Who knows? Thomas leaned back against the door of the room. Now that I come to think of it — he wrinkled his nose — yes, he did have something to do with it.
Ella heard Thomas going on, but only from a distance; the hissing in her ears had swollen to a rushing sound and she could hardly understand him. What was he saying? That Käthe wasn’t innocent of all blame either. But what’s innocence, and what’s the meaning of guilt when we’re talking about responsibility, about decisions? Ella swallowed, the burning of her skin was barely tolerable, her nausea ebbed and flowed, her heartbeat fell and rose, she was breathing deeply, as Thomas had always advised her to do in such situations. But this time he didn’t seem to notice, he was still talking, and she vaguely heard what he was saying: Käthe believes in communism, even if it’s called socialism these days, otherwise she could never have afforded to rent a huge house like this with a garden, and turn the stable into a studio — penniless as she was in spite of her distinguished family. He said objectively, almost gently, without a note of reproof or sarcasm: Perhaps the lodger came along at just the right moment.
Ella didn’t have to listen to what she couldn’t hear, her ears closed, she shut her eyes and enjoyed the dizziness. Thomas loved Käthe, but they couldn’t talk to each other. In Käthe’s eyes, he was a talented young man, she let him make her brass bracelets, lovers’ rings, a silvery belt that she wore proudly as if it were a chastity belt. He could write his poems, he was to study geology, he was to model for her as well because he was so good-looking. One of these days, as she saw it, he could study chemistry, physics, medicine, whatever he liked; maybe. But not journalism, when not a word was free, let alone the news. Skin could flare up, like the herbs in his pipe, it could burn brightly — but first Thomas was to do Käthe credit, save face for her, show everyone he didn’t think himself superior, her son was not above working in the stone quarry like all the others working in factories and industry. Ella’s itch was overpowering, she scratched.
Her hands scratched frantically, her arms, she scratched her arms, her legs, she scratched her crotch, under her stockings, her throat, she scratched her face hard.
What are you doing? Don’t scratch like that, you’ll bleed. Thomas stood up and tried to hold her hands tightly.
It’s that acrid smoke makes me feel sick. Admit it, you’re smoking henbane, some kind of poison! Put your silly pipe out, will you? Ella could scream shrilly, hysterically. She was beside herself. The burning wasn’t the guests out there, not Käthe or some kind of wall, the burning was her brother with his silly pipe and always talking about prison. Ella screamed.
Thomas put his pipe down, knelt in front of her and held both her hands. Look, you’re bleeding already!
Yes, because of you!
You’re going red all over, you’re coming out in spots. Her bare arms were covered with raised marks. Tears rose to Thomas’s eyes. Ella — he tried to hold her firmly — stop scratching, stop it. With all his might he tried to grasp her wrists in his hands.
You’re hurting me!
He let her go, wound his arms round her, wanting to put an end to her fury, but she knocked them away.
Ella? She heard anxiety in his voice. Well, let him be anxious. Ella, she heard gentle determination in it as well, just let him try it, he wanted to save her, however much he wanted to keep her safe he couldn’t.
He put his arms round her again, stroked her back, and this time she let him, let her arms dangle, put up with his concern, he must be able to feel her sobbing under his hands.
I’ve come of age. In tears, Ella sniffed. I’ve been able to go anywhere I like since February.
Thomas held her even more firmly. Of course she could go anywhere she liked. On her eighteenth birthday she had been in hospital. He had visited her there, she had liked that, and she had liked the blackbirds singing outside her window early in the morning. But then she had been sent home two months later. Cured. So they said.
I don’t want to stay here any more, I can’t stand it here any more. She nestled close to his throat, dried her tears on him, rubbed at her wet eyelashes, no one but Thomas could comfort her. Her skin was still burning, but she could bear it as long as Thomas held her in his arms. The lodger. .
Shh. Thomas laid a finger on her mouth. We’ll find you a room, an apartment, we’ll get you out of here.
The lodger. . he. . she sobbed.
That’s a promise. Thomas held Ella close; he thought he knew what she wanted to tell him. But he didn’t. Applications would have to be made, the housing management committee of the commune would have to be convinced.
. . I think I’m pregnant.
Abruptly, Thomas held Ella away from him. He had taken her by the shoulders, he stared at her. He looked defeated. Ella could see him searching for sensible ideas, something sensible to say. Whose is it? He swallowed, looked down as he suddenly realised how foolish this question was; he knew the answer and whispered it quietly, without looking Ella in the face.
His arms dropped, slack, powerless. All his love, his unconditional concern for Ella, his watchfulness, his careful silence in spite of the boundless fury he felt, none of it had been able to help her or prevent this.
Ella nodded, gritted her teeth and looked straight at Thomas. He had only to open his eyelids for her to see herself in his eyes; he opened them, his eyes were brimming over.
When? Thomas asked so quietly that she had to lip-read the word.
A few weeks ago, when you were camping with Roland and Michael. The weekend after your exams.
He lowered his eyes again wearily, a tear was running down his nose. Why didn’t you tell me?
What could I have told you? The lodger came back? He lay in wait for me and he fucked me?
A woman’s screech of laughter could be heard from the corridor, a man was talking non-stop to her, she laughed, something went off with a bang, presumably the cork from a bottle of sparkling wine.
Thomas leaned forward, reached under Ella’s chair and picked up the parrot feather. She must have dropped it. He held the feather in his hand and said nothing.
What is it?
Perhaps he didn’t know what to say. His silence made Ella despair.
Oh, say something, speak to me! Do you think I didn’t resist? Do you think I just let it happen? I threatened him, he threatened me. He can do us all harm, Käthe won’t get any more commissions, she’s already lost her lectureship. .
Thomas lay down on his bed and folded his arms behind his head. He stared at the ceiling, but only briefly; then he closed his eyes. He certainly wasn’t asleep. No one could be asleep now, with the party merrily in progress outside. Was he thinking?
Ella crossed her legs. She mustn’t cry.
It can be got rid of, she said quietly. But Thomas did not reply; his face showed no emotion.
Maybe it will just go away of its own accord.
Thomas said nothing.
Are you asleep?
No. He sat up and slowly picked up single sheets of paper with his poems on them, typed on the only typewriter in the house, which belonged to the lodger.
What are you reading?
Once again, Thomas did not answer. When it took him so long to find his answers it made her furious. Recently he had often resorted to going away.
Leave me alone. I can’t talk any more, he said without looking at her.
Ella waited for a while. Maybe he would read one of them aloud to her, maybe he would close the blue folder of poems and come over to her, be with her. But then she saw the shame in his face. Helplessness tormenting him. He could neither protect nor save his sister, he couldn’t do anything. She could hardly bear to see him, she was ashamed of herself; she shouldn’t have told him about the pregnancy.