Marcel Moring - In Babylon

‘Are you asleep?’

I looked sideways, at Nina, who sat cross-legged in the big armchair next to me. She was sitting on a sleeping bag, her long red hair hanging down, and leaning on the palms of her hands.

‘No, I’m not asleep. But I might just as well be. I’ve rarely felt as old as I feel today.’

She nodded. ‘What were you thinking?’

‘Nothing special.’

‘Come on, N. If we’re really going to be snowed in here for the next few days I don’t want you playing the mystery man. Do your Decamerone . Give me the Canterbury Tales . You’re a fairy tale writer. Amuse me.’

‘You want to hear fairy tales?’

‘Maybe later. All I want to hear now is what you were thinking.’

‘I was thinking about Uncle Herman. I suddenly remembered the last time I saw him.’

‘When was that?’

‘When he was dead.’

‘Oh, that.’

‘My God, how times have changed. You say: Oh, that. For me … it was a shock, I can tell you.’

‘After the sixties? I thought all you men ever did in the sixties was fuck and get high.’

‘Them, niece. Not me. I would’ve liked to. But I’m a Hollander. Nathan Hollander. A respectable man. I eat my poultry with a knife and fork, I hold my wine glass by the stem. I’ve never fucked around or used drugs.’

‘Nuncle, would you mind not calling me “niece”? It sounds like grey woollen skirts and sensible shoes.’

We grinned.

‘But haven’t you ever …’

‘Oh, sure. Hash. Long time ago. Not my style. I like being in control.’

She sighed. ‘The two-glasses-of-wine-five-cigarettes-a-day man.’

‘That’s me.’

‘And the sex wasn’t so hot either?’

‘Nina! I’m your uncle. I just turned sixty. That’s not the sort of thing you’re supposed to ask old people.’

‘Old people … You’re not old. What’s sixty anyway, nowadays? You’re still in great shape.’

‘Thank you. I only said I was old to hear you say I wasn’t.’

‘And that’s why I said it.’

‘No, I haven’t had a very thrilling sex life. Certainly a lot less thrilling than Uncle Herman’s.’

Nina stared into the fire. It was burning low. I stood up and threw on a few more chair legs and a piece of the piano lid. When I was sitting back down again she said, ‘With all that traipsing around the world I reckoned you must have had a sweetheart in every port.’

I shook my head. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ve learned in the past sixty years. If you really want to get someone into bed, fast, don’t ever start talking to them. I talked. My mistake was that I thought you had to get to know each other first, at least well enough to carry on a conversation. By the time I had my hand on the bedroom doorknob, the women around me were only interested in more talking. I became a friend, not a lover.’

She nodded, as if she could imagine that. ‘So you were the only one in that crazy family who didn’t get enough.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t exactly say …’

‘Herman did it with call girls.’

‘Once. We know he did it once with a call girl and that was after Sophie died. I believe he was faithful to Sophie all his life.’

‘As if that were normal! Faithful to your brother’s wife.’

I shrugged. ‘Zeno …’ I said. ‘We know he did it at least once. Had … er … sex, I mean. You’re proof of that.’

‘Zeno,’ she said. Bitterness tugged at her lips. ‘And Zoe thrived on it.’

I sighed.

‘Manny.’

‘My father was undoubtedly … active,’ I said, ‘but only after he and Sophie were divorced. Zelda, on the other hand, almost certainly died a virgin.’

‘A bunch of loonies,’ Nina concluded.

‘And you? Now that you’ve defined the rest of the family in sexual terms, what’s your story?’

‘Imagine asking a young girl such a thing, an old man like you …’

We laughed.

I looked at Nina. Shadows leapt about in her face. In the firelight, her pale skin had a warm, rosy glow. Her curly red hair even looked like fire, a churning mountain stream of arabesques and garlands. Nina? No, she would never have trouble getting what she wanted. I gazed at my niece with the satisfaction of a father who sees that his daughter has blossomed into an attractive young woman: intelligent, sharp, well-dressed and well-bred. Even now, in the old clothes we had found in Herman’s wardrobe, corduroy trousers that were much too large for her and cinched at the waist with a leather belt, a jumper with the sleeves rolled up four times, thick woollen socks, even now she looked like the sort of tubercular, red-haired beauty the Pre-Raphaelites were so mad about. Her lightly rounded lips were freshly painted. There was a shimmer of rouge across her cheekbones. The green of her eyes was pure enamel.

‘We have got to eat,’ I said. ‘I’ll go and cook us something.’

‘Cook?’

‘That’s what I said. There’s plenty of food. Enough supplies to last us through the next world war.’

She looked at me blankly.

‘I’ll show you,’ I said. ‘But only if you promise not to be frightened.’

I picked up a candelabra and we walked out of the library. In the stone-cold hall the warmth was driven instantly out of our clothes. Nina shivered. I felt her hand in my back, and even though I was still shaky from all that sitting, I hurried to the door of the cellar. At the top of the stairs, shadows bolted into the darkness of the second floor hallway. Sofas, chairs, tables, a wardrobe, a pustule of furniture swelled and shrank as the light glided across it. Nina rushed up beside me, grasping my arm so firmly that I nearly bit my tongue. Then I opened the cellar door and went ahead of her down the small flight of steps. When my feet touched the concrete floor I stopped and waited for her to follow. I raised the candelabra and let the light do the rest. Nina was halfway down the stairs, but the last step seemed to take forever. It was as if she were suddenly moving in slow motion. She clapped one hand to her mouth and, holding closed the collar of Uncle Herman’s jacket with the other hand, looked about in stunned silence.

‘Sauerkraut,’ I said. ‘Do you have any objection to sauerkraut?’ She shook her head. I handed her the candelabra and walked past the shelves of provisions, where I chose a tin of beef sausages, a bag of dried apples, condensed milk, a jar of stock, potatoes, a packet of sauerkraut, spices, mustard, a rectangular piece of dried meat, and a bottle of Pinot Gris.

‘What …’ She was still looking around. ‘What’s all this?’ The candlelight glided over the towering walls of cans and jars. ‘My God. There’s enough here for … for …’

‘For the next world war,’ I said.

‘Was he some kind of fanatical hoarder?’

I shook my head. ‘No. There was always an adequate supply of food in the cellar, but nothing out of the ordinary. I have no idea where all this has come from or when these shelves were stocked.’

Nina went over to one of the racks and picked up a tin. She turned it around in the light of her candle, squinting. Then she picked up another tin, a glass jar, a box, a crackling bag of pasta. ‘I’d say a year, maybe a year and a half. Not much more. Tins and jars usually have a shelf life of two to three years.’ She handed me a tin of peas and showed me the date on the bottom. Their edibility was guaranteed for at least two more years. ‘You can tell best by looking at the coffee. Here. This packet’ll be good for three more months. That means it couldn’t have been bought more than a year ago.’

‘Smart girl,’ I said.

She put back the tin and looked at me impassively.

‘Come on, I think we should go back upstairs,’ I said. ‘It’s much too cold down here. There’s a fire going in the kitchen.’ I opened the door and let her go first. With the swaying globe of candlelight before her she walked to the kitchen. There, in the pleasing glow of the Aga, which I had lit earlier that afternoon, I set out the ingredients. I handed Nina a knife and let her peel the potatoes, while I arranged the apples in a baking dish and poured myself a glass of wine. I slid the dish into a lukewarm spot in the oven.