John Banville - Nightspawn

The wind was up. It came crying off the sea to blast the hillside, the bushes and the little stones. The waters of the bay crashed on the rocks, bursting in slow white blooms. A fury as of lost and destroyed small things was moving in the sea. We sat on the dunes behind the beach. Erik’s shoulders were bowed, his hands over his face. I spoke to him for a long time. I did not know what I was talking about, but my voice, as though it did not really belong to me, seemed to be insinuating things for which there were no words, delivering an inexpressible message to ears that could but barely hear, as in a withered garden of darkness, in autumn, a nightingale will sing to you of mysteries long since buried. I cannot understand these things, I am not god, I did not invent human beings, why is it expected that I should understand everything? Stop. Stop, and go on, it is the only way.

He spoke not a word. I went away and left him there to mourn the dead by whatever means he knew.

The land was alive, was emanating orders and advice. I had my finger on the nerve of the world. Down through the winding hills I sauntered, holding my arms captive at my sides for fear that if I lifted them they would turn to wings and take me soaring breathless into the limits of the sky. I think I was grinning. The wind cavorted about me, whispering, shouting, promising miracles. I could feel each hair of my head as though they were charged wires, could feel each eye seeing its separate view, each toe doing its little business of balancing. I jangled in every sinew, poised for flight, singing and capering, teeth bared, my heart tingling with the magic touch of murder. Do I make sense? How can I? But I was alive, exulting in my terror, and waiting eagerly for a message from the beasts.

As I approached the villa, there was strange music in the wind. I stopped to listen, but it had ceased. Through the broken gateway I went, cut across the garden to the well, winked at the eyes down there, and spat on them. Then, hitching up my trousers, I went resolutely to the door. It stood open. That was to be expected. I found myself in the dimness of a hall, and paused a moment to give my sight time to adjust itself. I needed all my faculties about me, for that message had come through at last, and with devastating simplicity it said: fuck. Primitive tapestries hung on the walls on either side of me. Hunters pranced with uplifted spears, and priests were carrying sacrifices to an altar. I saluted the holy men and went on my way. The first door, to my left, was locked. A touch to its handle brought that music again, a small discordant phrase, slipping into silence. I tried another door, with success.

The room was long and narrow, with grey walls and a low white ceiling. A window at one end looked out across the hills to the misty sea, and the light that came through was gold touched with the faintest chill of blue. Two elderly armchairs sat crouched by the open fireplace, silently brooding over the situation of an unfinished chess game laid out between them on a table. A tall clock ticked away with a calm indifference to the terrors of time. A single red rose, strangest of all rarities here, drooped in languid elegance from a narrow vase atop the writing desk. On the gleaming parquet floor the designs of a rug turned slowly through their circular abstractions. I stepped inside and softly closed the door. By the window a grand piano stood, teeth bared and lid uplifted. The boy Yacinth sat on the low stool, one leg folded under him, his candid gaze turned toward me. A furry aureole of soft silver light trembled around his tousled head. I said,

‘So you’re the musician?’

By way of an answer, he put his fingers to the gleaming keys and set them jingling, vibrato, pianissimo. I crossed the floor; a stretch of silence on the rug, then slap and clap of sandals on the wood once more; I reached the window. Out there the sea, and a sleek liner slicing the horizon. I turned to the boy. He still watched me, without interest, without curiosity.

‘Listen,’ I said. ‘Are you real, or do I just imagine you?’

‘Why?’

‘You never say anything. Why don’t you ever say anything?’

That shrug again, a slight lift of the left shoulder, left corner of the mouth. I leaned on the edge of the piano, and said,

‘Play something for me.’

He bowed his head, and pursed his lips, and touched a fingertip to a fluttering eyelid. Then abruptly he turned on the seat, his leg coming out from under him with a tiny squeak of the leather; he frowned heavily, and brought his hands to the keys. A fiercely discordant plashing and clashing of chords followed. As he tore this hideous music from the instrument, he watched me from under his eyelashes, defiance and spite in the tight line of his mouth.

I wandered back down the long length of the room, my hands in my pockets. I went into the corridor. The music followed me. The door which had been locked was open now, perhaps it was a different door, perhaps it had not been locked the first time, good Christ what difference does it make? I opened it, and went where I was led. Led, led?

This room was a small room, containing a big bed. If there was other furniture there, I did not see it, for this bed was overpowering. Squat and low, it knelt on its tubby legs like a satiated frog. It was indecent. Upon its tangled sheets, Helena lay asleep. One arm rested by her side, the fingers flexed against her thigh, while the other lay twisted into an odd attitude of abandon above her head. Her face was inclined toward me on the pillow, eyes lightly closed, lips parted. She wore only a long blue shirt, open at the neck. There was a small window above her, and her yellow hair was strewn across the pillow like tendrils of flowers creeping toward the light. I closed the door. In her sleep, the shirt had ridden its way up to her navel. One leg was bent, and the foot rested against her other knee, clumsy description, try again, no time, I am panting. I found myself suddenly without my clothes. The cool starched sheets brushed against my knees and sent an intolerable shiver along my spine. I knelt down. She made a small sound of annoyance, and shifted her legs. I said,

‘Helena … Mrs Kyd.’

I was beginning to have a sense of general foolishness. She turned her head, and her eyelids fluttered. It was at that moment that I wounded her. Now, here is a point. For that wound alone I ask forgiveness; all the other sins can be bound together and hung upon my balls for all eternity, but for that one, that plunge into the world of all nocturnal adolescent dreams made living flesh, I plead tolerance and mercy, for that was one time when the freedom of my will was denied me. Strangely enough, I feel that I shall be forgiven, providing god is not a woman. This woman whom I had skewered now sprang awake. Her eyes clicked open, and she gave a great squawk of astonishment and fright, and made an effort to rear up off the pillow. I held her down, and laid soothing hands upon her face. I grinned and said,

‘Hello there.’

She began to speak. That is to say, her mouth opened and closed, but no words came out, only garbled quacking sounds. I kissed her, and took a few experimental leaps. She lay rigid and unyielding. I took my mouth away from hers, and she snarled,

‘God damn you.’

‘Yes yes, no doubt, but not yet,’ I panted.

And I laughed. She closed her eyes tightly, and bit her lips, but she could no longer resist. Her legs twined with mine, and she relaxed. I put my hands on her backside, and we were away. At the end I was overcome by a little fit of rage, and casting about in my mind for some likely victim, I could think only of Julian, so I gave her one last stab for him, cried out a foul word, and then felt profoundly ashamed. I slipped away from her, and lay with my face buried in the pillow, listening to her laboured breath beside me. In a while, it grew calm, and I fell asleep with the distant sound of music in my head.