Maggie Gee - The Ice People

Luke’s terrible nakedness, amongst all that black leather, those studs and chains, that bulging nuskin. I could not take my eyes off him, but I could not bear to look at him.

I could smell the drink on their massed breath. They were laughing and making crude exclamations. Two of them had Luke by the arms and the fat one was pressing his face into Luke’s and pinching his cheek, so I’d have to kill them.

Then the redheaded one with the unpleasant mouth said loudly, above the babble of voices, ‘ Mais doucement avec le petit. Nous ne sommes pas des brutes, hein? ’ And suddenly his mouth was not unpleasant, his face was sensitive, and kind, and there was a God, after all, there might be …

A little silence followed his speech, suggesting he had a certain authority. Then Luke’s voice piped up, in what sounded to me like perfect French — ‘ S’il vous plaît monsieur, ça veut dire quoi, la petite clé que vous portez tous à l’oreille et au nez? ’ So it was a musical clef, the metal symbol. My son’s eyes were sharper than mine.

The red-headed one said ‘Why do you ask, jeune homme? ’ not sounding unfriendly, and Luke answered, in his clear brave voice, ‘ Parce que la musique, c’est ma passion, monsieur .’

And before I could understand what was happening they were talking music, the two of them, in that instant common language musicians have.

But not for long. Fatty interrupted, reminding Jacques that we were trespassers, burglars, ‘And the old one’s a maniac,’ he added.

But Luke insisted we were ‘refugees’. ‘The shutter was already broken —’

‘ Ils disent tous la même chose, ’ someone interrupted, and there was a low murmur of agreement. ‘All thieves are refugees now,’ one added.

‘Last week, little one,’ said the redhead, ‘a socalled refugee stole two of my violins — not to play, I am sure, but to sell on somewhere for a fraction of their price, to an idiot. And now you want to talk about music —’

Then he noticed the blood stain I had made on the sofa and swore, instantly furious. It was cream brocade with embossed roses — godknows what it had cost him, in this age of chaos — and he tried, badtemperedly, to rub at it, and must have jerked the whole thing backwards, because all at once, with her flair for the incongruous, Dora was speaking — he had switched her on.

‘Hallo, good to see you —’ said her familiar voice, slightly nasal, ineffably calm, and everyone swung round and stared at Briony, but she was slumped, inanimate. ‘— Hallo, more than one person, hallo.’ (The ‘more than one person’ was a malfunction that had recently slipped into Dora’s voice file, which had crossed connections between ‘colloquial’ and ‘grammatical analysis’.) ‘Would you like to ask me a question?’

Puzzled silence.

Then Dora did a ‘random chuckle’, which sounded very strange in this fraught room. ‘I like you,’ she said, another of her programmes. ‘Isn’t life fun? I’m feeling happy.’

Someone went diving behind the sofa to rugbytackle the mysterious stranger and found, of course — Dora. Craning my head, I watched her emerge, her innocent eyes, her ruffled feathers … ‘ Merde! Viens voir, Jacques, c’est une Colombe !’

They also had their Doves, we discovered, but this English model was unfamiliar, they liked her lashes, her feathers, her feet … Very soon they were all gathered round Dora, admiring her, trying her out. Three of them took her into the hall, where I heard them exclaiming at her walking, and trying to imitate her English voice.

Suddenly I became aware that Luke was arguing with Jacques, and Jacques had taken him by the arm, not forcefully, but it was still horrible to watch, Luke’s fragile arm in Jacques’ stiff dark one … Jacques was telling Luke that he wanted Dora, she would be payment for the damage we’d done, but he promised to let us all go in the morning –

I started to speak, in so far as I could, with my head pressed flat upon the carpet, I wanted to agree before Jacques changed his mind, but I’d hardly begun my acceptance speech when Luke interrupted, shrill, indignant.

‘You can’t give them Dora! She’s alive, she’s my friend … In any case, she’s got my voice. Have you forgotten she’s got my voice?’

Jacques asked him what he meant, and Luke explained about being a singer, and again I could see Jacques being drawn in, his long nose positively twitching with interest.

And so he did what I hoped he would do. He asked my son to sing to them. I knew that if Luke sang they could never kill him. And Luke, with more of his amazing courage, said he would, if they untied Briony and me.

Jacques shook his head impatiently, but then Luke smiled, took a deep breath, turned and sang, just a phrase, fifteen seconds of ‘Pie Jesu’. It had always pierced my heart, that pure song, but there, then — Pie Jesu, dona eis requiem, dona eis requiem — Merciful Jesus, grant them rest. When he stopped singing, there was absolute silence. Thankgod, his voice was as pure and clear as it had ever been; no rift, no frog. He looked at Jacques, who was staring at him with the intent gaze of a musician. ‘I can’t concentrate if they’re tied up.’

At a sign from Jacques, two of the other men went over and untied Briony, then me. Every touch was painful; my arm felt broken. They tried to help me up, and I fell again. I was shivering — with exhaustion, not cold, for the heated house felt warm to me, but one of the leather brothers noticed, and threw Luke’s duvet round my shoulders. They were not savages, as Jacques had said. Now he prescribed coffee for both of us, ordering someone to take us to the kitchen.

But I refused; I would not leave Luke, standing white and naked among the men, his penis hanging like a flower, his slight pale balls, not properly dropped … Briony disappeared to the kitchen; I stayed and watched him as he sang. ‘ Cherubino !’ one of them was shouting.

This was my son, my longlost son. Now he was the hero of the story. It was an extraordinary sight, his white, slightly awkward, undefended body, surrounded by the old and middleaged with their leather armour, their creaking fetishes. The beauty of my naked boy, and his clear pure voice like a silver thread, singing opera, now, singing Figaro … I’m sure that some of them were aroused, but some, I think, were moved and saddened, and it was the music, now, that took over, dissolving the hatred and the terror and the difference, telling us there was a common land, full, absorbing, warm, sufficient … Voi, che sapete che cosa e amor, donne vedete, s’io l’ho net cor … You who know what love is, ladies, see whether it is in my heart … I began to feel sure that they would not hurt him, that his godgiven talent had saved our lives. Gelo, e poi sento l’alma avvampar, e in un momento torno a gelar … I freeze, then I feel my soul burning up, and in a moment I’m freezing again …

But quite soon, Luke began to look tired. I glanced at my watch. It was two AM Non trovo pace notte, nedi … I find no peace, by night or day … Now my hurt body badly wanted to sleep, but my mind told me stay awake, stay awake. It had a nightmarish, unending quality, these strange ageing men in thrall to my son. Sento un affetto pien de desir … All of them watched him; I felt their desire, I started to wander, I started to shiver. My whole being was involved with Luke, the bright line of his voice running on through the labyrinth, his brave white body, his terrifying sex, for I’d never really looked at it before, and no one must look at it, but everyone saw it, his body burned into our consciousness, with the white flag at the centre of it, the flag of all we were, and all we’d lost.