They Do the Same Things Different There (39 page)

“You don’t ask me my name,” said the commander one night, as they sat by the fire.

“I don’t need to know your name,” she said.

“You should ask me something,” he said. “It would be polite. You don’t ask if I have a wife.”

“Do you have a wife?”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I do. And I miss her.”

The winter wore on. The snow began to fall. Log chopping was no longer so much fun, and the commander ordered his soldiers to the task instead. Many of them had been chopping logs for
their
women, but the commander was having none of that, they would chop for Frau Loecherbach or no one at all. Frau Loecherbach stopped going to market altogether. And the commander sent his men to market, and they brought back only the best food.

The commander asked if he could cook for Frau Loecherbach. Frau Loecherbach was surprised. No one had cooked for her since she was a child.

He served her a red wine that he’d been saving for a special occasion. He said tonight was the special occasion. He said that the wine was the emperor’s favourite. He said that he hoped it was special to her, that this was all special to him, and he fingered at that scar of his a lot. Frau Loecherbach accepted that the wine was better than the stuff she had served in the days she had run a restaurant, but she still had the power to make hers taste richer, fruitier, darker. He served her Knödel, and Schweinshaxe, and roasted Rindswurst in a wine sauce.

“Do you like it?” he asked. Still touching at that scar.

“Your food is terrible,” said Frau Loecherbach.

“Oh.”

“It’s the worst I have ever tasted.”

“Oh.”

“You do not care about the food. You do not bother to find anything
inside
the food that is good or special or dear. To you it’s not food, it’s just something to chew, then swallow, then shit.”

“Oh.” And then the commander said, and he sounded confused, “Well, what else should food be?”

And so she got up, went to the kitchen, and showed him.

It was a harsh night, and the fire in the hearth made no impression upon the freezing cold, and the snow outside was falling so thick and so fast that it felt to Frau Loecherbach as if the house would be lost, buried behind walls of white forever, and the world would never be able to get in and see them and judge them.

“I love you,” he said. “I don’t know why.”

“No,” she said. “I don’t know why either.”

And he suggested he take her to his bed. And when she refused he nodded sadly. And she told him that she’d take him to
her
bed instead, and his face lit up in surprise and he no longer looked like an old man at all but a delighted little boy.

“We will marry one day,” the commander said to her. “My wife will die. She’ll die eventually. And your husband too, maybe he’ll never come back from the war.”

And Julia lay in his arms, and it was she fingering his scar with the tips of her fingers, so lightly, and she said nothing to that at all.

With the spring came the news that the fighting was done. The fighting was done, there would be no more death, and peace would last forever more. The soldiers were no longer soldiers, and the townsfolk no longer hostiles under martial law; they were men, and they were women, let them be friends, let them be one people, one nation united. And in announcement of this, a dozen engagements were announced on the spot.

No one seemed to wonder where the men from the town had got to, or whether they would be home soon. They all
had
men, didn’t they,
new
men? Who needed the old?

Frau Loecherbach suggested that maybe the commander could now return to his wife. The commander said his wife was a world away, his wife was in Prussia of all places. Frau Loecherbach asked, but weren’t they in Prussia too now, wasn’t all the world a Prussia? And the commander glowered and said he didn’t care.

“I love you,” he said. “You have bewitched me.”

And he told her that Alois wouldn’t be coming home. Neither would her sons. Neither would any man from the town. That only a week after they had left for war they had been routed by the Prussian army, and they had all been executed. All of them, and little Johann too. “I was waiting for the right time to tell you,” said the commander. “When we were no longer enemies, and can just be lovers.”

Frau Loecherbach complimented him on his delicacy.

“I’m sorry about your children. But I’m still strong, and you’re young enough, I think we can have children of our own. This poor town, and all it has suffered, it needs to move on now, we need to forget the past, what good will the past do us? We need to live, and to love, and can’t you hear it? Can’t you hear all that love out there? And so soon, I promise you, this war will be forgotten, and the town will be full of babies, the sound of all our babies crying in joy.”

It sounded sincere enough. It sounded like a reason for celebration. Frau Loecherbach let it be known that there would be a special dinner that night at her restaurant, and all were invited.

Tables were once more set out on the street. And women sat with their soldier lovers, holding their hands, gazing into their eyes—who had conquered not only their land but their very hearts—and they were all so
hungry
, they wanted this meal so badly, they wanted that after all this time of bitter war and bitter cold there could be now some reason to go on together, some reminder that at the end of the day they were all just people with appetites, and what was wrong with that, what could be the harm? And the commander asked if he could help Julia, and she said no, tonight he too could be a customer, tonight he could sit back and eat his fill.

She brought out the stew. The winter had been hard, and there weren’t many dregs in Julia’s larder to fill it. No discoloured lettuce, not a suicidal carrot to be seen.

They ate. And they tasted their memories.

And the women cried for the loved ones they had lost, the sons they had weaned for no bloody purpose now, the husbands with whom they had promised to share a life, a whole life, an entire life.

And the men cried, because they thought of their mothers, and that they would have been ashamed to see what they had become.

It was the best food they had ever tasted.

“Fill our bowls again!” they both pleaded, the men and the women. “Just a little more!” begged the commander, who had not been able to stop the tears from the moment the spoon had entered his mouth.

“Oh, as much as you like,” said Julia. “As much as your bellies can take.”

And they were eating more—eating their first sweets, fed to them by hand by indulgent parents, and how they’d laughed to see their child’s eyes bulge at all that
taste
, and how the child had laughed too without even knowing why, but the child knew it was a good thing, it was good to hear Mummy and Daddy happy. And they were eating with their baby teeth, and they were so much softer than their adult ones, and they remembered how different everything seemed when your little teeth wobbled so, little teeth in little heads, little heads on little bodies, such very little bodies. And then they were sucking at their mothers’ breasts, all that milk and they could never have too much, and oh my God, mother, long since dead, or maybe just dying, or maybe just old and ignored—does she still love us, could she possibly love us now we’ve grown so old and hard and cold, and so unlike the little babies guzzling away like animals, all innocent, not knowing anything, not remembering anything, because there’s nothing to remember, nothing’s happened yet, you’re at the beginning, you’re back at the very beginning.

Julia steps through the crowd of babies and goes into the kitchen for her knife.

And she bends to pick up the commander. No longer in a position to command anything, looking faintly surprised to be sitting in this pool of clothes, the uniform of a man he could surely never dream of becoming. Eyes wide and so blue, smooth skin, smooth lips, looking at Julia in utter trust as she scoops him up into her arms.

Julia holds the knife to his throat. The commander blinks. Then smiles at her.

And then she does something that only the baby ever sees. She smiles back. She smiles. And there’s a magic in that smile—and maybe that’s where all her magic ever came from and no one ever saw it to know. Or maybe it came from somewhere else entirely, who can tell, who can ever really tell.

She doesn’t kill him.

Into his cheek she traces his scar. It’s quick, it’s as if she’s cutting up a chicken, it’s no more cruel than that. And the commander is too surprised to howl out in pain. One quick gulp then that’s it. And she has forgiven him.

She kisses him on the cheek, and her lips come away red, but the wound is already healing, and now the bleeding has stopped, look.

The other babies look around at each other in some confusion—what do they do now? Where do they go from here? But that’s up to them, that’s not Julia Loecherbach’s problem. And the commander is so light in her arms, like bread, like her freshly baked bread, and he’s no weight at all, and she can walk on with him forever, and she walks straight out of the town.

She says she’ll devise a whole new language, just for the both of you. And you smile and nod. You don’t know what she means, but it sounds very sweet. It comes out of nowhere. You’ve just had a nice conversation about the weather, nothing gripping, but thorough and accurate. And you’ve finished your main course, and you are studying the dessert menu, and you are expressing some interest in a New York cheesecake. Frankly, you were rather expecting the next words she said to be in acknowledgement of cheesecake, or weighing in with some counterargument for a dessert preference of her own.

“I’ll devise a whole new language, something only we can use,” she says, and she smiles at you. “I think you might be special.” And she brushes at your hand with her fingertips, just for a second. And you put the menu down so you can take her hand, but it’s too late, she’s got a menu of her own now.

“The New York cheesecake sounds good,” she says. “Yum yum!”

It’s only the second date, and you weren’t even sure you would get this far. The first date was fine. The first date was perfectly fine. You went to the cinema, and that meant you didn’t get much time to talk, a quick hello, exchange of pleasantries, an offer to buy her some popcorn. At the end of the movie you asked her whether she’d like to get something to eat—you had always factored a meal into both the time and money budgeted for the evening—and she looked at you very seriously, and said that maybe on the next date you could try speaking. She would see, she said, whether the right words would fit. And then she’d pulled you to her, and kissed you very softly upon the mouth. And that took you aback, because for the whole date she hadn’t touched you once, no arms rubbing against each other on the rests, no hands colliding in the popcorn box. The first date was perfectly fine, but inconclusive, and in your experience inconclusive dates rarely got followed up, and you’d been really rather surprised when she’d phoned you up the very next day asking whether she could see you again. Surprised, and pleased. And you wondered whether it had anything to do with that little kiss, whether it had been that which had sealed the deal.

You rather hope there’ll be another kiss tonight. You rather hope that may be possible. And this time you won’t be so startled. This time you’ll move your lips a little too, make it last a bit longer, really become an active participant in the whole kissing experience.

This, then, has been your date for words, and there have been so many of them. She has asked you about your childhood, about your job, about any aspirations you might still have. You’ve told her what you think about art and music and sports. You’ve listed for her all the countries you’ve ever visited, and given a brief account of the differing impressions they made upon you. She hasn’t said much. She hasn’t said anything at all, really. And you’re dimly aware that you’re talking too much and being a bit of a bore. And you determine that at any moment you’ll stop, you can rescue this, you’ll ask about her, you’ll even
listen
, maybe over the cheesecake. But she doesn’t seem irritated by you. She smiles at your jokes. She maintains eye contact. She hangs on each and every word.

You eat the cheesecake and don’t ask about her after all; instead you entertain her with your take on religion and politics. To describe them there are words you’d never use, some with many syllables, words like “hierarchy and “libertarian” and “diocese.” You feel like they’re being sucked from your brain. From a long forgotten dictionary in it. And it makes you feel a little tired, and you yawn, and you apologize.

You pay for both meals, and she accepts that, she says that next time dinner will be on her. And you stand outside with her on the pavement, and you know she’ll be going home now, and you wonder whether there’s any way to follow. You thank her for a lovely evening. You say you hope you can do something like it again. “No, better,” she says, “next time it’ll be better. Oh, the language we shall share!” And she pulls you toward her again, and this time you’re ready for it. Your lips meet. And your mouth opens just a little. And something is pushed in, and you think it might be her tongue. And it’s the last thing you remember for a while.

You wake up, and it’s dark, and it’s so quiet, and you don’t know where you are. And you try to move, but you can’t. Your hands and feet can do no more than jerk a few inches. And you wonder whether this is some sort of a paralysis, have you had an accident, are you in hospital? (A very dark hospital, a very quiet hospital?) And you’re lying on your back, and you hate sleeping on your back, and your body tries to turn, and it can’t, and something cuts into your wrists and your ankles. And there’s a smell in the air, it’s like warm bread, or something sweeter, it’s soft, and it does nothing to reassure you. You cry out. “Help!” you say. “Help!”

And now there’s a chink of light, and a door has opened, and you can’t see properly but at least this means you aren’t
blind
as well. And it’s her, surely it’s her. It takes a moment for you to remember her name, and you flush with embarrassment, and you’re glad it’s so dark so she can’t see. “Help, Tracey!” you say. “Ssh,” she replies, and she comes to you, stands over you big and tall, she seems such a big mass there in the blackness, and she strokes your forehead. “Ssh,” and that’s the only word she’ll use, and it’s not even a word. Then she gets up and leaves, and closes the door behind her, and the world turns blind again.

You don’t think you’ll sleep, not when you’re on your back, not when you’re so afraid, frankly—but you must do, because you wake up again, and this time there’s light, and there she is again, smiling down. “Help,” you say again. And you try to move, and of course you can’t, because you see you’re tied to the bed by wire cord. And she tells you that this is the last time you will ever hear her speak English to you. It’s not a threat, it sounds like a promise. The new language will start right now, and she thinks you’ll like it—she’s got such a lovely assortment of nouns and adjectives for you both to play with!—oh, she can’t wait to get started, her enthusiasm feels so cheap to her like this, expressed in a language that is so very old and banal and is shared with so many strangers. You ask her to release you, and she just shakes her head. You beg her by name, and she says that Tracey isn’t her name any longer; she doesn’t know what her new name shall be yet, you’ll both find one together. You don’t have a name either. Choosing you a name will be a pleasure she will reserve for herself alone. “I’m going to leave you now, and you can get some more rest,” she says. “And the next time I come through that door, no more English, just our language, just for the two of us.” “Help!” you cry out, and she tells you that from now on the word isn’t “help,” it’s “handbag.” “Handbag!” you say, hoping that might do the trick, that she’ll cut your bonds and set you free. “Ssh,” she says again, kisses you upon the lips, just once but on the lips—and goes.

That first week you work on elementary vocabulary.

She brings in a bowl of fruit. Your stomach growls at the sight of it, that cheesecake seems a very long time ago. She smiles expectantly at you. “Let me out of here!” you shout. And without a word she turns, and leaves, and takes the fruit with her.

She leaves you alone for hours.

She brings in a bowl of fruit. She smiles expectantly at you, as if this is the first time she has brought it in, that this is the first expectant smile too. “Please,” you say. And without a word she turns, and leaves, and takes the fruit with her.

She brings in a bowl of fruit. And smiles. And it’s expectant. “Please,” you say, and it’s only a whisper, it’s just a little whisper. But she looks so sad at that, and clearly disappointed. She turns, she leaves, she takes the fruit with her.

She brings in a bowl of fruit. She smiles. Not expecting anything much this time, but it’s hopeful. Full of hope, and has she been crying? You think she may have been crying just a little, and the smile is a brave smile, this is hard on her as well. And your heart goes out to her, in spite of the hunger, and the rage, and the fear. You don’t say a word. You won’t say a word. She takes from the bowl an apple. She holds it up. “Lampshade,” she says. You stay silent. She nods at you, encouragingly. “Lampshade,” she says again. You glare at her. She tries to smile again, but the smile wobbles. “Lampshade,” she says. “Lampshade. Lampshade. Lampshade. Lampshade.”

And at last, sadly, she gets up. Puts the lampshade back in the bowl. Turns. Walks to the door.

“Lampshade,” you say, quietly.

She turns back.

“Lampshade,” you say again.

She nods. She takes the lampshade once more from the bowl. “Lampshade,” she says. “Lampshade,” you say. “Lampshade,” she says. “Lampshade,” you say. “Lampshade?” she asks. “Lampshade,” you dutifully admit. She takes out a banana. “Caterpillar,” she says. “Caterpillar,” you agree. “Caterpillar.” “Caterpillar.” She takes out a strawberry. Holds it deliberately between thumb and forefinger, and it looks so red and juicy. “Plinge,” she says. “Plinge,” you say. And she feeds you your plinge as a reward, she holds it to your lips and you suck at it greedily. “Plinge,” you say again, and she smiles, nods, she gives you another plinge. “Caterpillar,” you say, and she unpeels a caterpillar for you. “Lampshade,” you say, and she patiently holds the lampshade straight as you bite into it, bite deep to the very core. You don’t know what a core is. You gesture to it with your nose. It takes a while for her to work out what you want. Then she has a think, this is one word she’s not translated yet. “Basket,” she decides. “Basket,” you say, and she laughs, and she balances the basket upright on her palm, and you gnaw away at it, you suck the last juice from that basket, you suck at her fingers too.

She brings in picture books. Together you rename the animal kingdom. She calls a camel a passport, a cow a fork. She accepts some of your suggestions. You name a hippopotamus a divot, and there’s something so right about that, something so divot-ish about the hippo, and you feel proud.

She doesn’t feed you only fruit. She brings you meals of hedgerows and hedgehogs, of wannabes, of steaming sleet with equanimity on the side.

And sometimes she’ll reward you with a kiss. Just a little one, for being a good boy. You try to name a kiss. You call it “tabletop,” you call it “tennisball.” You call it “moist.” None of them seem quite to fit, and whenever you want to ask for one, she doesn’t seem to know what you’re talking about. “Moist!” you’ll say, begging, wheedling, when all you want is just one little bit of touch, something sweet to keep you going through the night. “Moist!” And she’ll just shake her head and frown.

Verbs are easy in your new language. There are no tenses. “To eat” is “horserace.” But there’s no “will horserace” or “have horseraced,” there’s no future and no past. When you eat, you eat. You live in the present, and that’s all you need.

And one day you learn pronouns. “I” is “James.” “You” is “Ian.” “We” is the most important of all, and the most complex, isn’t all of this about “we”? “We” can be “Mary” when it’s just as standard, but it can be “Margaret” if there’s a hint of something sweeter, “Moira” if there’s real togetherness to it, it’s “Maud” when it’s passionate, “Molly” when it’s red hot.

There is no “he” or “she.” Not yet. Not until there’s a need for one. There will never be a “they.”

They say the Eskimos have a hundred different words for snow. And you have a hundred different words for the shade of the wallpaper, for the crack on the ceiling, for the sound the door makes when it opens and it’s her and she’s there and you’re with her again.

You name her “Buttercup.” You think it’s a pretty name. And she gets angry. And she makes you understand why. You’re using an English word, you’re taking the meaning of an old dead language and ascribing it to her. She is so upset she leaves you alone for a whole day, and you feel hungry and lonely and ever so sorry. When she returns, at last, you can see her face is red from tears. You try out a new name on her. So tentatively, because this feels like the most important gift you have ever offered. You like the way the syllables play off each other, the teasing hiss of the “x,” the lips-together warmness of the “m,” the reassuring solidity of that final unshakeable “nt.” You like the way the word stretches your mouth: “Excrement,” you call her “Excrement,” and Excrement tries it out for size, she plays with it for a while, and it makes her smile, and that night she undresses you, she strokes at your sandwich, she tickles at your torpor, she climbs on top of you and holds you firm between her soapstains and rides you like the double glazing that you are.

One morning you wake to discover that the wire cords have been replaced by silk rope. And one morning, not so long after, you wake and find the ropes have gone too. You stretch, and it hurts, and it’s a good hurt. You get to your feet. You hold onto the wall. You work your way toward the door.

And at any moment you feel it’s a trick, that she’ll be behind you, coming at you with her kisses and feeding you lampshades. But you’re in the hallway, and you’ve never been out here before, she didn’t let you get this deep into the house even on your birthday when she let you out of your room and let you into the kitchen and tied you to the chair and she’d made you cheesecake, oh God, love her. You’re in the hallway, and you’re at the front door, and you’re fumbling at the lock, and the door is moving! And you’re moving! And you’re outside! And there’s such fresh air! The fresh air is spattered with bits of water, and you lift up your head high to catch the pimp (rain?) and it feels cold and carpet (wet?) against your skin, and you don’t mind you suddenly feel turtle (—?). And you realize you’ve been standing in the garden for minutes now, and if you want to escape, you’d better move on.