The Winter Vault - Anne Michaels [108]
Jean strode, her face pink not with cold but with heat. She was sweating under her coat, the heat building; blood flooding every muscle. Lucjan drew her toward him. He unbuttoned her coat. He drew up her sweater and pulled it over her head.
At first gasp – her skin so hot – the cold air was hardly recognizable as cold. She could not tell if his tongue was hot or cold.
– I want to tell you about a garden, the great hunting park of an Assyrian king, Jean whispered later, in the darkness of Lucjan's kitchen. Fragrant groves of cedar and box, oak and fruit trees, bowers of jasmine and illuru, iris and anemone, camomile and daisy, crocus, poppy, and lily, both wild and cultivated, on the banks of the Tigris. Blossoms swaying in a hot sunlight of scent, great hazy banks of shimmering perfume, a moving wall of scent …
The earliest gardens were walled not to keep out the animals, but to them keep in, so they could not be hunted by strangers. The Persian word for these walled sanctuaries was pairidaeza, the Hebrew, pardes, in the Greek, paradeisos. Jean felt Lucjan's weight begin to pinion her.
The origin of the word ‘paradise’ is simply ‘enclosure.’ And after, Lucjan and Jean in the bath in the darkness, until yes, it was true, one was sick with longing for the melody to return.
– Please tell me about your daughter, said Jean.
Lucjan lay on his back next to her, looking out the small window above the bed.
– First of all, her name is Lena. Second, she is almost twelve years old, almost a woman. Third, I haven't seen her since she was a little girl.
Jean knew that she must wait. A long time passed.
– Władka, Lena's mother, worked with her father on their apple boat. You could smell those fruit barges from five blocks away, the sweet cider smell on the river breeze. The barges, piled high with cherries and peaches and apples, docked at the bottom of Mariensztat Street near the Kierbedz Bridge, bringing all the fruit to town from the riverside villages.
I remember those first water-markets after the war, the first mountain of Vistula apples, hard, sweet, sour, softened by the sun, rotting, fermenting, the bees circling. Władka and her mother baked pastries crammed with fruit and sold them at a stall on the docks.
Władka was so young, even younger than I, and her strong arms when she rolled up the sleeves of her dress, smelled of apples – as white and cold, as wet and sweet – and I could smell apples between her breasts and on her breath and in her hair.
We were married in the Bristol Hotel. 1955. I was twenty-five years old. Władka's parents insisted on the Bristol, with its mirrors and chandeliers, velvet chairs and bossy waiters. When you ordered, the waiters disagreed with you and never brought what you asked for, but what they thought was best. Our wedding feast was stuffed roast duck, ice cream, fruit. I remember very clearly because I hadn't eaten such food in twenty years. I was crazy for Władka – the thought of sleeping with her night after night – but that food made me very sad. Suddenly I knew, really knew, such meals had always existed, even during the war, for some. A great big greed opened up inside me, sitting at that table. A big rage. Every succulent mouthful filled me with despair. I was eating the duck of fury. None of us had any idea if we would ever eat like this again. That food made us all very sad.
Lucjan pulled on his sweater and went downstairs. Jean heard him filling the kettle. Then he began to hunt through the papers on the large table, through notebooks and newspapers on the floor.
– There's a photo of my daughter … If I can find it in this mess. I don't like to keep it one place or even in a frame, to make it a shrine. I like to come across Lena's face when I'm in the middle of something; it's like looking up and finding her sitting in the room with me.
He gave up and returned to the edge of the bed.
– I'll find it later, he said.
And Jean felt humiliation – at her own need to be found.
– You saw it all the time, said Lucjan, people