Nicholas Mosley - Hopeful Monsters

Of course I'm not going to go! I had got used to something like this, after all, by myself; on my bed, in my ruined boathouse. Then my mother opened her mouth and made some sort of noise like air coming in from beyond her. And then it was as if it were my turn to be saying 'Don't go!' There was the tightness at my throat; the sweetness at the centre; at the top of my head and beyond me. Then there was nothingness, everythingness: the unblocked flow of blood, guts, air, liquid. After a time my mother said 'There.' Then — 'Are you all right?' I said 'Yes.' She said 'Your silly old mother!' She said this quite dispassionately. I was lying on top of her with one of her thighs between mine. After a time she began to push me gently off her.

She said 'You don't feel bad?'

I said'No.'

She said 'Good.' Then — 'Well I don't feel bad.'

I said 'Good.'

She sat up and pushed the hair back from her face. Then she looked at my salamanders. She said 'Those poor things, will they be all right?'

I said 'I hope so.'

She turned and put her head down against mine. Then she said 'You won't tell anyone about Hans, will you.'

In the day or two that was left before I went to school my mother was at her most composed, regal: she floated round the house chatting with, giving orders to, Mrs Elgin, Watson, Mr Simmons. It was as if she were taking pains to put out the message — Ah yes, there are strange times of distress, of darkness, are there not: but then, look! we can come out on to another level!

I had a letter from Hans saying that he was sorry he had missed me in London, but he very much hoped that one day our plans would come to fruition about going on a walking tour in the Black Forest.

My mother saw that I had received the letter, but made no mention of it.

I thought — I see. Then — But what do I see? What means have I to know, let alone talk about, what is really happening?

I did not do anything about my aquaterrareum until the very day that I was going to my new school. So at the last moment there was a fuss about why I had not dismantled it before; how was I now going to get it to Miss Box? My mother was going to drive me to school. But I had this enormous glass case. In the end it was

arranged that my mother would drive me and my aquaterrareum into Cambridge on our way to school so that I could drop it off at the laboratory with Miss Box. Then just before we left my mother was caught up in a long conversation on the telephone, so we were going to be late; but what did I care, I was having to leave this fine new world I had created; I was going to dump it, carrying it in my arms. I was still saying to my salamanders 'I'm so sorry; so sorry!' This was what my mother sometimes said. For some days I had not seen my salamanders; they had been in their shelter; I had not wanted to disturb them. I thought that when I got to the laboratory I would take the top off the shelter so that I could say goodbye to them there; but what sort of goodbye would this be! We make our beautiful worlds: we abandon them.

My mother was silent in the car. When we got to the laboratory building I staggered up the stone staircase carrying my made-up world like Atlas: my mother stayed in the car. My father was somewhere in the building: I would have to say goodbye to him too. Miss Box was in the room with the dim glass cases like those in which are kept sandwiches. I put my aquaterrareum down: I did not take the top off the shelter yet: I thought I would say goodbye to my father before I said goodbye to my salamanders. I found my father coming out of his room.

He too looked sad; I did not know why. He was coming towards me along the passage. I thought — Well it can't be just that I'm going away to school. I said Tm ofT. I've come to say goodbye.' He put his arm round my shoulder. He said 'Something rather terrible has happened.' I said 'What?' We were going back along the corridor to the room in which I had left my salamanders. He said 'Your mother's taking you?' I said 'Yes.' He said 'Kammerer's shot himself I said 'Dr Kammerer's shot himself?' Miss Box had taken the lid off my aquaterrareum; she was staring down at it. I said 'Why?' My father said 'I don't know.' Then — 'I believe he had some trouble with women.' My father and I had come up beside my aquaterrareum and we were staring down at it with Miss Box; she had taken the top off the shelter. On the sand, which had turned rather yellow and green in the course of time, there were my two salamanders parallel and facing the same way; and in between them, as if it were completing some hierogram, some coded message, there was a smaller but perfectly formed third salamander, with the same colouring, black and gold. Now you remember (oh do you!) what might originally have been the point of my experiment until

it became simply about what might happily live or happily die — the point had been to take two lowland salamanders which normally produce tadpole-like larvae and to put them in alpine conditions (or in conditions of such beauty that who would care whatever occurred) and to see whether — as Dr Kammerer had claimed, and for which he had been ridiculed — two fully formed offspring would be produced. Well here there seemed to be just one perfectly formed offspring: but was not that enough! It was lying between its parents as if they might be three sticks cast by some augur on the ground; to give, indeed, some message, but what? Or of course one could say — Nothing. Myself and my father and Miss Box were looking down. My father said 'When did this happen?' Miss Box said 'I don't know.' My father said 'But these are Salamandra salamandra/ I said 'Yes.' I was thinking — Well, indeed when might this have happened? When was the last time I saw my salamanders? Miss Box said 'It's not some trick?' I thought — Of course it's not some trick! What do you mean, I ran round a corner and bought a third salamander? then — Oh but what if it happened when my mother and I were doing whatever it was we did that evening together: would that be a trick? I said 'No.' I thought I heard my mother hooting the horn of the car in the street below. My father said 'You didn't keep a record of your experiment?' I said 'No.' Miss Box said 'Then we can't of course tell.' I was thinking — But there would be no need now for Dr Kammerer to shoot himself! My father said 'No, we can't of course tell.' There was another hooting from the street below. My father said 'You'd better go.' I said 'Yes.' My father said 'We'll look into your experiment!' I said 'Thank you.' Miss Box was putting the lid on my aquaterrareum. I was thinking — But what will they do, nothing? But what will that matter: what has happened has happened: and is not everything that matters a unique experiment? I said 'Goodbye then.' My father said 'Goodbye.' Then he said 'You'd better say nothing to your mother.' I thought — About my experiment? About Dr Kammerer? Then — But of course I will say something to my mother! My father was still looking down into my aquaterrareum. I ran down the staircase and out into the street. My mother was sitting in the car still staring in front of her. I said 'Something rather terrifying has happened.' She said 'Yes, I know.' I thought — How do you know? Then — That was a telephone call from Hans? From London? I said 'Dr Kammerer's shot himself.' My mother said 'Is your father pleased?' I said 'No.' I was sitting beside her in the car. She drove off. I

thought — But what if my mother and I have changed; and on to some different level. I found that I did not want to tell her about how my two lowland salamanders seemed suddenly to have produced one highland salamander; perhaps this was after all a thing that one should not talk about too much.

trinket, bedspread, pair of boots, ancestral ornament — anything saved and hidden might suddenly become life-giving (was this like your so-called 'gene-pool'?). Of course, many Schieber were Jews — how practised at this sort of thing had Jews become over the years! — their tribal identity having been maintained indeed by their response to a hostile environment. Or was it that other people for their own protection (not survival!) were apt to notice only the Schieber that happened to be Jews? Certainly Jews, as usual, took no trouble to disguise themselves. There was still the question, yes — was all this exposure, immolation, necessary for survival?