The idea of education was a fanciful thing for the rich, for the rulers of the country, not for the likes of them, he said. Her mother, reduced to a whispering subservience from years of fear, said it was best Zoia did what her father wanted. There was plenty for her to do: she could help with her brothers and sisters and bake and cook and do women’s work. It was good enough for most girls, she said, pleadingly.

But it was not good enough for Zoia. One of her teachers at the tiny local school, seeing the bright intelligence of this pupil, gave her extra lessons in secret. Later, she helped Zoia get a university place, providing a tiny sum of money which would cover the journey and help her through the first weeks. Zoia took it eagerly, and one morning simply walked out of the crowded cottage without telling anyone where she was going, boarding a bus – several buses – to the exciting new world she was entering.

For the first year of her university studies she worked very hard indeed. She was too timid to make friends or become part of any of the student activities, although there were plenty of parties and clubs she might have attended or joined. There were political activities as well – it was the late 1950s, and although the communist regime was as firmly entrenched as ever, people were daring to speak out against it and protest groups had sprung up, often small groups working in cautious secrecy, many of them within the universities. There were a number of these anti-communist groups at Zoia’s own university but she steered clear of them as much as possible, because, clearly, they trod a dangerous path. Some of these students were caught and branded enemies of the state, all were expelled and some were even arrested. Stories filtered back of forced labour camps and prisons where conditions were so appalling and the warders so brutal, prisoners sometimes committed suicide. These things were seldom spoken of in public, because the Securitate was everywhere, listening, spying, reporting to their masters.

Zoia remained on the fringes of it all, afraid of becoming too close to anyone in case they found out about her background: the illiterate mother, brothers and sisters, the father who beat his children and whose hands sometimes strayed between the thighs of his daughters. Once or twice she thought about letting her family know where she was, but she was too afraid that one of her brothers or sisters might come to find her. Best let the past be forgotten.

She watched, without envy, the senior students, glittering and assured demi-gods whose smallest word was received with respect and admiration. How did people only a few years older than Zoia herself come to be like that? Was it because they were cleverer than the rest? Because they were more attractive? Or because they came from families who had money and position? Occasionally she heard whispers that some of them supplemented their incomes by acting as informants – ferreting out people’s secrets and selling them to the Securitate. Hearing that made her even more careful and watchful about what she said and who she talked to. And then one night, hurrying to her small lodgings on the edge of the town, she ran into, not a demi-god, but a demi-goddess. Literally ran into her, so that the armful of books Zoia was carrying slipped from her arms and tumbled into the gutter.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said the demi-goddess. Her voice was strangely unresonant, at odds with her graceful movements, the slender ankles and heavy black hair like a raven’s wing. Zoia, kneeling on the pavement to scoop up the precious books that she had scraped together the money to buy and that were already mud-splattered, stared up at her.

‘Let me make amends by buying you a glass of wine,’ said the harsh-voiced, exquisite-featured creature. ‘There’s a wine bar just along here – I often go there. I expect you know it.’

Zoia did not say she had never dared venture into any of the bars or restaurants the other students frequented. She did not have time to wonder if she would be expected to buy wine on her own account, the goddess had already taken her arm and was propelling her along the street. They were suddenly inside the hot smoky bar and somehow a table in one corner was free, and they were facing each other over a carafe of wine.

‘A bit rough,’ said the goddess, grimacing slightly, ‘but drinkable. Let me fill your glass.’

Perhaps if Zoia had been used to wine there might have been a different outcome. Perhaps if she had not been so nervous, she might not have fallen so easily or so completely under the spell of the beautiful harsh-voiced one.

‘I’m Annaleise,’ said the goddess as if, thought Zoia, she might not know the name of one of the most glittering people in the whole university. As she lifted her glass again the wine cast a reflection in her eyes giving them a red glow. Devil’s eyes, thought Zoia, mesmerized. No, not devil’s, angel’s! She’s clever and admired and everyone knows who she is and I’ll have to pretend more than I’ve ever pretended in my life.

‘You’re an odd little thing, aren’t you?’ said the angel with the glowing red eyes. ‘I’ve noticed you watching me quite often. Why do you do that?’

Zoia managed to stammer something about being interested in student groups.

‘Political groups? Not those squalid little anti-communist people, surely?’

‘Oh no,’ said Zoia, who had not thought much about political beliefs, but flinched from being thought squalid.

‘Then you’re for the State,’ said Annaleise, at once, ‘and I’m always on the look-out for recruits.’ She leaned closer. ‘Why don’t you join us?’ she asked, and for a moment the harshness was smoothed out of her voice.

Zoia thought about saying she was too shy, but before she could speak, Annaleise said, ‘Let me pour you some more wine and we’ll talk about it.’

The taste of the wine was enjoyable, but far more enjoyable – far headier – was the knowledge that this goddess-creature was talking to Zoia as if they were equals. She talked with intensity about things Zoia had never dreamed existed: about how the world was going to change; how they were the people, the generation, the Party, who would change it; how there would be massive upheavals to bring about that change, but also how upheavals were sometimes necessary for the common good.

Zoia listened, entranced. But when Annaleise said she must come to tomorrow’s Party meeting, she drew back. In such an unknown situation she might betray herself; people might see through her. So she said she could not go – she had to study.

‘Oh, study can wait. And I want you there,’ said Annaleise, and this time the rasping voice slid down into something almost like a caress. ‘Do come, Zoia,’ said Annalise, and when she said her name, Zoia felt as if Annaleise had reached out to stroke her face.

Almost as if Annaleise had heard her say this, she reached out a hand across the table, and took Zoia’s own hand in hers. Her skin was like velvet or a cat’s fur, the nails polished and smooth. Zoia could hardly bear the comparison with her own rough-skinned hand. Annaleise did not seem even to notice. She turned Zoia’s hand over between hers, and brushed the centre of the palm lightly with her fingertips. At once an extraordinary sensation shot through Zoia’s body – a deep secret tingling, so that she gasped and her eyes flew to Annaleise’s face. Annaleise was smiling, her eyes narrowed. ‘All right?’ she said, and Zoia heard herself whisper, ‘Yes,’ without knowing what was all right or what she had agreed to.

What she had apparently agreed to was seduction of a kind she had not previously realized existed. But as they walked along the streets together, Annaleise’s arm came round Zoia’s thin waist. When they passed into the shadow of an old church, she bent and kissed Zoia on the lips, forcing her mouth open so that Zoia tasted the wine on Annaleise’s breath. She drew back, startled, but Annaleise only laughed and pulled Zoia very close against her so Zoia could feel the press of thighs and the swell of breasts through her clothes. Marvellous. Shameful. One ought not to feel like this, not about another female.

Later, in Annaleise’s rooms near the university which were silkenly and expensively furnished and which overlooked a quadrangle, she was lain on a bed and her clothes gently but firmly removed. Once she protested and tried to push away the questing hands, but Annaleise only laughed. ‘What a nervous little virgin,’ she said. ‘Don’t struggle against me. If you really don’t like it I’ll stop, but let me just do this – and now this… Oh, you’re not struggling now, are you?’

By ‘this’, Annaleise meant the butterfly fingertip touches on Zoia’s body – on her breasts which had become tip-tilted with passion, and then, shamefully and marvellously, between her thighs. Zoia was distantly aware of the chiming of the clock from the old church, but the outside world had ceased to exist for her; there was only this dimly lit room and the smooth porcelain skin of this goddess, and the mounting excitement that Annaleise was creating.

Then Annaleise drew back and stood up, reaching for her own clothes, and the excitement was cut off suddenly and painfully, like being prevented from drawing a deep breath or strangling a sneeze. Zoia half raised herself on one elbow and looked mutely at her goddess.

‘An introduction,’ said Annaleise, pulling on a silk robe the colour of the wine they had drunk earlier. ‘A prelude. You’re a very promising pupil, Zoia.’ She turned away, opening the bedroom door. After a moment, Zoia got up from the bed and fumbled for her clothes.

Walking home, her body remembered with a throbbing urgency, the feel of Annaliese’s hands. Lying in her own bed in the shabby lodging house, she went through the lonely ritual of self-satisfaction. It was not until she was finally falling into a troubled sleep that she remembered Annaleise had used the word prelude. Her heart lifted. Prelude meant just the start. It meant there was more ahead.

Zoia smiled in the darkness. She would go to the meeting as Annaleise had suggested, and they would be together again.

She did go to the meeting, and to many more after it. She met a number of people, mostly other students, but also lecturers. Some of the speakers who addressed the meetings believed in communism and believed in putting down people who rebelled against it. She lost some of her fear of saying the wrong thing, but she never volunteered any information about herself, other than to say, if asked, that she was reading history, and yes, it was an interesting course, thank you. She did not exactly make friends but she made acquaintances.

She had not previously known or thought much about politics or economics or world affairs. Her father had said it was not for the likes of them to know about these things and her mother would not have dared question his attitude. There was no money for newspapers, even if anyone could have read them. When Zoia was seven, her father caught her reading a children’s storybook the kindly teacher had lent her, and beat her for wasting her time when she should have been helping to cook the supper. Afterwards, huddled miserably on her corner of the bed she shared with her sisters, she heard her brothers whispering that there was always a bulge in Father’s trousers when he hit the girls.

The teacher who had helped Zoia get to university had possessed a small wireless to which the enthralled Zoia had listened once or twice, but when she left the village there was no money for such luxuries. She spent all her vacations doing whatever work she could get to provide money for term time, but even so there was barely enough money for food and lodgings.

But Annaleise and her friends had books and newspapers and radios, and Zoia was made free of them all. She tried to form her own opinions but always returned to the belief that Annaleise’s views were the right ones. Annaleise said Romania’s government had the well-being of the people at heart. The nationalization of large businesses and banks was sound and logical, she said, and collective farming – the sweeping away of individual ownership and the creation of one massive agricultural cooperative – was logical, as well. It meant the pooling of labour and income for the greater good of all. Those farmers who did not want to give up their land were simply clinging to the selfish old ways of capitalism, insisted Annaleise, her eyes glowing with fervour. Admittedly the government had used force to make them yield up their land, and yes, it was true that large numbers of the farmers had ended up being arrested or deported.

‘Made homeless?’ asked Zoia doubtfully.

‘Oh, they all have friends and families where they can go to live. You must understand, Zoia, this is the natural progression of Stalin’s original five-year plan of the 1920s – it’s revolution from above. It’s not a goal that can be lost because ignorant and recalcitrant farmers are jealous of their few paltry acres.’

Because these were Annaleise’s beliefs, Zoia knew they were right and they became her beliefs as well. She repeated Annaleise’s phrases with as much reverence as if they were charms or incantations.

Annaleise. She was like a glittering thread running through Zoia’s new life and Zoia sometimes felt she was living inside a dream. She had never met anyone like Annaleise and had never expected to experience even the smallest part of the emotions Annaleise aroused in her – mentally as well as physically. She had not even known such emotions existed. They certainly bore no relation to the grunting poundings which used to come from the tiny upper floor of the farm cottage, mostly on nights when her father had been helping to get the harvest in and the workers had been given ale afterwards.

Zoia and her brothers and sisters were grateful to escape his attention on those nights. Sometimes Father became angry and called Mother ugly names and blamed her if he was not able to do what he wanted to her. Cock-shriveller, he called her, belching his beery breath into the small cottage. It was embarrassing to have to hear all this, but it was worse on the nights when Father had not taken too much beer, and the poundings on the rickety bed were fast and fierce. Mother would gasp and say please stop, they could not afford another child, the birth would kill her and there was not enough food for them all as it was.

Father never stopped, though. He shouted that she was a bitch to expect him to do so, and it was against the law of the country to withdraw. A man should spend his seed in his wife, that was the law and the teaching of their religion, and anyway it was every man’s right. Then there would be an urgency to the sounds, followed by a groaning cry and moments later would come the creak of the bedsprings as he moved off Mother. And in just under the year there would be another baby in the overcrowded cottage.

But none of this needed to be remembered now, years afterwards. It was all in the past, and all that mattered to Zoia these days was the goddess she had discovered: Annaleise.

After that first startling and bewildering night when Annaleise had poured wine into Zoia’s glass – the night that had been so agonizingly incomplete – there had, as she had prayed, been other times. Evenings spent in the perfumed bedroom of Annaleise’s beautiful apartment, afternoons spent on the riverbank, with dappled sunlight falling over their naked limbs, and the guilty, but wildly exciting knowledge that someone might come along and catch them. Occasionally and blissfully there were whole nights spent together. To wake up and see Annaleise’s tumble of silken hair on the pillow next to her, then to feel Annaleise’s knowing, skilful hands moving over her body, gave Zoia such a deep and complete joy she would not have cared if she died in that moment.

When Annaleise, three years older than Zoia, graduated and made plans to move on from the university town, Zoia was distraught. She pleaded with her to stay – or at least to take her with her wherever she went. She did not care where it was.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Annaleise. ‘You can’t run out halfway through university. Think of the waste.’

‘I don’t care about the university. Let me come with you. Please let me.’

A smile curved Annaleise’s lips and for the first time Zoia saw it not as a beautiful and loving smile, but as self-satisfied. ‘You’ve become quite a little slave, haven’t you?’ she said thoughtfully. ‘I wonder how much you would do for me, Zoia. I mean – really how much?’

‘Anything,’ said Zoia at once. ‘Truly, I would do anything.’

‘Yes,’ said Annaleise. ‘I believe you would.’ Then, speaking very slowly as if selecting her words carefully, she said, ‘There might be work you could do. It might sometimes appear to be quite menial, at least on the surface. Washing, serving food, cleaning. But really you would be working for the Party. For the government.’

‘Then I wouldn’t mind menial work.’ Zoia would have scrubbed floors or cleaned out sewers if it meant staying near Annaleise. Hesitantly, because Annaleise did not like to be questioned too closely, she said, ‘What would the real work consist of?’

‘Gathering information,’ said Annaleise. ‘Doing so in secrecy, of course.’

‘What kind of information?’

‘About people mostly. About what they do and what they think. About their families and movements. It’s probable the Securitate would give you names of people to watch specifically – people already under suspicion. The Securitate are keen, you know, to get more control over people – to know more of what goes on in their lives. It’s vital to know who the agitators are.’

‘Know thine enemy,’ said Zoia, half to herself.

‘Exactly. As an instance,’ went on Annaleise, ‘just purely as an example, that young student who has rooms near the old quadrangle – her name is Elisab—’

‘I know who you mean.’ Zoia cut in before Annaleise could finish saying the name because she was afraid there might be the caress in Annaleise’s voice that once had been exclusively reserved for Zoia herself. She had seen Annaleise watching the elfin-faced Elisabeth for some weeks, and a bitter jealousy had scalded her soul because Elisabeth was so very lovely, so graceful and amusing, all the things Zoia was not. To cover her emotions, she said, ‘She’s reading political history.’ But because she was truthful by nature, she added grudgingly, ‘They say she’s extremely clever.’

‘A brilliant student by all accounts.’

And you like the brilliant ones, thought Zoia miserably. The brilliant, beautiful ones.

‘My masters believe she’s dangerous,’ said Annaleise, and Zoia looked at her because she had not been expecting this. ‘They think she’s a conspirator – an enemy of the Party. Therefore an enemy of the people. We suspect – very strongly – that she’s working to uncover secrets.’

‘Are there secrets?’ asked Zoia, and then, seeing Annaleise’s sudden severe frown, added hastily, ‘Within the Party, I mean?’

‘All people in power have secrets, Zoia. All kinds of things have to be kept quiet and private. It isn’t good for the masses to be told everything.’

The masses… she peddles the maxim that everyone is equal, thought Zoia, but underneath she’s as arrogant as any old-style aristocrat. That’s what I love so much, I think. Aloud, she said, ‘So the work I would really be doing would be finding out about people like Elisabeth?’

‘Elisabeth would be a good starting point.’

Zoia did not speak, and Annaleise said, ‘Zoia, when a country is undergoing change – when it’s being re-shaped – it’s sometimes necessary to do rather underhand things. Perhaps to read private papers or listen to private conversations. To tell lies. There is,’ she said, in what Zoia thought was a careful voice, ‘a particular profession that comes into its own at such times. There are people who regard it as rather despicable, but it is necessary.’ She stopped and in the silence that fell between them, Zoia could hear the popping of the worn gas fire on the hearth of her small room. She could feel her heart beating.

‘You want me to become a spy,’ said Zoia at last. ‘An informant for the Party. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said Annaleise, ‘that’s exactly what I mean.’