Steve Erickson - Tours of the Black Clock

Go away.

Sometimes I’ll see someone watching me from a window across the street, and I think it’s a spy. A spy for them, a spy for you.

The Czechoslovakians will be Germans soon, too, all of us touched to Germanlife by the god who loves you.

Courtney lives on my shoulders. It’s the only place high and right enough for her, every other place too close to the ground. On the rooftops now, to the witness of spies, I toss her into the sky, she laughs and laughs. She folds her little hands, each the size of my eyes, across my face and challenges me to live in the black world of her creation. I cry out in mock alarm and she laughs some more. When I hear her I clutch her to my chest and keep her tight to me; I see something. I clutch her so as to make her part of my bigness, which will protect her. I see something horrible. It glints sharply across my vision and then vanishes. She protests the chest and demands the bird’s-eye view from my back. For just a moment I refuse her and hold her anyway; something in me, at the sight of something I cannot or will not keep in my mind’s eye, drops away, as though what’s below my waist is only a dream, and I’m really a tree rooted to a void.

ONE NIGHT AT THE end of summer I wake in the early hours of the morning. I have the sense that something’s on the rooftop waiting; lying there next to Megan I try to dismiss the feeling. I turn to Megan and, in her sleep, I take her. But while my back’s to the ceiling, and while I’m inside her, I can’t get over the feeling of something trapped on the roof above me. I finally withdraw from her still hard. I get out of bed; sleepily she calls for me. It’s nothing, I say to her; I turn in the moonlight so she can’t see I’m still hard. I walk out of the bedroom, I walk past Courtney’s cradle. I open the door and step out onto the stairs naked; I open the door leading up to the rooftop. My erection hasn’t passed and I climb the stairs until, at the top step, I stop and listen; I can hear something on the roof. I step out onto the roof now. Vienna’s glazed with light; the roof is white and angular; a wave of familiarity rushes over me. I feel that soon I’ll drown in this wave, sinking to some bottom, drifting in the wake of some tide; and I can barely wait for it, it can’t happen soon enough. I climb over the peaks of the rooftop; it seems to me, drowned and frozen, I might splinter against an empty pier. In the corner of an alcove on the roof is a bird, the sound I’ve heard. I reach for it and then there’s another sound, and I turn. You step from behind the building’s steeple, coy and distant. I deserve it, I guess. I deserve it for sending you away. I guess you’ve been sleeping here on the roof above the bed in the room below where I’ve been with my wife: I have a wife, I say, I have a daughter. “I never wanted to be your wife,” you answer, “I never wanted to be your daughter.” You come toward me and stop at the chimney that rises between us; you writhe before me bent over the chimney. The dark center of you opens to me. “Call me wife if you want,” you whisper, “call me daughter.” I can barely breathe until I’m inside you; somewhere before us Vienna winks and groans in a haze. “Call me anything you like.” Oh Geli, I say into your hair spun like sunlight. I take you by the hips and pull you closer; your gasp slithers to the ground below. Oh Geli, I say it again, to your eyes of blue. I clasp your breasts, my hands run to your neck and shoulders. My fingers touch your face; at the corner of your mouth is a scar. Semen swims out of me in confusion. But where, I can only moan, touching the scar, did you get this?

T.O.T.B.C.—9

THIS MORNING I RETURN to Dog Storm Street. Megan watches with anguish; she’s still in the window when I look up from the street. I won’t try to explain it. At my old flat there are Germans waiting; a soldier sees me and fumbles quickly with his telephone. Another emerges from the doorway with a gun, looking for the first. I suppose they have orders to arrest me on sight. I suppose they have orders not, under any circumstances, to cause me harm. They approach and I knock one of them down. Shoot me, I laugh at them. They can only wait until Holtz shows up. I go on upstairs; there’s someone else living in my flat, a fat New German. I open the door and he jumps up off the bed, I take his things and throw them out the window onto the street. I salute him, Heil, I salute the soldiers below. The landlady runs upstairs and when she sees me her eyes grow wide and she begins to shriek; I salute her too. Holtz arrives in almost no time, he gets to the top of the stairs as I’m throwing the fat New German down them. He reassures the landlady and coaxes her down the stairs; he turns to me and says, Banning, such a spectacle. He’s furious with me but he doesn’t want me to leave again. We have an agreement, he says, smooth and disappointed. Tell him, I say, that I’m fucking her. Tell him I fuck her all the time, and she sings for me from the bed, tied by her hair. I fuck her many ways, tell him that. Tell him, I’m saying to Holtz, my face inches from his, tell him I ravish her over and over. For a moment Holtz says nothing, only smiles slightly. But Banning, finally comes the response, he’s counting on it.

1939. LOVE RAGES. IT cries out from you, seething and red; I come back for more and more. These German nights we sit at the bottom of the well joined and impulsed, in the mornings I climb up the rope of my love to the light, where my child waits. Megan grows sadder. Her parents resume the stipend, inspired by the grandchild, and she gives up her life of crime; but the days are still, disquieting. Austrian papers scream of “the Polish provocation,” Swiss papers tell it differently. In September the British declare war and Megan’s sorrow spreads like her hair on the pillow behind her head. All touch is lost with her nation and people: We’re at war, I say to you. The happy delirium on your face at this news is unmistakable, you coo for defilement. “Is he watching?” you mutter beneath me; I look for his form in the shadows of the room. The heat inside you detonates me. By the end of the year, people in the street are certain the war will be a short one. When Holtz visits I can tell he isn’t so sure; he’s dazed that events have gone this far. Many more Germans soon, Danes, Belgians, Dutch. One afternoon in the autumn of 1939 I’m standing in the Volksgarten with my little girl, now almost one and a half years old; she teeters precariously on her little legs; and as we’re watching the Viennese strolling in the unnerved hours I gaze around and I’m in a boat. The boat is on water with a thousand other small boats around us, a city floats in a lagoon behind us, the Adriatic Sea glistens to the east of us. A fisherman at the other end of the boat watches me knowingly. Everything in me aches; I’m old. I have a beard. It’s thirty years from now, and lying in the bottom of the boat, wrapped in a brown cloak, is a very old man, white thin hair and dead eyes, gazing up at me. It’s not a vision I’m having, or a dream. I feel the boat rocking as surely as anything I’ve ever felt. I look at the old man trying to remember who he is, because I know I’ve seen him; and then I have this distant memory of thirty years before, when I caught his eye for several seconds through the hotel doorway.

1940. COME HERE. THERE are still a hundred things for me to do to you. Paris has fallen, I was there once. I met a friend from there, or was it there he was going when we said goodbye? What was his name? We shook hands on the platform at a station: No way they’re going to take over Paris, I said; and then he was gone. In the window above Dog Storm Street a procession of planes sails black like the years before my birth. I hear you panting beneath me. Your hair’s tousled in the wind through the window. This is Paris, Geli. There’s smoke from Montmartre and bright wet lipstick on the Vendome column.