Only by the lake, after the child had crouched on the bank for a long time kneading the wet sand, and had gone to sleep playing with Marie’s hair, did she ask whether he had brought the poems he had promised her. After they had bathed he could see her breasts. Now he was lying on his stomach to hide his arousal. The little girl was sucking her thumb in her sleep and clutching her mother’s hair tightly in her fist, as if afraid that she might go away.
They were alone beside the marshy bay. Thomas had been coming here for years. No one who bathed in the bay put a swimsuit or trunks on, but this was the first time that Thomas had been surprised by anyone’s nakedness. Often as Marie and he had been together over the last few weeks after work, sometimes lying side by side, touching and kissing each other, he had never seen her naked from a distance and in the open air; she was lying not an arm’s length away from him with her child, her skin dazzling in the sun. If he closed his eyes he had a black negative image of her. He preferred to close his eyes to hide the expression in them. Her skin was an almost translucent white, her nakedness seemed to him so new and unique that it was hard to imagine a husband. Thomas could not picture the man who saw her naked morning and evening whenever he wanted to, the man who would offer her to his colleagues for a quick fuck.
Don’t you want to? She removed the strand of hair from her child’s fist and began lovingly tickling the little girl’s nose with it. It was only when she raised her arm that he could see blue bruising on the inside of it where the husband or one of his friends must have grabbed hold of her.
Yes. He reached under the pile of clothes beside him, and a wasp rose in the air and flew a short way, only to come down again. The wasp bent its head, other wasps came in a curving flight to suck the dried plums. Thomas had forgotten to close the bag. He put his shirt to one side, felt around for his trousers and the pockets in them. He brought out several folded sheets of paper. Right, then; Thomas reassured himself that the little girl was still asleep between them. Forgive me, swerve away, flee / ecstatic death, from me. / Leave me, leave me here, / My life is sweet, is dear. // Do not force me from the light, / out and into the void of night, / I still have life in mind, / to death I am not inclined. / No, no, keep back but stay, / We will walk together for a way, / since a fight for life and breath / Can only end in death.
Marie had stopped tickling her child with her hair. The little girl was drawing short, quick breaths, her eyes moving under their lids. The oblivion of dreams. Thomas dared not raise his head higher to where he would see Marie’s breasts, and then her face.
What’s holding you back?
What was holding him back? Thomas was thinking of his mother; Marie could obviously read thoughts.
Will she cry?
No. Thomas flapped his hand to drive away a wasp that was now hovering in small circles above the little girl. Of course not. My mother says I would make her cry if I didn’t go along with her.
Go along with her? A smile flew briefly over Marie’s lips.
In general, in principle. Go along with her claims, her ideas for my future, for what will become of me. She only says that. I’ve never seen her in tears. Thomas stared at the blade of grass in front of his nose. She’s found me a place to study medicine now, and I tell her I can’t do it. She thinks I’m just a shirker, a freeloader.
Did she really say that?
Now Thomas did look at Marie’s face. Did she think I would invent such words, out of nothing? He, Thomas, the inventor of the word freeloader? Maybe he picked up words, used them, but he had certainly never invented a single word. Mother. I bear you like a wound / on my brow that will not close. Gottfried Benn. Did Marie know that poem by Benn? Was it the wound or the brow that wouldn’t close? Ultimately they were one and the same, and held neither pain nor thought intact within them, if in that way one is united with the mark of maternal pain. He was an empty husk, a husk carrying pain. Maybe Marie thought it wrong for him to repeat what his mother had said, for him to remember what had slipped out of her mouth, his mother’s words in Marie’s ear. Has your husband been hitting you? Thomas bit his tongue.
Marie did not seem startled by his answer, a question on a subject that she had never broached. Nor did she mind it. Her eyes were as clear as the lake. A wasp circled in the air between them and came down.
His elbow hurt where he had been propping himself on it for so long, holding the glance of Marie’s eyes.
Marie frantically waved her hand about to raise a little wind as the wasp came down on the child’s little head. Marie blew at it, but the wasp had settled on her little girl’s mouth. Perhaps its feet tickled, for the child’s head twitched, turned back and forth, she opened her eyes and, at the same moment, opened her mouth too in a shrill scream, a scream that turned to crying before the child ran out of breath. Now Marie touched the wasp with her fingers, but it had fastened firmly on the little girl’s lips. Thomas flicked his fingernail against the insect to make it fly up, a small scrap of skin in its jaws, leaving a tiny bleeding wound on the screaming child’s lips. Marie picked up her daughter and held her tight, comforting her, until tears were running down her own face. She kissed the child, sang to her, rocked her. The little girl gradually calmed down and soon fell asleep as if she had only been woken by a bad dream.
No one ought to say a thing like that to you — Marie put her hair back behind her ear — a mother doesn’t make fun of her child. The way she said that it sounded like an iron law. Teasing, yes. Oh, how my own mother teased me. But she never made fun of me.
What did I have in my head, I knew nothing at all about the world. You can’t do anything, you don’t know anything, in Käthe’s eyes and in her words he became nothing. He could hear her resolute voice.
Marie was still cradling her little girl.
And it’s true. I really can’t do anything. Thomas smelled Marie’s sweetish sweat, he saw the rocking movement that made her one with her child, a single body. He had never yet been one with someone else’s body, or not at least since his birth. Marie would not be able to release him like that, he was sure. Carefully, he folded up the sheet of paper with the poem and laid it among the other folded sheets. He had meant to read her some other poems.
I’ll be with you, said Marie suddenly.
You will?
Always.
Thomas had to smile. She leaned forward and came close to his face, the child that she was rocking between them, above the little girl her firm breasts, and her mouth approached his. But before their lips touched she drew back. The morphine that the man didn’t need today — Marie sat upright, holding her child close. It wasn’t the first time I’ve taken something away. Before you came, early in the year, I did that too. Only a small quantity, there can be inaccuracies in weighing the drugs out, so it didn’t appear in my poisons book. Marie wiped her little girl’s forehead, which was wet with sweat. My husband found it in my handbag and questioned me about it. I said it was something for a headache.
You can give it to me. I’ll keep it safe. No one searches my things, no one questions me like that.
Marie carefully put her little girl back on the towel and drew the wicker basket close to her. Reaching into it, she held the little screw-top beaker out and handed it to Thomas. You’ll look after it?
He nodded.
How much was there in the container? Marie had to keep meticulous notes every day of how much of what substance she took out of the poisons cupboard, how much she gave to which patient. If any was left over, that was supposed to be taken back and a note made of the amount too. But who was going to check up on whether the patient had taken the morphine to alleviate his pain before death so suddenly took him away? Who was going to check whether the prescribed, weighed-out amount had actually been given to a patient?