Christopher Hope - Kruger's Alp

She lived in Sealion Mansions off Old Marylebone Road. A squat, solid, peeling green-painted block smelling of wax, dust and the sea. From the fishmonger’s opposite there drifted an aroma, a cocktail of brine, shell and sand wafting across the street. A corridor of fragrance crossed the road between fishmonger’s and entrance foyer along which the sea tang drifted from the boxes of silver fish, wide-eyed in their beds of crushed ice.

Also staring up at the flat were two men in raincoats. The sky was clear.

Magdalena’s flat was luxurious but small. A little entrance hall, a sitting-room, a bathroom, bedroom and kitchen. The bedroom was done in apricot silk.

‘You’re looking for a shining city on a hill, a sort of heaven, but you won’t find it, Blanchie. Not here, at any rate.’

‘I’m not looking here.’

Then why stop over?’

‘I tell you, I don’t know.’

He admired her bedroom. She seemed pleased. It was her lair, she said. An odd term. Above the circular bed hung a large painting in which two opposing forces shaped like tattered kites clashed violently. Red and black, two antagonistic whirlpools, fighting cocks, shredded and bloody, whirling and tearing at each other. Or perhaps two circular saws meeting tooth-on and the very sounds of their grinding collision were reflected in the shards of green and yellow paint with which the outer edges of the canvas were pierced.

She made him scrambled eggs and she ordered him to sleep in the large circular bed. He awoke in the late afternoon with the soft grey light in the room and found her above him, straddling him, naked. Her hand on his chest pinned him on the bed.

‘Stay. Don’t go on.’

Stay where? What did she mean? Sleepily he asked for an explanation but she drew him up into her and then fell to work from above, deftly rolling him from side to side and so their love-making began. Or not love-making really, but a struggle of sorts, without words, hot and desperate. She darting her head down to kiss him, his temple, foot, hand, sharp stinging kisses and he responding, no not responding but retaliating, giving little nips to lobes and elbows so that she squealed when she came, her hands gripping his buttocks and ramming herself home again and again, long after it was over. And still she would not release him and it was to be done again, their pubic bones jarred like shunting engines. He was bruised now. How hard she was down there, how rough! But she forced him over and over until he came at last, briefly, again, hopelessly, quite exhausted now, lying with his face in her neck and beginning to feel the pain in his back. She must have scratched him, the sweat ran into the score marks her nails had made and stung, but still she did not let up and since he was now past any sort of movement, slid from him, came out sideways, sliding, lubricated with sweat and turned him over now, mounted, reared up, placing precisely the lip of her vagina against his coccyx, rubbed herself there, scouring, grinding herself until she came to her climax, her breath hoarse in his ear.

He did not hear her leave. Perhaps he slept, briefly, or even passed out, but when he at last left the bed to look for her she’d gone.

He sat in the bathroom, his penis still achingly firm, throbbing to his heartbeat. The cool porcelain of the bath edge cooled him and he tried to relax, to clear his mind, to will the thing to fall and droop, an old seminary trick this. It had been an attack, a series of attacks. But why should she attack him? She had always had rough and ready ways, he remembered this from as far back as their first love-making. But this was an attack. Mounted attack, yes. There had been something angry, desperate, despairing in their encounter. And there was the speed with which it had happened. Almost a rush.

He tried to clear his mind. In the seminary there were tricks taught by the Monitor for Moral Instruction, Father Pauw. He had yellow teeth and green eyes and what he called a prodigious working knowledge of the fleshly ills. His lecture ‘The young priest and the early morning erection — some observations’, was a classic of its kind. ‘You will find it,’ he said, ‘a common complaint amongst young men, particularly in the early days of their ministry, that the member has a mind of its own. You rise in the morning to find it’s risen before you, a curse, a weapon which it cannot use against others and so often seeks to stab its owner. To treat this, first evacuate the bladder, then pray. If unsuccessful, reach for the paddle, the purity paddle.’ This instrument was a piece of polished wood, rather like a miniature ping-pong bat. It was to be used often. It was indispensable. Seven sharp slaps put the flesh in its place, disarmed the enemy within.

He sat on the bath and took his red and angry throbbing weapon in his hand; his heart thumped in unison. Damn Magdalena! What the hell was she playing at?

He ran the bath and lay in the warm water. Threads of blood drifted by, fine ribbons and spirals floated in the water. The blood was real enough. How had she known he was coming? Why had she fallen on him so savagely? Where was she now?

When darkness fell and she had still not returned he dressed and went downstairs and across the road to the fishmongers where the two men in raincoats stared up at the building, waiting for him.

Now I saw in my dream the truth of the supposition widespread in émigré circles amongst the refugees who have fled from the Regime, though this continues to be officially denied, that there are paid agents abroad who shadow, observe, report on, harass, hinder and even silence those individuals they fear.

Across the road from Magdalena’s flat, outside the now empty, Arctic spaces of the fishmonger’s window, the two men, one tall, one tiny, stood in the shadows. As he crossed the road towards them Blanchaille knew as soon as he set eyes on their raincoats, on their stiff and unyielding moustaches and heard their flat accents, that here were countrymen.

They stepped close to him and pressing him on either side said: ‘Theodore Blanchaille, if you know what’s good for you, go back.’

‘Who are you?’ Blanchaille asked.

‘We are unwilling agents of the Regime,’ came the prompt reply. ‘Poor men who a long time ago booked on what was then known as a Pink Pussycat Tour of the Fun Capitals of Europe, and we looked forward to enjoying ourselves in Montparnasse and on the fabulous Reeperbahn. We were promised the time of our lives in the strip joints of Soho and the canalside brothels of Amsterdam. Here, look —’ and he took from his pocket an old, creased, much thumbed and garish brochure showing a naked girl straddling a large pink cat which had orange whiskers and wore a monocle: ‘Hiya fellas! Get out on the tiles! Just wear your smile…!’ The naked girl pictured wore a tight, strained smile. Blanchaille looked at the ridiculous cat, blushed at the noisy old-fashioned dated enthusiasm of the invitation. It was all tremendously sad.

The large one folded the tissue-thin brochure with reverence and returned it gently to his pocket.

‘We were ordinary blokes,’ said the little one. ‘Out for a good time. I was a butcher.’

‘And I was a school inspector,’ said the large one. ‘And we saved long and hard, I can tell you. I mean, hell, it’s no small thing, getting at our stage of life the promise of a really good time. We were in a button-popping hurry to inseminate the entire continent of Europe. Well, would you do otherwise? We planned for months, we scrimped, we bought Hawaiian shirts with orange suns and canary yellow sweaters to wear, just like Minister Kuiker who set the tone around that time, being the only person of note to venture outside the country publicly.’