Anna Kavan - Ice

I tried to stop thinking about her, to fix my mind on those innocent gentle creatures, their sweet, eerie singing. But she persistently distracted me with thoughts that were less than innocent. Her face haunted me: the sweep of her long lashes, her timid enchanting smile; and then a change of expression I could produce at will, a sudden shift, a bruised look, a quick change to terror, to tears. The strength of the temptation alarmed me. The black descending arm of the executioner; my hands seizing her wrists. … I was afraid the dream might turn out to be real…. Something in her demanded victimization and terror, so she corrupted my dreams, led me into dark places I had no wish to explore. It was no longer clear to me which of us was the victim. Perhaps we were victims of one another.

I was desperately worried when I thought of the situation I had left behind. I walked round and round the decks, wondering what had happened, whether the warden had got away, whether she had been with him. No news was received on board ship. I could only wait, in great anxiety and impatience, to reach a port where I could go ashore and get some information. At last the day came. The steward had pressed my suit.

He brought it back with a buttonhole, a red carnation he had got hold of somehow. Its strong colour looked well against the light grey material.

Just as I was ready to leave my cabin, there was a peremptory bang on the door, and a plain-clothes policeman came in without waiting for me to answer. He did not take off his hat, but opened his jacket to show the official badge, the pistol in its armpit holster. I gave him my passport. He flipped over the pages contemptuously, looked me up and down in an insolent way, stared hard and with particular disapproval at the red carnation. Everything about my appearance obviously confirmed the low opinion he had already formed. I asked what he wanted with me, received no answer but an insulting silence: I would not ask again. He produced a pair of handcuffs, dangled them in front of me. I said nothing. When he tired of the jingling, he put them away, observing that, out of respect for my country, handcuffs would not be used. I was to be allowed to walk off the ship with him. But I had better not play any games.

The sun shone, everybody was going ashore. In the crowd I kept close beside him, as agreed. I was not worried. Such things happened. I gathered that I was wanted for interrogation, and wondered what questions I would be asked, and how they had got hold of my name. Uniformed police were waiting for us in a side street just off the quay. They ordered me into an armoured car with black glass in the windows. After a short drive, we stopped at a large municipal building in a quiet square. Birds were singing. I noted the sound specially after the days at sea.

The few passers-by paid no attention to us. But a girl standing at the corner a few yards away took some interest, judging by her frequent glances in my direction. I saw that she was selling spring flowers, jonquils, dwarf irises, wild tulips, and among them a bunch of red carnations, like the one I was wearing. Then armed figures fell in round me, marched me into the building and down a long corridor. ‘Get a move on.’ A powerful hand gripped my elbow, pushed me up some steps. Double doors at the top opened into a hall where people sat in tiers as at a theatre, a magistrate enthroned facing them. ‘In you go!’ Various hard hands pulled and shoved me into a sort of pew. ‘Halt!’ Feet stamped smartly to right and left, and I looked round, feeling detached from the situation. A high ceiling, closed windows, no sun, no singing birds, on each side of me men with guns, everywhere staring faces. People whispered or cleared their throats. The jury looked tired, or bored. Somebody read out my name and particulars, all quite correct. I confirmed them and took the oath.

The case was that a girl had vanished, supposed kidnapped, possibly murdered. A well-known person had been suspected and questioned, and had accused someone else who could not be found. The girl’s name was mentioned; I was asked if I knew her. I replied that I had known her for several years. ‘You were intimate with her?’ ‘We were old friends.’ There was laughter; somebody asked: ‘What was your relationship with her?’ ‘I’ve told you; we were old friends.’ More laughter, silenced by an official. ‘You expect us to believe that you changed your plans all at once, dropped everything you were doing, in order to follow a friend to a foreign country?’ They seemed to know all about me. I said: ‘That is the truth.’

I sat on the bed, smoking, watching her face in the mirror as she combed her hair, the smooth sheen of the glittering mass of palely shining hair, its silvery fall on her shoulders. She leaned forward to look at herself, the glass reflected the beginning of her small breasts. I watched them move with her breathing, went and stood behind her, put my arms round her, covered them with my hands. She pulled away from me. Not wanting to see her frightened expression, I blew smoke in her face. She went on resisting, and I had an impulse to do certain things with the lighted cigarette, dropped it on the floor, put my foot on it. Then I pulled her closer to me. She struggled, cried: ‘Don’t! Leave me alone! I hate you! You’re cruel and treacherous … you betray people, break promises….’ I was impatient, I let her go and went over to lock the door. Before I got there, a sound made me turn round. She was holding a big bottle of eau-de-Cologne over her head, meaning to hit me with it. I told her to put it down; she took no notice, so I went back and twisted it out of her hand. She was not strong enough to put up a fight. There was no more strength in her muscles than in a child’s.

While she was getting dressed I continued to sit on the bed. We did not speak to each other. She was ready, fastening her coat, when the door opened suddenly: in my impatience just now, I had forgotten to go back and lock it. A man came in. I jumped up to throw him out, but he walked past as though I was invisible or not present.

A tall, athletic, arrogant looking man, with an almost paranoid air of assurance. His very bright and blue eyes flashed a danger signal, seemed not to see me. The girl was petrified, she did nothing at all. I did nothing either, simply stood watching. It was unlike me. But he was a man who had entered with a revolver for a specific purpose, and could not be prevented from carrying it out. I wondered if he would shoot us both, and if so which first, or if only one of us, which one. Such points were of interest to me.

It was clear that he regarded her as his property. I considered that she belonged to me. Between the two of us she was reduced to nothing; her only function might have been to link us together. His face wore the look of extreme arrogance which always repelled me. Yet I suddenly felt an indescribable affinity with him, a sort of blood-contact, generating confusion, so that I began to wonder if there were two of us…

I was asked: ‘What happened when you met your friend?’ ‘We did not meet.’ Subdued excitement broke out, an official voice had to order silence. The next voice sounded like an actor’s, trained in elocution. ‘I wish to state that the witness is a psychopath, probably schizoid, and therefore not to be believed.’ Someone interjected: ‘Produce a psychiatrist’s confirmation.’ The theatrical voice continued: ‘I repeat, with all possible emphasis, that this man is known to be a psychopath and totally unreliable. We are investigating an atrocious crime against an innocent pure young girl: I ask you to note his unnatural callousness, his indifferent expression. What cynicism to come here with that flower in his buttonhole! How arrogantly he displays his utter contempt for the sanctity of family life, and for all decent feeling! His attitude is not only abnormal, but depraved, infamous, a desecration of all we hold sacred…