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 ALSO BY JEANETTE WINTERSON

OrangesAre Not the Only Fruit

Sexingthe Cherry
Written on the Body
Art and Lies
Art Objects
Gut Svmmetries
TilrPA55lo}
JERNETTE
IUINTERsBN

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I
GROVE PRESS
NEW YORK
Copyright @1987 by JeanetteWinterson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproducedin any form or
by any electronic or mechanicalmeans including information storageand
retrieval systemswithout permission in writing from the publisher, except
by a reviewer,who may quote brief passagesin a review.

First publishedin Great Britain in 1987by BloomsburyPublishingLtd.

Printed in the United States of America

Library of CongressCataloging-in-PublicationData

Winterson,Jeanette,1959
The passion.

I. Title.
PR6073.I558P36 1988 823',.914 88-3427

(pbk.)
ISBN 0-8021-3522-6

Grove Press
841 Broadway
New York NY 10003

99 0001 r09E76543
 For Pat Kavanagh

My thanks are due to Don and Ruth Rendell

whose hospitality gave me the spaceto work
To everaoneat Bloomsbury, especiallyLiz Calder.
To Philippa Brewster for her patience.
You have navigated with raging soul far from the paternal home, passing
beyond the seas' double rocks and now you inhabit a foreign land.
 CONTENTS
One The Emperor I
Two The Queenof Spader 47
Thrce The Zero Vinter 77
Four Ihe Roch l3l
TilrPA55to}
 Orue

the
EMPDROB
It was Napoleon who had such a passion for chicken that he
kept his chefs working around the clock. What a kitchen that
ws, with birds in every state of undress; some still cold and
slung over hooks, somenrrning slowly on the spit, but most in
wastedpiles becausethe Emperorwasbusy.
Odd to be so governedby an appetite.
It was my first commission.I startedas a neck wringer and
before long I wasthe one who carried the platter through inches
of mud to his tent. He liked me becauseI am short. I flatter
myself,He did not dislikeme. He liked no one exceptJos6phine
and he liked her the way he liked chicken.
No one over five foot two ever waited on the Emperor. He
kept small servane and large horses.The horse he loved was
seventeenhands high with a tail that could wrap round a man
three times and still makea wig for his mistress.That horsehad
the evil eye and there's been almost as many dead grooms in
the stableas chickenson the table. The onesthe beastdidn't
kill itself with an easykick, its master had disposedof because
its coat didn't shineor the bit was green.
'A new governmentmust dazzleand amazer'he said. Bread
and circusesI think he said. Not surprising then that when we
did find a groom, he came from a circus himself and stood as
high as the horse'sflank. When he brushed the beasthe used a
ladderwith a stoutbottom and a triangletop, but when he rode
him for exercisehe took a gteatleap and landed squareon the
glossyback while the horse reared and snorted and couldn't
throw him, not even with its nose in the dirt and ie back legs
ton'ardsGod. Then they'd vanishin a curtain of dust and travel
for miles, the midget clinging to the mane and whooping in his
funny languagethat none of us could understand.
 THE PASSION

But he understoodwerything.
He madethe Emperorlaughand the hone couldn't better
him, sohe stayed.And I stayed.fuid we becamefriends.
We were in the kitchentent one night whenthe bell star6
ringrnslike theDevithimselfis on the otherend.We all iumped
up and onerushedto the spit while anotherspaton the siher
and I hadto get my bootsbackon readyfor that trampacross
the frozen ruts. The midget laughedand said he'd rather
take a chancewith the horse than the master,but we don't
laugh.
Here it comessurroundedby parsleythe cookcherishesin a
deadman'shelmet.Outsidethe flakesare so densethat I feel
like the little figurein a child's snowstorm.I haveto screwup
myeyesto follorrtheyellowsain ttratlightsup Napoleon'stent.
No oneelsecanhavea light at this time of night
Fuel'sscarce.Not all of this annyhavetents.
WhenI go in, he'ssittingdone wittr a globein front of him.
He doesn'tnoticeme,he goeson turningthe globeround and
round,holdingit tenderlywith bothhandsasif it werea breast.
I gve a shortcoughandhe looksup suddenlywith fear in his
face.
'Put it hereandgo.'
'Don't youwantme to caryeit, Sir?'
'I canrnanag€. Goodnight.'
I knonrwhathe means.He hardlysverasksmeto canreltonr.
fu soonasI'm gonehe'll lift the lid andpick it up andpushit
into his mouth.He wisheshis wholefaceweremouthto cranr
a wholebird.
In the morningI'll be luckyto find the wishbone.

There is no heat,only degreesof cold, I don't rememberthe

feeling of a fire againstmy knees.Even in ttre kitchen, the
warmestplaceon anycarnp,the heatis too ttrin to spreadand
the copperparn cloudover.I takeoff my socksonsea weekto
 THE EMPEROR

cut my toe-nailsand the otherscdl me a dandy.We're white

with red nosesandblue fingers.
The tricolour.
He doesit to keephis chickensfresh.
He useswinterlike a larder.
But thatwasa longtime ago.In Russia.

Nowadalnpeoplea[< aboutthe thingshe did as thoughthey

madesense.fu thoughevenhis mostdisastrousmistakeswere
onlythe resultof badluck or hubris.
It wasa mess.
Words like devastation,rape,slaughter,c:rnage,starvation
are lock and key wordsto keepthe pain at bay.Words about
war that areeasyon the eye.
I'm tellingyoustories.Trust me.

I wantedto be a drummer.
The recruitingofficergaveme a walnutandaskedif I could
crackit betweenfingerandthumb.I couldnot andhe laughed
and saida drummermust havestronghands.I stretchedout
my palm, the walnut restingthere,and offeredhim the same
challenge.He colouredup andhada Lieutenanttakemeto the
kitchentents.The cooksizedup my skinnyframeandreckoned
I wasnot a cleaverrnan.Not for me themessof unnamedmeat
that hadto be choppedfor the dailyste\r.He saidI waslucky,
that I would be working for Bonapartehimselfl,and for one
brief;,bright momentI imagineda training as a pastrycook
buildingdelicatetowersof sugarandcream.Wewalkedtowards
a smalltentwith two impassiveguardsby the flaps.
tBonaparte'sownstoreroomr' saidthe cook.
The spacefrom the groundto the domeof the canvaswils
rackedwith roughwoodencagesabouta foot sqwre with tiny
corridorsrunning in benn'een, hardly the width of a man. In
eachcagetherewere two or threebirds, beaksand clawscut
 THE PASSION

off, saring throughthe slatswittr dumbidenticaleyes.I amno

cou'ardand I've seenplenty of convenientmutilationon our
farmsbut I wasnot preparedfor the silence.Not evena rustle.
They couldhavebeendead,shouldhavebeendead,but for the
eyes.The cookturnedto go.'Your iob is to clearthemout and
uningtheir necks.'

I slippedawayto the docks,andbecause the stonewaswarmin

that earlyApril andbecauseI hadbeentravellingfor daysI fell
asleepdreamingof dnrmsanda red uniform.It wasa bootttrat
wokeme, hard and shinywith a familiarsaddlesmell.I raised
my headandsawit restingon my bellythewayI hadrestedthe
walnutin my palm. The officer didn't look at me, but said,
'You're a soldierno\il and you'll get plenty of oppornrnityto
sleepin the openair. On your feet.'
He lifted his foot ffid, as I scrambledup, kickedme hard
and still looking straight atreadsaid, 'Finn buttocks,that's
something.'
I heardof his reputationsoonenoughbut he neverbothered
me.I ttrinkthe chickensmellkepthim away.

I washomesickfrom the start I missedmy mother.f missed

the trill wherethe sun slantsacrossthe vdley. I misseddl the
everyday thingsI had hated.In springat homethe dandelions
streakthe fieldsand the river nrns idle againafter monthsof
rain. Whenthe armyrecruiment cameit wasa bravebandof
us who laughedandsaidit wastimewe sawmorethanthe red
barnandthe co$rswe hadbirthed.We signedup straightaway
and thoseof us who couldn'tunite madean optimisticsmear
on the page.
Our villageholdsa bonfireeveryyearat the end of winter.
We had beenbuilding it for weeks,all as a cathedralwith a
blasphemous spireof brokensnaresandinfestedpallets.There
would be plentyof wine and dancingand a sweetheart in the
 THE EMPEROR

dark and becausewe were leavingwe were allowedto light it.

fu the sun went dorvnwe plunged our five burning brands into
the heart of the pyre. My mouth went dry as I heard the wood
ake and splinteruntil the first flamepushedits wayout. I wished
I were a holy man then with an angel to protect me so I could
iump inside the fue and see my sins burned away. I go to
confessionbut there'sno fenour there. Do it from the heart or
not at all.
We're a lukewarmpeoplefor all our feastdaysand hardwork.
Not much touchesus, but we long to be touched.We lie awake
at night wiling the darknessto part and showus a vision. Our
children frighten us in their intimacy, but we make sure they
gro\il up like us. Lukewarm like us. On a night like this, hands
and faceshog we can believethat tomorrow will shorvus angels
in iars and that the well-knov"n woods will suddenly reveal
anotherpath.
Last time we had this bonfire, a neighbour tried to pull down
the boardsof his house.He saidit wasnothingbut a stinkingpile
ofdung dried meatand lice. He saidhe wasgoingto burn the lot.
His wife wasftgging at his anns. She wasa big woman, usedto
the churn and the field, but shecouldn't stophim. He smashed
his fist into the seasonedwooduntil his handlookedlike a skinned
larrb's head.Then he lay by the fue all night until the earlywind
coveredhim in coolingash.He neverspokeofit. We neverspoke
ofit. He doesn'tcometo the bonfire anymore.
I sometimeswonder why none of us tried to stop him. I think
we wanted him to do ig to do it for us. To tear doum our
long-houredlives and let us start again.Clean and simplewith
open hands.It wouldn't be like that, no more than it could have
beenlike that when Bonaparteset fue to half of Europe.
But what other chancehad we?

Morning cameand we marchedawaywith our parcelsof bread

and ripe cheese.There were tearsfrom the women and the men
 THE PASSION

slappedus on the backand said soldieringis a fine life for a

boy.Onelittle gul whoalwap followedmearoundpulledat my
hand,her eyebrows closetogetherwith worry.
'Will youkill people,Henri?'
I droppeddown besideher. 'Not people,Louise, iust the
enemy.t
'Whatis enemy?'
'Someone who'snot onyourside.'

We wereon our wayto ioin the Armyof Englandat Boulogne.

Boulogne, a sleepynothingportwith a handfulofwhorehouses,
suddenlybecamethe springboard of Empire.Onlytwentymiles
away,easyto seeon a clearday,wasEnglandandher arrogance.
We knewaboutthe English;how they ate their children and
ignoredthe BlessedVirgin. Hon' theycommittedsuicidewittt
unseemlycheer lness.The Englishhavethe highestsuicide
rate in Europe.I got that straightfrom a priesuThe English
with their JotrnBull beefand frothingbeer.The Englishwho
are evennow waist-highin the watercoff Kent practisingto
drownthe bestannyin theworld.
We areto invadeEngland.
Bonaparte
All Francewill berecruitedifnecessary. will snatch
up his countrylike a spongeanduning out everylastdrop.
We arein lovewith hitn.
At Boulogne,thoughmyhopesof drummingheadhighat the
front of a proudcolumnaredashed,I'm still headhigh enough
becauseI knowI'll seeBonapartehimself.He comesregularly
rattlingfromtheTuileriesandscanningtheseaslike anordinary
rnancheckshis rain barrel.Dominothe midgetsaysthat being
nearhim is like havinga grett wind nrsh aboutyour ears.He
salnthat'showMadasredeStlel put it andshe'sfasrousenough
to be right. Shedoesn'tlive in Francenow.Bonapartehadher
exiledbecause shecomplainedabouthim censoringthe theatre
andsuppressing the newspapets.I onceboughta bookof hers
 THE EMPEROR

from a travelling pedlar who'd had it from a ngged nobleman.

I didn't underctandmuch but I learned the word ,intellectual,
which I would like to apply to myself.
Domino laughs at me.
At night I dream of dandelions.

The cook grabbeda chicken from the hook abovehis head and
scoopeda handful of stuffing from the copper bowl.
He was smiling.
'out on
the town tonighg lads, and a night to remember,
I swearit.' He rammed the stufhng inside the bird, trristing his
hand to get an evencoating.
'You've all had
a womanbefore I suppose?'
Most of us blushedand someof us grggled.
'If you haven't
then there'snothing sweeterand if you have,
y.[r Bonapartehimself doesn't tire of the sameuste day after
day.'
He held up the chicken for our inspection.

I had hoped to stay in with the pocket Bible given to me by my

mother as I left. My mother loved God, she said ttrat God and
the virgin were all she neededthough shewas thankful for her
family. I've seenher kneeling before dawn, before ttre milking,
before the thick porridge, arid singlng out loud to God, whoir
she has never seen.We're more or liss religiousin our village
and we honour the priest who tramps sevenmiles to bring is
the wafer,but it doesn'tpierce our hearts.
st Paul said it is better to marry than to burn, but my mother
aught me it is better to burn than to marry. She wanied to be
a nun. She hoped I would be a priest and savedto glve me an
education while my friends plaited rope and trailed after the
plough.
- I can't be a priest becausealttrough my heart is as loud as
hers I can pretend no ans\ileringrioi. I have shouted to God
 THE PASSION

and the Virgin, but they have not shouted back and I'm not
interestedin the still smallvoice. Surely a god can meet passion
with passion?
She sap he can.
Then he should.

My mother's family were not wedthy but they were respectable.

She was brought up quietly on music and suiable literanrre,
and politicswere neverdiscussedat Able, evenwhen the rebels
*etJ breaking down the doors. Her family were monarchists.
When shewastrrelve shetold them that shewantedto be a nun'
but they disliked excessand assuredher that marriagewould
be more fuIfilling. She grew in secre! away from their eyes.
Ounrardly she was obedient and loving, but inside she was
feeding that would havedisgustedthem if disgustitself
"iiotrg.r
were not an excess.She read the lives of saintsand knew most
of the Bible off by heart. She believed that the BlessedVirgin
herself would aid her when the time came.
The time camewhen shewas fifteen, at a cattle fair. Most of
the tov,'nwasout to seethe lumbering bullocks and high-pitched
sheep.Her mother and father were in holiday mood and in a
rash moment her papa pointed to a stout, well-dressednun
carrying a child on his shoulders.He said shecouldn't do better
for a husband. He would be dining with them later and very
much hopedthat Georgette(my mother)would singafter supp€r.
When the cro\ild thickenedmy mother madeher escape,taking
nothing with her but the clothesshe stood in and her Bible that
shealwalncanied. Shehid in a haycartand set offttrat sunburnt
wening out of the tovrn and slowly through_ttrequiet country
until the cart reachedthe village of my bi!'th. Quite without fear,
becauseshe believed in the power of the Virgin, hY mother
presentedherself to Claude (my fatlrer) and askedto be aken
io the nearestconvent. He was a slow-witted but kindly illan'
ten yearsolder than her, and he offered her a bed for the night'
 THE EMPEROR

thinking to take her homethe next day and rnaFe collect a

reward.
Sheneverwenthomeandsheneverfoundtheconventeither.
The daysturnedinto weeksand shewasafraidof her father,
who sheheardwasscouringthe areaandleavingbribesat any
religioushouseshe passed.Three monthswent by and she
discoveredthat shehad a waywith plantsand that shecould
quiet frightenedanimals.Claudehardlyeverspoketo her and
neverbotheredher,but sometimes shewouldcatchhim watch-
ing her, sandingstill with his handshadinghis eyes.
one nisht, late,assheslept,shehearda apping at the door
and nrrningup her lamp sawclaude in the doorvay.He had
shaved,hewaswearinghis nighahirt andhe smelledof carbolic
soap.
'\Mill youmarryme, Georgette?'
she shookher headand he went away,returningnow and
againas time continued,alwaysstandingby the door, clean
shavenandsmellingof soap.
she saidyes.She couldn'tgo home.she couldn'tgo to a
colventsolongasherfatherwasbribingeveryMotherSuperior
with a mind to a newdtar piece,but shecouldn'tgo on living
with this quiet num and his alkative neighbourcunlesshL
marriedher. He got into bed besideher and strokedher face
andtakingher handput it to his face.Shewasnot afraid.She
believedin the po\ilerof the Virdln.
After ttraqwheneverhewantJdher, he apped at the doorin
just the samewayandwaiteduntil shesaidyes.
Then I wasborn.
Shetold meaboutmygrandparents andtheir houseandtheir
piano,anda shadowcrossedher eyeswhenshethoughtI would
neverseethem,but I liked my anonymity.Everyoneelsein the
villagehad stringsof relationsto pick fights *ittr and know
about I madeup storiesaboutmine. Th.y were whateverI
wantedthemto be depending on my mood.

II
 THE PASSION

Thanls to my mother'seffortsandthe rustyscholarlinessof

ourpriestI learnedto readin myovmlang,rage, LatinandEnglish
andI learnedarithmetic,the rudimentsof first aid andbecause
the priestalsosupplemented his meagreincomeby bettingand
Fmbling I learnedeverycardganeanda fewtricks.I nwer told
mymotherthatthepriesthada hollon'Biblewith apackof cards
inside.Sometimes he tookit to our seniceby misakeandthen
the readingwasatwap from the first chapterof Genesis.The
villagersttroughthelorredthecreationstory.He wasa goodrurn
but lukewarm.I wouldhavepreferreda burningJesuit,perhaps
thenI mighthavefoundtheextasyI needto believe.
I askedhim why he wasa priesgand he saidif you haveto
work for anybodyan absentee bossis best.
lVe fishedtogettrerand he pointedout the girls he wanted
and askedme to do it for him. I neverdid. I cameto women
late like my father.

When I left, Mother didn't cqr. It ynasClaudewho cried. She

g4veme her little Bible,the onethat shehadkeptfor so many
yeas, andI promisedher I wouldreadie
'New
The cooksawmy hesiationandpokedmewittt a skewer.
to it, lad?Don't be afraid.Thesegirls I knon' arc cleanas a
whistleandwide asthe fieldsof France.'I got ready'washing
myselfall overwith carbolicsoap.

Bonaparte, the Corsican.Bornin 1769'a Leo.

Short, pde, moody,with an eyeto the funrreanda singular
abilityto concentrate. In 1789ra'olution openeda closedworld
andfor a time the meanest streetboyhadmoreon his sidethan
any aristocraLFor a youngLieutenantskilledin artillery,tlre
chanceswerekind and in a few yearsGenerd Bonapartewas
turningItaly into ttre fieldsof France.

l2
 THE EMPEROR

'\ilhat is luck', he said, 'but

the ability to exploit accidents?'
He believedhe was the centre of the world and for a long time
there wasnothing to changehim from this belief. Not evenJohn
Bull. He was in love with himself and France ioined in. It was
a romance. Perhaps all romance is like thaq not a contract
betweenequal partiesbut an explosionof dreamsand desires
that can find no outlet in everydaylife. only a drama will do
and while the fireworla last the sky is a different colour. He
becamean Emperor.He calledthe Popefrom the Holy city to
cro\iln him but at the last secondhe took the crown in his own
hands and placed it on his ovrn head. He divorced the only
pe$on who understoodhim, the onlypersonhe everreallyloved,
becauseshe couldn't give him a child. That was the only part
of the romancehe couldn't manageby himself.
He is repulsiveand fascinatingby turns.
what would you do if you were an Emperor?would soldiers
becomenumberc?Would battlesbecomediagrams? Would intel-
lectualsbecomea threat?Would you end your dayson an island
where the food is saltyand the companybland?
He was the most powerful man in the world and he couldn't
beatJos6phineat billiards.
I'm telling you stories.Trust me.

The brothel was run by a giantessfrom Sweden.Her hair was

yellowlike dandelionsand like a living rug it coveredher knees.
Her anns were bare, the dressshewore had the sleevespushed
up and fastenedwith a pair of garters. Around her neck on a
leather thong she kept a flat-faced wooden doll. she saw me
staring at it and drawing my head close forced me to sniff it. It
smelledof musk and strangeflowers.
'From Martinique,
like Bonaparte'sJosCphine.'
I smiled and said, 'vive notre dame de victoires,' but the
giantesslaughedandsaidthatJosdphinewould neverbecrowned

r3
 THE PASSION

in WesUninsteras Bonapartehad promised.The cook told her

sharply to mind her words, but she had no fear of him and led
us to a cold stoneroom furnishedwith pallet beds and a long
table stackedwith iars of red wine. I had erpectedred velvetthe
way the priest had describedtheseseatsof temporarypleasure,
but therewasno softnesshere,nothingto disgUiseour business.
When the womencamein theywere older than I had imagined'
not at all like the pictures in the priest's book of sinful things.
Not snake-like,EveJike with breastslike apples,but round and
resigned,hair thrown into hastybundles or drapedaround their
shoulders.My companionsbrayed and whistled and shovedthe
wine down their throats straight from the ian. I wanted a cup
of waterbut didn't know how to ask.
The cook moved first, slapping a woflIan on the rump and
making someioke about her corset.He still wore his fat-sAined
boots. The others started to pair off leaving me with a patient
black-toothedwomanwho had ten ringSon one finger.
'I've that I
iust ioined up,' I told her, hoping she'd realise
didn't know what to do.
'That's what they all say,they think it
She pinched my cheek.
must be cheaper first time. Hard work I cdl it' like teaching
billiards without a cue.' She looked over at the cook, who was
squatting on one of the pallets trying to ge! lris cock out. His
l"b*rn knelt in front of him, her armsfolded.Suddenlyhe slap-
the talk for a moment.
- her agoss the faceandthe snapkilled
ped
,Help me, you bitch, put your hand in, can't You, or are you
afraid of eels?'
I saw her lip curl and the red mark on her cheek glowed
despiteher rough skin. She didn't answer,iust pokgdher hand
into his trouseri and brought it out like a ferret by the neck'
'In your mouth.t
I wasthinking aboutPorridge.
'Fine man your friend,' saidmy woman'
I wanted to go to him and ram his face in the blanket until

r4
 THE EMPEROR

he had no breath left. Then he came with a great bellow and

flopped bachn'ardson his elbows.His woman got up and very
deliberatelyspatin the bowl on the floor, then rinsed her mouth
with wine and spat that out too. she was noisy and the cook
heard and askedher what shewas doing throwing his sperm to
the sewersof France.
'What elsewould
I do with it?'
He cametowardsher with his fist raisedbut it neyerfell. My
womansteppedforward and coshedhim on the back of the head
with a wine iar. She held her companion for a moment and
kissedher swiftly on the forehead.
She would never do that to me.
I told her I had a headacheand went to sit outside.
We carried our leaderhome aking nrns in fours to bear him
like a coffin on our shoulders,face dovr'nin casehe vomited. In
the morning he swagBeredover to the officers and boastedhon,
he'd madethe bitch srrallorrhim whole and how her cheekshad
filled out like a rat's when she took him.
'\Mhat happened your
to head?'
'Fell over
on the way back ' he said, looking at me.

He went out whoring most nishs but I never went with him
again. Apart from Domino and Patric\ the de-frocked priest
l'ittr the eagle eye, I hardly spoke to anyone.I spent mt time
learning how to snrff a chicken and slow don'n ttre cooking
process.I waswaiting for Bonaparte.
At lasg on a hot morning when the sea left salt cmters in
betweenthe dock stones,he came.He cirmewith his Generals
Murat and Bernadotte. He came wittr his new Admiral of ttre
Fleet. He camewith his wife, whose grace made the roughest
in the camp polish his boots rwice. But I saw no onJ but
him. For years,ily mentor, the priest who had supported the
Revolution, told me that Bonaparte was perhapr trr. Son of
God comeagain.I learned his battlesand ia-prignr insteadof

r5
 THE PASSION

historyandgeography. I havelain with the prieston an old and

impossiblyfoldedmapof theworld lookingat theplaceshe had
goneandwatchingthe frontiersof Francepushslowlyout.The
priestcarrieda drawingof Bonapartenextto his drawingof the
BlessedVirgin andI grewupwith both,unknownto mymother,
who remaineda monarchistandwhostill prayedfor the soulof
IVIarieAntoinette.
I wasonly five whenthe RevolutionturnedParisinto a free
man'scity andFranceinto the scourgeof Europe.Our village
wasnot vety far downthe Seine,but we mighthavebeenliving
on the m(x)n.No one reallyknewwhatwashappeningexcept
thatKing andQueenwereimprisoned.We reliedon gossip,but
the priestcreptbackand forttr relyingon his cloth to savehim
fromthe cannonor theknife.The villagewasdivided.Most felt
King andQueenareri$t thoughKing andQueenhadno care
for us, exceptasrwenueandscenery.But thesearemywords,
Aught to meby a clerterrtumwhostasno respecterof persoru.
For the mostpart, my friendsin the couldnot speakof
"illage
their uneiuie,but I sawit in their shouldersastheyroundedup
the cattle,siln it in their facesastheylistenedto the priestin
church.We weredwayshelpless,whoeverwasin pos'er.
The priest said we were living in the last da1n,that the
Revolutionwouldbringforth a n€wMessiahandthemillerurium
on earth.He nEyerwent as far asthat in church.He told me.
Not the others.Not Claudewith his pails,not Jacquesin the
darkwi& his sn'eetheart, not my motherwith her prayett.He
took me on his knees,holdingme againstttre blackcloth that
smelledof ageandhan andtold menot to be afraidof nrmours
in our villagethat weryonein Pariswaseitherstarvingor dead.
'Christ said he cirmenot to bring peacebut a sn'ord,Henrtt
rememberthaL'
As I gfewolderandthenrbulent timessettledinto something
like calm, Bonapartebeganto makea nirmefor himself.We
calledhim otr Emperorlong beforehe had takenthat tide to

r6
 THE EMPEROR

himself.And on our wayhomefrom the makeshiftchurchin

the duskin winter,the priestlookedtowardsthe trackthat led
awayandheld my ann too tight. 'He'll call your'he whispered,
'like GodcalledSamuel you'll go.'
and
we werenot hainingon the dayhe came.He caughtus out,
prgtably on purpose,andwhenttre first exhausted messenger
gallopedinto the campwarningusthatBonaparte wastravelling
non-stopandwouldarrivebeforenoonweweresprawledin our
shirt-sleeves drinkingcoffeeandplayingdice.The olficerswere
wild with fear and beganorganisingtheir men as thougtrthe
Englishthemselves had landed.There wasno receptionpre-
paredfor him, his speciallydesignedbivouachouseda pair of
cannonandthe cookwasblind drunk.
'You.' I wasseizedby a
capain I did not recognise.'Do
somethingaboutthe birds.Nevermindyour uniform,you'll be
busywhilewe'reon parade.'
so this wasig no gloryfor me,iust a pile of deadbirds.
In myrageI filled up thelargestfish-kettleI couldandpoured
coldwaterall overthe cook.He didn't stir.
fui hour later,whenthe birdsweresaggeredon the spis to
cookin their turn, the Capain camebackveryagiatedandtold
methatBonaparte wantedto inspectthekitchens.It wasalways
a featureof his to interesthimselfin everydeait of his ermy,
but this wasinconvenient
'Get that rnanout
of here,' orderedthe capain as he left
The cookweighedaroundzoo lbs, I wasscarcelyr2o. I tried
raising his upper body and dragginghim, but I could only
numagpa helplessshuffle.
If I hadbeena prophetandthis cookthe heathenagentof a
fdse gd I could haveprayedto the Lord and had a host of
angelsmoyehim. As it wos,Dominocameto my aidwith some
talk aboutEgSpt
I knewaboutEglpt becauseBonapartehadbeenthere.His
EsJptiancampaign,doomedbut brave,wherehe hadremained

r7
 THE PASSION

immunefrom the plagueandthe feverandriddenmilesin the

dustwithouta drop of water.
'How couldher' the priesthad said,'if he isn't protectedby
God?'
It wasDomino'splanto raisethe cookthewaythe Egptians
raisedtheir obelisks,with a fulcrum, in our q$e an oar. We
leveredthe oarunderhis bacb thendug a pit at his feet
'Now,' saidDomino.'Nl our weighton the end of the oar
andhe'll goup.'
It wasLazarusbeingraisedfrom the dead.
We got him sandingandI wedgedthe oar beneathhis belt
to stophim fallingover.
'Whatdo we do now,Domino?'
Whilewestoodon eithersideof this moundof flesh,the tent
flap parted and the Capain strode in, very proper. Colour
drainedfrom his faceasthoughsomeonehadpulleda plug in
his throat.He o,pened his mouthandhis moustache movedbut
thatwasall.
Pushingpasthim wasBonaparte.
He walked trrice round our extribit and askedwho he
was.
'The cook,Sir.A little bit drunk,Sh.Thesemenwereremw-
ing him.'
I wasdesperate to get to the spit whereoneof the chickens
wasalreadyburning,but Domino steppedin front of me and,
speakingin a roughlanguagehe latertold mewasBonaparte's
Corsicandialect,he somehowexplainedwhat had happened
and hon' we had done our best on the lines of his Egyptian
campaigR. When Dominohad done,Bonapartecameton'ards
me andpinchedmy earsothat it wasswollenfor dap.
'You see,Captainr'he said, 'this is what makesmy anny
invincible,theingenuityanddetermination of eventhehumblest
soldier.'The Capain smiledweaklnthen Bonapartenrrnedto
me. 'You'll seegreatthingpand you'll eat your dirureroff an

r8
 THE EMPEROR

En$ishman'splatebeforelong.Capain, seeto it that this boy

waitson mepersonally. Therewill be noweaklints in myanny,
trwantmy attendants to be asreliableasmy Generds.Domino,
we areriding this afternoon.'

I wrote to my friend the priest sraight away.This wasmore

perfectthananyordinarymiracle.I hadbeenchosen.I didn't
foreseethat the cook would becomemy sn'orn enemy.By
nighdal most of the camphad heardthe story and had em-
broideredit, sothatwe hadburiedthe cookin a trench,beaten
him unconscious, or mostbizaneof all,thatDominohadworked
a spellon him.
'If onlyI knewhowr'he said.'\Mecouldhavesavedoursehes
the digging.'
The coob who soberedup with a thumpingheadand in a
wotsetemperthan usual,couldn't stepoutsidewithout some
soldierwinkingandpokingat him. Finallyhe cameto whereI
satwith my little Bibleandgrabbedme closeby the collar.
'You ttrink you'resafebecauseBonapartewanByou.You're
safenow,but thereareyearsahead.'
He pushedme backagainstthe onionsacksand spatin my
face.It wasa longtimebeforewemetagainbecause theCapain
hadhim traruferredto the storesoutsideBoulogne.
'Forgethirn' saidDominowhenwe watchedhim leaveon
the backof a cart.
It's hard to rememberthat this daywill nevercomeagain.
That the time is now and the placeis hereand that there are
no secondchancesat a singlemoment.During the daln ttrat
Bonapartesayed in Boulognetherewasa feelingof urgency
andprivilege.He wokebeforeus andsleptlong afterus, going
througheverydeail of our trainingand rallyingus personally.
He stretchedhis handtorvardsthe ChannelandmadeEngland
soundas thoughshealreadybelongedto us. To eachof us.
That washisgift. He becamethefocusof our lives.The thought

r9
 THE PASSION

of fightingexcitedus.No onewanrsto bekilledbut thehardship,

the longhours,the cold,the ordemwerethingswewouldhave
enduredanywayon the farrnsor in the towns.We werenot free
men.He madesenseout of dullness.
The ridiculousflat-bottomedbargesbuilt in their hundreds
tookonthecertaintyofgalleons. Whenweputouttoseqpractising
for that treacherous twenty-milectossing,we no longermade
iokesaboutshrimpingnetsor howthesehrbswouldbetterserve
washemomen. While he stoodon the shoreshoutingorderswe
put our facesto thewindandlet ourheartsgooutto him.
The bargeswere designedto carry sixty men and it was
reckonedthat zo,oooof us would be lost on the way over or
pickedoff by ttre Englishbeforewe landed.Bonapartettrought
them god odds,he wasusedto losingthat numberin battle.
Noneof us worriedaboutbeingoneof the zo,ooo.We hadn't
ioinedup to worry.
Accordingto his plan, if the French nalrycould hold the
Channelfor itst sixhours,he couldlandhis armyandEngland
wouldbe his. It seemedabsurdlyeasy.Nelsonhimselfcouldn't
outwit us in six hours.We laughedat the Englishand mostof
us hadplansfor our visit there.I particularlywantedto visit the
Tou'er of Londonbecausethe priesthad told me it wasfull of
orphans;bastardsof aristocraticdescentwhose parentsweretoo
ashamedto keepthemat home.We're not like that in France,
we welcomeour children.
Domino told me that we were rumouredto be digginga
tunnelreadyto pop up like molesin the Kentishfields.'It took
us an hour to dig a foot pit for your friend.'
Other stories concerneda balloon landing, a man-fuing
cdlnon anda plan to blowup the Housesof Parliamentiust as
Guy Fawkeshadnearlydone.The balloonlanditSwasthe one
the Englishwereaking the mostseriouslyaod,to preventus,
theybuilt tall ton'ersdong the CinquePorts,to spotus andto
shootus dovm.
 THE EMPEROR

All folln but I think if Bonapartehad asked us to strap on

wings and fly to St James's Palacewe would have set off as
confidently as a child lets loosea kite.

Without him, during nights and dayswhen affairs of sate took

him back to Paris, our nights and dap were different only in
the amount of light they let in. For myself,with no one to love,
a hedgehogspirit seemedbest and I hid my heart in the leaves.

I have a \ilay s'ith priests, so it came as no surprise that dong

with Domino, my friend shouldbe Patrick,the de-frockedpriest
with the eagleeye,imported from lreland.
h ,799, when Napoleonwas still vying for power, General
Hoche,a schoolboys'heroand onetimelover of MadameBona-
parte, had landed in Ireland and almost succeededin defeating
John Bull outright. During his say he hearda storyabouta certain
disgracedpriest whoseright eyewasiust like yours or mine, but
whoseleft eyecould put the best telescopeto strasre.Indeed he
hadbeenforcedout ofthe churchfor squintingatyounsgrls from
the bell tonrer.Whatpriest doesn'tl But in Patrick's case,thanks
to the miraculouspropertiesof his eye,no bosomwassafe.A girl
might be undressingnro villagesaway,but ifthe eveningwasclear
and her shuttemwerebackshemight iust aswell havegoneto the
priestand lain her underclothesat his feet.
Hoche, a uun of the world, wil$iscepticalof old wives' tales,
but soon found that the women were wiser than he. Though
Patrick at first denied the chargeand the men laughedand said
women and their fanasies, the women looked at the earth and
said they knew when they were being watched.The Bishop had
taken them seriously,not becausehe believedthe talk about
Patrick's eye,but prefening the smoothshapesof his choirboys
he found the affair exceedinglyrepulsive.
A priest should havebener things to do than look at women.
Hoche, caught in this web of hearsaStook Patrick drinking

2l
 THE PASSION

till the man could hardly stand, then half-walked, half-carried

him to a hillock that afforded a clear view acrossthe valley for
somemiles. They sat togetherand, while Paaick dozed,Hoche
pulled out a red flag and wavedit for a couple of minutes. Then
nudging Patrick awakehe commented,as one would, on the
splendideveningand the beautiful scenery.Out of courtesyto
his host Patrick forced himself to follow the sweepof Hoche's
ann, muttering somethingabout the Irish having been blessed
\ilith their portion ofparadiseon earth.Then he proppedhimself
forward, screwedup one eye,and in a voice ashushedand holy
as the Bishop's at communion said, 'Would you look at that
now?'
'At what, that falcon?'
'Never mind the falcon,
she'sas strong and brown as a co\r.'
Hoche could seenothing, but he knew what Patrick could see.
He had paid a tart to undressin a field somefifteen miles away,
and placedhis men at regular intervalswith their red flags.
When he left for France he took Patrick with hirn.
At Boulogne, Patrick was usually to be found, like Simeon
Stylites, on the top of a purpose-built pillar. From there he
could look out acrossthe Channeland report on the whereabouts
of Nelson's blockading fleet and warn our practising troops of
any English threat French boae that strayedtoo far out of the
harbourradiuswerelikely to be pickedoffwittr a sharpbroadside
if the English were in the mood for patrolling. In order to alert
us, Patrick had been given an Alpine horn as all as a nriur. On
foggy nights this melancholy sound resounded as far as the
Dover cli{fs, fuelling the rumour that Bonapartehad hired the
Devil himself as a look-out.
How did he feel aboutworking for the French?
He preferred it to working for the English.

Without Bonaparteto care for I spent much of my time with

Patrick on the pillar. The top of it was about twenty feet by

22
 THE EMPEROR

fifteen, so there was room to play cards. SometimesDomino

cameup for a boxingmatch.His unusualheightwasno disadvan-
tage to him and, dthough Patrick had fists like cannonballs,he
neveroncelandeda blow on Domino, whosetacticwasto iump
about until his opponent sarted to tire. Judg*S his moment,
Domino hit once and once only, not with his fists but with both
feet, hurling himself sidewaysor bachrards or pushing offfrom
a lightning handsand. These were play l matches,but I\e
seenhim fell an ox simply by leaping at its forehead.
'If you were my size,Henri, you'd learn to look after yourself,
you wouldn't rely on the good nahrreof others.'
Looking out from the pillar I let Patrick describeto me the
activity on deck beneath the English sails. He could see the
Admirals in their white leggingsand the sailorsrunning up and
down the rigging dtering the sail to makethe most of the wind.
There wereplentyof floggings.Patricksaidhe sawa man'sback
lifted offin one cleanpiece.They dippedhim in the seato save
him from nrrning septic and left him on deck staring at the sun.
Patricksaid he could seethe weevilsin the bread.
Don't believethat one.

Jub zoth, r8o4. Too early for dawnbut not night either.
There's a restlessness in the trees, out at sea,in the camp.
The birds and we are sleepingfitfu[y, wantingto be asleepbut
tense\ilith the idea of awakening.In maybehalf an hour, that
familiar cold grey light Then the sun. Then the seagullscrying
out over the water. I get up at ttris time most days.I walk dovr'n
to the port to watch the shipstethered like dogs.
I wait for the sun to slashthe water.
The last nineteen days have been millpond days. We have
dried our clotheson the burning stonesnot peggedthem up to
the wind, but today my shirt-sleevesare whipping rourd my
anrurand the shipsare listing badly.
We are on parade today. Bonaparte arrives in a couple of

23
 THE PASSION

hoursto watchus put out to sea.He wans to launch25rooo

menin fifteenminutes.
He will.
This suddenweatheris uneryected.If it woreensit will be
impossibleto risk the Channel.
Patricksap the ctrannelis full of merrraids.He salnit's the
mermaidslonelyfor a manthatpull softmy of us doum.
watching the white cresb slappingagninstthe sidesof the
ships,I wonderif this mischiefstonnis their doing?
Optimisticallnit maypass.

Noon. The rain is runningoffour nosesdownour iackesinto

our boots.To talk to the next nun I haveto cup my hands
aroundmy mouth. The wind has alreadyloosenedscoresof
barges,forcingmen out chestdeepinto the impossiblewaters,
rnakinga nonseruie of our bestknots.The ofhcerssaywe can't
risk a practicetoday,Bonaparte,with his coatpulledroundhis
head,sa)6we can.We will.

JulVzoth, r8o4. Two thousandmenweredron'nedtoday.

In galesso strongthat Patrickas look-outhad to be tied to
barrelsof apples,we discoveredthat our bargesare children's
tqnsafter all. Bonapartestood on the docksideand told his
officersthatno stormcoulddefeatus.
'Why,if the heavens fell doumwewouldhold themup on the
pointsof our lances.'
Perhaps.But there'sno will and no weaponthat can hold
backthe sea.
I laynextto Patricb flat andstrapped,hardb seeingat dl for
the spranbut everygapthe wind left shon'edme anothergap
wherea boathadbeen.
The mersraidswon't be lonelyanymore.
We shouldhavenrrnedon him, shouldhavelaughedin his
face,shouldhaveshookttredead-men-seaweed-hair in his face.
 THE EMPEROR

But his face is alwap pleadingwith us to prove him right.

At night when the storm had dropped and we were left in
soddentents with steamingbowls of coffee, none of us spoke
out.
No one said, Let's leavehim, let's hate him. We held our
bowls in both handsand drank our coffeewith the brandy ration
he'd sent speciallyto everyman.
I had to servehim that night and his smile pushed awaythe
madnessof arms and legs that pushedin at my earsand mouth.
I was coveredin dead men.
In the morning, 2,ooo new recruits marchedinto Boulogne.

Do you ever think ofyour childhood?

I think of it when I smellponidge. Sometimesafter Ite been
by the docks I walk into town and use my nose tracking fresh
bread and bacon.Always,passinga particular house,that sits
like the others in a sort of row, and is the sameas them, I smell
the slow smell of oae. Sweet but with an edge of salt. Thick
like a blanket. I don't knon' who lives in the house, who is
responsible,but I imagine the yellow fire and the black pot. At
home we used a copper pot that I polished, loving to polish
anythingthat would keep a shine. My mother made porridge,
leaving the oats overnight by the old fire. Then in the morning
when her bellows work had sent the sparks shooting up the
chimnen she burned the oats brown at the sides,so that the
sideswerelike brownpaperlining the pot and the insideslopped
white over the edge.
We trod on a flag floor but in the winter she put dovrn hay
and the hay and the oats madeus smell like a maRger.
Most of my friends ate hot breadin the mornings.
I was happy but happy is an adult word. You don't have to
ask a child about hrppy, you see it. They are or th.y are not.
Adults alk about being happy becauselargely they are not.
Talking about it is the sameas rying to catch the wind. Much

25
 THE PASSTON

easierto let it blow all over you. This is where I disagreewith

the philosophers.Thry alk about passionatethings but there is
no passionin them. Never talk happinesswith a philosopher.
But I'm not a child any more and often the Kingdom of
Heaveneludesme too. Now, words and ideaswill alwap slip
themselvesin betweenme and the feeling. Even our birthright
feeling which is to be happy.
This morning I smell the oatsand I seea little boy watching
his reflectionin a copperpot he's polished.His father comesin
and laughsand offers him his shavingmirror instead.But in the
shavingmirror the boy can only seeone face.In the pot he can
seeall the distortionsof his face. He seesmany possiblefaces
and so he seeswhat he might become.

The recruits have arrived, most without moustaches,all with

applesin their cheeks.Fresh country produce like me. Their
faces are open and eager. They're being fussed over, gwen
uniforms and duties to replacethe yell for the milk pail and the
insistentpigs. The ofhcersshakehandswith them; a grown-up
thing to do.
No one mentionsyesterday'sparade.We're dry, the tentsare
dryrng the soakedbargesare upflrned in the dock. The seais
innocentand Patrick on his pillar is shavingquietly. The recruie
arebeing dividedinto regiments;friends are separatedon prin-
ciple. This is a new start. These boysare men.
What souvenirsthey have brought from home will soon be
lost or eaten.
Odd, the differencethat a few monthsmakes.When I came
here I was iust like them, still am in many wrys, but my
companionsare no longer the shy boyswith cannon-fire in their
eyes.They are rougher, tougher. Naturally you say,that's what
army life is about.
It's about somethingelse too, somethinghard to alk about.
When we came here, we came from our mothers and our

z6
 THE EMPEROR

sweethearts.We were still usedto our mothercwith their work-

hard anns that could clout the strongestof us and leaveour ears
ringrng. fud we courted our sweetheartsin the country way.
Slow, with the fields that ripen at harvest. Fierce, with the
sowsthat rut the earth. Here, without women, with only our
imaginationsand a handful of whores,we can't rememberwhat
it is about women that can nrrn a man through passion into
something holy. Bible words again, but I am thinking of my
father who shaded his eyes on those sunburnt eveningsand
learned to take his time with my mother. I am thinking of my
mother with her noiqyheart and of all the^womenwaiting in the
fields for the men t"ho drowned yesterdayand all ttre mothers'
sonswho haveaken their place.
We never think of them here. We think of their bodies and
now and then we talk about home but we don't think of them
as they are; the most solid, the best loved,the well knovrn.
They go on. Whateverwe do or undo, they go on.

There was a man in our village who liked to think of himself as

an inventor. He spent a lot of time with pulleys and bits of rope
and oflcuts of wood making devicesthat could raise a co\il or
layrngpipes to bring the river water right into the house. He
was a man with light in his voice and an easy way with his
neighbours.Used to disappointrnent,he could alwaysilssuage
the disappointrnentin others.And in a villagesubiectto the rain
and sun there are many disappoinunents.
All the while that he inventedand re-inventedand cheered
us up, his wife, who neverspokeexceptt<isay,'Dinner's ready',
workedin ttre fields and kept houseffid, becausethe man liked
his bed, shewassoonbringing up six children too.
Once, he went to town for a few months to try and make his
fornrne and when he came back wift no fornrne and without
their savings,shewas sining quietly in a clean housemending
cleanclothesand the fields wereplantedfor anotheryear.
 THE PASSION

Youcantell I likedthis man,andI'd bea fool to sayhe didn't

work,thatwedidn't needhim andhis optimisticways.But when
shedied,suddenlnat noon,the light went out of his voiceand
his pipesfilled with mud and he couldhardlyharvesthis land
let alonebring up six children.
Shehadmadehim possible.In ttratsenseshewashis god.
Like God,shewasneglected.

New recruitscry when they comehere and they think about

their mothersandtheir sweethearts andtheythink aboutgoing
home.They rememberwhat it is abouthomettrat holdstheir
hears;not sentimentor shou'but facestheylove.Most of these
recruitsaren'tseventeen andthey'reaskedto do in a fewweeks
whatvexesthe bestphilosophers for a lifetime;that is, to gather
up their passion for life andmakesenseof it in the faceof death.
They don't knon'hon' but theydo knon'hon' to forget,and
little by little theyput asidethe burningsunmerin their bodies
andall theyhaveinsteadis lust andrage.

It wasafter the disasterat seathat I startedto keepa diary.I

startedsothat I wouldn'tforget.Sottratin laterlife whenI was
proneto sit by the fire andlook bacb I'd havesomethingclear
and sure to set againstmy memorytricks. I told Domino; he
said,'The wayyouseeit nowis no morered thanthewayyou'll
seeit then.'
I couldn'tagreewith him. I knewhorr old menblurred and
lied makingthepastalwa)Ethebestbecause it wasgone.Hadn't
Bonapartesaidsohimself?
'Look at you,t saidDomino,'! youngman broughtup by a
priest and a piousmother.A youngnuurwho can't pick up a
musketto shoota rabbit.What makesyou think you can see
anythingclearly?What grvesyou the right to makea notebook
and shakeit at me in thirty yeans,if we're still dive, and say
you'vegot the truth?'
 THE EMPEROR

'I don't careaboutthe facts,Domino,I careabouthowI feel.

How I feelwill change,I wantto rememberthaL'
He shruggedand left me. He nevertalkedaboutthe funue
and only occasionally, when drunb would he talk about his
marvellous past A pastfilledwith sequinedwomenanddouble-
uiled horsesanda fatherwhomadehis living beingfued from
a ciulnon.He camefrom somewhere in easternEuropeandhis
skinwasthecolourof old olives.Weonlyknewhehadwandered
into Franceby mistake,yearsago,andsavedthe ladyJosdphine
from the hoovesof a runawayhorse.Shewasplain Madame
Beauharnais then, recentlyout of the slimyprison of Carmes
and recentlywidou'ed.Her husbandhad been executedin
the Terror; she had only escapedbecauseRobespierewas
murderedon themorningshewasto follon'him. Dominocalled
her a ladyof goodsenseandclaimedthatin her penniless days
shehad challengedofficersto play her at billiards.If shelost,
theycouldstayto breakfast.If shewon,theywereto payoneof
her morepressingbills.
Sheneverlost.
Yearslater,shehad reconrmended Dominoto her husband
eagerfor a gxoomhe couldkeepandtheyhadfoundhim eating
fire in somesideshow.His loyaltiesto Bonaparteweremixed,
but he lovedbothJos€phine andthe horses.
He told me aboutthe fortunetellershe'd knovmand hont
crowdscameeveryweekto havetheir funrre openedor their
pastrevealed.'But I tell you,Henri, thateverymomentyousteal
from the presentis a momentyou havelost for ever.There's
onlynow.t

I ignoredhim andkeptworkingon my little bookandin August

whenthe sunnrrnedthe grassyellow,Bonaparteannounced his
CoronationthatcomingDecember.
I wasgivenimmediateleave.He told me he'dwantmewith
him afterthat.Told meweweregoingto do greatthings.Told
 THE PASSION

me he liked a smiling facewith his dinner. It's dways been the

way with me; either everyoneignores me, or they take me into
their confidence.At first I thought it was iust priests because
priests are more intense than ordinary people. It's not iust
priests,it must be somethingaboutthe way I look.
When I started working for Napoleon directly I thought he
spokein aphorisms,he neversaida sentencelike you or I would,
it was put like a great thought. I vnote them all dorrn and only
later realisedhow bizarre most of them were. They were lines
from his memorabledeliveriesand I should admit that I wept
when I heardhim speak.Evenwhen I hated him, he could still
make me cry. And not through fear. He was gxeat Greatness
like his is hard to be sensibleabout.
It took me a weekto get home,riding where I could, walking
the rest. News of the Coronationwas spreadingand I saw in
the smilesof the people I travelledwith how welcomeit was.
None of us thought that only fifteen yearsagowe had fought to
do awaywith Kings for ever. That we had sworn never to fight
again exceptin self-defence.Norv we wanted a ruler and we
wanted him to rule the world. We are not an unusualpeople.
In my soldier's uniform I was treated \ilith kindness,fed and
cared for, given the pick of ttre haryest.In renrn I told stories
about the campat Boulogneand how we could seethe English
quakingin their bootson the oppositeshore.I embroideredand
inventedand evenlied. Why not?It madethem happy.I didn't
talk about the men who have married mermaids. All the farm
lads wanted to ioin up straight away,but I advisedthem to wait
until after the Coronation.
'When your Emperor needsyou, he'll call. Until then, work
for Franceat home.'
Naturally, this pleasedthe women.

I had been away six months. When the cart I was riding in
dropped me a mile or so from home I felt like turning back. I
 THE EMPEROR

wasafraid. Afraid that things would be different, that I wouldn't

be welcome.The traveller alwayswants home to be iust as it
was. The traveller expectsto change,to return with a bushy
beard or a new baby or tales of a miraculous life where the
streamsare full of gold and the weather is gentle. I was full of
such stories,but I wanted to know in advancethat my audience
was seated.Skirdng the obvioustrack, I crept up on my village
like a bandit. I had alreadydecidedwhat they should be doing.
That my mother would be iust visible in the potato field, that
my father would be in the cowshed.I was going to run down
the hill and then we'd have aparty. They didn't know to e{pect
me. No messagecould havereachedthem in a week.
I looked.They were both in the fields. My mother with her
hands on her hipr, head pushed back, watching the clouds
gather.She was expectingrain. She was making her plans in
accordancewith the rain. Beside her, my father stood still,
holding a sack in each hand. When I was small, I'd seen my
father with two sacls like that, but ttrey had been full of blind
moles,their whiskerestill rough with dirt. They were dead.We
trappedthem becausethey ruined the fields but I didn't know
that then, I only knew that my father had killed them. It was my
mother who pulled me awayrigrd wift cold from my night vigil.
In the morning the sackswere gone. I've killed them myself
since,but only by looking the other way.

Mother. Father.I love you.

We stayed up late so many nights drinking Claude's rough

cognacand sitting till the fire was the colour of fading roses.
My mother talked about her past with galety, she seemedto
believethat wittr a ruler on the throne much would be restored.
She eventalked about $,riting to her parents. She knew they'd
be celebratingtherenlrn ofamonarch.lwas surprised,Ithought
she'd alwayssupportedthe Bourbons.Becomingan Emperor

3r
 THE PASSION

didn't make this man she'd hated into a man she could love
surely?
'He's doing right, Henri.
A country needs a King and a
Queen,otherwisewho arewe to look up to?'
'You can look up to Bonaparte.
King or not.t
But she couldn't. He knew she couldn't. It was not simple
vanity that wasputting this man on the throne.
When my mother alked about her parents,she harboured
the samehopesas the traveller who returns home. She thought
of them unchanged,describedthe furniture as though nothing
would have been moved or broken in more than twenty years.
Her father's beard was still the samecolour. I understoodher
hopes.We all had somethingto pin on Bonaparte.
Time is a greatdeadener.Peopleforget, gro\il old, get bored.
The mother and father she'd risked her life to escapefrom she
no\trspokeof with affection. Had she forgotten?Had time worn
awayher anger?
She looked at me. 'I'm not so greedyas I get older, Henri. I
takewhat there is and I\e stoppedaskingquestionsaboutwhere
it comesfrom. It givesme pleasureto'think of them. It givesme
pleasureto love them. That's all.'
My face burned. What right had I to challengeher? To take
the light out of her eyesand makeher think of herself as foolish
and sentimenal?I knelt in front of her, my back to the fire, my
chest resting againsther knees.She kept hold of her darning.
'You're like I ws,' she said.'No patience
with a weakheart.'

It rained for da1n.Thin rain that soakedyou in half an hour

without the thrill of a real torrent. I went from home to home
gossipingand seeing friends, helping with whatever had to be
mended or gathered.My friend the priest was on a pilgrimage,
so I left him long lettersof the kind I would mostlike to receive.
I like the early dark. It's not night. It's still companionable.
No one feelsafraid to walk by themselveswithout a lantern. The

32
 THE EMPEROR

girls sing on their way back from the last milking and if I iump
out on them they'll shout and chase me but there'll be no
pounding hearts. I don't know why it is that one kind of dark
lan be io different from another. Real dark is thicker and
quieter, it fills up the spacebenreenyour iacket and your heart.
It getsin your eyes.When I haveto be out late at night, it's not
knivesand kicks I'm afraid of, though there are plenty of those
behind walls and hedges.I'm afraid of the Dark. You, who walk
so cheerfully, whistling your way, stand still for fwe minutes.
Stand still in the Dark in a field or down a track. It's then you
know you're there on sufferance.The Dark only lets you take
one step at a time. Step and the Dark closesround your back.
In front, there is no spacefor you until you take it. Darknessis
absolute. Walking in the Dark is like swimming underwater
exceptyou can't come up for air.
Lie still at night and Dark is soft to the touch, it's made of
moleskin and is such a s\ileetsmotherer.In the country we rely
on the moon, and when the moon is out no light can penetrate
the windou'. The window is walled over and cast in a perfect
black surface.Does it feel the sameto be blind? I used to think
so,but I've beentold not. A blind pedlarwho visitedus regularly
laughedat my storiesof the Dark and saidthe Darkwas his wife.
We bought our pails from him and fed him in the kitchen. He
'I
never spilt his stew or missed his mouth the way I did. can
seer'hesaid,'but I don't usemy eyes.'
He died last winter, 0y mother said.
It's early dark now and this is the last night of my leave.We
won't do anything unusual. We don't want to think that I'm
going again.
I havepromised my mother that she will come to Paris soon
after the Coronation.I've neverbeenmpelf and it's the thought
of that that makesit easierfor me to saygoodbye.Domino will
be there grooming his preposteroushorse, teaching the mad
beastto walk in a quiet line with Court animals.Why Bonaparte

33
 THE PASSION

has insisted on having that horse present at such an imporant

time is not clear. It's a soldier's mount, not a creature for
parades.But he's alwaysremindingus that he's a soldier too.
when claude had finally goneto bed and we were alone,we
didn't alk. We held handsuntil the wick burnt out and rhen we
were in the dark.

Parishad neverseenso much money.

The Bonaparteswere ordering everything from cream to
David. David, who had flattered Napoleon by calling his head
perfecdyRoman,was giventhe commissionto paint the Coron-
ation, and he was to be found each day at Notre-Dame making
cartoonsand arguing with the workmen who were trying to do
awaywith the ravagesof revolution and banknrptcy.Josdphine,
gtvenchargeof the flowers,had not contentedherselfwith vases
and arrangements.She had drav"nup a plan of the route to the
cathedralfrom the palaceand was engagedas intently as David
on her own ephemeralmasterpiece.I fitst encounteredher over
the billiard able, where she was playrngMonsieur Talleyrand,
a gentlemannot gifted \ilith balls. In spite of her dress,which
spread out would easily have made a carpet all the way to the
cathedral,she bent and movedas though she wore nothing at
all, making beautiful parallel lines with her cue. Bonapartehad
dressedme up asa footnranandorderedme to takeher Highness
an afternoon snack. She was fond of melon at four o'clock.
Monsieur Talley:and was to haveport
This holidaymood of Napoleon'swasalmosta madness.He
had appearedat dinner trro nights ago dressedas the Pontiff
and lewdly askedJosdphinehow intimate she would like to be
with God. I staredinto the chicken.
Now, he had me out of my soldier's uniform and in Court
dress.Impossiblytight. It made him laugh. He liked to laugh.
It was his only relaxation apart from those hotter and hotter
baths he took at any time of the day or night. In ttre palacethe
 THE EMPEROR

bathroom staff lived in the samestate of unrest as the kitchen

staff. He might cry out for hot water at any moment, and woe
betide the man on duty if the tub were not iust full, iust so. I'd
only seenthe bathroom once. A great big room with a hrb the
size of a line-ship and a huge furnace in one corner, where the
waterwasheatedand drawnand pouredbackand reheatedover
and over again until the moment came and he wanted it. The
attendantswere speciallychosen from amongstthe best ox-
unestlersin France.Fellowswho could handlethe copperkettles
like tea-cupsworked alone,strippedto the waisgwearingonly
sailor'sbreechesthat caughtthe siweatand held it in dark stripes
dovr'neach leg. Like sailors they had their liquor ration, but I
don't knou'what it was made of. The biggest,Andr6, offered
me a swig from his flask the time I poked my head round the
door, gaspingat the steamand this huge man who looked like
a genie.I acceptedout of politeness,but spat the brown stuff
over the tiles, frantic at the heat. He pinched my arm the way
the cook pinched spaghettistrings and told me that the hotter
it is the honer the liquid you drink.
'\ilhy do you think they drink all that rum in Martinique?'
and he winked broadly, imitating her Highness'swalk. Now,
here she was before me and I was too shy to announce the
melon.
Talleyrand coughed.
'I won't missbecauseyou gnrnt,'she said.
He coughedagainand shelookedup, and seeingme sanding
there put down her cue and movedto take awaymy tray.
'I know all the semants,but I don't know you.'
'I'm from Boulogne,Maiesty.I've cometo sene the chicken.'
She laughedand her eyestravelledup and down my person.
'You don't dresslike a soldier.'
'No, Maiesty.My orderswere to dressas Court now that I'm
at Court.t
She nodded.'I think you might dressanywayyou like. I'll ask
 THE PASSION

him for you.wouldn't you prefer to vait on me?Melon is so

muchsweeterthanchicken.t
I washorrified.Had I comeall this wayiust to losehim?
'No, Maiesty.I couldn't
- do melon.I canonrydo chicken.I've
beentrained.'
(I soundlike a streeturchin.)
Her handrestedon my arm for a second,andher eyeswere
keen.
tI canseehowzealous youare.Go now.t
Thankfully I bowedout bachpardsand ran down to the
servan6'hdl, whereI hada little roomof my o\iln;the privilege
of beinga specialattendant.I keptmy few bookstheri, a flute
I washopingto learnandmy iournal.I wroteabouther or tried
to. she eludedme the way the arts in Boulognehad eluded
me.I decidedto write aboutNapoleoninstead.
After that, I waskeptbuqywirh banquetafterbanquetasall
our conqueredterritoriescameto congratulate the Emperorto
be. While the guestsfilled themselves on rare fish andvealin
newlyinventedsauces,he kept to his chicken,eatinga whole
oneeverynight,usuallyforgettingaboutthevegeables.No one
Evermentionedit. He only neededto coughand the tablefell
silent.Norr andagainI caughther MajestywatchingDe, but if
our eyesmet,shesmiledin that half wayof hersandI dropped
my eyes.Evento look at her wasto wronghim. she belonged
to him. I enviedher that.
In the weeksttrat followedhe grewmorbidlyafraidof being
poisoned or assassinated,not for himselfi,
but because thefuture
of Francewasat stake.He had me tastedl his foodbeforehe
would touchit and he doubledhis guard.Rumourhad it that
heevencheckedhisbedbeforehe slept.Not thathesleptmuch.
He was like a dog, he could closehis eyesand snorein a
moment,but whenhis mind wasfull he wasableto suy awake
for dayswhilehis Generalsandfriendsdroppedaroundhim.
Abruptln at the end of Novemberandonly two weeksfrom

36
 THE EMPEROR

his Coronation, he ordered me back to Boulogne. He said I

lacked a real soldier's training, that I would setre him better
when I could handlea musketaswell asa caryingknife. Perhaps
he saw how I blushed,perhapshe knew my feelings,he knew
thoseof mostpeople.He trreakedmy ear in his maddeningway
and promised there was a specialiob for me in the New Year.
So I left the city of dreamsiust as it was about to flower
and heard second-handreports of that gaudy morning when
Napoleonhad taken the crown from the Pope and placedit on
his own head before crowning Josdphine.They say that he
boughtMadameClicquot'sentire stockfor the wholeyear.With
her husbandlately dead and the whole weight of the business
on her shoulders,she can only have blessedthe return of a
King. She was not alone. Paris threw open everydoor and lit
€verychandelierfor three days.Orly the old and ill botheredto
go to bed, for the rest it wasdrunkennessand madnessand ioy.
Q excludethe aristocrats,but they are not relevant.)
In Boulogne,in the tenible weather,I trained for ten hours
r dry and collapsedat night in a damp bivouacwith a coupleof
inadequateblankets.Our suppliesand conditions had always
been good,but in my absencethousandsmore men had ioined
up, believingthrough the offices of Napoleon'sfenent clergy
that the road to Heavenwasfirst the road to Boulogne.No one
wasexemptfrom conscription.It wasup to the recruitittgofficers
to decidewho should stayand who must go. By Chrisunas,the
camphad swelledto over roo,ooomen and morewereexpected.
We ran with packsthat weighedaround +o lbs, waded in and
out of the sea,fousht one another hand to hand and used all
the availablefarming land to feed ourselves.Even so, it was not
enoughand,in spiteof Napoleon'sdislikeof supplycontractors,
we got most of our meat from namelessregionsand I suspect
from animalsthat Adam would not recognise.Two pounds of
bread,4 oz of meat and 4 oz of vegetableswere rationedto us
daily. We stole what we could, spent our wages,when we had
 THE PASSION

them, on tavern food and wreaked havoc on the communities

who lived quietly round about. Napoleon himself ordered pi-
oandiiresto be sent to specialcamps. Viaandiireis an optimistic
army word. He sent tartswho had no reasonto be aiaantabout
anything.Their food was often worse than ours, they had us as
manyhours of the day aswe could standand the paywils poor.
The well-paddedtown tarts took prty on them and were often
to be seenvisiting the campswith blanketsand loavesof bread.
The ztiaandiirawere runaways,strays,younger daughtersof
too-largefamilies,servantgirls who'd got tired of giving it away
to drunken masters,and fat old dameswho couldn't ply their
trade anyrrhereelse. On arrival they were each gwen a set of
underclothes and a dress that chilled their bosoms in the icy
sea-saltdays.Shawlsweredistributedtoo,but anywomanfound
coveringherself on duty could be reported and fined. Fined
meantno moneythat weekinsteadof hardly anymoney.Unlike
the town hffi, who protected themselvesand charged what
they liked and certainly charged individually, the oiaanfswere
expectedto serviceas many men as askedthem day or night.
One woman I met crawling home after an officer's party said
she'd lost count at thirty-nine.
Christ lost consciousness at thirty-nine.

Most of us that winter got greatsoreswhere the salt and wind

had rubbed down our skin. Soresbetweenour toesand on our
top lips were the most common. A moustachedidn't help, the
hairs aggravatedthe rawness.
At Chrisfinas,though theaiztandihahad no time off, we did,
and we sataroundour fireswith extralogstoastingthe Emperor
with our extrabrandy.Patrick and I feastedon a gooseI stole,
cookingand eatingit in guilty ioy on top of his pillar. We should
havesharedit, but as it was we were still hungry. He told me
storiesabout Ireland, about the peat fires and the goblins that
live under everyhill.

38
 THE EMPEROR

'Sure and I've had my own bootsmadethe sizeofa thumbnail

by the little people.'
He said he'd been out poaching that it was a fine night in
July, iust dark, dth the moon up and a greatstretch of stars.As
he camethrough the wood he saw a ring of green fue burning
as tall as a man. In the middle of the ring were three goblins.
He knew they were goblins and not elvesby their shovelsand
beards.'So I kept as quiet as the church bell on a Saturday
night and crept up to them asyou would a pheasant.'
He had heardthem discussingtheir treasure,stolenfrom the
fairies and buried under the ground within the ring of fue.
Suddenly one of the goblins had put his nose to the air and
sniffed suspiciously.
'I smella manr' he said.'A dirty man with mud
on his boots.'
Another laughed. 'What does it matter?No one with mud on
his bootscan enter our secretchamber.'
'Take no chances,let's be of{,'
said the first and in a wink
they were BoD€,ring of fire with them. For a few moments
Patrick lay st'rllamongthe leavesturning overwhat he had heard.
Then, checkinghe wasalone,he took offhis boog and crept to
where the ring of fire had been. On the ground there was no
sign of burning but the solesof his feet tingled.
'So I knew I wasin a magicplace.'
He had dug dl night and in the morning found nothing but
a coupleof molesand a pile of wonns. Exhausted,he had gone
back for his boos and there they were.
'No biggerthan a
thumbnail.'
He searchedhis pocketsand handedme a tiny pair of boots,
perfectlymade,the heelsworn down and the lacesfrayed.
'An' I swearthey fitted me once.'
I didn't know whether to believehim or not and he sawmy
eyebrowsworking up and down. He held out his hand for the
boots. 'I walked all the way home in my bare feet and when I
cameto take Mass that morning I could hardly hobble up to the

39
 THE PASSION

dtar. I was so tired that I gavethe congregationthe day off.' He

smiled his crooked smile and hit me on the shoulder.
'Trust me, I'm telling you
stories.'
He told me other storiestoo. Storiesaboutthe BlessedVirgin
and how shecouldn't be relied upon.
'The women,they're always
the cleveronesr'he said.
'They alwayssenseour lying
ways.The BlessedVirgin's a
woman too, for all that she's HolR and there's no man I knon'
can get his ovt'nwaywith her. You can pray dl day and dl night
and shewon't hearyou. If you're a ruln, you'd much better stick
with Jesushimself.'
I said something about hon' the Blessed Virgin was our
mediator.
'Sure she is, but she mediatesfor the women.Whn wete
a
statue at home, so lifelike you'd think it was the Holy Mother
herself. Norv the women come in with ttreir tears and flou'ers
and I've hidden behind a pillar and I'll swearon all the sainc
that the statuemoves.Norr when the men comein, cap in hand,
asking for this and that and saying their prayers, that statue's
like the rock it's made ofl I've given them the tnrth over and
overagain.Go straighttoJesus,I say(he'sgot a stanrenearby),
but they don't heed becauseeveryman likes to think he's got a
womanlisteningto him.'
'Don't you pray to her?'
'Sure an' I do not. We havean arrangementyou might say.I
see to her, give her proper respectand we leave each other
alone.She'd be different if God hadn't violatedher.'
What was he talking about?
'See, women like you to treat them with respect. To ask
beforeyou touch.Now I\e neverthoughtit wasright andproper
of God to send his angel with no by your leave and then have
his way before she'd evenhad time to comb her hair. I don't
think she everforgavehim for that. He was too hasty.So I don't
blasreher that she'sso haughtyno\f,r.'
 THE EMPEROR

I hadneverthoughtof the Queenof Heavenin this way.

Patrickliked ttre girls and was not abovesneakinga look
uninvited.
'But when it comesto it, I'd
nevertake a womanwithout
gling her time to combher hair.'
We spentthe restof our chrisunasleaveon top of ttrepillar
shelteringbehindthe applebarrelsand playingcards.But on
New Year'sEvePatrickswungout his ladderandsaidwe were
to goto Communion.
tltm not a believer.t
'Then you'll comeasmy friend,'
He caioledme with a bottleof brandyfor aftemardsand so
wesetoffthroughthe frozenstreets to dreseaman's
churchthat
Patrickpreferredto annypraye$.
It was fi[ing slowlywith men and womenfrom the town,
muffledagainstthe coldbut in the bestclothestheycouldfind.
we were the only ones from the camp. probabrythe only
ones still sober in this desperateweather.The church was
plain exceptfor the colouredwindorrsand the statueof the
Queenof Heavendeckedin red robes.Despitempelf I made
her a little bow and Patrick,catchingme, smiledhis crooked
smile.
we sangwittr our strongestvoicesand the warmth and
nearness of otherpeoplethawedmyunbeliever's heartandI too
sawGod throughthe frost. The plain windowsweretrellised
with frost and the stonefloor that receivedour kneeshad the
coldnessof the grave.The oldestweredignifiedwith smiling
facesand the children,someof whomweie so poor that they
kepttheir handswannin bandages, grewangelhair.
The Queenof Heavenlookeddovrn.
when we had put asideour stainedprayerbooksttrat onty
someof us could readwe took communionwith cleanhmte-,
and Patrick,who had clippedhis mousrache, whippedto the
endof the queueandmanagedto receivethe hosttlvice.
 THE PASSION

'Double the blessing,'hewhisperedto me.

I had not intended to take communion at all, but my longing
for strong anns and certainty and the quiet holinessaround me
forced me to my feet and dov"n the aisle where strangersmet
my eyes as though I had been their son. Kneeling, with ttre
incensemakingme light-headedand the slou'repetition of the
priest calming my banging heart, I thought again about a life
with God, thought of my mother, who would now be kneeling
too, far away and cupping her hands for her portion of the
Kingdom. In my village,eachhousewould be emptyand silent
but the barn would be full. Full of honestpeoplewho had no
church making a church out of themselves.Their flesh and
blood.
The patientcattle sleep.
I took the wafer on my tongueand it burned my tongue.The
wine tastedof dead men, 2,ooo dead men. In the face of the
priest I sawdeadmen accusingme. I sawtentssoddenat dawn.
I sawwomenwith blue breasts.I grippedthe chalice,though I
could feel the priest try and take it from me.
I grippedthe chalice.
When the priest gently curled away my fingers I saw the
imprint of the silveron eachpalm.Werethesemy stigmatathen?
Would I bleed for everydeathand living death?If a soldierdid,
therewould be no soldiersleft. We would go under the hill wittl
the goblins.We would marry the mermaids.We would never
leaveour homes.
I left Patrickat his secondcommunionand went out into the
freezingnight. It was not yet twelve.No bells were ringing no
flares were lit, heralding a new year and praising God and the
Emperor.
This year is gone, I told myself. This year is slipping away
and it will neverreturn. Domino's right, there'sonly now. Forget
it. Forget it. You can't bring it back.You can't bring them back.
They saythat everysnowflakeis different. If that were uue'
 THE EMPEROR

hon' could the world go on? How could we ever get up off otr
knees?How could we everrecoverfrom the wonder of it?

By forgetting.We cannot keep in mind too many things.

There is only the presentand nothing to remember.

On the flagstones,still visibleunder a coatingof ice, somechild

had scrawleda gameof noughtsand crossesin red tailor'schalk.
You plan you win, you plaR you lose.You play. It's the playing
that's irresistible. Dicing from one year to the next with the
things you love,what you risk reveds what you value. I sat dorpn
and scratching in the ice drew my own square of innocent
noughts and angry crosses.Perhapsthe Devil would partner
me. Perhapsthe Queenof Heaven.Napoleon,Jos6phine. Does
it matterwhom you loseto, if you lose?
From the church camethe roar of the last hymn.
Not heard as half-heartedhymns are heard on monotonous
Sundayswhen the congregationwould rather be in bed or with
their sweethearts.This was no lukewarm appealto an exacting
God but love and confidencethat hung in the rafters, pushed
open the church door, forced the cold from the stone,forced
the stonesto cry out. The church vibrated.
My soul doth magnify the Lord.
What gavethem this ioy?
what madecold and huttgrypeopleso surethat anotheryear
could only be better?Was it Him, Him on the throne? Their
little Lord in his simple uniform?
what doesit matter?why do I questionwhat I seeto be real?
Dov"n the street towards me comesa woman with wild hair,
her bootsmakingsparls orangeagainstthe ice. She'slaughing.
She'sholding a babyvery close.She comesstraightto me.
'H.ppy New
Year, soldier.'
Her baby is wide awakewith clear blue eyes and curious
fingers that move from buttons to noseto stretch at me. I wrap
 THE PASSION

myannsaroundthembothandwemakeastrangeshapeswayrng
slightlynear the wdl. The hymn is orrerand the momentof
silencetakesmeby surprise.
The babyburps.
Then the flaresgo out acrossthe Channelanda greatcheer
from our camptwo milesawaycomesclearlyto wherewe stand.
The womanpulls away,kissesme and disappearswith her
sparkingheels.Queenof Heaven,gowith her.
Here they come,with the Lord sEwnin their hearc for
anotheryear. Ann in arm, huddledtogether,somerunning
somewalkingwittr long strideslike weddingguess.The priest
is at the door of the church,standingin a pool of light and
besidehim,thealtarbqrsin theirscarlet,sheltertheholycandles
from the wind. From acrossthe streetwhereI am standingI
can seethroughthe door, downthe aisleand up to ttre altar.
The churchis emptynosr,exceptfor Patrick,who is sanding
with his backto me right up againstthe altar mil. By the time
he comesout, the bellsareringrngcrazilyandat leasta dozen
womenwhomI've nwer methavethroumtheir annsaroundmy
neckandblessedme.Most of the menarein Foups of five or
six, still by the church,but ttre womenare ioining handsand
makinga greatcircle that blocksthe road and fills the space
from one sideof the streetto the odter.They start to dance,
goingroundandroundfasterandfasteruntil my eyesarc dizzy
wittrkeepingupwith them.I don'trecognise their songbut their
voicesarefull.
Sequester my heart.
Whereverloveis, I wantto be, I will followit assurelyasthe
land-lockedsalmonfindsthe sea.
'Drink ttris,' said Patrick,pushinga bottle towardsme. 'You
won't tastethe like again.'
'Wheredid you get it?' I smelledthe cork,it wasround and
ripe andsensual.
 THE EMPEROR

'From behind the altar. They

dwap keep a good drop for
themselves.t

We walked the miles back to the camp, meeting a band of

soldiers carrying one who'd throvrn himself into the sea as a
New Yeargpsture.He wasn'tdead,but he wastoo cold to speak.
They were taking him to a brothel to get wann.
Soldiers and women. That's how the world is. Any other role
is temporarJr.Any other role is a geshrre.

We slept in the kitchen tent that night as a concessionto the

unimaginablezero temperature.Unfeelabletoo. The body shuts
dovrn when it has too much to bear; goes its own way quietly
inside,waiting for a better time, leavingyou numb and half alive.
Wittr frosty bodies all about us, drunken men sleeping off
another year, we finished the wine and the brandy and shoved
our feet under the poato sacks,boog of[, but nothing else. I
listened to Patrick's regular breathing choke into a snore. He
was lost in his world of goblins and treasure, alwayssure that
he would find treasure,evenif it wasonly a bottle of claret from
behind ttre altar. Perhapsthe Queen of Heaven did care for
hitn.
I lay awaketill the seagullsbegan to cry. It was New Year's
Day, r8o5, and I wastwenty.

45
 Two

the
QUEEr\r oF
sParlEs
 There is a city surrounded by water with watery allep that do
for streetsand roadsand silted up back waysthat only the rats
can cross.Miss your way,which is easyto do, and you may find
yourself staring at a hundred eyesguarding a filthy palaceof
sacksand bones.Find your way, which is easyto do, and you
maymeet an old womanin a doorway.Shewill tell your fornrne,
dependingon your face.
This is the city of mazes.You maysetofffrom the sameplace
to the sameplace everyday and nevergo by the sameroute. If
you do so, it will be by misake. Your bloodhoundnosewill not
lerye you here. Your coursein compassreading wiil fail you.
Your confident instnrctions to passers-bywill send them to
squaresthey have never heard o{, over canalsnot listed in the
notes.
- Nthough wherever you are going is alwap in front of you,
there is no such thing as straight ahead.No as the crow hi.t
short cut lvill help you to reachthe cafdjust over the water. The
short cuts are where the cats go, through the impossiblegaps,
round cornels that seemto takeyou the oppositeway. But hele,
in this mercurial city, it is required you do awakeyour faith.
With ffitr, rU things are possible.
Rumour has it that ttre inhabiants of this city walk on water.
That, more bizarrestill, their feet are webbed.Not all feet, but
the feet of the boaunenwhosetrade is hereditary.
This is the legend.
When a boatnan's wife finds herselfpregnantshewais until
the moon is full and the night empty of idlirs. Then she takes
her husband'sboat and rows to a terrible islandwherethe dead
are buried. She leavesher boat \dth rosemaryin the bows so
that the limblessonescimnot return with her and hurries to the
 THE PASSION

graveof the most recentlydeadin her f"*ily. She hasbrought

her offerings:a flask of wine, a lock of hair from her husband
and a silvercoin. She must leavethe offeringson the graveand
beg for a cleanheart if her child be a girl and boatrnan'sfeet if
her child be a boy. There is no time to lose.She must be home
before dawn and the boat must be left for a day and a night
coveredin salt. trnthis way,the boaunenkeeptheir secretsand
their trade. No newcomercan compete.And no boaunanwill
take off his boots, no matter how you bribe him. I have seen
tourists throw diamondsto the fish, but I have never seen a
boaunantakeoff his boots.
There was once a weakand foolish man whosewife cleaned
the boat and sold the fish and brought up their children and
went to the terrible island as she should when her yearly time
was due. Their housewas hot in summer and cold in winter
and there was too little food and too many mouths. This boat-
man, ferryrnga tourist from one church to another,happened
to fall into conversationwith the man and the man brought up
the questionof the webbedfeet. At the sametime he drew a
purseof gold from his pocketand let it lie quietly in the bottom
of the boat. Winter was approaching,the boaUnanwas thin and
he thought what harm could it do to unlaceiust one boot and
let this visitor seewhat there was. The next morning, the boat
waspicked up by a coupleof priestson their way to Mass.The
tourist was babbling incoherently and pulling at his toes with
his fingers.There wasno boatrnan.They took the tourist to the
madhouse,SanServelo,a quiet placethat catersfor the well-off
and defective.For all I know, he's still there.
And the boaunan?
He wasmy father.
I neverknewhim becauseI wasn'tborn whenhe disappeared.
A few weeksafter my mother had been left with an empty
boat she discoveredshewaspregnant.Although her funue was
uncertain and shewasn't strictly speakingmarried to a boaftnan
 THE QUEEN OF SPADES

any more, she decidedto go aheadwith the gloomyrinral, and

on the appropriatenight she rowed her way silently acrossthe
lagoon. fu she fastenedthe boat, an orrl flew very low and
caught her on the shoulderwith its wing. She was not hurt but
shecried out and steppedback and, as shedid so, droppedthe
sprig of rosemaryinto the sea.For a moment she thought of
returning straight awaybut, crossinghersel{,she hunied to her
father's graveand placedher offerings.She knew her husband
should havebeen the one, but he had no grave.How like him,
shethought,to be asabsentin deathashe wasin life. Her deed
done,shepushedoff from the shorethat eventhe crabsavoided
and later coveredthe boat in so much salt that it sank.
The BlessedVitgtn must haveprotectedher. Even before I
wasborn she had married agatn.This time, a prosperousbaker
who could afford to take Sundaysoff.
The hour of my birth coincidedwith an eclipseof the sun
and my mother did her best to slow down her labour until it had
passed.But I was as impatient then as I am now and I forced
my head out while the midwife was downstairsheating some
milk. A fine headwith a crop of red hair and a pair of eyesttrat
madeup for the sun's eclipse.
A girl.
It wasan easybirth and the midwife held me upside dov,'nby
the anklesuntil I bawled.But it waswhen they spreadme out
to dry that my mother fainted and the midwife felt forced to
open anotherbottle of wine.
My feet were webbed.
There neverwas a girl whosefeet were webbedin the entire
history of the boaunen.My mother in her swoonhad visionsof
rosemaryand blamedherself for her carelessness. Or perhaps
it was her carefreepleasurewith the baker she should blame
herselffor? She hadn't thought of my father sincehis boat had
sunk. she hadn't thought of him much while it was afloat The
midwife took out her knife with the thick blade and proposed

5r
 THE PASSION

to cut off the offendingpartsstraightaway.My motherweakly

nodded,imaginingI wouldfeelnopainor thatpainfor amoment
wouldbebetterthanembarrassment for a lifetime.The midwife
tried to rnakeanincisionin the translucenttrianglebetweenmy
fint nro toes but her knife spnmgfrom the skin leavingno
mark.Shetried againandagainin betweenall the toeson each
foot Shebentthe point of the knife,but thatwasall.
'It's the Virgin's will,' she said at last, finishing
the bottle.
'There'sno knife cangetthroughthat.'
My motherstartedto weepand wail and continuedin this
wayuntil my stepfathercamehome.He wasa manof theworld
andnot easilyput offby a pair of webbedfeet.
'No onewill seesolongasshewearsshoesandwhenit comes
to a husbmd,whyit won'tbe the feethe'll be interested in.'
This comfortedmymothersomewhat andwepassedttrenext
eighteenyearsin a normd familyway.
SinceBonaparte capnrredour city of mazesn ry97, we've
moreor lessabandoned ourselves to pleasure. Whatelseis there
to do whenyou\e lived a proud and free life and suddenly
you'renot proudandfreeanymore?We becamean enchanted
islandfor the mad,the rich, thebored,thepelverted.Our glory
dayswerebehindus but our excess wasiust beginning.That
man demolishedour churcheson a whim and looted our
treasures. That womanof his hasjewelsin her cros'nthat come
out of St Mark's. But of all sorrows,he hasotu living horses
castby menwho stretchedtheir annsbetweenthe Devil and
God andimprisonedlife in a brazenform. He tookthemfrom
the Basilicaandhasthrownthemup in somereadymade square
in that tart of to\rns,Paris.
Therewerefour churchesthat I loved,whichstoodlooking
out acrossthe lagoonto the quietislandsthatlie aboutus. He
tore them dov,'nto makea public garden.Why did we want a
publicgarden? And if wehadandif we hadchosenit ourselves
wewouldneverhavefilledit with hundredsof pineslaid out in
 THE qUEEN OF SPADES

regimenalro\ils.They sayJosdphine's a botanist Couldn't she

havefound us somethinga little more exotic?I don't hatethe
French.My fatherlikesthem.They'vemadehis businessthrive
with their cravingfor foolishcakes.
He gavemea Frenchnametoo.
Villanelle.It's prettyenough.
I don't hatethe French.I ignorethem.
When I was eighteenI startedto work the Casino.There
aren'tmanyiobs for a girl. I didn't want to go into the bakery
andgrowold with redhandsandforeamslike thiglu. I couldn't
be a dancer,for obviousreasons,iilrd what I wouldhavemost
liked to havedone,worked the boats,Trilsclosedto me on
accountof my selc
I did takea boat out sometimes, rowingalonefor hotrs up
anddownthecanalsandout into thelagoon.I learnedthe secret
wa]'sof boatnren,by watchingandby instinct.
If everI sawa sterndisappearing donn a black,inhospiable-
lookingwatemay,I follorredit and discoveredthe city within
the city that is the knorrledgeof a few. In this inner city are
thievesandJevn and childrenwith slanteyeswho comefrom
the easternwastelands withoutfatheror mother.They roamin
packslike the catsandttreratsandtheygoafterthe samefood.
No oneknonnwhytheyarehereor on whatsinistervesselthey
arrived.They seemto die at twelveor thirteenandyet theyare
alwaysreplaced.I've watchedthem takea knife to eachother
for a filthy pile of chicken.
There are exilestoo. Men and womendriven out of their
gleamingpalacesthat openso elegantlyon to shiningcanals.
Men andwomenwho areofficiallydeadaccordingto the regis-
tersof Paris.They'rehere,with the oddbit of goldplatestuffed
in a bagastheyfled. so long astheJeunwill buy ttreplateand
the plate holds out, they sunive. When you seethe floating
corpsesbellyupwards,youknowthe goldis ended.
Onewomanwhokepta fleetof boatsanda stringof cas and
 THE PASSION

dealt in spiceslives here no$r,in the silent city. I cannottell hon'

old she may be, her hair is green with slime from the walls of
the nook she lives in. She feedson vegetablematter that snags
againstthe stoneswhen the tide is sluggish.She has no teeth.
She has no need of teeth. She still wears the curtains that she
draggedfrom her drawing-roomwindow assheleft. one curtain
she wraps round herself and the other she drapes over her
shoulderslike a cloak. She sleepslike this.
I've spokento her. When she hears a boat go by her head
pokesout of her nook and sheasksyou what time of dayit might
be. Never what time it is; she'stoo much of a philosopherfor
that. I sawher once, at evening,her ghoulish hair lit by a lamp
she has. She was spreadingpiecesof rancid meat on a cloth.
There werewine gobletsbesideher.
'I'm havinggueststo dinnerr'she
shouted,asI glidedpaston
the other side.'I would haveinvited you, but I don't know your
na[le.t
'Villanelle,'I shoutedback.
tYoutre a Venetian,but you wear your name
as a disguise.
Bewarethe dice and gamesof chance.'
She nrned backto her cloth and, althoughwe met again,she
nEverusedmy name,nor gaveany sign that she recognisedme.

I went to work in the Casino, raking dice and spreadingcards

and lifting wallets where I could. There was a cellarful of
champagnedrunk every night and a cruel dog kept hungry to
deal wittr anyonewho couldn't pay. I dressedas a boy because
that's what the visitors liked to see. It was part of the game,
rying to decide which sex was hidden behind tight breeches
and extravagnntface-paste.. .

It was August. Bonaparte'sbirthday and a hot night. We were

due for a celebrationball in the PiazzaSanMarco, thoughwhat
we Venetianshad to celebratewas not clear. In keeping with
 THE QUEEN OF SPADES

our customs,the ball wasto be fancydressand the Casinowas

arrangingoutdoorgamingtablesand boothsof chance.Our city
swarmedwith French and Austrianpleasure-seekers, the usual
bewilderedstreamof Englishand evena party of Russiansintent
on finding satisfaction.Satisfyingour guestsis what we do best.
The price is high but the pleasureis exact.
I made up my lips with vermilion and overlaid my face with
white powder.I had no need to add a beautyspot, havingone
of my own in iust the right place. I wore my yellow Casino
breecheswith the stripedown eachsideof the leg and a pirate's
shirt that concealedmy breasts.This was required, but the
moustacheI addedwas for my own amusement.And perhaps
for my o\iln protection. There are too many dark alleysand too
many drunken handson festivalnights.
Acrossour matchlesssquarethat Bonapartehad contempnr-
ously called the finest drawing-roomin Europe, our engineers
had rigged a wooden frame alive with gunpowder.This was to
be triggered at midnight and I wasoptimistic that,,nith so many
headslooking up, so manypocketswould be vulnerable.
The ball beganat eight o'clock and I beganmy night drawing
cardsin the booth of chance.
Q3reenof spadesyou wq Ace of clubs you lose. Play again.
Whatwillyou risk?Yourwatch?Yourhouse? Yourmistress? I like to
surellthe urgencyon them.Eventhe calmest,the richesghavethat
smell.It's somewhere betweenfearandsex.PassionI suppose.
There's a man who comes to play Chance with me most
nightsat the Casino.A largemanwith padsof fleshon his palms
like baker's dough. When he squeezesmy neck from behind,
the sreat on his palms makes them squeak. I always carry a
handkerchief.He wears a green waistcoatand I've seen him
stripped to ttrat waistcoatbecausehe can't let the dice roll
without following it. He has funds. He must have.He spends
in a momentwhat I earn in a month. He's cunning though, for
dl his madnessat the table. Most men wear their pocketsor

55
 THE PASSION

their purseson their sleeveswhen they'redrunk. They want

everyone to knorvhowrich theyare,howfat wittr gold.Not him.
He hasa bagdownhis trousersandhe dipsinto it wirh his back
turned.I'll neverpick thatone.
I don't knoruwhatelsemightbe downthere.
He wondersthe samething aboutme. I catchhim saring at
my crotch and now and againI weara codpieceto taunt him.
My breasBare small,so ttrere'sno cleavageto giveme away,
andI'm all for a girl, especiallya Venetian.
I wonderwhathe'd sayto my feet.
Tonight,he'swearinghisbestsuitandhismousachegleams.
I fan the cardsbeforehim; closethem,shufllethem,fan them
again.He chooses. Too low to win. Chooseagain.Too high.
Forfeit.He laughsandtossesa coinacrossthe counter.
tYou'vegrowna moustache sincenro daysilgo.t
'[ comefroma hairyfamily.'
'It suitsyou.' His eyesstrayasusual,but I am firmly behind
the booth.He takesout anothercoin. I spread.The Jackof
hearts.An ill-omenedcardbut he doesn'tthink so,hepromises
to return and aking theJackwith him for luck mwes overto
the gamingable. His bottomstrainshis jacket.They'realwap
takingthe cards.I wonderwhetherto get out anotherpackor
iust cheatthe next customer.I think ttrat will dependon who
the nextcustomermightbe.

I lovethenight.In Venice,alongtimeago,whenwehadour on'n

cdendarandsayedalooffrom the world,we beganthe dap at
night.Whatusewasthesunto uswhenour tradeandour secrets
andourdiplomacy depended ondarkness? In thedarkyouarein
In thosedays(I cannot
disguiseandthis is the city of disguises.
placethemin timebecausetime is to dowith daVItSh$, in those
dayswhenthesunwentdovmweopenedourdoorsandslidalong
theeelywaterswith ahoodedlightin ourprosr.All ourboatswere
blackthenandleft nomarkon thewaterwheretheysaLWewere

56
 THE QUEEN OF SPADES

dealingin perfume and silk. Emeraldsand diamonds.Affairs of

State. We didn't build our bridges simply to avoid walking on
water.Nothing so obvious.A bridge is a meetingplace.A neutral
place.A casualplace.Enemieswill chooseto meeton abridgeand
end their quarrel in that void. One will crossto the other side.
The other will not return. For lovers, a bridge is a possibility, a
meaphor oftheir chances.And for the traffic inwhisperedgoods,
where elsebut a bridge in the night?
We are a philosophicalpeople,conversantwith the nattre of
greed and desire, holding hands with the Devil and God. We
would not wish to let go of either. This lioing bridge is tempting
to all and you may loseyour soul or find it here.
And our o\rn souls?
They are Siamese.
Nowadays,the dark hasmore light than in the old dap. There
are flares everywhereand soldiers like to seethe streen lit up,
like to see some reflection on the canals.ThQy don't trust our
soft feet and thin knives.None the less,darknesscan be found;
in the under-used watemays or out on ttre lagoon. There's no
dark like it. It's soft to the touch and heary in the hands. You
can openyour mouth and let it sink into you dll it makesa close
ball in your belly. You can iuggle with it, dodge iq swim in it.
You can open it like a door.
The old Venetians had eyes like cats that cut the densest
night and took them through impenetrablewap without snrm-
bling. Evenno\il, ifyou look at us closelyyou will find that some
of us haveslit eyesin the daylight.
I used to think that darknessand death were probably the
same. That death was the absenceof light. That death was
nothing more than the shadow-landswhere peoplebought and
sold and lovedasusualbut with lessconviction.The night seems
more temporary than the day, especiallyto lovers, and it also
seenrsmore uncertain. In this way it sums up our lives, which
are uncertain and temporary.We forget about that in the day.

57
 THE PASSION

In the day we go on for ever. This is the city of uncertainty,

whereroutesand faceslook alike and are not. Deathwill be like
that. We will be forever recognisingpeoplewe havenever met.
But darknessand deathare not the same.
The one is temporary,the other is not.

Our funeralsarefabulousaffairs.We hold them at nighg return-

ing to our dark roots. The black boae skim the water and the
coffin is crossedwith iet. From my upperwindorvthat overlooks
two intersectingcanals, I oncesawa rich man'scorttge of fifteen
boats(the number must be odd) glide out to the lagoon.At the
samemoment,a pauper'sboat, carryinga coffin not varnished
but coveredin pitch, floated out too, rowed by an old woman
with scarcelyenough strength to drag the oarc. I ttrought they
would collide, but the rich man's boatmenpulled away.Then
his widow motioned with her hand and the cortegeopenedthe
line at the eleventhboat and maderoom for the pauper,tossing
a rope round the prow so that the old worum had only to guide
her craft. They continued thus towards the tenible island of
San Michele and I lost sight of them.
For myse6 if I am to die, I would like to do it alone,far from
the world. I would like to lie on the wann stone in May until
my strengthis gone,then drop gentlyinto the canal.Such things
are still possiblein Venice.

Nowadays,the night is designedfor the pleasure-seekers and

tonight,by their reckoning,is a tourdefora.There arefire-eaters
frothing at the mouth with yellow tongues.There is a dancing
bear. There is a troupe of little girls, their sweetbodieshairless
and pink, carryingsugaredalmondsin copperdishes.There are
women of every kind and not dl of them are women. ln the
centre of the square,the workers on Murano havefashioneda
huge glass slipper that is constantly filled and re-filled with
champagne.To drink from it you must lap like a dog and hon'

58
 T H E Q U E E NO F S P A D E S

thesevisitorslove it. One hasalreadydrowned,but what is one

deathin the midst of so much life?
From the wooden frame abovewhere the gunpowderwaits
there are also suspendeda number of nets and trapezes.From
here acrobatsswingover the square,castinggxotesqueshadows
on the dancersbelow. Now and again,one will dangleby the
kneesand snatcha kiss from whoeveris standingbelow. I like
such kisses.They fill the mourh and leavethe body free. To
kisswell one must kisssolely.No gropinghandsor stammering
hearts.The lips and the lips alone are the pleasure.Passionis
sweeter split strand by strand. Divided and re-divided like
mercurythen gatheredup only at the last moment.
You see,I am no strangerto love.
It's getting late,who comeshere with a maskover her face?
Will shetry the cards?
She does.She holds a coin in her palm so that I haveto pick
it out. Her skin is warm. I spreadthe cards.She chooses.The
ten of diamonds.The threeof clubs.Then the Queenof spades.
'A lucky card.
The symbolof Venice.You win.'
she smiled at me and pulling awayher maskrevealeda pair
of grey-greeneyeswith flecks of gold. Her cheekboneswere
high and rouged.Her hair, darkerand redder than mine.
'Play again?'
She shookher head and had a waiter bring over a bottle of
champagne.Not any champagne.MadameClicquot. The only
goodthing to comeout of France.She held the glassin a silent
toast,perhapsto her ourngood fornrne. The Queen of spades
is a seriouswin and one we are usually careful to avoid. Still
she did not speak,but watched me through the crysal and
suddenlydraining her glassstroked the side of my face. only
for a secondshe touchedme and then she was goneand I was
left wittr my heart smashingat my chestand three-quartersof
a bottle of the bestchampagne.I wascarefulto concealboth.
I am pragmaticabout love and have aken my pleasurewith
 THE PASSION

both men and women, but I have never neededa guard for my
heart. My heart is a reliable orgnn.

At midnight the gunpowderwas triggered and the sky aboveSt

Mark's broke into a million coloured pieces. The fireworks
lasted perhapshalf an hour and during that time I was able to
finger enoughmoneyto bribe a friend to take over my booth for
a while. I slipped through the press towards the st'rll bubbling
glassslipper looking for her.
She had vanished.There were facesand dressesand masks
and kissesto be had and a hand at everynrrn but she was not
there. I was deained by an infantr5rmanwho held up two glass
balls and askedif I would exchangethem for mine. But I was
in no mood for charming gamesand pushed past him, my eyes
beggingfor a sign.
The roulette table. The gaming table. The fornrne tellerc.
The fabulous three-breastedwoman. The singrng ape. The
double-speeddominoesand the tarot
She was not there.
She wasnowhere.
My time was up and I went back to the booth of chancefull
of champagneand an empty heart.
'There was a woman looking for your' said my friend. 'She
left this.'
On the able wasan earring.Romanby the look of ig curiously
shaped,made of that distinct old yellow gold that these times
do not know.
I put it in my ear and, spreadingthe cards in a perfect fan,
took out the Queen of spades.No one else should win tonight"
I would keep her card until she neededit.

Gaiety soon ages.

By three o'clock the revellenswere drifting awaythrouglr the
archesaround St Mark's or lying in piles by the cafds,opening
 THE QUEEN OF SPADES

earlyto provide strongcoffee.The gamingwasover.The Casino

tellers were packing away their gaudy stripes and optimistic
baize. I was off-duty and it was almost dawn. Usually, I go
straight home and meet my stepfattreron his way to the bakery.
He slapsme about the shoulder and makessome ioke about
hourmuch moneyI'm making. He's a curious man; a shmg of
the shoulders and a wink and that's him. He's never thought
it odd that his daughter cross-dressesfor a living and sells
second-handpurseson the side. But then, he's never thought
it odd that his daughterwasborn with webbedfeet.
'There are strangerthings,'he said.
And I supposethere are.
This morning, there's no going home. I'm bolt upright, my
legs are restlessand the only sensiblething is to borrow a boat
and calm myself in the Venetianway; on the water.

The Grand Canal is alreadybusywith vegetableboats.I am the

only one who seernsintent on recreation and the others eye
me curiouslR in betrreen steadyinga load or arguing with a
friend. These are my people, they can eye me as much as they
wish.
I push on, under the Rialto, that strangehalf-bridge that can
be drawn up to stop one half of this city warring with the other.
They'll sealit eventuallyandwe'll be brothersand mothers.But
ttrat will be the doom of paradox.
Bridges ioin but they also separate.

Out now, past the houses that lean into the water. Past the
Casinoitself. Pastthe money-lendersand the churchesand the
buildings of state. Out now into the lagoon with only the wind
and the seagullsfor company.
There is a cerainty that comeswith the oars,with the sense
of generationafter generationsanding up like this and rowing
Iike this with rhythm and ease.This city is linered with ghosts

6t
 THE PASSION

seeing to their own. No family would be complete without its

ancestors.
Our ancestors.Our belonglng.The funrre is foretold from
the past and the future is only possiblebecauseof the past.
Without past and future, the present is partial. All time is
eternallypresentand so all time is ours. There is no sensein
forgetting and every sensein dreaming.Thus the present is
maderich. Thus the presentis madewhole. On the lagoonthis
morning,with the pastat my elbow,rowing besideme, I seethe
future glitteringon the water.I catchsight of myselfin the water
and seein the distortionsof my facewhat I might become.
If I find her, how will my funrre be?
I will find her.
Somewherebetweenfear and sexpassionis.
Passionis not so much an emotionas a destiny.What choice
have I in the face of this wind but to put up sail and rest my
oars?
Dawn breaks.
I spentthe weeksthat followedin a hectic stupor.
Is there such a thing?There is. It is the condition that most
resemblesa particularkind of mentaldisorder.I haveseenones
like me in San Senelo. It manifestsiself as a compulsionto be
foreverdoing something,howevermeaningless. The body must
movebut the mind is blank.
I walked the streets,rowed circles around Venice,woke up
in the middle of the night with my coversin impossibleknos
and my musclesrigrd. I took to working double shifts at the
Casino,dressingas 0 womanin the afternoonand a youngman
in the evenings.I atewhen food wasput in front of me and slept
when my body was throbbing with exhaustion.
I lost weight.
I found myself staring into space, forgetting where I was
going.
I wascold.
 THE qUEEN OF SPADES

I nevergo to confession;God doesn'twant us to confess,he

wants us to challengehim, but for a while I went into our
churchesbecausethey were built from the heart. Improbable
hearts ttrat I had never understoodbefore. Hears so full of
longing that theseold stonesstill cry out with their extaqr.These
are wann churches,built in the sun.
I sat at the back,listeningto the music or mumblingthrough
the semice.I'm nevertemptedby God but I like his trappings.
Not temptedbut I begin to understandwhy others are. With
this feeling inside,with this wild love ttrat threatens,what safe
placesmight there be?Where do you store gunpowder?How
do you sleepat night again?If I were a little different I might
turn passioninto somethingholy and then I would sleepagain.
And then my extasywould be my extasybut I would not be
afraid.
My flabby friend, who has decidedI'm a woman,has asked
me to marry hfun.He has promised to keep me in ltxury and
all kinds of fancy goods,provided I go on dressingas a young
man in the comfort of our own home. He likes that. He says
he'll get my moustachesand codpiecesspecially made and
a rare old time we'll have of it, playrng games and getting
drunk. I was thinking of pulling a knife on him right there
in the middle of the Casino, but my Venetian pragmatism
stepped in and I thought I might have a little game
myself, Anything no$' to relieve the ache of never finding
her.
I've alwayswondered where his money comes from. Is it
inherited?Does his mother still settlehis bills?
No. He earnshis money.He earnshis money supplyingthe
French anny with meat and horses.Meat and horseshe tells
me that wouldn't normallyfeed a cat or mount a beggar.
How doeshe get awaywith it?
There'sno oneelsewho cansupplysomuchsofast,an5'where;
as soonas his orders arrive, the suppliesare on their way.

63
 THE PASSION

It seemsthat Bonaparrewins his battlesquickly or not at all.

That's his way. He doesn't need quality, he needsaction. He
needshis men on their feet for a few days' march and a few
days'battle.He needshorsesfor a singlecharge.That's enough.
what does it matter if the horses are lame and the men are
poisonedso long as they last so long as they're needed?

I'd be marryinga meat man.

I let him buy me champagne.only the best. I hadn't tasted

Madameclicquot sincethe hot night in August.The rush of it
along my tongueand into my throat brought back other mem-
ories. Memories of a single touch. How could anything so
passingbe so pervasive?
But Christ said,'Follow h€,' and it was done.

Sunk in these dreams,I hardly felt his hand along my leg, his
fingerson my belly. Then I was remindedvividly of squid and
their suckersand I shookhim off shoutingthat I'd nevermarry
him, not for all the Veuve Clicquot in France nor a Venice full
of codpieces.His facewasalwaysred so it washard to tell what
he felt about these insults. He got up from where he'd been
kneelingand straightenedhis waistcoat.He askedme ifl wanted
to keepmy iob.
'I'll keep my
iob becauseI'm good at it and clients like you
comethrough the door everyday.'
He hit me then. Not hard but I was shocked.I'd neverbeen
hit before.I hit him back.Hard.
He startedto laugh and coming towardsme squashedme flat
againstthe wall. It was like being under a pile of fish. I didn't
try to move,he wasnrice my weight at leastand I'm no heroine.
I'd nothing to loseeither,havinglost it alreadyin happiertimes.
He left a stain on my shirt and threw a coin at me by way of
goodbye.

6q
 THE QUEENOF SpADES

Whatdid I expectfrom a meatman?

I wentbackto the gamingfloor.

Novemberin Veniceis the beginningof the catarh season.

Catarrhis part of our heritagelike St Mark's. Long ago,when
the Councilof Three ruled in mpteriousways,anytraitor or
hapless onedoneawaywithwasusuallyannounced to havedied
of catarrh.In thisway,no onewasembarrassed. It's the fog ttrat
rolls in from the lagoonandhidesone end of the Piazzafrom
anotherttrat brings on our hateful congestion.It rains too,
mournfullyandquietlRandthe boatmensit undersoddenrags
and starehelplesslyinto the canals.Suchweatherdrivesaway
the foreignersandthat'sthe onlygoodthingthat canbe saidof
it. Eventhe brilliantwater-gateat the Fenicenrns grey.
On anafternoonwhenthe Casinodidn'twantmeandI didn't
wantmpelf, I wentto Florian'sto drink andgazeat the Square.
It's a fulfi[ing pastime.
I hadbeensittingperhapsan hour whenI hadthe feelingof
being watched.There was no one near me, but there was
someonebehinda screena little wayoff. I let my mind retreat
agnin.What did it matter?We aredwap watchingor watched.
The waitercameoverto mewith a packetin his hand.
I openedit It wasan earring.It wasthe pair.
And shestoodbeforeme and I redisedI wasdressedas I
had beenthat night becauseI waswaitingto work. My hand
wentto my lip.
'You shavedit off' shesaid.
I smiled.I couldn'tspeak.
Sheinvitedme to dinewith her the follon'inga'eningand I
tookher address andaccepted.
In the Casinothat night I uied to decidewhat to do. She
thoughtI wasa youngrnan.I wasnot. ShouldI go to seeher
asmyselfandioke aboutthe mistakeand leavegrace lly?My
heartshrivelledat this thought.To loseher againsosoon.fud

6s
 THE PASSION

what was myself?Was this breechesand boots self any less

real than my garters?What was it about me that interested
her?
You play,you win. You play,you lose.You play.
I was careful to steal enough to buy a bottle of the best
champagne.

Lovers are not at their best when it matters.Mouths dry up,

palms sweat, conversationflags and all .the time the heart is
threatening to fly from the body once and for all. Loverc have
been knorunto haveheart attacks.Lovers drink too much from
nervousnessand cannot perform. They eat too little and faint
during their ferventlywishedconsunrmation.They do not stroke
the favouredcat and their face-paintcomesloose.This is not
all. Whatever you have set store bR your dress, your dinner,
your poetrI, will go wrong.

Her housewas gracious,sanding on a quiet watenvay,fashion-

able but not nrlgar. The drawing-room, enonnous with great
windorrs at either end and a fireplacethat would havesuited an
idle wolfhound. It was simply furnished; an oval table and a
chaise-hngue. A few Chineseornarnentsthat she liked to collect
when the shipscamethrough. She had alsoa strangeassorment
of deadinsectsmountedin caseson the wdl. I had never seen
such things before and wonderedabout this enthusiasm.
She stood close to me as she took me through the house,
pointing out certain pictures and books. Her hand guided my
elbon' at the sairs and when we sat down to eat she did not
arange us formally but put me besideher, the bottle in between.
We alked about the opera and the theatre and the visitors
and the weather and ourselves.I told her that my real father
had been a boaunanand shelaugtredand askedcould it be tnre
that we had webbedfeet?
'Of courser'
I saidand shelaughedthe more at this ioke.

66
 THE QUEEN OF SPADES

We had eaten. The bottle was empty. She said she had
married late in life, had not expectedto marry at all being
shrbbornand of independentmeans.Her husbanddealtin rare
booksand manuscriptsfrom the east.Ancientmapsthat showed
the lairs of griffins and the hauntsofwhales.Treasuremapsthat
claimedto know the whereaboutsof the Holy Grail. He was a
quiet and cultured man of whom shewasfond.
He was away.
We had eaten,the botdewasempty.There wasnothingmore
that could be saidwithout strain or repetition.I had beenwith
her more than five hours alreadyand it wastime to leave.As we
stood up and she moved to get somethingI stretchedout my
ann, that was all, and she hrrned back into my anns so that my
handswere on her shoulderbladesand hers along my spine.
We stayedthus for a few momentsuntil I had courageenough
to kissher neckverylightly. Shedid not pull away.I grewbolder
and kissedher mouth, biting a litde at the lower lip.
She kissedme.
'I can't makelove to your'she said.
Relief and despair.
'But I can kissyou.'
And so, from the first, we separatedour pleasure.She lay on
the rug and I lay at right anglesto her so that only our lips might
meet. Kissing in this way is the strangestof distractions.The
greedybody that clamou$ for satisfactionis forced to content
itself wittr a single sensationsod, iust as the blind hear more
acutely and the deaf can feel the grass grow, so the mouth
becomesthe focus of love and all things passthrough it and are
re-defined.It is a sweetand precisetorture.
When I left her housesometime later,I did not setoffstraight
away,but watchedher movingfrom room to room extinguishing
the lights. Upwards shewent, closing the dark behind her until
there was only one light left and that washer own. She said she
often read into the small hours while her husband was away.

67
 THE PASSION

Tonight shedid not read.She pausedbriefly at the windou' and

then the housewasblack.
What was she thinking?
What was she feeling?
I walked slowly through the silent squares and across the
Rialto, where the mist wasbrooding abovethe water. The boats
were covered and empty apart from the cats that make their
homes under the seat boards. There was no one, not even
the beggars who fold themselves and their rags into any
doomay.

How is it that one day life is orderly and you are contenq a little
cynicd perhaps but on the whole iust so, and then without
warning you find the solid floor is a trapdoor and you are
now in another place whose geographyis uncerain and whose
customsare strange?
Travellers at least have a choice. Those who set sail knon'
that thingp wi[ not be the same as at home. Explorens are
prepared.But for us, who travel along the blood vessels,who
come to the cities of the interior by chance,there is no prep-
aration. We who were fluent find life is a foreign language.
Somewherebetweenthe s\ilampand the mountains.Somewhere
betweenfear and sex.SomewherebetweenGod and the Devil
passion is and the way there is sudden and the way back is
wotse.
I'm surprised at m1nelf alking in this way. I'm young
the world is before me, there will be others. I feel my first
streak of defiance since I met her. My first upsurge of selfl I
won't see her again. I can go home, throw aside these clothes
and move on. I can move out if I like. I'm sure the meat
man can be persuaded to take me to Paris for a favour or
two.
Passion,I spit on it.
I spat into the canal.

68
 THE qUEEN OF SPADES

Then the moon camevisiblebetweenthe clouds,a full moon,

and I thought of my mother rowing her way in faith to the
terrible island.

The surfaceof the canalhad the look of polishediet. I took off

my boots slowly,pulling the lacesloose and easingthem free.
Enfolded benreen each toe were my own moons. Pale and
opaque.Unused. I had often played with them but I never
thought they might be real. My motherwouldn't eventell me if
the rumours were real and I have no boating cousins. My
brothers are gone away.
Could I walk on that water?
Could I?
I faltered at the slippery steps leading into the dark. It was
November, after all. I might die if I fell in. I tried balancing
my foot on the surface and it dropped beneath into ttre cold
nothingness.
Could a womanlove a womanfor more than a night?
I stepped out and in the morning they say a beggar was
running round the Rialto talking about a young man who'd
walked acrossthe canal like it was solid.
I'm telling you stories.Trust me.

When we met afain I had borrowed an officer's uniform. Or,

more precisely,stolenit.
This is what happened.
At the Casino,well after midnight, a soldier had approached
me and suggestedan unusual wager. If I could beat him at
billiards he would make me a presentof his purse. He held it
up before me. It was round and nicely paddedand there must
be someof my father'sblood in me becauseI haveneverbeen
ableto resista purse.
And if I lostl I wasto makehim a presentof my purse. There
was no mistakinghis meaning.

69
 THE PASSION

We played,cheeredon by a dozenbored gamblersmd, to my

surprise,the soldierplayedwell. After a few hoursat the Casino
nobodyplays anythingwell.
I lost.
We went to his room and he was a man who liked his women
facedown, arms outstretchedlike the crucified Christ. He was
ableand easyand soonfell asleep.He wasalsoaboutmy height.
I left him his shirt and boots and took the rest.

She greetedme like an old friend and askedme straight away

aboutthe uniform.
'You're not a soldier.'
'It's fancydress.'
I beganto feel like Sarpi, that Venetianpriest and diplomat,
who saidhe nevertold a lie but didn't tell the truth to everyone.
Many times that eveningaswe ate and drank and played dice I
preparedto explain.But my tonguethickenedand my heartrose
up in self-defence.
'Feet' shesaid.
'What?'
'Let me strokeyour feet.t
SweetMadonna,not my feet.
'[ never take off my booreawayfrom home. It's a nervous
habit.'
'Then take offyour shirt instead.'
Not my shirt, if I raisedmy shirt she'd find my breasts.
'In this inhospiable weatherit would not be wise. Everyone
has catarrh. Think of the fog.'
I saw her eyesstray lower. Did she expect my desire to be
obvious?
What could I allow; my knees?
Instead I leaned forward and began to kiss her neck. She
buried my head in her hair and I becameher creature. Her
smell, my aturosphere,and later when I was alone I cursed my
 THE QUEENOF SPADES

nostrilsfor breathingthe everyday

air andemptyrngmybodyof
her.
As I wasleavingshesaid,'My husbandreturnstomorro\il.'
oh.
fu I wasleavingshesaid,'I don't knowwhenI will seeyou
ag3in.t
Does she do this often?Does shewalk the streets,when her
husbandgoesaway,looking for someonelike me?Everyonein
Venice has their weaknessand their vice. Perhapsnot only in
Venice.Does sheinvite them to supperand hold them with her
eyesand e4plain,a little sadly,that shecan't makelove?Perhaps
this is her passion.Passionout of passion'sobstacles.A,ndme?
Every game threatensa wild card. The unpredictable,the out
of control. Evenwith a steadyhand and a crystalball we couldn't
rule the world the way we wanted it. There are stonns at sea
and there are other stonns inland. Only the convent windows
look serenelyout on both.
I went backto her houseandbangedon the door.She opened
it a little. She looked surprised.
'I'm a woman,'
I said, lifting up my shirt and risking the
catarrh.
She smiled.'I kno\il.'
I didn't go home.I stayed.

The churches prepared for Chrishas. Every Madonna was

flded and everyJesusre-painted. The priests took out their
glorious goldsand scarles and the incensewasespeciallysweet.
I took to going to servicetwice a day to bask in the assurance
of our Lord. I've never had a conscienceabout basking. In
summer I do it againstthe wdls or I sit like the lizards of the
Levant on top of our iron wells. I love the way wood holds hea!
and if I can I take my boat and lie directly in the parh of the sun
for a day. My body loosensthen, my mind floae away and I
wonder if this is what holy men feel when they talk about their

7r
 THE PASSION

trances?I've seenholy men comefrom the easternlands.We

hadan exhibitof themonceto makeup for the law prohibiting
bull-baiting.Their bodieswereloosebut I haveheardit's to do
with the foodtheyeat.
Baskingcan'tbecalledholy,but if it achieves
thesameresults
will Godmind?I don'tthink so.In the Old Testamentthe end
alwaysiust'rfiedthemeans.We undersundttratin Venice,being
a pragmatic people.
The sunis goneno\ilandI mustdo mybaskingin otherwa]'s.
Church baskingis takingwhat's there and not payrngfor ia
Taking the comfortand ioy and ignoringthe rest. Chrisunas
but not Easter.I neverbotherwith church at Easter.It's too
gloomy,andbesidesthesun'soutby then.
If I wentto confession, whatwouldI confess? That I cross-
dress?So did Our Lord, sodo thepriests.
That I steal?Sodid Our Lord, sodo thepriests.
That I amin love?
The obiectof my lovehasgoneawayfor Chrish.as.That's
what they do at this time of year.He and she.I thoughtI'd
mind,but sincethe first few days,whenmy stomachandchest
werefull of stones,I've beenhappy.Relievedalmost.I've seen
my old friends and walkedby myselfwith almostthe same
sure-footedness that I usedto. The reliefcomesfrom no more
clandestinemeetings.No more snatchedhours.There srasa
particularweekwhensheatetrn'obreakfastseveryday.One at
homeand onewith me. One in the drawing-roomand one in
the Square.After that her luncheswerea disaster.
She is muchproneto goingto the theatre,andbecausehe
doesnot enioyttrestageshegoesalone.For a timesheonlysaw
oneactof everything.In the intervalshecirmeto me.
Veniceis full of urchinswhowill carrynotesfrom oneeager
pdm to another.In the hours we could not meet we sent
messages of loveandurgency.In the hourswe couldmeetour
passionwasbrief andfierce.
 THE QUEEN OF SPADES

She dressesfor me. I haveneverseenher in the sameclothes

twice.
Now, I am wholly gtven over to selfishness.I think about
mlnel{, I get up when I like, insteadof at the crack of dawniust
to watch her open the shutters.I flirt with waiters and gamblers
and rememberthat I enioy that. I sing to myself and I bask in
churches.Is this freedomdeliciousbecauserare?Is any respite
from lovewelcomebecausetemporary?Ifshe were gonefor ever
these days of mine would not be lit up. Is it becauseshe will
return that I Ake pleasurein being alone?
Hopeless heart that thrives on paradox; that longs for the
belovedand is secretlyrelievedwhen the belovedis not there.
That gnawsawayat the night-time hourc desperatefor a sign
and appearsat breakfast so self-composed.That longs for
certainty, fidelity, compassion,and plaln roulette with anything
precious.
Gamblingis not a vice, it is an e4pressionof our humanness.
We gamble.Some do it at the Samingable, somedo not.
You plaS you win, you plan you lose. You play.

The Holy child hasbeenborn. His mother is elevated.His father

forgonen.The angelsare singingin the choir salls and God sits
on the roof of eachchurch and pours his blessingon to those
below.What a wonder, ioining yourself to God, pining your wits
agninsthim, knowingthatyouwin andlosesimulaneously.Where
else could you indulge without fear the exquisitemasochismof
the victim?Lie beneathhis lancesandcloseyour eyes.Where else
could you be soin control?Not in love, certainly.
His need for you is greater than your need for him because
he knorvsthe consequences of not possessing You,whereasyou,
who know nothing, can thron'your capin the air and live another
day. You paddle in the water and he never crossesyour mind,
but he is buqy recording the precise force of the flood around
your ankles.
 THE PASSION

Baskin it. In spiteof what the monkssay,you can meet God

without getting up early. You can meet God lounging in the
pew. The hardshipis a man-madedevicebecauseman cannot
existwithout passion.Religion is somewherebetweenfear and
sex. And God? Truly? In his own right, without our voices
speakingfor him?ObsessedI think, but not passionate.
In our dreamswe sometimesstruggle from the oceansof
desire up Jacob's ladder to that orderly place. Then human
voiceswakeus and we drown.

On New Year's Eve, a processionof boats alive with candles

stretcheddown the Grand Canal. Rich and poor shared the
samewater and harbouredthe samedreamsthat next year, in
its own woy, would be better. My mother and father in their
bakerybest gaveawayloavesto the sick and the dispossessed.
My fatherwasdrunk and had to be stoppedfrom singlngverses
he had learnt in a French bordello.
Fartherout, hiddenawayin the inner city, the exileshad their
own observation.The dark canalswere as dark as ever but a
closerlook revealedtatteredsatin on yellowbodies,the glint of
a gobletfrom somesubterraneanhole. The slant-eyedchildren
had stolen a goat and were solemnlyslitting its throat when I
rowed past. They stoppedtheir red knives for a moment to
watch me.
My philosopherfriend was on her balcony.That is, a couple
of cratesfastenedto the iron rings on either side of her nook.
She was wearing somethingon her head, a circle, dark and
heavy.I slid pasther and sheaskedme what time it might be.
'Almost New Year.'
'I know it. It smells.'
She went back to dipping her cup into the canal and taking
deep swigs.Only when I had gone on did I realise that her
crownwasmadeout of rats tied in a circle by their tails.
I sawno Jews.Their businessis their own tonight.

74
 THE QUEENOF SPADES

It was bitterly cold. No wind but the rcy air that freezesthe
lungsand bitesat the lips. My fingerswerenumb aboutthe oars
and I almost thought of tyrns up my boat and hurrying to ioin
the crowd pushinginto St Mark's. But this was not a night for
basking.Tonight the spirits of the dead are abroadspeakingin
tongues.Thosewho maylistenwill learn.Sheis at hometonight.
I rowed by her house,softly lit, and hoped to catch sight of
her shadow,her ann, any sign. She wasnot visible,but I could
imagineher seated,reading,a glassof wine by her side. Her
husbandwould be in his study, poring over some new and
fabuloustreasure.The whereaboutsof the Crossor the secret
tunnelsthat leadto the centreof the earthwherethe fire dragons
are.
I stoppedby her water-gate,and climbing up the railing
lookedin through the window. Shewasalone.Not readingbut
saring at the palms of her hands. We had comparedhands
once,mine areverylined andhers,thoughtheyhavebeenlonger
in this world, havethe innocenceof a child. What wasshetrying
to see?Her future?Another year?Or was she trying to make
senseof her past?To understandhow the past had led to the
present.Was shesearchingfor the line of her desirefor me?
I wasaboutto tap on the window when her husbandentered
the room, stardingher. He kissedher foreheadand shesmiled.
I watchedthemtogetherand sawmorein a momentthan I could
haveponderedin anotheryear. They did not live in the fiery
furnace she and I inhabited,but they had a calm and a way that
put a knife to my heart.
I shiveredwith cold, suddenlyrealisingthat I wastwo store]4s
in mid-air. Evena lover is occasionallyafraid.
The great clock in the Piazzastmck a quarter to twelve. I
hurried to my boat and rowedwithout feelingmy handsor feet
into the lagoon.In that stillness,in ttrat quiet, I thought of my
own future and what future there could be meetingin caf6sand
dwaysdressingtoosoon.The heartis soeasilymocked,believing

75
 THE PASSION

ttratthe suncianrisetrriceor that rosesbloombecatsewewant

themto.
In this enchantedcity ail thingss€empossible.Time stops.
Heartsbeat.The lawsof therealworld aresuspended. God sis
in the raftercandmakesfun of the Devil and the Devil pokes
Our Lord with his ail. It has dwap been so. They saythe
boamenhavewebbedfeet and a beggarsayshe sawa young
rnanwalkon weter.
If youshouldleavemq my heartwill trrn to waterandflood
away.

The Moors on the greatclock smingbacktheir hammersand

strikein turn. Soonthe Squarewill be a rush of bodies,their
wann breath ascendingand shapinglittle cloudsabovettreir
heads.My breathshootsout straightin front of melike the fue
dragon's.The ancestorscry from aboutthe water and in St
Mark's the organbegins.In benreenfreezingand melting.In
betweenloveand despair.In betweenfear andsex,passionis.
My oarslie flat on thewater.It is Nen'Year'sDay,r8o5.

76
 Three

the
nERo
wrrTTEB
 There's no such thing as a limited victory. Every victory leaves
another resentrnent,another defeatedand humiliated people.
Another place to guard and defend and fear. What I learned
about war in the years before I came to this lonely place were
thingp any child could havetold me.
'Will you kill people,
Henri?'
'Not people,Louise,
iust the enemy.'
"[4/hatis enemy?'
tSomeonewhotsnot your
on side.t
No one's on your side when you're the conqueror. Your
enemiestake up more room than your friends. Could so many
shaightforward ordinary lives suddenly become men to kill
and women to rape?Austrians,Prussians,Italians, Spaniards,
Egrptians,English,Poles,Russians.Thosewerethe peoplewho
were either our enemiesor our dependants.There were others,
but the list is too long.
we never did invade England.we marchedout of Boulogne
leaving our litde bargesto rot and fouglrt the Third Coalition
instead.We fought at Ulm and Austerlitz. Eylau and Friedland.
we fought on no rations, our boots fell apart, we slept two or
three hours a night and died in thousandseveryday.Two years
later Bonapartewasstandinson a bargein the middle of a river
hugging the czar and sayingwe'd never have to fight agan. It
pas theEnglishin our nay and pith Russiaon our sidetheEnglish
pouldhoaetoleoueu alone.Nomorecoalitions,no moremarches.
Hot breadand the fields of France.
We believedhim. We alwaysdid.
I lost an eyeat Austerlitz. Domino wils woundedand patrick,
who is still with us, neverseesmuch pastthe next bottle. That
should have been enough. I should have vanished the way
 THE PASSION

soldiersdo. Taken anothernatne,set up shopin somesmall

village,got marriedperhaps.

I didn't eryectto comehere.The viewis goodandthe seagulls

take bread from my windon'. One of the othershere boils
seagulls, but onlyin thewinter.In sumnerthey'refull ofwonns.
Winter.
The unimaginable ?rctowinter.
'We marchon Moscowr'he saidwhenthe Czarbetrayedhim.
It wasnot his intention,he wanteda speedycampaign.A blow
to Russiafor daringto setherselfagainsthim again.He thought
he couldalwalawin battlesthe wayhe haddwap won battles.
Like a circusdog he thoughteveryaudiencewould marvelat
his tricks, but the audiencewas geaing used to him. The
Russiansdidn't Eyenbotherto fight the GrandeArm€ein any
seriousway,they kept on marching burning villagesbehind
them,leavingnothingto ea! non'hereto sleep.They marched
into winter andwe follon'edthem. Into the Russianwinter in
our sunrmerovercoats.Into the snowin otrr glued-together
boos. Whenour horsesdiedof the coldwe slit their belliesand
sleptwith ourfeetinsidetheguts.Oneman'shorsefrozearound
him; in the morningwhenhe tried to takehis feetout theywere
stuck,entombedin the brittle entrails.We couldn't free him,
we hadto leavehirn. He wouldn'tstopscreaming.
Bonaparte travelledbysledge,sendingdesperate ordersdown
the lines,trying to makeus oumancwre the Russiansin iust
one place.We couldn't ouunaneuwethem.We could hardly
walk.
The consequences of burningthe villageswerenot onlyour
consequences; theywerethoseof the peoplewho livedthere.
Peasanswhoselivesranwiththesunandmoon.Like mymother
andfather,theyaccepted eachseason andlookedforwardto the
harvest.Theyworkedhardin thehoursofdaylightandcomforted
 THE ZEROWINTER

themselves with storiesfrom the Bible andstoriesof the forest

Their forestswerefull of qpirits,somegoodsomeno! but every
familyhada happystoryto tell; howtheirchildwassavedor their
onlycowbroughtbackto life bytheagencyof a spirit.
Theycalledthe czer 'the Little Father',andtheyworshipped
him astheyworshippedGod. In their simplicityI sawa minor
of my own longingand understoodfor the first time my oym
needfor alittle fatherthathadled methisfar. Theyarea hearth
people,contentto bolt the doorat night andeatthick soupand
blackbread.They singsongsto ward ttre night awayand like
us, theytaketheir animalsinto the kitchenin winter.In winter
the coldis too muchto endureandthe groundis harderthana
soldier'sblade.They can only light the lampsand live on the
foodin the cellaranddreamof the spring.
when the armyburnedtheir villages,the peoplehelpedto
setfire to ttreir ownhomes,to their yearsof work andcommon
sense.They did it for the litde father.They nrrnedthemselves
out into the zerowinter andwent to their deathsin onesand
twosor in families.They walkedto the woodsand sat by the
lozen rivem,notfor long thebloodsoonchills,but longenough
for someof themto bestitl singingsongsaswepasseduy.ttriir
voiceswere caughtin the fierce air and carriedthrouglrthe
stubbleof their housesto us.
we hadkilled themall withoutfiring a shot.I prayedfor the
snowto fall andbury themfor ever.Whenthe snowfalls you
candmostbelievethe world is cleanagain.
Is everysnowflakedirfferent? No oneknouns.

I haveto stopvniting no\r. I haveto take my exercise.They

expectyou to takeyour exerciseat the sametime eachdry
otherwisethey start to worry aboutyour health.They like io
keepus healthyheresothatwhenthevisitonrcometttrf so away
satisfied.I hopeI will ha'.'ea visitortoday.

8r
 THE PASSION

Watching my comradesdie was not the worst thing about that

war, it was watching them live. I had heard stories about the
human body and the human mind, the conditions it can adapt
to, the ways it choosesto sunive. I had heard tales of people
who were burnt in the sun and grew another skin, thick and
black like the top of overcookedponidge. Others who learned
not to sleepso that theywouldn't be eatenby wild animals.The
body clings to life at any cost. It eveneatsircelf. When there's
no food it nrrns cannibd and devours its fat, then its muscle
then its bones.I\e seensoldiers,mad with hunger and cold,
chop off their own anns and cook them. How long could you
go on chopping?Both anns. Both legs. Ears. Slices from the
trunk. You could chop yourself down to the very end and leave
the heart to beat in its ransackedpalace.
No. Take the heart first. Then you don't feel the cold so
much.The pain somuch.With the heartgone,there'sno reason
to stayyour hand.Your eyescan look on deathand not tremble.
It's the heart that betraysus, makesus weep, makesus bury
our friends when we should be marchingahead.It's the heart
that sickensus at night and makesus hate who we are. It's the
heart ttrat sings old songs and brings memories of warm
daysand makesus waver at another mile, another smouldering
village.
To survive the zero winter and that war we made a pyre of
our heartsand put them asidefor €ver.There's no pawnshop
for the heart. You can't take it in and leaveit awhile in a clean
cloth and redeemit in better tirnes.
You can't make senseof your passionfor life in the face of
death, you can only gue up your passion.Only then can you
begrnto survive.
And if you refuse?
If you felt for everyman you murdered, everylife you broke
in two, everyslowand painful harvestyou destroyed,everychild
whosefunrreyou stole,madnesswould thron'her noosearound
 THE ZERO WINTER

your neck and leadyou into the dark woodswhere the rivers are
polluted and the birds are silent.

When I sayI lived with heardessmen, I use the word correctly.

As the weekswore on, we talked about going home and home

stoppedbeinga placewherewe quarrelaswell aslove.It stopped
being a place where the fire goesout and there is usually some
unpleasantiob to be done. Home becamethe focus of ioy and
sense.We began to believe ttrat we were fighting this war so
that we could go home. To keep home safe, to keep home as
we started to imagine it Non' that our hearB were gone there
was no reliable org"anto stem the steadytide of sentiment that
snrckto our bayonetsand fed our damp fires. There wasnothing
we wouldn't believeto get us through: God wason our side,the
Russianswere devils. Our wives dependedon this war. France
dependedon this war. There was no alternativeto this war.
And the heaviestlie? That we could go home and pick up
where we had left off. That our heartswould be waiting behind
the door with the dog.
Not all men fie as fortunate as Llllnses.

Our sustaininghope as the temperahres dropped and we gave

up speechwasto reachMoscow. A greatcity where there would
be food and fire and friends. Bonapartewas confident of peace
once we had dealt a decisive blou'. He was dready uriting
surrendernotices,filling the spacewith humiliation and leaving
iust enoughroom at the bottom for the Czarto sign. He seemed
to think we were winning when dl we were doing was rururing
behind. But he had furs to keep his blood optimistic.
Mosconr is a city of domes, built to be beautiful, a city of
squaresand worship. I did see it, briefly. The gold domes lit
yellow and orangeand the people gone.
They set fire to it. Even when Bonapartearrived, dap ahead

83
 THE PASSION

of the rest of the armn it was blazing and it went on blazing. It

was a dilhcult city to burn.
We campedawayfrom the flamesand I servedhim that night
on a scrawnychicken surroundedby parsleythe cook cherishes
in a dead man's helmet I think it was that night that I knew I
couldn't stay any longer. I think it was ttrat night that I started
to hate him.
I didn't knon'what hate felt like, not the hate that comesafter
love. It's huge and desperateand it longs to be proved wrong.
And everyday it's proved right it growsa little more monstrous.
If ttre love was passion,the hate will be obsession.A need to
seethe once-lovedweak and corvedand beneathpity. Disgust
is closeand dignity is far away.The hate is not only for the once
loved, it's for yourself too; how could you Eyerhaveloved this?
When Patrick arrived some dayslater I searchedfor him in
the blistering cold and found hirn wrapped in sackswith a iar
of somecolourlessliquid besidehirn. He was still look-ouq this
time watching for surpriseenemymovements,but he was never
soberand not dl of his sightingswere taken seriously.He waved
the iar at me and saidhe'd got it in exchangefor a life. A peasant
had beggedto be dlowed to die with his family in the honourable
way, in the cold dl together, and had offered Patrick the iar.
Whateverwas in it had put him in a gloomy temper. I smelled
it. It smelt of ageand hay. I startedto cry and my tears fell like
diamonds.
Patrick picked one up and told me not to wastemy salt
Mediatively, he ate it
'It goeswell with this spirit it does.'
There is a story about an exiled Princesswhosetears nrrned
to iewels as she walked. A rnagpiefollowed her and picked up
dl ttre iewelsand droppedthem on the windowsill ofa thoughtrul
Prince. This Prince scouredthe land until he found the Princess
and ttrey lived happily eyer after. The magpiewas made a royal
bird and given an oak forest to live in and the Princesshad her

84
 THE ZERO WINTER

tears made into a great necklace,not to wear, but to look at

whenevershe felt unhappy.When she looked at the necklace,
she knew that shewasnot.
'Patrick, I'm going to desert.Will you comewith me?'
He laughed.'I may.onlybe half alivenow, but sure as I know
I'd be fully deadif I set outwith you in this wilderness.'
I didn't try to persuadehirn.We sattogethersharingthe sacks
and the spirit and dreamedseparately.
Would Domino come?
He didn't speakmuch sincehis iniury, which had blovrnaway
one side of his face. He wore a cloth wrappedround his head
and overlappinghis scarsto mop up the bleeding.If he stayed
out in the cold for too long the scarsopenedand filled his mouth
with blood and pus. The doctor explainedit to him; something
about the wounds going septic after he'd had himself stitched
up. The doctor shrugged.It was a battle, he'd done what he
could but what could he do with anns and legs everynvhere and
nothing but grapebrandyto easethe pain and still the wounds?
Too manysoldiersarewounded,it would be better if they died.
Domino was hunched up in Bonaparte'ssledgein the rough
tent where it waskept and he slept.He waslucky, looking after
Bonaparte'sequipmentiust asI wasluckyworkingin the officers'
kitchen.We were both wanner and better fed than anyoneelse.
That makesit sound cosy. . .
We avoidedthe worst ravagesof frostbite and we got food
everyday. But canvasand poatoes do not challengethe zero
winter; if anythin& they deniedus the happyoblivion that comes
with dyrngof cold. When soldiersfinally lie down,knowingthey
won't get up agah, most of them smile. There's a comfort in
fallittg asleepin the snow.
He looked ill.
'I'm goingto desert,Domino. Will you comewith me?'
He couldn't talk at all that day,the pain was too bad, but he
wrote in the snow ttrat had drifted still soft under the tent.

85
 THE PASSION

CRAZY.
'I'm not cruny,Domino, you\e
been laughingat me since I
ioined up. Eight yearsyou've been laughing at me. Take me
seriously.'
He wrote, wHy?
'BecauseI can't say
here. These wars will never end. Even
if we get home,there'll be anotherwar. I thoughthe'd end wars
for ever,that's what he said. One more, he said,one more and
then there'll be peaceand it's alwaysbeen one more. I want to
stop now.'
He wrote, FUTURn.And then he put a line throughit.
What did he mean?His future?My future?I thought back to
those sea-saltdayswhen the sun had nrrned the grassyellow
and men had married mermaids.I startedmy little book then,
the one I still haveand Domino had turned on me and called
the future a dream.There'sonlythepresent, Hafi.
He had nevertalked of what he wantedto do, where he was
going he neverioined in the aimlessconversations that clustered
round the idea of somethingbetter in anothertime. He didn't
believein the future, only the present,and as our future, our
years,had turned sorelentlesslyinto identicalpresents,I under-
stood him more. Eight yearshad passedand I was still at war,
cookingchickens,waiting to go home for good. Eight yearsof
talkingaboutthe future and seeingit nrrn into the present.years
of thinking, 'In anotheryear,I'll be doing somethingdifferent,'
and in anotheryear doing iust the same.
Future. Crossedout.
That's what war does.
I don't want to worship him any more. I want to make my
own mistakes.I want to die in my own time.
Domino was looking at me. The snow had alreadycovered
his words.
He wrote,you co.
He tried to smile.His mouth couldn't smilebut his eyeswere

86
 THE ZERO WINTER

bright, and iumping up in the old waR in the way he'd iumped
to pick applesfrom the allest trees, he snatchedan icicle from
the blackenedcanvasand handedit to me.
It was beautiful. Formed from the cold and glittering in the
centre.I looked again.There was somethinginside it, running
through the middle from top to bottom. It was a piece of thin
gold that Domino usuallywore round his neck. He calledit his
talisman.What had he done with it and why was he giving it to
me?
Making signswith his handshe mademe understandthat he
could no longer wear it around his neck becauseof his sores.
He had cleanedit and hung it out of sight and this morninghad
seenit so encased.
An ordinary miracle.
I tried to gtveit back, but he pushedme awayuntil I nodded
and said I'd hangit on my belt when I left.
I think I had knownhe wouldn't come.He wouldn't leavethe
horces.They were the present.

When I got back to the kitchen tent, Patrick waswaiting for me

with a woman I had never met. She was a aiaandihe. Only a
handfulwereleft and theywerestrictly for the officers.The pair
of them were wolfing chickenlegsand offered one to me.
'Restyour heart,' said Patrick,seeingmy horror, 'thesedon't
belongto Our Lord, our friend here cameby them and when I
came looking for you, she was already in here doing a bit of
cooking.'
'Where did you get them?'
'I fucked for them, the Russianshavegot plenty and there's
still plenty of Russiansin Moscow.'
I blushedand mumbled somethingaboutthe Russianshaving
fled.
She laughed and said the Russianscould hide under the
snowflakes.Then shesaid,'They're dl different.'

87
 THE PASSION

'What?'
'Snorrflakes.Think
of that.'
I did think of that and I fell in love with her.
When I said I was leaving that night she askedif she could
comewith me.
'I can help you.t
I would havetaken her with me €venif she'd been lame.
'Ifyou're both going,'
said Patrich draining the last of his evil
spirit, 'I'll comealongtoo. I don't fancyit here on my own.'
I wastakenabackand for a moment consumedwith jealousy.
PerhapsPatrick loved her?Perhapsshe loved him?
Love. In the middle of a zero winter. What was I thinking?
we packedthe restofher food anda goodded ofBonaparte's.
He tnrsted me and I had never given him reasonnot to.
Well, evengreatmen can be surprised.
We took what there wasand she returned urrappedin a huge
fur, anotherof her souvenirsof Moscow.As we setoff, I slipped
into Domino's tent and left him as much of the food as I dared
spareand scrawledmy namein the ice on the sledge.
Then we were gone.

We walked for a night and a day without stopping. Our legs

assumedan ungainly rhythm and we were afraid to stop in case
our lungs or our legs buckled under us. We didn't talk, we
wrapped our nosesand mouths as tightly as we could and let
our eyespoke out like slits. There wasno fresh snow.The hard
ground rang at our heels.
I remembereda womanwith her babR her heelssparkingthe
cobbles.
'Happy New Year, soldier.'
Why do all happy memoriesfeel like yesterdaythough yeils
havepassed?
We were heading in the direction we had come, using the
charred villages as gruesomesignposts,but our progress w,ls

88
 THE ZERO WINTER

slow and we were afraid to stick directly to the roads for fear of
Russiantroopsor someof our o\iln army,greedyand desperate.
Mutineers, or traitors as they were more usuallycalled, found
no leniencyandweregwenno opporhrnityto maketheir excuses.
We camped where we could find some natural shelter and
huddled togetherfor warmth. I wanted to touch her, but her
body wascoveredall over and my handswere gloved.
On the seventhnight" coming out of the forest, we found a
hut full of primitive muskets,a dump for the Russiantroops we
supposed,but there was no one. We were weary and took our
chancein there, using dregsof gunpowderfrom the barrels to
light a fire. It was ttre first night we had had enough shelter to
ake off our boots and Patrick and I were soon stretching our
toesat the blaze,risking pennanentdamageto our feet.
Our companionloosedher lacesbut kept her boots on, and
seeingmy surpriseat forgoingthis une{pectedlunrry said,'My
fatherwasa boatrnan.Boatnen do not take offtheir boots.'We
were silent, either out of respect for her customs or sheer
exhaustion,but it was she who offered to tell us her story if we
choseto listen.
'A fire and a tater' said Patrick. 'Now all we need is a drop
of somethinghot' and he fathomed from the bottom of his
unfathomablepocketsanotherstopperediar of evil spirit.
This was her story.

I havealwaysbeen a gambler.It's a skill ttrat comesnanrrally to

me like thieving and loving. What I didn't know by instinct I
picked up from working the Casino, from watching others play
and learning what it is that people value and therefore what it
is they will risk. I learned horv to put a challengein such a way
as to make it inesistible. We gamblewith the hope of winning
but it's the thought of what we might losethat excitesus.
Howyouplay is a temperamenAlthing; cards,dice,dominoes,

89
 THE PASSION

iacks,such preferencesare frills merely.All gamblerssweat.I

comefrom the city of chances,where everythingis possiblebut
where everythinghas a price. In this city great fornrnesare won
and lost overnight.It has alwaysbeen so. Ships that carry silk
and spices sink, the senant betrays the master, the secret is
out and the bell tolls another accidenal death. But penniless
adventurershavealwaysbeenwelcomehere too, they are good
luck andveryoften their goodluck rubs offon themselves.Some
who comeon foot leaveon horsebackand otherswho tnrmpeted
their estatebeg on the Rialto. It hasalwaysbeenso.
The astutegambleralwayskeepssomethingback,something
to play with anothertime; a pocket watch, a hunting dog. But
the Devil's gamblerkeepsback somethingprecious,something
to gamblewith only once in a lifetime. Behind the secretpanel
he keepsit, the valuable,fabulousthing that no one suspectshe
has.
I knew a man like.that; not a drunkard sniffing after every
wager nor an addict stripping the clothes off his back rather
than go home. A thoughdul man who they say had trade wittr
gold and death.He lost heavily,asgamblersdo; he won surpris-
ingly, asgamblersdo, but he nevershowedmuch emotion,never
led me to suspectthat rnuch important wasat stake.A hobbyisg
I thought, dismissinghim. You see,I like passion,I like to be
amongthe desperate.
I was wrong to disrnisshim. He was waiting for the wager
that would seducehim into risking what he valued. He was a
tnre gambler, he was prepared to risk the valuable, fabulous
thing but not for a dog or a cock or the casualdice.
On a quiet evening when the ables were half empty and the
domino setslay in their boxes,he wasthere, wandering,flutter-
ing drinking and flining.
I was bored.
Then a man cameinto the room, not one of our regulars,not
one any of us knew, and after a few half-hearted games of

90
 THE ZERO WINTER

chancehe spied this figure and engagedhim in conversation.

They talked for upwardsof half an hour and so intently that we
ttrought they must be old friends and lost our curiosity in the
assumptionof habit. But the rich rnanwith his strangelybowed
companionby his side askedleaveto make an announcement,
a most remarkablewager,and we clearedthe centralfloor and
let him speak.
It seemedthat his companion,this stranger,had come from
the wastesof the Levant, where exotic lizards breed and all is
unusual.In his counry, no man botheredwith paltry fortunes
at the gamingable, they playedfor higher stakes.
A life.
The wagerwas a life. The winner should take the life of the
loser in whatsoeverway he chose.However slowly he chose,
with whateverinstrumentshe chose.What was certain was that
only one life would be spared.
Our rich friend was clearlyexcited.His eyeslookedpastthe
facesand ables of the gamingroom into a spacewe could not
inhabit; into the spaceof pain and loss.What could it matter to
him that he might lose fornrnes?
He had fortunesto lose.
What could it maner to him that he might lose mistresses?
There are womenenough.
What would it matter to him that he might lose his life?
He had one life. He cherishedit.
There were those ttrat night who beggedhim not to go on
with it, who saw a sinister aspectin this unknown old man,
who were perhapsafraid of being rnadethe sameoffer and of
refusing.
What you risk revealswhat you vdue.
Thesewere the terms.
A gameof three.
The firsq the roulette,where only fate is queen.
The second,the cards,where skill hassomepart.

9r
 THE PASSION

The third, the dominoes,where sl'ill is paramountand chance

is there in disguise.
Will shewearyour colours?
This is the city of disguises.

The tenns were agreedand strictly supervised.The winner was

two out of three or in the event of someonlooker crying Nay! a
tie, chosenat random,by the managerof the Casino.
The terms seemedfair. More than fair in this cheatingworld,
but there were still some who felt uneasyabout the unknown
man, unassumingand unthreateningas he seemed.
If the Devil playsdice, will he comelike this?
Witl he comeso quietly and whisperin our ear?
If he cameas an angelof light, we should be immediatelyon
our guard,
The word was given: Play on.

We drank throughout the first game,watchingthe red and black

spin under our hands,watching the bright sreak of meal d"lly
with one number, then another,innocent of win or lose. At first
it seemedas though our rich friend must win, but at the last
moment the ball sprangout of its slot and spun againwith ttrat
dwindling sickeningsound that marks the last possiblechange.
The wheel cameto rest.
It was the strangerwhom fornrne loved.

There was a moment's silence,we expectedsome sign, some

worry on one part, somesatisfactionon another, but with faces
of wax, the nro men got up and walked to the optimistic baize.
The cards. No man knows what they may hold. A man must
tnrst his hand.
Swift dealing.These were accustomedto the game.
They played for perhaps an hour and we drank. Drank to
keep our lips wet, our lips ttrat dried everytime a card fell and
 THE ZERO WINTER

the strangerseemeddoomedto victory. There wasan odd sense

in the room that the strang€rmust not win, that for all our sakes
he must lose.We willed our rich friend to weld his wits with his
luck and he did.
At the cards,he won and they were even.

The two men met each other's gar;efor a moment before they
seatedthemsehesin front of the dominoesand in eachfacewas
somethingof the other. Our rich friend had assumeda more
calculating expression,while his challenger's face was more
thoughdul, lesswolfish than before.
It was clear from the start that they were evenly matched at
this game too. They played deftlS iudgng the gaps and the
numbers,making lightnins calculations,baflling eachother. We
had stoppeddrinking. There was neither sound nor movement
savethe clicking of the dominoeson the marble able.
It was past midnight. I heard the water lapping at the stones
below. I heard my saliva in my throat. I heard the dominoes
clicking on the marble table.
There were no dominoesleft. No gaps.
The strangerhad won.

The two men stood up simultaneously,shook hands. Then the

rich man placedhis handson the marble, and we sawthey were
shaking.Fine comfortablehandsthatwere shaking.The stranger
noticedandwith a little smilesuggestedtheycompletethe terms
of their wager.
None of us spokeup, none of us tried to stop him. Did we
want it to happen?Did we hope that one life might substinrte
for many?
I do not know our motives,I only know that we were silent.
This wasthe death:dismembermentpieceby piecebegfuming
with the hands.
The rich man nodded almost imperceptibly imd, bowing to
 THE PASSION

us, left in the companyof the stranger.We heard nothing more,

neversaweither of them again,but one daR monthslater, when
we had comforted ourselvesthat it was a ioke, that they had
parted at the corner, out of sight, grven each other a fright,
nothing more, we receiveda pair of hands,manicuredand quite
white, mounted on grcen bane in a glasscase.Between the
finger and thumb of the left was a roulette ball and betrreenthe
finger and thumb of the right, a domino.
The managerhung the caseon the wall and there it hangs
today.

I havesaidthat behind the secretpanellies a valuable,fabulous

thing. we are not alwaysconsciousof it, not alwaysaware of
what it is we hide from prylng eyesor ttrat those prying eyes
may sometimesbe our olvn.
There wasa night, eight yearsago,when a hand that took me
by surpriseslid the secretpanel and shoruedme what it was I
kept to myself,
My heart is a reliable organ, how coutd it be my heart?My
everyday,work-hard heart that laughedat life and gavenothing
away.I haveseendolls from the eastttrat fold in one upon the
other, the one concedingthe other and so I know that the heart
mayconcealitself,
It was a gameof chanceI enteredinto and my heart was the
wager.Such gamescan only be playedonce.
Such gamesare better not playedat all.
It was a woman I loved and you wilt admit that is not the
usualthing. I knew her for only five months.We had nine nights
together and I never saw her again. You will admit ttrat is not
the usual thing.
I havealwayspreferred the cardsto the dice so it should have
come as no surpriseto me to have dravrna wild card.
The Queenof spades.
She lived simply and elegantlyand her husbandwas some-
 THE ZERO WINTER

times called awayto examinea new rarity (he dealt in booksand

maps);he was called awaysoonafter we met. For nine daysand
nights we stayedin her house,never openingthe door, never
looking out of the windorv.
We were nakedand not ashamed.
And we were happy.
On the ninth day I was left alone for a while becauseshe had
certain household affairs to attend to before her husband's
return. On that day the rain splashedagainstthe windows and
filled up the canalsbelow, churning the rubbish that lies under
the surface,the rubbish that feedsthe ramand the exilesin their
dark mazes.It wasearb in the New Year. She had told me she
loved me. I never doubtedher word becauseI could feel how
tme it was.When she touched me I knew I was loved and wittt
a passionI had not felt before.Not in anotherand not in mpelf.
Love is a fashiontheseda]ryandin this fashionablecitywe know
how to make light of love and how to keep our hearts at bay. I
thoughtof myselfasa civilisedwomanandI found I wasa savage.
WhenI ttroughtoflosingher I wantedto drorrnboth ofus in some
lonelyplacerather than feel myselfa beastthat hasno friend.
On the ninth night we ate and drank as usual alone in the
house,the servantsdismissed.She liked to cook omeletteswith
herbs and thesewe ate with hot radishesshe had got from a
merchant. Occasionally our convercation faltered and I saw
tomorrow in her eyes. Tomorrou' when we would part and
resume our life of strange meetings in unfamiliar quarters.
There wasa caft we usuallywentto, full of snrdentsfrom Padua
and artists seekinginspiration.She was not knovrnthere. Her
friends could not find her out. Thus we had met and met too
in hours that did not belong to us, until tttis Stft of nine nights.
I did not meether sadness;it wastoo heavy.
There is no sensein loving someoneyou can neverwake up
to exceptby chance.
The gambleris led on in the hope of a win, thrilled with the
 THE PASSION

fear of losingand whenhe wins he believeshis luck is there,

ttrathewill win again.
If ninenightswerepossiblewhynot ten?
So it goesand the weekspasswaiting for the tenth nighq
waitingto win againandall thetimelosingbit bybit thatvduable
fabulousthing thatcannotbe replaced.
Her husbanddedt onlyin whatwasunique,he neverbought
a treasuresomeone elsemighthave.
Wouldhe buymy heartthenandgiveit to her?
I hadalreadywageredit for ninenights.In themorningwhen
I left I did not sayI wouldnot seeher again.I simplymadeno
iurangement. Shedid not pressmeto do so,shehadoftensaid
thatasshegotoldershetookwhatshecouldof life but expected
little.
Then I wasgone.
Everytime I wastemptedto go to her I went to the casino
insteadandwatchedsomefool humiliatinghimsetfat the ables.
I could gambleon anothernighq reducemyselfa little more,
but afterttretenthnightwouldcometheeleventhandthetnelfth
andso on into the silentspacethat is the pain of neverhaving
enough.The silent spacefull of sarving children.She loved
her husband.

I decidedto marry.
Therewasa manwho hadwantedme for sometime, a man
I had refused,cursed.A manI despised. A rich manwith fat
fingerc.He liked me to dressas a boy.I like to dressasa boy
nowandthen.We hadthatin common.
He cameto the casino everynight, playrngfor high stakes
but not gamblingwith anythingtoo precious.He wasno fool.
He claspedme with his terriblehands,with fingertipsthat had
the feelof boilsburstingandaskedmeif I'd changed my mind
abouthisoffer.We couldtraveltheworldhe said.Justthethree
of us.Him, meandmy codpiece.

96
 THE ZERO WINTER

The city I come from is a changeablecity. It is not always

sar size. Sreets appearand disappearovernight, new
the same
waterwaysforce themselvesover dry land. There are dayswhen
you cannotwalk from one end to the other, so far is the iournen
and there are days when a stroll will ake you round your
kingdomlike a tin-pot Prince.
I had begun to feel that this city containedonly trro people
who sensedeachother and never met. WheneverI went out I
hoped and dreadedto seethe other. In the facesof strangersI
sawone face and in the mirror I sawmy own.
The world.
The world is surelywide enoughto walk without fear.
We were marriedwithout ceremonyand set off straightaway
to France,to Spain,to Constantinopleeven.He wasas good as
his word in that respect and I drank my coffee in a different
place eachmonth.

There was,in a certaincrtywhere the climatewasfine, a young

Jewishman who loved to drink his coffeeat the pavementcafds
and watch the world go by. He saw sailors and travellers and
women with swans in their hair and all manner of fanciful
distractions.
One dayhe sawa youngwomanflytt g past,her clothesflying
out behind her.
She wasbeautiful and becausehe knew that beautymakesus
good he askedher to stop awhileand sharehis coffee.
'I'm running awayr'she said.
'Who are you running awayfrom?'
'Myself.'
But she agreedto sit awhilebecauseshewaslonely.
His namewas Salvadore.
They talked about the mountainrangesand the opera.They
talked about animals$'ith metal coatsthat can swim the length
of a river without coming up for air. They talked about the
 THE PASSION

valuable,fabulousthing that everyonehas and keepsa secret.

'Here,' said
Salvadore,'look at this,' and he took out a box
enamelledon the outsideand softly lined on the inside and on
the insidewashis heart.
'Give me yours
in exchange.'
But shecouldn't becauseshewasnot trave[ingwith her heart,
it wasbeatingin anotherplace.
she thankedthe young man and went back to her husband,
whosehandscrept over her body like crabs.
And the youngnuln thoughtoften of a beaut'rfulwonurnon that
sunnydaywhen the wind had pushedout her earringslike fins.

We travelled for two years, then I stole his watch and what
moneyhe had on him and left him. I dressedasa boy to escape
detection,and while he snoredoff his red wine and most oi a
gooseI lost myselfin the dark that hasalwaysbeena friend.
I got odd iobs on shipsand in grandhouses,learnedto speak
five languagesand did not see that city of destiny for another
three years,then I caughta ship home on a whim and because
trwantedmy heart back. I should haveknorunbetter than to risk
my luck in the shrinking city. He soon found me out and his
fury at beingrobbedandabandonedhad not abated,eventhough
he wasliving with anotherwomanby then.
A friend of his, a sophisticatedman, suggesteda little wager
for the two of us, a way of solvingour differences.We were to
play cardsand if I won, I shouldhavemy freedomto comeand
go asI pleasedand enoughmoneyto do so.If I lost, my husband
should do with me as he pleased,though he was not to molest
or murder me.
What choicehad I?
At the time, I thought I playedbadly, but I later discovered
by chancethat the packwasfixed, that the wagerhad beenfixed
from the start.As I told you, my husbandis no fool.
It wastheJack of heartsthat caughtme out.

98
 THE ZERO WINTER

When I lost, I thought he would force me home and that

would be an end to it, but insteadhe kept me waitingthree days
and then senta messagefor me to meet him.
He waswith his friend when I arrived and an o{ficer of high
nrnk, a Frenchmanwhom I discoveredto be GeneralMurat.
This officer looked me up and down in my woman's clothes
then asked me to changeinto my easy disguise.He was all
admiration and, turning from me, withdrew a large bag from
within his effectsand placedit on the tablebetweenhimselfand
my husband.
'This is the price we agreedthen,' he said.
And my husband,his fingerstrembling countedit out.
He had sold me.
I wasto ioin the army,to ioin the Generalsfor their pleasure.
It was,Murat assuredme, quite an honour.
They didn't give me enough time to collect my heart, gnty
my luggage,but I'm grateful to them for that; this is no place
for a heart.

She was silent. Patrick and I, who had not uttered a word nor
moved at all saveto shield our scorching feet, felt unable to
speak.It wasshewho broke the silenceagain.
'Passme that evil spiri! a story deservesa reward.'
She seemedcarefreeand the shadowsthat had crossedher
face throughout her story had lifted, but I felt my own iust
beginning.
Shewould neverlove me.
I had found her too late.
I wantedto ask her more about her waterycity that is never
the same,to seeher eyeslight up for love of somethingif not
for love of me, but she was already spreadingher furs and
settlingto sleep.Cautiously,I put my hand to her faceand she
smiled, reading my thoughts.
 THE PASSION

'when we get
through this snow, I'll ake you to the city of
disguisesand you'll find one that suitsyou.'
Another one.r'm alreadyin disguisein thesesoldiers'clothes.
I want to go home.
During the night, while we slept,the snowsbeganagain.we
couldn't push open the door in the morning not patrick nor I
nor the three of us together.We had to break down the wood
where it had splinteredand becauseI am still skinny,I was the
one bundledfacefirst into a snowdriftbankedtaller than a man.
- with my handsI beganscoopingawaythat deadlyheadystuff
that temptsme to plungein and neverbother to comeout. Snorv
doesn'tlook cold,it doesn'tlook asthoughit hasanytemperature
at all. And when it falls and you catch thosepieCesof nothing
I your hands,it seemsso unlikely that they could hun anyone.
Seemsso unlikely that simple multiplication can make such a
difference.
Perhapsnot. Even Bonapartewas beginning to learn that
numbers count. In this vast country there are miles and men
and snowflakesbeyondour resources.
I
- took offmy glovesto keepthem dry and watchedmy hands
alter from red to white to beautifulseablue wherethe veinsrear
up almostpurple, almost the colour of anemones.I could feel
my lungs beginning to freeze.
At home, on the farrn, ttre frost at midnight brightens the
ground and hardensthe stars.The cold there slashis you like
a whip, but it is never so cold that you feel yourself ireezing
from the inside. That the air you brlathe is ieizing the fluids
and mists and turning them into lakes of ice. When I drew
breathI felt as though I were being embalmed.
It took me mostof the morningto clearawaythe snowenough
to open the door. we left with gunpowderand very little rooa
and_triedto go on tracingour waytowardspoland,or the Duchy
of Warsaw as Napoleon had designatedit. our plan *.r to
skirt along the borders,then dorvnthrough Austria, acrossthe

IOO
 THE ZERO WINTER

Danube,headingfor Veniceor Trieste ifthe ports were blocked.

A iourneyof somer,3oo miles.
Villanelle was skilful with the compassand maP; she said it
wasone of the advantages of sleepingwith Generals.
Progresswasslowerthan usualfor us thanksto the snowdrifb,
and we might havedied lessthan two weeksafter we'd set out
if it hadn't been for a detour we were forced to make that led
us to a cluster of housesawayfrom the spreadof our armies.
When we saw the smoke rising in the disunce we thought it
was another desolatesacrifice,but Patrick siworehe could see
rooftops,not shells,and we had to Eust that it was not the evil
spirit guidins us. If it was a burning village, troops would be
closeat hand.
On Villanelle'sadvice,we pretendedto be Poles.She spoke
the languageaswell asRussian,and explainedto the suspicious
villagersthat we had been capturedby the French for semice
but had murderedour guardsand escaped.Hencethe uniforms,
stolento avoiddetection.When the Russianpeasantsheardwe
had murderedsomeFrenchmen,their faceswere alivewith ion
and they hurried us indoorswith promisesof food and shelter.
From them, through Villanelle'sinterpretation,we learnedhow
little of the country had been spared,how comprehensivehad
beenthe burnings.Their own homeshad escapedbecausethey
were sufficiently remote and mainly becausea Russian high
ranker was in love with the dauglrter of the goatherd. An odd
storyof a chanceseductionthat had excitedhis heart aswell as
his imagination.This Russianhad promisedto sparethe village
and re-routed his troops accorditgly, so that when we French
followed we too had gone anotherway.
Love it seemscan sunive evena war and a zerowinter. Like
the snow-raspberries, our host explained,love is like that, and
he told us how theseflimsydelicaciesappearalwaysin February,
whateverthe weather,whateverthe prospects.No one knows
why, when pines are withered at the roots and rough sheephave

IOI
 THE PASSION

to be kept indoorc, theseimpossiblehot-house things still grow.

The goatherd'sdaughterwassomethingof a celebrity.
Villanellehad pretendedsheand I were married andwe were
put to sleepin the samebed, while poor Patrick had to share
with their son,who wasan amiableidiot. on the secondmorning
we heard cries coming from Patrick's loft and found him pinned
on his back by the son,who was the sizeof an ox. This boy had
a wooden flute and was playrns runes of a kind while Patrick
groanedbeneath.We couldn't move him and it was only our
host's wife who, grving him a flick wittr her cloth, sent the boy
roaring and weeping out into the snorry.A little later, he crept
in and lay at his mother's feet, his eyeswide open, staring.
'He's a good
boy,' shetold Villanelle.
It seemedhe had been visited by a spirit at birttr and this
spirit had offered him brains or strength. our host's wife
shrugged.what good were brains in this place wirh the sheep
and goats to care for and the trees to fell? They had thanked
the spirit and asked for strength, and now their son, who was
only fourteen, could carry five men or lift a cow acrosshis
shoulderslike a lamb. He ate from a bucket becausethere was
no dish large enoughto comfort his appetite.And so at meals
the three of us sat with our bowls and the peasantand his wife
with their hard breadmd, at the end of the able, their sonwith
his shouldersblocking the window and his ladle dtppitts in and
out of his bucket.
'Will he marry?'Villanelle
asked.
'Yes indeed,'
said our host, Iooking surprised.'Any woman
would want such a fine strong rnan for her husband.We will
find someonefor him in time.'

At night I lay awake next to villanelle and listened to her

breathing.She slept curled up with her back towardsme and
nevermade any sign that shewanted to be touched.I touched
her when I was sure shewas asleep.Ran my hand up her spine

ro2
 THE ZERO WINTER

and wonderedif all women felt so soft and so firm. One night
shefirrned over suddenlyand told me to makelove to her.
'I don't know how.'
'Then I'll makelove to you.'

When I think of that night, here in this placewhere I will always

be, my handstrembleandmy musclesache.I loseall senseof day
or nighq I lose all senseof my work, writing this story, trying to
conveyto you what really happened.Trying not to makeup too
much. I can think of it by mistake,my eyesblurring the words in
front of me, my pen lifting and stayinglifted, I can think of it for
hours andyet it is alwaysthe samemomentI think of. Her hair as
shebent overme,red with streaksofgold, her hair on my faceand
chestandlookingup at her throughher hair. Shelet it fall overme
and I felt I waslying in the long grass,safe.

When we left the villagewe left with a seriesof short cuts drawn
for us on our mapand morefood than theyshouldhavespared.I
felt guilty becauseapart from Villanelle, they should havekilled
us.
Whereverwe went we found men and womenwho hatedthe
French. Men and women whosefutures had been decidedfor
them.Theywerenot articulatethinkingpeople,theywerepeople
of the land who were content with little and zealousin their
worship of custom and God. Although their lives were not
much changed,they felt slightedbecausetheir leadershad been
slighted,they felt out of control and resentedthe armiesand
the puppet Kings Bonaparte left behind. Bonaparte always
claimed he knew what was good for a people, knew how to
improve, how to educate.He did; he improved whereverhe
went, but he alwaysforgot that even simple people want the
freedomto maketheir own mistakes.
Bonapartewantedno misakes.
In Poland we pretended we were all Italian and received

r03
 THE PASSION

the sympathydue to one occupied race from another. When

Villanelle revealed her Venetian origins, hands flew across
mouthsand saintlywomencrossedthemselves.Venice,the city
of Satan.Was it really like that?and eventhe most disapproving
creptup to her and askedwhetheror not thereweretnrly r r,ooo
prostitutesall richer than Kings?
Villanelle, who loved to tell stories,wove for their wildest
dreams.She evensaid that the boaunenhad webbedfeet, and
while Patrick and I could hardly srrallow our laughter, the
Polesgrewwide-eyedand one evenrisked excommunicationby
suggestingthat perhapsChrist had been able to walk on the
water thanla to the sameaccidentof birth.
As we navelled, w€ heard about the Grande Armie, how
many thousandshad died and I was sick to hear of so much
wasteand for no purpose.Bonapartesaid that a night in Paris
with the whoreswould replenisheveryone.Maybe,but it would
take seventeenyea$ for them to grow up.
Eventhe Frenchwerebeginningto get tired. Eventhe women
without ambitionwantedsomethingmore than to produceboys
to be killed and girls to grow up to producemore boys.We were
gettingweary.Talleyrand wrote to the Czarand said, TheFrauh
penpleare ciailised,their leafur is nnt . . .
We are not especiallycivilised,we wanted what he wanted
for a long time. We wantedglory and conquestand slavesand
praise.His desireburned for longer than ours becauseit was
never likely that he would pay for it with his life. He kept his
valuable,fabulousthing behind the secretpanel until the last
moment,butwe, who hadsolitde exceptour lives,weregambling
with all we had from the start.
He sawwhat we felt.
He reflectedon our losses.
He had tents and food when we were dyrng.
He wastrying to found a dynasty.We werefighting for our lives.

r04
 THE ZERO WINTER

There's no such thing as a limited victory. One conquest only

leadson, inelucably, to another,to protect what hasbeenwon.
We found no friends of France on our iourney, only crushed
enemies.Enemieslike you and me with the samehopes and
fears, neither good nor bad. I had been taught to look for
monstersand devilsand I found ordinarypeople.
But the ordinary people were looking for devils too. The
Austrians in particular believed the French to be brutal and
beneath contempt. Still believing us to be lalian, they were
generousto a fault and compiued us favourablyin everyway
with the French. And if I had throvrn off my disguise?What
then,would I haveturnedinto a devilbeforetheir eyes?I worried
that they would smell me, that ttreir noses,so disdainful and
attuned to hate anything ttrat had a whiff of Bonaparte,would
detectme sraight away.But it seemswe are aswe appear.What
a nonsensewe makeof our hatredswhen we can only recognise
them in the most obviouscircumstances.

We were close to the Danube when Patrick beganto behave

oddly. We had been travelling for more than two months and
we found ourselvesin a valleysurroundedby pine forests.We
were at the bottom like ants in a great green cage.We were
making good time now that we were out of the snow and the
worst of the cold. Our spirirc were high; another two weeks
perhaps and we might reach ltaly. Patrick had been singrng
songssincewe left Moscow. Unintelligble, tunelesssongsbut
soundswe had gxownaccustomedto, that we marchedto. For
the last day or so he had been silent, hardly eating and not
wanting to talk. As we sataround our fire in the valleythat night,
he started to talk about Ireland and how much he wanted to
be home. He waswonderingwhetheror not he could persuade
the Bishop to give him a parish again. He had liked being a
priest, 'fuid not iust for the girls, though there was that, I
know.t

r05
l THE PASSION

He said it madesense,whetheryou believedor not, it made

senseto go to church and think,aboutsomeonewho wasn'tyour
family or your enemy.
I saidit washypocriticaland he saidDomino wasright about
me; that I was a purian at heart, didn't understandweakness
and messand simplehumanness.
I was very much hurt by this, but I think what he said was
tnre and it is a fault in me.
Villanelle told us about the churchesin Venice with their
paintingsof angelsand devilsand thievingmen and adulterous
womenand animalseverywhere.Patrickbrightenedand thought
he might try his luck in Venicefirst.
He wokeme in the middle of the night. He wasraving.I tried
to hold him down, but he's strong and neither I nor Villanelle
daredrisk his flailing fists and feet. He wassweatingdespitethe
cold night and therewasblood on his lips.We piled our blar*ets
over him and I set off into the dark that still terrified me to find
more dry wood and build up the fire. We built him a fiery
furnacebut he couldn't get warm. He sweatedand shook and
shoutedthat he was freezingto death, that the Devil had got
into his lungs and wasbreathingdamnationat him.
He died at aboutdawn.
We had no shovels,no way of penetratingthe black earth,so
we carried him betweenus to the beginningof the pine forests
and coveredhim with brackenand branchesand leaves.Buried
him like a hedgehogwaiting for summer.
Then we wereafraid.What had he died of and couldwe have
caught it? Despite the weatherand our need to move on, we
went to the river and washedourselvesand our clothes and
shiveredin the weak afternoonsun by the fire. Villanelle was
talking gloomily about catarrh, but I knew nothing then of that
Venetiandiseasethat now attacksme everyNovember.
When we left Patrick behind we left our optimism with hirn.
We had begun to believethat we would finish our iourney

ro6
 THE ZERO WINTER

and now that seemedlesspossible.If one can go why not three?

We tried to ioke, rememberinghis face when the ox-boy had
sat on him, rememberinghis wild sightings;he onceclaimedto
havespottedthe BlessedVirgin herself touring the heavenson
a gildeddonkey.He wasalwaysseeingthingsandit didn't matter
how or what, it matteredthat he sawand that he told us stories.
Storieswere all we had.

He had told us the storyof his miraculouseyeand when he had

first discoveredit. It wason a hot morning in County Cork and
the church doors were wide open to let out the heat and the
smell of sreat that even a good wash can't get rid of after six
daysin the fields. Patrick was preachinga fine sennon about
Hell and the perils of the fleshand his eyesroamedthe congre-
gation; at least his right eye did, he found that his left eyewas
focusedthree fields awayon a pair of his parishionerswho were
committing adultery under God's Heavenwhile their spouses
knelt in his church.
After the sermon,Patrickwasdeeplyperplexed.Had he seen
them or washe like StJeromeand subiectto lustful visions?He
wafted round to visit them that afternoonand,aftera few chance
remarks,iudged from their guilty facesttrat they had indeed
been doing what he thought they'd beendoing.
There was a womanof the parish,very devoutwith a bosom
that precededher, and Patrick found by sanding in his little
rurnsehe could seestraightinto her bedroomwithout anynrlgpr
telescope.He did look occasionally, iust to checkthat shewasn't
in sin. He reckoned,after all, that the Lord must havegranted
him this eyefor somerighteouspurpose.
Hadn't he grantedSamsonstrength?
'And Samsonwasa one for the womentoo.'

Could he seeus now?Could he look down from his placenext

to the BlessedVirgin and seeus walking awaythinking of him?

r07
 THE PASSION

Perhapsboth his eyeswere nou'far-sighted.I wantedhim to be

in Heaveneventhough I didn't believethere could be such a
place.
I wantedhim to seeus home.

Many of my friendswere dead.There was only one boy left of

thosefive of us who had laughedat the red barn and the cows
we had birthed. Others I had cometo knorvover the yearsand
grown used to had been faally wounded or recorded missing
on one battlefield or another. A fighting man is careful not to
make too many ties. I saw a cannonballblow a stonemasonin
two, a man I liked and I tried to drag his nn'ohalvesoffthe field,
but when I cameback for his legs they were indistinguishable
from the other legs. There was a carpenterthey had shot for
carvinga rabbit out of his musket-butt.
Death in battle seemedgloriouswhen we were not in battle.
But for the menwho werebloodiedand maimedand madeto run
throughsmokethatchokedtheminto enemylineswherebayonets
werewaiting deathin battleseemedonlywhatitwas.Death.The
curiousthingis thatwealwayswentback.The GrandeArm6ehad
more recruitsthan it could train andveryfew desertions,at least
until recently.Bonapartesaidwar wasin our blood.
Could that be orue?
And if it is tnre there will be no end to thesewars.Not now,
not ever. Whenever we shout Peace!and run home to our
sweetheartsand till the land we will be not in peacebut in a
respite from the war to come.War will alwaysbe in the funrre.
The funrre crossedout.
It can't be in our blood.
Why would a peoplewho love the grapeand the sun die in
the zero winter for one man?
Why did I? BecauseI loved him. He was my passionand
when we go to war we feel we are not a lukewarm people any
more.

ro8
 THE ZERO WINTER

What did Villanelle thinh?

Men are violent. That's all there is to it.

Being with her was like pressingyour eyeto a particularly vivid

kaleidoscope.She was all primary colour and although she
underctoodbetter than I the ambiguitiesof the heart she was
not equivocalin her thinking.
'I comefrom ttre city of mazes,'shesaidr'but if you askme
a direction I will tell you straightahead.'
We were now in the Kingdom of It"ly, and it washer plan to
take a boat to Venice,where we could staywith her family until
it was safefor me to return to France.In return, shewould ask
of me a favour and that favour concernedthe re-possessionof
her heart.
'My lover still has it. I left it there. I want you to help me get
it back.'
I promisedher my help but there was somethingI wanted
too; why had she nevertakenher boots off? Not evenwhile we
sayed with the peasantsin Russia?Not evenin bed?
Shelaughedand drew backher hair, and her eyeswere bright
with nro deepfurrorvsbenreenthe eyebrows.I thought shewas
the most beautifulwomanI had ever seen.
'I told you. My father was a boaunan.Boatmendo not take
offtheir boots,'and that wasall shewould say,but I determined
on my arrival in her enchantedcity to find out more about these
boaunenand their boots.

We were fornrnatein a fair passageand on that calm glittering

seathe war and the winter seemedyearsaway.Someoneelse's
past.And so it was that in May r8r3 I had my first glimpseof
Venice.
Arriving at Venice by sea, as one must, is like seeing an
invented city rise up and quiver in the air. It is a trick of the
early light to make the buildings shimmer so that they seem

r09
 THE PASSION

never still. It is not built on any lines I can fathom but rather
seemsto havepusheditself out, impudendy,here and there.To
have swelled like yeast in a shapeof ia olvn. There are no
preliminaries,no docks for the smaller craft, your boat anchors
in the lagoonand in a momentwith no more ado you are in St
Mark's Square.I watchedVillanelle'sface;the faceof someone
coming home, seeingnothing but the homecoming.Her eyes
flickered from the domesto cats,embracingwhat she sawand
passinga silent messagethat shewas back. I enviedher ttraf I
wasstill an exile.
We landed and taking my hand she led me through an
impossiblemaze,past somethingI seemedto translateas the
Bridge of Fists and evenmore unlikely,the Canalof the Toilet"
until we arrivedat a quiet watenvay.
'This is the back of my
house,'she said,'the front door is on
the canal.t
Their front doorsopenedinto the water?

Her mother and stepfathergreetedus with the kind of raphre

I had alwaysimagined to have been the luck of the Prodigal
Son. They drew up chairsand satcloseby so that all our knees
touched and her mother kept leaping up and running out to
fetch traysof cakesand iugs of wine. At everyone of our stories,
her father slappedme on the back and went 'Ha Ha', and her
mother raised her hands to the Madonna and said, 'What a
mercyyou are here.'
The fact that I was a Frenchmandidn't bother them at all.
'Not everyFrenchmanis
NapoleonBonaparte,'said her father.
'I haveknownsomegood
ones,thoughVillanelle'shusbandwas
not sucha goodone.'
I looked at her startled. She had never said that her fat
husband was a Frenchman. I presumed her facility for my
languagehad comewith living aroundso manysoldiersfor most
of her life.

IIO
 THE ZERO WINTER

She shrugged, her usud gesftre when she didn't want to

explain and askedwhat had happenedto her husband.
'He comesand goes,like always,but you can hide.'
The thought of hiding the nro of us, fugitives for different
reasons,appealedenonnouslyto Villanelle'sparents.
'When I was married to a boatrnanr'said her mother, 'things
were happeningeveryday,but the boat people are clannish and
now that I am married to a baker,' she tneaked his cheek,'they
go ttreir waysand I go mine.' Her eyesnarrowedand sheleaned
forwardsso closethat I could smell her breakfast.'There are
storiesI could tell you, Henri, that would makeyour hair stand
on end,' and she slappedme on the knee so violently that I fell
back in my chair.
'Leave the boy alone,' said her husband,'he's
iust walked
from Moscow.t
'Madonna,' exclaimedshe,'horr could I?' and she forced me
to eat anothercake.
When I wasreeling \rith cakesand wine and almostcollapsed
with exhaustion,shetook me aroundthe houseand showedme
in particular the little gd[e with a mirror positioned at such an
angleasto revealthe identity of any caller at the water-gate.
'We won't alwaysbe here and you must be sure who it is if
you are to open the door. As a further precaution I think you
should shaveoff your beard. We Venetiansare not hairy and
you will standout.'
I thankedher and slept for trro days.

On the third day I awoke to a quiet house and my room

completelydark becausethe shutterswere so tightly closed.I
threw them backand let in the yellowlight that touchedmy face
and broke in spearsacrossthe floor. I could seethe dust in the
sunlight.The roomwaslow and unevenand the wallshad faded
spaceswhere pictureshad hung. There was a wash-standand
a full iug, ice cold, and after so much cold and in this warmth, I

III
 THE PASSION

could only bearto dip in my fingers and rub awaythe sleepfrom

my eyes.There wasa mirror too. Full length on a woodensrrivel
stand.The mirror was silveredin places,but I sawmyself,tnin
and bony,with a too largeheadand a ruffian's beard.They were
right. I must shavebefore I went out. From my window which
overlookedthe canal I sawa whole world going about in boarc.
Vegetableboats,passengerboats,boatswith canopiescovering
rich ladiesand bonesasthin asa knife-bladewith raisedprotrys.
Thesewerethe sEangestboatsof all becausetheir ownersrowed
them standingup. fu far as I could see,the canalwas marked
at regular intends with SailVstriped poles, some with boats
butting againstthem, others, their gold tops peeling in the sun.
I threw the filthy water I used along with the remains of my
beard into the canal and prayed that my past had sunk for ever.

I got lost from the first. Where Bonapartego€s,straight roads

follow, buildings are rationalised,street signs may changeto
celebratea battle but they are alwaysclearly marked. Here, if
they bother with street signs at all, they are happy to use the
same ones over again. Not even Bonaparte could rationalise
Venice.
This is a city of madmen.
Everyrvhere,I found a church and sometimesit seemedI
found the same squarebut with different churches.Perhaps
here churchesspring up overnightlike mushroomsand dissolve
as quickly with the dawn. Perhapsthe \&netians build them
overnight?At the height of their powers they built a galleon
every day, fully fitted. Why not a church, fully fined? The only
rational place in the whole city is the public gardenand even
there, on a foggy nighg four sepulchral churches rise up and
swampthe regimentalpines.
I did not return to the baker'shome for five daysbecauseI
could not find my way and becauseI felt embarrassedto speak
French to thesepeople.I walked,looking for breadstalls,snilEng

tt2
 THE ZEROWINTER

like a trackerdo& hopingto catcha clueon the air. But I only

.T,t;l|1'1il;ro
a comer,
a corner
r swear
r had*r"ru .
huntlredtimesbeforeandI sawVillanelleplaitingher hair in a
boat.
'We thoughtyou'd gonebackto Francer'
she said. ,Mama
wasbrokenhearted.Shewantsyouto be her son.'
'I needa map.t
'It won't help.This is a living city. Thingschange.'
'Villanelle,citiesdon't.'
'Henri, theydo.'
Sheorderedme into theboat,promisingfoodon the way.
'I'll takeyou on a tour, thenyouwon't go missingagain.'
The boat smelledof urine and cabbagesand I askedher
whoseit was.Shesaidit belonged to a manwhobredbearc.An
admirerof hers.I waslearningnotto askhertoomanyquestions;
truth or lie, the answerswereusuallyunsatisfactory.
We slid out of the sun,dov,'nicy nrnnelsttratsetmy teethon
edgeandpastdampworkerbarges,hauledup with their ftrme-
lesscargo.
'This city enfoldsuponitself.Canalshideothercanals,dley-
wayscrossand criss-crossso that you will not knowwhich is
which until you havelived here all your life. Evenwhen you
havemasteredthe squaresandyou canpassfrom the Ridto to
the Ghettoandout to the lagoonwith confidence, therewill still
be placesyou canneverfind and if you do find themyou rnay
neverseeSt Mark's again.Leaveplentyof time in your doings
andbepreparedto goanotherway,to do somethingnotplanned
if thatis wherethe streetsleadyou.'
Werowedin ashapethatseemed to beafigureofeightworking
backon ieelf, WhenI suggested to Villanellethatshewasbeing
deliberately mysteriousandtakingmeawayI wouldneverrecog-
niseagain,shesmiledandsaidshewastakingmedovmanancient
waythatonlyaboaunancouldhopeto remember.

I13
 THE PASSION

'The cities of the interior do not lie on any map.'

We passedransackedpalaces,their curtains srn'ingingfrom
shutterlesswindows and now and againI caught sight of a lean
figure on a broken balcony.
'These arethe exiles,the peoplethe French droveout. These
peopleare deadbut they do not disappear.'
We passeda group of children whosefaceswere old and evil.
'I'm takingyou to seemy friend.'
The canal she turned into was littered with waste and ras
floating pink belly up. At times it was almost too narrow for us
to passand shepushedoffthe walls,her oar scrapinggenerations
of slime.No one could live here.
'What time might it be?'
Villanellelaughed.Yisiting time. I've brought a friend.'
She drew in her boat to a stinking recessand squatting on a
ledgeof precariouslyfloating crateswasa worran so sunkenand
filthy &at I scarcelythought her a human at all. Her hair was
glowing, some curious phosphorescentmould clung to it and
gaveher the appearanceofa subterraneandevil. Shewasdressed
in folds of a heavy material, impossible to place in colour or
design.One of her handshad only three fingers.
'I've beenawan' saidVillanelle.'Away
a long time,but I won't
go awayagain.This is Henri.'
The old creaturecontinuedto regardVillanelle. She spoke.
'You\e been awayas you
tell me and I have watched for you
while you were gone and sometimesseen your ghost floating
this way. You have been in danger and there is more to come
but you will not leaveagain.Not in this life.'
There was no light where we sat huddled. The buildings on
either side of the water closedin like an arch aboveour heads.
So closethat the roofs seemedto touch in places.Were we in
the sewers?'I brought you fish.' Villanelle took out a parcel
which the old woman sniffed before putting beneathher skirts.
Then sheturned to me.

II4
 THE ZERO WINTER

'Bewareof old enemiesin new disguises.'

Tl/ho is she?'I askedas soonaswe were safelyaway.
Villanelle shruggedand I knew I would get no real answer.
'She's an exile. She used to live there,' and she pointed out a
forgottenbuilding with a double water-gatethat had been left
to sink.so that the watersnow lappedinto the lorverroorns.The
top floors were used for storageand a pulley hung out of one of
the windows.
'When she lived there, they say the lights never went out
before dawn and the cellarshad wines so rare that a man might
die if he drank more than a glass.She kept ships on the seas
and the shipsbrought home commoditiesthat madeher one of
the wealthiestwomenin Venice.When otherstalkedof her, they
did so with respectand when they referredto her husbandthey
calledhim "The Husbandof the Lady of Means". She lost her
meanswhen Bonapartetook t fancy to them and they say that
Josdphinehasher iewels.'
Josdphinehasmost people'siewels,'I said.

We rowedout ofthe hiddencity into squaresofsunlight andwide

canalsthat huggedthe boatseightor nine acrossandstill left room
for the flimsypleasurecraft ofthe visitots.'This is the time ofyear
for them.And ifyou staytill AugustyoucancelebrateBonaparte's
birthday. But he may be dead by then. In that caseyou must
certainlysay till August and we'll celebratehis funeral.'
She had stoppedour boat ouside an imposingresidencethat
rose up six floors and commandeda choice place on this clean
and fashionablecanal.
'In that house,you will find my heart. You must break in,
Henri, and get it back for me.'
Was she mad?We had been talking figuratively. Her heart
was in her body like mine. I tried to explain this to her, but she
took my hand and put it againsther chest.
'Feel for yourself,'

II5
 THE PASSION

I felt andwithouttheslightestsubter gemovedmyhandup

and down.I could feel nothing.I put my ear to her bodyand
crouchedquite still in the bottomof the boat and a passing
gondoliergaveus a knowingsmile.
I couldhearnothing.
'Villanelle,you'dbe deadif youhadno heart.'
'Thosesoldiersyoulivedwith, do youthink theyhadhearts?
Do youthinkmyfat husbandhasa heartsomewhere in hislard?'
Now it wasme shruggrng my shoulderr.'It's a wayof putting
it, youknowthat.'
'I knowthatbut I\e told youalready.This is anunusualcity,
we do thingsdifferentlyhere.'
'You want me to go insidethat houseand searchfor your
heart?'
tYes.t

It was fantastic.
'Henri, when you left
Moscow, Domino gaveyou an icicle
with a thread of gold running through it. Where is it?'
I told her I didn't know what had happenedto it, I guessed
it had meltedin my pack and I had lost the threadof gold. I was
ashamedof having lost ig but when Patrick died I forgot to take
care of the things I loved for a while.
'I haveit.t
'You have the gold?'
I was incredulous,relieved.She must
havefound it and so I hadn't lost Domino after all.
'I havethe icicle.'
She fished into her bag and drew it out as
cold and hard as the day he had plucked it from the canvasand
sent me away.I nrrned it over in my hands.The boat bobbed
up and down and the seagullswent their ordinary way. I looked
at her, my eyes full of questions,but she only drew up her
shouldersandnrrnedher facebacktowardsthe house.'Tonight,
Henri. Tonight they'll be at the Fenice.I'11brit g you here and
wait for you, but I'm afraid to go in in caseI can't bring myself
to leaveagain.t

r16
 THE ZERO WINTER

She took the icicle from me. 'When you bring me my heart,
I'll giveyou your miracle.'
'I loveyou,' I said.
'You're my brotherr' she said and we
rowed away.

We ate supper together, she, me and her parents, and they

pressedme for deails of my famity.
'I come from a village surrounded by hills that stretch away
bright green and spattered with dandelions. There is a river
runs by that floods ia banks every winter and chokes in mud
everysummer.We dependon the river. We dependon the sun.
There iue no streetsand squareswhere I come from, only smdl
houses,one storey usually and paths in betweenmade by so
runy feet not so many designing hands. We have no church,
we use the barn, and in winter we have to squeezein with the
hay. We didn't notice the Revolution. Like you, it took us by
surprise. Our thoughts are on the wood in our hands and the
grain we grow and now and again on God. My mother was a
devoutwomanandwhen shedied my fathersaidshewasholding
out her arms to the Holy Mother and her face was lit up from
within. She died by chance.A horse fell on her and broke her
hip and we haveno medicine for such ffrgt, only for colic and
madness.That was two yeats ago. My father still draws the
plough and catchesthe molesthat gashthe fields. If I can, I'll
get home for harvestand help hirn. It's where I belong.'
'\4/hataboutyour brains, Henri?' askedVillanelle, half sarcas-
tic. 'A man like you, taught by a priest and ravelled and fought.
What will you think about back wittl the cattle?'
I shrugged.'What use are brains?'
'You could makeyour fornrne herer' said her father, 'there's
chanceshere for a young man.t
'You can staywith us,' saidher mother.
But she saidnothing and I could not stayand be her brother
when my heart cried out to love her.

r17
 THE PASSION

'You knowr' said her mother, catching my ann, tthis is not a

city like any other. Paris?I spit on it.' She spat. "Vllhat'sParis?
Just a few boulevardsand some e4peruiveshops. Here, there
are mysteriesthat only the dead knonr.I tell you, the boamen
here havewebbedfeet. No, don't smile,it's tnre. I was married
to one that's hou' I knou'and I brought up sonsby my previous
marriage.'She poked her foot in the air and tried to reach her
toes.'In benreeneachtoe, you'll find a web and with thosewebs
they walk on water.'
Her husbanddidn't roar and bang the water iug ashe usually
did when he found somethingfrnny. He met my eyesand gave
his little half smile.
'A man has to keep an open mind. Ask Villanelle.'
But shewastight-lipped and soonleft the room.
'She needs a new husband,'
said her mother, her voice
almost pleading, 'once that man's out of the way . . . accidents
happen very often in Venice, it's so dark and the waterc
are so deep. Who would be surprised if there was another
death?'
Her husband laid his hand on her arm. 'Don't tempt the
spirits.t
After the meal was over and her father was snoozingwhile
her mother embroidereda cloth, Villanelleled me dovrnto the
boat and we slipped black along the black water. She had
exchangedher cabbageand urine boat for a gondola and she
rowed standingup in their off-centre graceful way. She said it
was a better disguise; gondoliers often hung round the grand
houseshoping for business.I was about to ask her where she
had got the boat, but the words died in my mouth when I saw
the markingson the prow.
It wasa funeralboat.
The night was chilly but not dark with a bright moon that
castour shadowsgrotesquelyon the water. We were soonat the
water-gateand, as shehad promised,the houseseemedempty.

r18
 THE ZERO WINTER

'How will I get in?' I whisperedas

shetied her boatto an iron
ring.
'With this.' Shegaveme a key.Smoothand flat like a gaoler's
key. 'I kept it for luck. It neverbrought me any.'
'How will I find your heart?This houseis six storeys.'
'Listen for it beating and look in unlikely places.If there's
danger,you'll hear me cry like a seagullover the water and you
must hutry back.'

I left her and steppedinto the wide hall, coming face to face
with a full-sized scaly beastwith a horn protnrding from ia
head. I gavea little cry, but it was stuffed. In front of me was a
woodenstaircasethat bent round half-wayup and disappeared
into the middle of ttre house.I determinedto start at the top
and make my way down. I expectedto find nothing but unless
I was able to describeeachroom to Villanelle, shewould force
me here agarkr.Iwascerain of that
The first door I openedhad nothing in it but a harpsichord.
The secondhad fifteen stained-glass windows.
The third had no windows and on the floor, side by side,
were nro coffins, their lids open,white silk inside.
The fourth room was shelved from floor to ceiling and
those shelveswere filled with books trn'odeep. There was a
ladder.
In the fifth room a light burned and covering the whole of
one wall was a map of the world. A m"p with whalesin the seas
and terrible monsters chewing the land. There were roads
marked that seemedto disappearinto the earth and at other
times to stop abruptly at the sea'sedge. In each corner sat a
connorant, a fish stnrggling in its beak.
The sixth room wirs a sewing room, a tapestrysome three-
quarte$ done lay in its frame. The picture was of a young
womancross-leggedin front of a packof cards.It wasVillanelle.
The seventh room was a study; the desk wiu covered in

I19
 THE PASSION

iournals covered in a tiny spidery hand. Writing I could not

read.
The eighth room had only a billiard table and a little door
leading off at one side. I was drawn to this door md, opening
it, found it to be a vast walk-in closet racked with dressesof
every kind, smelling of musk and incense.A woman's room.
Here, I felt no fear. I wantedto bury my facein the clothesand
lie on the floor with the smell about me. I thought of Villanelle
and her hair acrossmy face and wonderedif that was how she
had felt with this sweet-smelling,seductivewoman.Around the
sidesof the room were ebonyboxes,monogrammed.I opened
one and found it packedwirh litde glassphials. Inside were the
aromasof pleasureand danger.Each phial containedat most
five drops and so I iudged them to be essencesof great value
and potency.Hardly thinking, I put one in my pocket and nrrned
to leave.As I did so, a noise stoppedme. A noise not like the
soundof miceor beetles.A regularsteadynoise,like a heartbeat.
My own heart misseda beat and I began to fling back go\rrn
after gown,scatteringshoesand underclothesin my haste-I sat
on my heelsand listenedagain.It waslow-dorrn,concealed.
on my handsand kneesI gawled under one of the clothes
rails and found a silk shift wrappedround an indigo iar. The iar
was throbbit s. I did not dare to unstopperit. I did not dare to
check this valuable,fabulous thing and I carried it, still in the
shift, down the last two floors and out into the empty night.
Villanelle washunchedin the boat staring at the water. When
sheheardme shereachedout her handto steadyme andwithout
asking a question rowed us swiftly away and far out into the
lagoon.when shestoppedat last, her sweatshiningpale under
the moon, I handedher my bundle.
She gavea stgh and her handstrembled, then she bade me
turn away.
I heard her uncork the iar and a sound like gas escaping.
Then shebeganto maketerrible snalloruingand choking noises

t20
 T H E Z E R OW I N T E R

and only my fear kept me sitting at the other end of the boaq
perhapshearingher die.
There was quiet. She touched my back and when I nrrned
round took my hand agatnand placedit on her breast.
Her heartwasbeating.
Notpossible.
I tell you her heart wasbeating.
She askedme for the key and, placingboth the key and the
shift in the indigo jar, she tossedit into the water and smiled
such a smile of radiancethat had this all been folly, it would
havebeen worth it. She askedme what I saw and I told her of
each room and at each room she askedof another room and
then I told her aboutthe tapesbry.Her facewhitened.
'But you sayit wasnot finished?'
'It wasthree-quartersfinished.'
'And it wasme?You're sure?'
Why was she so upset?Becauseif the tapestryhad been
finishedand the womanhad wovenin her heart,shewould have
beena prisonerfor ever.
'I don't understandany of this, Villanelle.'
'Don't think about it any more, I have my heart,
You have
your miracle.Now we can enioy ourselvesr'and she unravelled
her hair and rowed me home in her red forest.
'Bewareof
I sleptbadly,dreamingof the old woman'swords,
old enemiesin new disguises,'but in the morning when Villa-
nelle's mother woke me with eggsand coffee, the night gone
and its nightmaresseemedpart of the samefantasy.
This is the city of madmen.
Her mother sat by my bed and chatted and urged me to ask
Villanelleto marry me when shewasfree.
'I had a dream last night,' she said. 'A dream of death. Ask
her, Henri.'
When we were out togetherthat afternoonI did askher, but
sheshookher head.

r2l
 THE PASSION

'I can't grveyou my heart.'

'I don't have have
to it.'
'Perhapsnot,
but I needto grveit. You're my brother.'
when I told her mother what had happened,she stoppedin
her baking.'You're too steadyfor her, she goesfor madmen.r
tell her to calm down but she never will. She wants it to be
Pentecosteveryday.'
Then she muttered somethingabout the terrible island and
blamedhersel{,but I neverquestiontheseVenetianswhen th.y
mutterl it's their own affair.

I beganto think of leavingfor France and though the thought

of not seeingher eachdayfroze my heartmore cleanlythan any
zerowinter, I rememberedwords of hers, words she had used
when Parick and she and I lay in a Russianhut drinking evil
spirit. . .
There'sn0 sensein louingsnmenne ynu can only nake up to by
chance.
They saythis city can absorbanyone.It doesseemthat every
nationalityis here in somepart. There are dreamersand poets
and landscapepainterswith diny nosesand wandererslike me
who camehere by chanceand never left. They are all looking
for something,travellingtheworld andthe ,"o.r ,.", but lookini
for a reasonto stay.I'm not looking I've found what it is I **t
and I can't have it. If I sayed, I would be saying not out of
hope but out of fear. Fear of being alone,of being parted from
a womanwho simplyby her presencemakesthe rest of my lite
seemshadows.
I sayI'm in love with her. What doesthat mean?
It meansI review my future and my past in the light of this
feeling. It is as though I wrote in a foreign langu"g thrt I am
suddenlyable to read. Wordlessly,she explainsme to myself.
Like genius,she is ignorantof what she does.
I was a bad soldier becauseI cared too much about what

t22
 THE ZERO WINTER

happenednext. I could neverlose myselfin the cannonfire,in

the moment of combat and hate. My mind ran before me with
picturesof deadfields and all that had takenyearsto make,lost
in a day or so.
I stayedbecauseI had nowhereelseto go.
I don't want to do that again.
Do all loversfeel helplessand valiant in the presenceof the
beloved?Helplessbecausethe need to roll over like a pet dog
is never far away.Valiant becauseyou know you would slay a
dragonwith a pocketknife if you had to.
When I dream of a future in her arms no dark daysappear'
not evena headcold, and though I know it's nonsenseI really
believewe would alwaysbe happy and that our children would
changethe world.
I sound like those soldierswho dream of home . . .
No. She'dvanishfor daysat a time andI'd weep.She'dforget
we had any children and leaveme to take care of them. She'd
gambleour house awayat the Casino, and if I took her to live
in Franceshe'd grow to hate me.
I know all this and it makesno difference.
She'd neverbe faithful.
She'd laugh in my face.
I will alwaysbe afraid of her body becauseof the power it
has.
And in spite of thesethings when I think of leaving,my chest
is full of stones.
Infatuation.First love. Lust.
My passioncan be explainedaway.But this is sure: whatever
shetouches,she reveals.

I think about her body a lot; not possessingit but watching it

nrist in sleep.Sheis neverstill; whetherit be in boag or running
full tilt with an armful of cabbages.She's not nenous, it's
unnatural for her to be still. When I told her how much I like

r23
 THE PASSION

to lie in a bright green field watching the bright blue sky she
said, 'You can do that when you're dead,tell them to leavethe
top offyour coffin.'
But she knowsaboutthe sky. I can seeher from my window
in her boat rowing very slowly looking up at the faultlessblue
for the first star.

She decidedto teach me to row. Not iust row. Venetianrow.

We setoffat dawnin a red gondolathat the policeused.I didn't
bother to askhow she'd got it. She wasso happythesedaysand
often she took my hand and put it to her heart as though she
were a patient grvena secondchance.
'Ifyou're
determinedto be a goatherdafter all, the leastI can
do is sendyou home with one real skill. you can make a boat
in your quiet momentsand sail down that river you talk about
and think of me.'
'You could
comewith me if you liked.'
'I wouldn't
like. what would I do with a sackfulof molesand
not a gamingtable in sight?'
I knew it but I hatedhearingit.
I was not a natural rower and more than once I tipped the
9or! so badly that both of us fell in and Villanelle grabbedme
by the scruff of the neck and screamedshewasdrolvning.,you
-under,
live on the water,' I protestedwhen she draggedme
yelling at the top of her voice.
'That's right.
I live on it, I don't live in it.'
Amazingly,she couldn't srim.
(Boaunen
don't needto srrim. No boaonanwould end up like
this. we can't go home till we're dry I'll be madefun of.'
Not even her enthusiasmcould help me get it right and at
wening shesnatchedbackthe oars,her hair still damp,and told
me we were going to the Casinoinstead.
'Maybe that's
what you're good at.'

r24
 THE ZERO WINTER

I had never been to a Casino before and I was disappointed

the way the brothel had disappointedme years earlier. Sinful
places are always so much more sinful in the imagination.
There's no red plush as shockingly red as the red you drearr
up. No womenwith legs as long asyou think they'll be. And in
the mind theseplacesare alwaysfree.
'There's a whipping room upsairs,' she said, 'if you're
interested.'No. I'd be bored. I knew aboutwhipping. I'd heard
it all from my friend the priest. Saintslove to be whipped and
I\e seen pictures galore of their extatic scars and longing
glances.Watching an ordinary personbeing whipped couldn't
havethe sameeffect. Saintly flesh is soft and white and dways
hidden from the day. When the whip finds it ouq that is the
moment of pleasure,the moment when what was hidden is
revealed.
I left her to it and when I'd seenwhat there was to see of
cold marble and iced glassesand scarredbaize,I retreatedto a
window seatand restedmy mind on the shining canalbelow.

So the past had gone.I had escaped.Such things are possible.

I thought of my village and the bonfire we hold at the end of

winter; doingawaywiththe thingswe no longerneed;celebrating
the life to come.Eight soldieryearshad goneinto the canalwith
the beard that didn't suit me. Eight yearsof Bonaparte.I saw
my reflection in the window; this was the face I had become.
Beyondmy reflectionI sawVillanellebackedup againstthe wall
with a man standingin front of her blocking her way. She was
watchinghim evenly,but I could seeby ttre lift of her shoulders
that she was afraid.
He was very wide, a great black e4panselike a matador's
cloak.
He stood with his feet planted apart, one ann leaning on the
wall blocking her wa5 the other fixed in his pocket. She pushed

r25
 THE PASSION

him, swiftly and suddedy, and iust as swiftly his hand flew from
his pocket and slappedher. I heard the noise and, as I iumped
up, she duckedunder his arm and ran past me down the stairs.
I could think of nothingbut gettingto her beforehe did and he
was alreadyin pursuit. I openedthe window and iumped into
the canal.
I came spluttering to the surfacewith a faceful of weed and
s\ram to our boat, looseningthe tie, so that when she leapt in
like a cat, I was shouting at her to row and rying to scramble
over the side. She ignored me and ron'ed and I was dragged
behind like the tame dolphin a man on the Rialto keeps.
'It's him,'
she said, as I finally nrmbledin a heapat her feet
'I thought he
wasstill awan my spiesare good.'
'Your husband?'
She spat.'My greasy,cock-suckinghusband,yes.'
I sat up. 'He's following us.'
'I know away;
I'm a boatman'sdaughter.'
I grew dbzy with the circles she rowed and the speed she
rowed at. The musclesin her arrns stood out threateningto
breakthe skin and whenwe passedsomelight I sawthe outcrop
of her veins.Shewasbreathinghard, her body wassoonaswet
We were heading down a stretch of water that got
narrower and narro\iler and stoppedabsolutelyin a blank white
wall. At the lastsecond,whenI e4pectedto hearour boatsplinter
like drifnvood, Villanelle swung an impossiblecurve and pulled
us up an inlet that led through a dripping tunnel.
'Home soon,
Henri, keepcalm.'
It was the first time I had ever heard her use the word calm.
We pulled up againsther water-gatebut, as we preparedto
fasten our boat, a silent pro\il slid from behind us and I was
staring into the face of the cook.
The cook.
The flesh around his mouth moved into a suggestionof a
smile. He was much heavierthan when I had known him, with

rz6
 THE ZERO WINTER

iowls that hung like dead moles and a plump caseof skin that
held his head to his shoulders.His eyeshad recededand his
eyebrows,alwa5nthick, now loomed at me like sentries. He
foldedhis handson the edgeof the boat,handswith rings forced
over the knuckles.Red hands.
'Henri,' he said.'My pleasure.'
Villanelle'squestioninglook to me wrestledwith her look of
pure disgustfixed on him. He sawher conflict and touchingher
lightly so that she winced said, 'You could say Henri was my
good luck. Thanks to him and his little tricks I was drummed
out of Boulogneand sentto Paristo mind the Stores.I've never
been one to mind anything that didn't have somethingin it for
me. Aren't you pleased,Henri, to meet an old friend and see
him so prosperous?'
'I don't want anything
to do with you,' I said.
He smiled again and I sawhis teeth this time. What was left
of them. 'But you do, you clearlywant somethingto do with my
wife. My wife,' and he enunciatedthe words very slowly.Then
his facetook on an old expression,I knew it well. 'I'm surprised
to seeyou here, Henri. shouldn't you be with your regiment)
This is not a time for holidayrn& not evenif you're a favourite
of Bonaparte's.t
'It's none of your business.t
'Indeed
not, but you won't mind me mentioning you to a fent
of my friends,will you?'
He hrrned to villanelle. 'I have other friends who'll be
interestedto know what's happenedto you. Friendswho paid a
lot of money to get to knorv you. It will be easierif you come
with me nolil.t
She spatin his face.

What happenednext is still not clear to me eventhough I have

had years to ttrink about it. Calm yeani with no distraction. I
remember he leaned fonrard when she spat and tried to kiss

t27
 THE PASSION

her. I rememberhis mouth opening and coming towardsher,

his hands loosedfrom the boat side, his body bent. His hand
scrapedher breast.His mouth. His mouth is the clearestimage
I have.A palepink mouth, a cavernof fleshand then his tongue,
iust visible like a wonn from its hole. She pushedhim and he
lost balancebetweenthe trro boats and fell on to me, nearly
crushingme.He put his handsto my throatandI heardVillanelle
cry out andthrorvher knife towardsme,within reach.A Venetian
knife, thin and cruel.
'Soft side,Henri, like seaurchins.'
I had the knife in my hand and I thrust it at his side. As he
rolled I thrust it in his belly. I heard it sucklehis guts. I pulled
it out, angryknife at being so torn away,and I let it go in again,
through the years of good living. That gooseand claret flesh
soonfell away.My shirt wassoakedin blood.Villanelledragged
him off me, half off me, and I stood up, not unsteadyat all. I
told her to help me nrn him over and shedid so,watchingme.
When we had him belly up and running blood I tore his shirt
from the collar down andlookedat his chest.Hairlessandwhite,
like the flesh of saints. Can saints and devils be so alike? His
nippleswere the sameshadeas his lips.
'You said he had no hean, Villanelle,let's see.'
She put her hand out, but I had alreadymadea rip with my
silver friend, such an eagerblade.I cut a triangle in about the
right placeand scoopedout the shapewith my hand,like coring
an apple.
He had a heart.
'Do you want it, Villanelle?'
She shookher head and startedto cry. I had neverseenher
cry, not through the zero winter, not at the death of our friend,
not in the teeth of humiliation nor the telling of it. She was
crying now and I took her in my anns droppingthe heartbetween
us and told her a story about a Princesswhose tears nrrned to
jewels.

rz8
 THE ZERO WINTER

'I've dirtied your clothes,'

I said,seeingfor the first time ttre
smearsof blood on her. 'Look at my hands.'
She noddedand the blue and bloodything lay benreenus.
'We haveto get these
boatsaway,Henri.'
But in the stnrgglewe had lost both of our oars and one of
his. She took my head in her hands and weighed it, held me
tight under the chin. 'Sit still, you'vedonewhat you could, now
let me do what I can.'
I sat with my head on my knees,my eyesfixed on the floor
of the boat that swamwith blood. My feet restedin blood.
The cook, faceup, had his eyesfixed on God.
Our boatswere moving.I sawhis boat in front of me gliding
ahead,mine tied to it the waychildren tie their boatson a pond.
We were moving. How?
I raised my head fully, my knees still drawn up, and saw
Villanelle, her back towards mq a rope over her shoulder,
walking on the canaland draggingour boats.
Her bootslay neatlyone by the other. Her hair was dov,rn.
I wasin the red forest and shewasleadingme home.

r29
 Fou,r

the
IBOCrr
They saythe dead don't talk. Silent as the gravethey say.It's
not true. The deadare talking all the time. On this rock, when
the wind is up, I can hear them.
I can hear Bonaparte;he didn't last long on his rock. He put
on weight and caughta cold, and he who survivedthe plagues
of Egypt and the zerowinter died in the mild damp.
The RussiansinvadedParis and we didn't burn it down, we
gaveit up and they took him awayand restoredthe monarchy.
His heart sang.On a windy island in the face of gulls, his
heart sang.He waited for the moment and like the third son
who knows his treacherousbrothers won't outwit him, the
momentcameand in a saltyconvoyof silent boatshe returned
for a hundred daysand met his Waterloo.
What could they do with him?ThesevictoriousGeneralsand
self-righteousnations?
You play,you win, you play,you lose.You play.
The end of everygameis an anti-climax.What you thought
youwould feelyou don't feel,whatyou thoughtwassoimportant
isn't any more. It's the gamethat's exciting.
And if you win?
There's no such thing as a limited victory. You must protect
what you havewon. You must take it seriously.
Victors lose when they are tired of winning. Perhapsthey
regret it later, but ttre impulseto gamblethe valuable,fabulous
thing is too strong. The impulse to be recklessagain, to go
barefoot,like you usedto, beforeyou inherited all thoseshoes.
He never slept, he had an ulcer, he had divorcedJos€phine
and marrieda selfishbitch (thoughhe deservedher), he needed
a dynastyto protect his Empire. He had no friends. It took him
aboutthree minutesto havesexand increasinglyhe didn't even

r33
 THE PASSION

bother to unbucklehis sword.Europe hated him. The French

were tired of going to war and going to war and going to war.
He wasthe most powerful man in the world.
Returning from that island the first time he felt like a boy
again.A hero againwith nothing to lose. A saviourwith one
changeof clothes.
When theywon handsdown a secondtime and chosefor him
a darker rock where the tides were harsh and the company
unsympathetic,they were burying him alive.
The Third Coalition. The forcesof moderationagainstthis
madman.
I hated him, but they were no better. The dead are dead,
whateverside they fight on.
Three madmen versus one madman. Numbers win. Not
righteousness.

When the wind b rp, I hearhim weepingand he comesto me, his

handsstill greasyfrom his last dinner,andhe asksme if I lovehim.
His facepleadswith meto sayI do andI think ofthosewhowentinto
exilewith him andoneby onetook a smallboathome.
They had notebookswith them mostly. His life-story, his
feelingson the rock. They were going to make their fornrnes
exhibitingthis lamedbeast.
Evenhis servantslearnedto write.
He talksabouthis pastobsessively becausethe deadhaveno
future and their present is recollection.They are in eternity
becausetime hasstopped.
Josdphine is still alive and has recenrly introduced the
geraniumto France. I mentionedthis to hh, but he said he
neverliked flowers.
My room here is very small. If I lie down, which I try not to
do for reasonsI will e4plain,I can touch each corner iust by
stretchingout. I havea window though and, unlike most of the
other windowshere, it has no bars. It is perfectly open. It has

r34
 THE ROCK

no glass.I can lean right out and look acrossttre lagoon and
sometimesI seeVillanellein her boat
She wavesto me with her handkerchief.
In winter, I have a thick curain made of sacksthat I drape
nrice over the window and fastento the floor with my conmode.
It works well enough providing I keep my blanket round me,
though I suffer from catarrh.That provesI'm a Venetiannow.
There's strawon the floor, like at home,and somedayswhen I
wake,I can smellponidge cooking,thick and black.I like those
daysbecauseit meansmother is here. She looks iust as dwa1n,
perhapsa little younger. She walks with a limp where the horse
fell on her, but she doesn't haveto walk far in this little room.
We get breadfor breakfast.
There isn't a bed, but there are two big pillows that were
stuffed with straw too. Over the years lte filled them wittl
seagullfeathersand I sleep sitting on one, the other propped
behind my back againstthe wall. It's comforable and it means
he can't strangleme.
When I fint came here, I forget how many yearslte been
here,he tried to suangleme everynight. I lay downin my shared
room and I'd feel his hands on my throat and his breath that
smelt of vomit and seehis fleshypink mouth, obscenerosepink,
comingto kiss me.
They moved me to my orur room after a while. I upset the
others.
There's anotherman with his own room too. He's been here
almostfor ever and he's escapeda few times. They bring him
back half drowned, he thinl$ he can walk on water. He has
moneyand so his room is very comforable. I could havemoney
but I won't take it from her.

We hid the boats in a stinking passegewhere the garbagetugs

go and Villanelle put her bootsback on. It's the only time I've
ever seenher feet and they are not what I'd usuallycall feet.

r35
 THE PASSION

She unfolds them like a fan and folds them in on themsehesin

the sameway. I wanted to touch but my handswere coveredin
blood. We left him where he lay, faceup, his heart beside him,
and Villanelle wrapped me to her as we walked, to comfort me
and to conceal some of the blood on my clothes. When we
passedanyone she threw me against the wdl and kissed me
passionatelnblocking all sight of my body. In this way we made
love.
She told her parentsall that had taken place and the three of
them drew hot water and washedme and burned my clothes.
'I dreamedof a death,'
said her mother.
'Hush,' said her father.
They wrappedme in a fleeceand put me to sleepby the stove
on a mattressof her brother's, and I slept the sleep of the
irurocentand did not know that Villanelle kept silent vigil beside
me all night. In my dreams I heard them say, 'What shall we
do?'
'The authorities will
come here. I am his wife. Take no part
in it.'
.\Mlratabout Henri?
He's a Frenchmanevenifhe isn't guilty.'
'I will take care
of Henri.'
And when I heard thosewords I slept fully.

I think we knew we'd be caught.

We spent the few days that followed cramming our bodies
with pleasure.We set out early eachmorning and rioted in the
churches.That is to say, Villanelle baskedin the colour and
drama of God wittrout srving God a thought and I sat on the
stepsplayingnoughtsand crosses.
We ran our hands over every wann surface and soakedup
the sun from iron and wood and the baking fur of millions of
cats.
We ate fish fresh caught She rowed me round the island in
a pageantboat borrowedfrom a Bishop.

r36
 THE ROCK

On the secondnight incessantsummerrain floodedSt Mark's

Square and we stood on the edgewatching a pair of Venetians
weavetheir way acrossby meansof trro chairs.
'On my back,' I said.
She looked at me in disbelief.
'I can't walk on water but I can wade through it ' and I took
offmy shoesand madeher carrythem while we snrmbledslowly
acrossthe wide Square. Her legs were so long that she had to
keep hitching them up to stop them trailing in the water. When
we reachedthe other side I was exhausted.
'This is the boy that walked from Moscow,'
she taunted.
We linked anns and went in searchof supperand after supper
she showedme hourto eat artichoke.
Pleasureand danger. Pleasure on the edge of danger is
sweet.[t's the gambler'ssenseof losing that makesthe winn-
ing an act of love. On the fifth day, when our hearts had
almost stopped knocking, we were almost casual about ttre
sunset.
sunset. The
The dull
dull headache
headache I'd had
had since
since I killed
killed him
him had
had
gone.
And on the sixth day they cirmefor us.

Th"y cameearb, as early as the vegetableboats on their way to

market. They camewithout warning. Three of them, in a shiny
blackboatwith a flag. Questioningthey said,nothing more.Did
Villanelle know her husbandwas dead?What happenedafter
she and I left the Casino so hurriedly?
Had he followed?Had we seenhim?
It seemedthat Villanelle as his lawful undisputed wife was
now to be in possessionof a considerablefortune, unless of
course,shewasa murderess.There were papersfor her to sign
concerninghis estateand shewasled awayto identi$ the body.
I was advisednot to leavethe house,and to make sure that I
took this advice a man sayed at the water-gate, enioying the
sun on his forehead.

r37
 THE PASSION

I wished tr were in a bright green field staring at the bright

blue sky.
She did not return that night nor the night after and the man
by the water-gatewaited.When shedid comehomeon rhe third
morning, she waswith the nvo men and her eyeswere warning
me, but she couldn't speakand so I was led awayin silence.
The cook's lawyer, a wily bent man with a wart on his cheek
and beautiful hands, told me quite simply that he believed
Villanelleto be guilty andbelievedme to be an accessory. Would
I sign a statementsayingso?If I would then he could probably
Iook the other waywhile I disappeared.
'We are not unsubtle,
we Venetiansr'he said.
And what would happento Villanelle?
The terms of the cook'swill were curiousl he had made no
attemptto rid his wife of her rights, nor to apportion his fortune
to another.He had simply said that if she could not inherit for
anyreason(absence beingone),he willed his estatein its entirety
to the Church.
Sincehe must neverhavee4pectedto seeher again,why had
he chosenthe Church?Had he everbeeninsideone?My surprise
must havebeen evidentbecausethe lawyerin his candid mood
said the cook loved to watch the choirboysin their red clothes.
If his face shoruedthe hint of a smile, the hint of anything
other than an acceptanceof a religious disposition,he hid it
immediately.
What was in it for him? I wondered.What did he care who
got the money?He didn't look like a man with a conscience.
And for the first time in my life I realisedthat I wasthe powerful
one. I wasthe one who held the wild card.
'I killed him,' I said. 'I
stabbedhim and I cut out his heart.
Shall I showyou the shapeI madein his chest?'
I drew in the dust on the window. A triangle with rough
edges.'His heart wasblue. Did you know heartsare blue?Not
red at all. A blue stonein a red forest.'

r38
 THE ROCK

'You're insaner'
saidthe lawyer.'No saneman would kill like
that.t
'No saneman
would live like he did.'
Neither of us spoke.I heardhis breathing sharp,like sand-
paper.He laid both handsover the confessionreadyfor me to
sign. Beautiful manicured hands, whiter than the paper they
restedon. Where had he got them from? They couldn't be his
by right.
'If you are telling me
the truth. . .'
tTntst me.t
'Then you must
stayhere until I am readyfor you.'
He got up and lockedthe door behind him, leavingme in his
comfortableroom of tobaccoand leatherwith a bust of Caesar
on the tableand a raggedheart on the window-pane.
In the evening,villanelle came.she camealonebecauseshe
was alreadywielding the power of her inheritance.She had a
iar of wine, a loaf of bread from the bakery and a basket of
uncookedsardines.We sat togetheron the floor, like children
whoseuncle hasleft them in his studyby mistake.
'Do you know
what you're doing?'she said.
'I told ttre tnrth, that's
all.'
'Henri, I don't have
any idea what comesnext. Piero (the
lawyer) thinks you're insaneand will suggestyou are tried as
such.I can't buy him o{f, He wasa friend of my husband's.He
still believesI'm responsibleand all the red hair in the world
and all the moneyI havewon't stop him hurting you. He hates
for hate's sake.There are people like that. Peoplewho have
everything.Money, power, sex.When they haveeverythingthey
play for more sophisticatedsakesthan the rest of us. There are
no thrills left to that man. The sun will never rise and delight
him. He will neverbe lost in a strangetown and forced to ask
his way. I can't buy him. I can't tempt him. He wantsa life for
a life. You or me. Let it be me.'
'You didn't
kill him, I killed him. I'm not sorry.'

r39
 THE PASSION

'I would have and it doesn't matter whose knife or whose

hand. You killed him for my sake.'
'No, I killed him for mlnelf. He madeeverygoodthing dirt5r.'
She took my hands.We both smelt of fish.
'Henri, if you are convictedas insane,they'll either hangyou
or sendyou to San Servelo.The madhouseon the island.'
'The oneyou shorredme?The onethat stiuesoverthe lagoon
and catchesthe light?'
She nodded and I wonderedwhat it would be like to live in
one placeagain.
'What will you do, Villanelle?'
'With the money?Buy a house.I\e done enoughtravelling.
Find waysof gettingyou free. That is, if you chooseto live.'
'Will I be able to choose?'
'That much I can afford. It's not up to Piero, it's up to
the
iudge.'
It was dark. She lit the candlesand propped me againsther
body.I laid my headon her heartand heardit beating,so steadS
as if it had alwaysbeen there. I had never lain like ttris with
anyonebut my mother. My mother who took me on her breast
and whisperedthe scripture in my ear. She hoped I'd learn it
that way, but I heard nothing except the fire spitting and ttre
steamrising from the water she heatedfor my father'swash.I
heard nothing but her heart and felt nothing but her softness.
'I loveyour' I said,then and now.
We watchedthe candlesmakebigger and bigger shadowson
the ceiling asthe skybecamecompletelydark. Piero had a palm
in his room (got from somecringing exile no doubt), and the
palm cast a iungle on the ceiling, a tangle of broad leavesthat
could easilyhide a tiger. Caesaron the able had a profile to
recommendhim, and of my trianglenothing could be seen.The
room smelledof fish and candlewax.We lay flat on the floor for
a while and I said, 'See?Now you undersand why I love to be
still and look at the sky.'

r40
 THE ROCK

'I'm only still when I'm unhappy.

I don't dare movebecause
moving will hastenanother day. I imagine that if I'm absolutely
still what I dreadwon't happen.The last night I spentwith her,
the ninth night, I tried not to moveat dl while sheslept. I heard
a story about the cold wastelandsin the far north where the
nights are six months long and I hoped for an ordinary miracle
to takeus there.Would time passif I refusedto let it?'

We didn't makelove that night. Our bodieswere too heavy.

I stoodtrial the next day and it wasasVillanelle had predicted.

I was declaredinsane and sentencedto life imprisonmentin
San Senelo. I was to go that afternoon.Piero looked disap-
pointed,but neither Villanelle nor I looked at him.
'I'll be able to visit you in
about a week and I'[ be working
for you, I'll get you out of there. Everyonecan be bribed.
Courage,Henri. We walked from Moscow. We can walk across
the water.'
tYou can.t
'\Me can.' She huggedme and promisedto be at the lagoon
before the grim boat sailed away.I had few possessions but I
wanted Domino's talisman and a picture of the Madonna her
mother had embroideredfor me.

San Servelo. It used to be iust for the rich and mad but
Bonaparte,who was egaliarian about lunacyat least,openedit
to the public and set asidefunds for its upkeep.It wasstill faded
splendourinside. The rich and mad like their comforts.There
was a spaciousvisitors' room where a lady might take tea while
her son sat oppositein a strait iacket At one time the warderr
had worn uniform and shiny boots and any inmate who drooled
on those booB was shut Lwaryfor a week. Not many inmates
drooled. There was a gardenthat no one tended any more. A
matted acre of rockery and fading flowers.There were now two

I4I
 THE PASSION

wings. One for the remaining rich and mad and one for the
increasingnumbersofpoor andmad.Villanellehadsentinstruc-
tions to haveme put in the former, but I found out what it cost
and refused.
I prefer to be with the ordinarypeopleanyway.
In England,they havea madKinS that nobodylocks up.
George I I I who addresses his Upper Chamberas'My Lords
and peacocks'.
Who can fathomthe Englishand their horseradish?

I did not feel afraid to be in such strangecompany.

I only beganto feel afraid when the voicesstarted,and after
the voicesthe deadthemselves,walking the halls and watching
me with their hollow eyes.
When Villanelle came the first few times, we talked about
Veniceand about life and shewas full of hope for me. Then I
told her about the voices and about the cook's hands on mv r
throat.
'You're imaginingit, Henri,
hold on to yourself,you'll be free
soon.There are no voices,no shapes.'
But there are. Under that stone, on the windowsill. There
are voicesand they must be heard.

When Henri was taken to San Serveloin the grim boat I set
aboutprocuring his releasestraightaway.I tried to find out on
what grounds the insane are kept there and if they are ever
examinedby a doctor to seeif there hasbeenanyimprovement.
It seems that they are, but only those who are no danger
to mankind can be let free. Absurd, when there are so
many dangers to mankind walking free without examination.
Henri wasan inmatefor life. There wereno legalmeansof hav-
ing him freed, at least not while Piero had anything to do with
it.

r42
 THE ROCK

Well then, I would have to help him escapeand ensure his

passageto France.
For the first few monthsthat I visited him he seemedcheerful
and sanguine,despite sleepingin a room with three other men
of hideousappearanceand terri&rng habits. He said he didn't
notice them. He said he had his notebooksand he was busy.
Perhapsthere were signs of his changemuch earlier than I
recognised,but my life had takenan unelpectedturn and I was
preoccupied.
I don't knowwhat madnessdroveme to ake a houseopposite
hers. A housewith six storeyslike hers, widr long windorvsthat
let in the light and caughtthe sun in pools. I pacedthe floors
of my house,neverbothering to furnish any of them, looking in
her sitting-room,her drawing-room,her sewing-roomand see-
ing not her but a tapestryof myself when I was younger and
walked like an arrogantboy.
I wasbeatinga rug on my balconywhen I finally sawher.
She saw me too and we stood like statues, each on our
balconies.I droppedthe rug into the canal.
'You are my neighbour,'shesaid.'You shouldpayme a callr'
and so it was fixed that I should pay her a call that errening
before supper.
More than eight yearshad passed,but when I knocked on
her door I didn't feel like an heiresswho had walked from
Moscoruand seenher husbandmurdered.I felt like a Casino
grl in a borrowed uniform. Instinctively, I put my hand to my
heart.'You've grown upr' shesaid.
She was the same,though she had let the grey show in her
hair, something she had been particularly vain about when I
knew her. We ate at the oval table and she seatedus side by
side again\ilith the bottle in benreen.trt wasn't easyto talk It
neverhad been,we were either too busy making love or afraid
ofbeing overheard.\4/hydid I imaginethingpwould be different
simplybecausetime had passed?

r43
 THE PASSION

Where was her husbandthis evening?

He had left her.
Not for another woman. He didn't notice other women. He
had left her quite recently to go on a voyageto find the Holy
Grail. He believedhis rnap to be definitive. He beliwed the
treasureto be absolute.
'Will he comeback?'
'He may,he may not.t

The wild card. The unpredicable wild card that never comes
when it should. Had it fallen earlierl yearsearlier,what would
have happenedto me? [ looked at my palms trying to see the
other life, the parallel life. The point at which my sehes broke
awayand one married a fat man and the other stayedhere, in
this eleganthouse to eat dinner night after night from an oval
able.
Is this the erplanationthen when we meet someonewe do
not know and feel straight away that we have alwap knovm
them?That their habits will not be a surprise.Perhapsour lives
spreadout around us like a fan and we can only knon' one life,
but by mistakesenseothe6.
When I met her I felt shewas my destinyand that feeling has
not altered, even though it remairn invisible. Though I have
taken myselfto the wastesof the world and loved again,I cannot
truly say that I ever left her. Sometimes,drinking coffee with
friends or walking aloneby the too salt sea,I havecaughtmpelf
in that other life, touched ig seen it to be as real as my own.
And if shehad lived alonein that eleganthousewhen I first met
her? PerhapsI would never have sensedother lives of mine,
havingno needof them.
'Will you stay?'she said.
No, not in this life. Not now. Passionwill not be commanded.
It is no genie to grant us three wisheswhen we let it loose. It
commandsus and very rarely in the way we would choose.

t44
 THE ROCK

I was angty. Whoever it is you fall in love with for the first
time, not iust lovebut be in lovewith, is the onewho will always
makeyou angry,the one you can't be logical about. It may be
that you are settled in another place, it may be that you are
hrppy, but the one who took your heart wields final power.
I was angrybecauseshe had wanted me and mademe want
her and been afraid to acceptwhat that meant; it meant more
than brief meetingsin public placesand nights borrowed from
someoneelse.Passionwill work in the fields for sevenyearsfor
the beloved and on being cheatedwork for sevenmore, but
passion,becauseit is noble, will not long accept another's
left-overs.
I have had affairs. I will have more, but passionis for the
single-minded.
She said agah, 'Will you stay?'
When passioncomeslate in life for the first time, it is harder
to gtveup. And thosewho meetthis beastlate in life are offered
only devilish choices.Will they say goodbyeto what they know
and set sail on an unknown seawith no certainty of land again?
Will they dismiss those everydaythings that have made life
tolerableand put asidethe feelingsof old friends,a lover even?
In short, will they behaveas if th.y are twenty yearsyounger
with Canaaniust over the ridge?
Not usually.
And if they do, you will haveto strap them to the mast as the
boat pulls awaybecausethe siren calls are terrible to hear and
ttrey may go mad at the thought of what they havelost.
That is one choice.
Another is to learn to iuggle; to do aswe did for nine nights.
This soontires the handsif not the heart.
Two choices.
The third is to refusethe passionasone might sensiblyrefuse
a leopardin the house,howevertameit might seemat fust. You
might reasonthat you can easilyfeed a leopard and that your

r45
 THE PASSION

gardenis big enough,but you will know in your dreamsat least

that no leopardis ever satisfiedwith what ii's given.After nine
nights must come ten and everydesperate*.eting only leaves
you desperatefor another.There is neverenoughio ..t, never
enoughgardenfor your love.
so you refuse and then you discover that your house is
hauntedby the ghostof a leopard.
When passioncomeslate in life it is hard to bear.

one more night, How tempting. How innocent. I could stay

tonight surely?what differencecould it make,one more nighti
No. If I smell her skin, find the mute curvesof her nakedness,
she will reach in her hand and withdraw my heart like a bird's
egg.I havenot had time to covermy heart in barnaclesto elude
her. If I gle in to this passion,my real life, the most solid, the
best known, will disappearand I will feed on shadowsagainlike
thosesadspiritswhom Orpheusfled.

I wished her goodnight,touching her hand only and thankful

for the dark that hid her eyes.I did not sleep that nighr, bur
wanderedthe unlit alleys,taking my comfort from the cool of
the walls and the regular smackof the water. In the morning I
shut up my houseand neverwent there again.

And what of Henri?

As I told you, for the fust few monfu, I thought him his old
self. He asked for qrriting materials and seemedintent on
re-creatinghis yearssincehe had left home and his time with
me. He lovesme, I know that, and I love him, but in a brotherly
incestuousway. He touchesmy heart, but he doesnot send it
shatteringthrough my body. He could never stealit. I wonder
if thingswould be different for him if I could rehrrn his passion.
No one ever has and his heart is too wide for his skinny chest.
someoneshould ake that heart and give him peace.He used

r46
 THE ROCK

to sayhe loved Bonaparteand I believehim. Bonaparte,larger

than life, sweepinghim off to Paris,spreadinghis hand at the
Channeland makingHenri and thosesimple soldiersfeel as if
Englandbelongedto them.
I haveheard that when a duckling opensits eyesit will attach
itself to whateverit first sees,duck or not. So it is with Henri,
he openedhis eyesand therewas Bonaparte.
That's why he hates him so much. He disappointedhim.
Passiondoesnot take disappoinnnentwell.
What is more humiliatingthan finding the objectof your love
unworthy?
Henri is a gentle man and I wonder if it was killing that fat
cook that hurt his mind? He told me, on the way home from
Moscow, that he had been in the army eight yearswithout so
much as wounding anotherman. Eight yearsof battle and the
worst he'd donewas to kill msjs chickensthan he could count.
He was no cowardthough,he'd risked his olrn life over and
over agalnto get a man off the field. Patrick told me ttrat.
Henri.
I don't visit him now, but I wavefrom my boat everyday at
aboutthis time.
When he saidhe washearingvoices- his mother's,the cook's,
Patrick's - I tried to make him understand that there are no
voices,only onesof our own making. I know the dead cry out
sometimes,but I know too that the deadare greedyfor attention
and I urged him to shut them out and concentrateon himself.
In a madhouseyou must hold on to your mind.
He stoppedtelling me about them, but I heard from the
wardersthat he woke up screamingnight after night, his hands
round his throat, sometimesnearlychokedfrom self-strangling.
This disturbedhis fellows and they had him movedto a room
by himself. He was much quieter after that, using the writing
materialsanda lampI broughthim. At that time I wasstill working
for his releaseand confidentof securingit. I wasgettingto know

r47
 THE PASSION

the wardersand I had an ideathat I could buy him out for money
and sex.My red hair is a greatattraction.I wasstill sleepingwith
him in thosedays.He had a thin boy'sbodythat coveredmine as
light asa sheetand,becauseI hadtaughthim to loveme,he loved
me well. He had no notion ofwhat men do, he had no notion of
what his ournbody did until I showedhim. He gaveme pleasure,
but when I watchedhis faceI knewitwas morethan that for him.
If it disnrrbedme I put it aside.I havelearnt to take pleasure
without alwaysquestioningthe source.
Two thingphappened.
I told him I waspregnant.
I told him he would be free in abouta month.
'Then we can get
married.'
tNo.t

I took his hands and tried to explain that I wouldn't marry

againand that he couldn't live in Venice and I wouldn't live in
France.
'what about
the child?Horr will I knou' aboutthe child?'
,'I'll bting the child when it's safeand you'll comehere again
when it's safe.I'll havePiero poisoned,I don't know, we'll find
a way.You haveto go home.t
He wassilent and whenwe madelove he put his handsto my
throat and slowlypushedhis tongue out of his mouth like a pi"[
wonn.
'I'm your husband,'
he said.
'Stop it, Henri.t
'I'm your husband,'and he
cameleaningtowardsme, his eyes
round and glassyand his tongueso pink.
I pushed him off and he curled in the corner and began to
weep.
He wouldn't let me comfort him and we never made love
again.
Not my doing.

r48
 THE ROCK

The day came for his escape.I went to fetch him, running up
the stairs two at a time, opening his door with my own key as I
alwaysdid.
tHenri, you're a free man, come on.'
He staredat me.
'Patrick washere just now. You missedhim.'
'Henri, come on.' I pulled him to his feet
and shook his
shoulders.'We're leaving,look out of the window, there's our
boat. It's a pageantboat, I got that sly Bishop again.'
'It's a long way down,' he said.
'You don't haveto
iump.'
'Don't I?'
His eyeswere troubled. 'Can we get down the sairs in time?
Will he catchus up?'
'There's no one to catch us. I've bribed them,
we're on our
way out and you'll neverseethis placeagain.'
'Thls is my home, I can't leave.
What will mother say?'
I dropped my hands from his shoulders and put my hand
under his chin.
'Henri. We're leaving.
Come with me.'
He wouldn't.
Not that hour, nor the nexq nor the next day and when the
boat sailed I sailedit alone.He didn't come to the window.
'Go back to him,' said my mother. 'He'll
be different next time.'

I went back to him, or rather I went to San Seryelo.A polite

warder from the respectablewing took tea with me and told me
asnicely ashe could that Henri didn't want to seeme any more.
Had expresslyrefusedto seeme.
'What's happened him?'
to
The warder shrugged, a Venetian way of saying everything
and nothing.
I went back dozens of times, alwaysfinding that he didn't

t49
 THE PASSION

want to see me, alwaystaking tea with the polite warder who
wanted to be my lover and isn't.
A long time later, when I was rowing the lagoonand drifting
out to his lonely rock, I sawhim leaning from the window and I
wavedand he wavedback and I thought then he might seeme.
He would not. Not me nor the babR who is a slrl with a mass
of hair like the early sun and feet like his.
I rorv out every day now and he waves,but from my letters
that are returned I knoruI havelost him.
Perhapshe haslost himself.

For mpel{, I still baskin church in the winter and on the warm
walls in summerand my daughteris clever and alreadylovesto
seethe dice fall and to spreadthe cards.I cannotsaveher from
the Queen of spadesnor any other, shewill draw her lot when
the time comesand gambleher heart away.How else could it
be wittr such consuminghair?I am living done. I prefer it that
way, though I am not alone everynight and increasinglyI go to
the Casino,to seeold friendsand to look at the caseon the wall
with two white hands.
The valuable,fabulousthing.
I don't dress up any more. No borrowed uniforms. Only
occasiondlydo I feel the touch of that other life, the one in the
shadowswhere I do not chooseto live.
This is the city of disguises.What you are one day will not
constrainyou on the next. You may exploreyourself freely and,
if you have wit or wealth, no one will sand in your way. This
city was built on wit and wealth and we have a fondness for
bft, though they do not haveto appearin tandem.
I take my boat out on the lagoonand listen to the seagullscry
and wonder where I will be in eight years, say. In the soft
darknessthat hides the funrre from the over-curious,I content
mpelf with this; that where I will be will not be where I am.
The cities of the interior are vast, do not lie on any rnap.

r50
 THE ROCK

And the valuable,fabulousthing?

Now that I haveit back?Now that I havebeengtvena reprieve
such as only the storiesoffer?
Will I gambleit again?
Yes.

Aprh moi, le dcluge.

Not really. A few drov,'nedbut a few havedrowned before.
He over-estimatedhimself.
Odd ttrat a man should come to believein myths of his o\rn
making.
On this rock, the eventsin France hardly touched me. What
differencecould it make to me, safeat home \vith mother and
my friends?
I was glad when they sent him to Elba. A quick death would
havemadehim a hero straightaway.Much better for reportsto
seepthrough of his increasingweight and bad temper. They
were clever,thoseRussiansand English,they did not bother to
hurt him, they simply diminished him.
Now that he's dead,he's becominga hero againand nobody
minds becausehe can't makethe most of it.
I'm tired of hearinghis life-story over and over.He walksin
here,smallasit is, unannouncedand akes up all my room. The
only time I'm pleasedto seehim is when the cook's here, the
cook'sterrified of him and leavesat once.
They all leavetheir smellsbehind; Bonaparte'sis chicken.

I keep getting letters from Villanelle. I send them back to her

unopenedand I never reply. Not becauseI don't think about
her, not becauseI don't look for her from my window everyday.
I haveto sendher awaybecauseshehurts me too much.
There was a time, someyearsago I think, when she tried to
make me leavethis place,though not to be with her. She was

15I
 THE PASSION

askingme to be alone again,iust when I felt safe.I don't ever

want to be aloneagainand I don't want to seeany more of the
world.
The cities of the interior are vastand do not lie on any map.
The day she camewas the day Domino died and I havenot
seenhim. He doesn'tcomehere.
I woke that morning and countedmy possessions as I do; the
Madonna,ily notebooks,this story,my lamp andwicks,my pens
and my talisman.
My talismanhad melted.Only the gold chain remained,lnng
thin in a pool of water, glittering.
I picked it up and wrapped it around my fingers, strung it
from one finger to anotherand watchedhow it slid like a snake.
I knew then he was dead,though I do not knorvhow or where.
I put the chain around my neck, sure that she would notice it
when she camebut she didn't. Her eyeswere bright and her
handswere full of running away.I had run awaywith her before,
comeasan exileto her homeand stayedfor love. Fools stayfor
love.I am a fool. I stayedin the army eightyea1sbecauseI loved
someone.You'd think that would have been enough.I stayed
too becauseI had nowhereelseto go.
I stayhere by choice.
That meansa lot to me.
She seemedto think we could reachher boat without being
caught.Was shemad?I'd haveto kill again.I couldn't do that,
not evenfor her.
She told me shewasgoingto havea babybut shedidn't want
to marry me.
How can that be?
I want to marry her and I'm not havingher child.
It's easiernot to seeher. I don't alwayswaveto her, I havea
mirror and I standslightly to one side of ttre window when she
passesand if the sun is shiningI can catchthe reflectionof her
hair. It lights up the strawon the {loor and I think the holy stable

r52
 THE ROCK

must havelookedthis way; gloriousand humble and unlikely.

There's a child in the boat with her sometimes,it must he
our daughter.I wonderwhat her feet are like.

Apatt from my old friends, I don't talk to the people here.

Not becausethey're mad and I'm not but becausethey lose
concentrationso quickly. It's hard to keep them on the same
subiect ild, even if I do, it's not often a subject I'm much
interestedin.
What am I interestedin?
Passion.Obsession.
I haveknown both and I know the dividing line is as thin and
cruel as a Venetianknife.
When we walked from Moscow through the zero winter I
believedI waswalking to a better place.I believedI was taking
action and leavingbehind the sad and sordid things that had so
long oppressedme. Free will, my friend the priest said,belongs
to us all. The will to change. I don't take much account of
scryingor sortilege.I'm not like Villanelle, I don't seehidden
worlds in the palm of my hand nor a funre in a cloudedball.
And yet,what shouldI makeof a gipsywho caughtme in Austria
and madethe sign of the crossat my foreheadsaylng,'sorrow
in what you do and a lonelyplace.'
There hasbeensonow in what I havedone and if it were nor
for my mother and my friends here, this would be the most
desolatespot.
At my window the seagullscry. I used to envy them their
freedom,them and the fields that stretchedmeasuringdistance,
distance into distance. Every na$ral thing comfortable in its
place.I thoughta soldier'suniform would makeme freebecause
soldiersare welcomeand respectedand they know what will
happen from one day to the next and uncerainty need not
torment them. I thought I was doing a serviceto the world,
sening it free, settingmyself free in the process.Yearspassed,

r53
 THE PASSION

I travelleddistancesthat peasantsnevereventhink about and I

found the air much the samein everycounS.
One battlefieldis very like another.
There's a lot of talk about freedom.It's like the Holy Grail,
we gxowup hearing about it, it exists,we're sure of that, and
everypersonhashis own idea of where.
My friend the priest,for all his worldliness,found his freedom
in God, and Patrick found it in a iumbled mind where goblins
kept him company.Domino said it was in the present,in ttre
momentonly that you could be free, rarely and une4pectedly.
Bonapartetaughtus that freedomlay in our fighting arm, but
in the legendsof the Holy Grail no one won it by force. It was
Perceval,the gentle knight, who cameto a ruined chapeland
found what the others had overlooked,simply by sitting still. I
think now that being free is not being powerful or rich or well
regardedor without obligationsbut being able to love. To love
someoneelse enough to forget about yourself even for one
momentis to be free.The mysticsandthe churchmentalk about
throwing off this body and its desires,being no longer a slave
to the flesh. They don't say that through the flesh we are set
free. That our desire for anotherwill lift us out of ourselves
more cleanlythan anythingdivine.
We are a lukewarmpeople and our longing for freedom is
our longingfor love.If we had the courageto lovewe would not
so valuetheseactsof war.
At my windowthe seagullscry. I shouldfeed them, I savemy
breakfastbreadso that I havesomethingto gve them.
Love, they say, enslavesand passionis a demon and many
havebeen lost for love. I know this is true, but I know too that
without lovewe gropethe tunnelsof our livesand neverseethe
sun. When I fell in love it wasas though I lookedinto a mirror
for the first time andsawmyself.I lifted my handin wonderment
and felt my cheeks,my neck. This was me. And when I had
lookedat myselfand grown accustomedto who I was,I wasnot

r54
 THE ROCK

afraid to hateparts of me becauseI wantedto be worthy of the

mirror bearer.
Then, whenI hadregardedmyselffor the first time,I regarded
the world and saw it to be more various and beautiful ttran I
thought. Like most people I enioyed the hot eveningsand the
smell of food and the birds that spike the sky, but I was not a
mysticnor a man of God and I did not feel the extasyI had read
about.I longedfor feelingthoughI could not havetold you that.
Words like passionand ertasy,we learn them but they stayflat
on the page. Sometimeswe oy and turn them over, find out
what's on the other side, and everyonehas a story to tell of a
womanor a brothel or an opium night or a war. We fear it. We
fear passionand laugh at too much love and thosewho love too
much.
And still we long to feel.
I havestartedwork on the gardenhere. No one has touched
it for years,though I am told it once had fine rosesof such a
scentthat you could smell them from St Mark's when the wind
wasright. Now it's a barbedangle of thorns.Nou' the birds do
not nest here. It's an inhospitableplace and the salt makesit
difficult to choosewhat to grow.
I dreamof dandelions.
I dream of a wide field where flowers grow of their own
accord.Today I shovelledawaythe soil from aroundthe rockery
then shovelledit back,levellingthe ground.Why havea rockery
on a rock?We seeenoughrock.
I will write to Villanelleand askfor someseeds.
Strangeto think that if Bonapartehadn't divorcedJosdphine,
the geraniummight neverhavecometo France.Shewould have
been too busy with him to developher undoubted talent for
botany.They say she has alreadybrought us over a hundred
different kinds of plants and that if you ask her she will send
you seedsfor nothing.
I will write to Josiphine and askfor someseeds.

r55
 THE PASSION

My mother dried poppiesin our roof and at Chrisunasmade

scenesfrom the Bible with the flower heads. I'm doing this
gardenpartly for her; she sap it's so barren here with nothing
but the sea.
I'll plant some grassfor Patrick and I want a headstonefor
Domino, nothing the others will find, iust a stone in a warm
placeafter all that cold.
And for myself?
For myself I will plant a c:press tree and it will outlive me.
That's what I miss about the fields, the senseof the future as
well as the present.That one day what you plant will spring up
une4pectedly;. shoot, a tree, iust when you were looking the
other wsy, thinking about somethingelse.I like to know that life
will outlive me, that's a happinessBonapartenever understood.
There's a bird here,a tiny bird that hasno mother.I'm taking
her placeand the bird sits on my neck, behind my ear, keeping
warm. I feed it milk and worms I dig up on my handsand knees,
and yesterdayit flew for the fust time. Flew from the ground
where I was planting and up to a thorn. It sangand I held out
my finger to bring it home. At night it sleepsin my room in a
collar box. I won't gve it a name.I'm not Adam.
This is not a barrenplace.Villanelle,whosetalentit is to look
at everything at least twice, taught me to find ioy in the most
unlikely placesand still to be surprisedby the obvious.She had
a knack of raising your spirits iust by saytng,'Look at that,' and
that was alwaysan ordinary treasure brought to life. She can
evencharm the fishwives.
So I go from my room in the morning and make the iourney
to the garden very slowly, feeling the walls with my hands,
gettinga senseofsurface, oftexture. I breathecarefully, smelling
the air, and when the sun is up I turn my face that way and let
it lighten me.
I dancedin the rain without my clothes one night. I had not
done ttrat before, not felt the rcy drops like arrows and the

r56
 THE ROCK

changethe skin undergoes.I've been soakedthrough in the

army timeswithout number but not by choice.
In the rain by choiceis a different matter,thoughthe warders
didn't think so. They threatenedto ake my bird away.
At the garden,althoughI havea spadeand a fork, I often dig
with my hands if it's not too cold. I like to feel the earth, to
squeezeit hard and tight or to crumble it betweenmy fingers.
There's time here to love slowly.
The manwho walkson waterhasaskedme to include a pond
in my gardenso that he can practise.
He's an Englishman.What do you expect?
There's a warder who's fond of me. I don't ask why, I've
learnt to ake what's there without questioning the source.
When he sees me on all fours scrabbling at the earth in a
random-lookingway that is quite scientific,he gets upset and
hurries over with the spadeand offers to help me. Especialln
he wan$ me to use the spade.
He doesn'tunderstandI want the freedomto makemy own
mistakes.
'You'll never get out, Henri, not if
they think you're mad.'
Why would I want to get out? They're so preoccupiedwith
gettingout they misswhat'shere.When the daywardersgo off
in their boatsI don't stand and stare.I wonder where they go
and what their lives are like, but I wouldn't changeplaceswith
them. Their facesare grey and unhappyeven on the sunniest
dayswhen the wind whips at the rock for its own delight.
Where would I go? I have a room, a garden,companyand
time for mpelf,, fuen't thesethe thingspeopleask for?
And love?
I am still in love with her. Not a day breaksbut that I think
of her, and when the dogrvoodturns red in winter I stretchout
my handsand imagineher hair.
I am in love with her; not a fantasyor a myth or a creanrreof
my own making.

r57
 THE PASSION

Her. A personwho is not me. I inventedBonaparteas much

as he inventedhimself.
My passionfor her, eventhough she could never return it,
showedme the differencebetweeninventing a lover and falling
in love.
The one is aboutyou, the other aboutsomeoneelse.

I havehad a letter fromJosdphine.She remembersme and she

wants to visit me here, though I expectthat's impossible.She
showedno alarmat the addressand hasenclosedseedsof many
kinds, someto be grownunder glass.I haveinstnrctionsand in
somecasesillustrations,thoughwhat I am to do with a baobab
tree I don't know. Apparentlyit growsupsidedown.
Perhapsthis is the bestplacefor it.
They say that when Josdphinewas in the slimy prison of
Carmeswaiting for death at the handsof the Terror, she and
other ladiesof strongcharactercultivatedthe weedsand lichens
that spreadin the stoneand managedto make for themselves,
while not a garden,a gteen place that comfortedthem. It may
or maynot be true.
It doesn'tmatter.
Hearing aboutit comfortsme.

Over the water in that city of madmenthey are preparing for

Chrisunasand New Year.They don't makemuch of Chrisunas
apart from the Child, but they havea processionat New Year
and the decoratedboatsare easyto seefrom my windont.Their
lights bob up and down and the water beneathshineslike oil. I
stayup the whole night, listening to the dead moan round the
rock and watchingthe starsmoveacrossthe sky.
At midnightthe bellsring out from everyoneof their churches
and theyhavea hundredand sevenat least.I havetried to count,
but it is a living city and no one reallyknowswhat buildingsare
there from one davto the next.

r58
 THE ROCK

You don't believeme?

Go and seefor yourself.

We havea servicehere on San Serveloand a ghoulishbusiness

it is with most of the inmatesin chainsand the rest iabbering
or fidgeting so much that for the few who care it's impossible
to hearthe Mass.I don't go no% it's not a placeto bask.I prefer
to stay in my room and look out of the window. Last year
Villanellecameby in her boat,ascloseas shecould get, and let
offfireworks. One explodedso high that I almosttouchedit and
for a secondI thoughtI might drop downafter thosefalling rays
and touch her too, once more. Once more, what diflerence
could it maketo be near her again?Only this. That if I start to
cry I will neverstop.
I re-read my notebooktodayand I found:

I sayI'm in love with her, what doesthat mean?

It meansI reviewmy funrre and my pastin the light of this
feeling.It is as thoughI wrote in a foreignlanguagethat I am
suddenlyableto read.Wordlesslyshe e4plainsme to myself;
like geniussheis ignorantof what shedoes.

I go on writing so that I will alwayshavesomethingto read.

There is a frost tonight that will brightenthe groundand harden

the stars.In the morning when I go into the gardenI'll find it
webbedwith nets of ice and crackedice where I over-watered
today.Only the gardenfreezeslike that, the rest is too salty.
I can seethe lights on the boatsand Patrick, who is with me,
canseeinto St Mark's itself.His eyeis still maryellous,especially
so sincewalls no longer get in the way.He describesto me the
alar boysin red and the Bishopin his crimsonand gold and on
the roof the perpenralbattlebetweengoodand evil.The painted
roof that I love.

r59
 THE PASSION

It's more than twenty yearssince we went to church at

Boulogne.
Out non',into the lagoon,the boatswith their gildedprows
andtriumphantlights.A bright ribbon,a alismanfor the New
Year.
I will havered rosesnextyear.A forestof red roses.
On this rock?In thisclimate?
I'm tellingyoustories.Trust me.

r6o
Fictron $12

Itlntllt \'i-ilt-[efsCnt novelshaveestablished her as one of the most

J'-"'
lmportant young writers in world literature. The Passionis perhapsher most highly
acclaimed work, a modern classicthat confirms her specid claim on the novel. Set
during the tumultuous yearsof the Napoleonic Wars, The Passionintertwines the
destiniesof rwo remarkablepeople: Henri, a simple French soldier, who follows
Napoleon from glory to Russian ruin; and Villanelle, the red-haired,web-footed
daughter of a Venetian boatman, whose husbandhas gambled away her heart. In
Venice'scompound of carnival,chance,and darkness,the pair meet their singUlar
destiny.
In her unique and mesmerizing voice,Winterson blends reality with fantasy,
dream,and imagination to weavea hypnotic tale with stunning effects.

"Recalls Garcia Mdrquez . . . -ag.."l touches dance like highlights over

the brilliance of this fairy tale about passion, gambling, madness,
and androgrnous ecstasy.'1-Edmund White

"A historical novel quite different from any other . . . it is written with a
living passion, an eyewitness irnmediacy. . . . Winterson is a master of her
material, a writer in whom great talent deeply s$ilss."-yanity Fair

"The overwhelming irnpression of her work is one of remarkable

self-confidence, and she evidently thrives on risk. . . . As good as Poe: it
dares you to laugh and stares you down."-The NewYork Review of Books

"The book has the enchanted pessimism of the best fairy tales.
Tbe Paation is a love story, a meditati,rn on pleasure and its limits,
a poetic novel written in a style that is wholly original."-Interuiew

Born in England in 1959, JnaNrrro Wtn'rensoN was raised by a family of

Pentecostalevangelists,and was destined to be a missionary. Instead, she left
home for severalodd jobs before studying E,nglishat Oxford. She then worked
in the theater before writing her first novel, Orange.r Are Not t/aeOnly Fruit,
which won the Whitbread Prize for best first novel. She is also the author of
Sexingtbe Cherry, Written on tbeBocly,and Gut Symnutriet.

Cover design by Rue Woods

Cover illustration bv Anita Kunz

Grove P"."."book,
are distributed by
Publishers Group West

ISRN' 0-802 | -3522-6

Printed in the U.S.A. 0997

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