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Authors: David Leavitt
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suggest. Here is what I came up with:
Old Street: the pavement is erupting. Cobwebs gird the entrance to Miss Havisham’s dress shop. A grocer specializes in a brand of custard powder not available since 1894.
Elephant & Castle: The elephant is Indian and has an emerald on her forehead. The castle is Briana’s castle from The Faerie Queene : Briana, whose lover (an ogre) demanded that she sew for him a shroud of human hair. Knights and damsels arrive by train, are lured within and shorn of their locks and beards. For the rest of their lives they will wander in madness through the forest of the station, tearing at what was once their hair.
Burnt Oak: Burnt during a war. When you touch the leaves, ash rubs off on your fingers. If you cut into the charred bark, a resin runs out that is black as pitch and carries the smell of death.
“We will probably have left Paris by the time you receive this,” Nigel wrote that week.
This is what happened. A few nights ago Fritz and I were drinking wine in a cheap bistro, when suddenly, uncontrollably, he started weeping. I asked him what was the matter, and he said that he felt very sorry because he had not been truthful with me. Oh, he had not lied to me, never that—nonetheless he had somewhat rearranged the facts of his background. It turns out that his father is not, as he told me previously, a carpenter from Dusseldorf. His father is ——, an army general and well-known Nazi! Apparently one afternoon last year Frau —— happened upon Fritz and one of his cousins in flagrante delicto, after which there was hell to pay. Fritz was ordered immediately into the army, at which point he fled to Stuttgart, where he ended up eking out a living as a thief and male prostitute, every moment on the watch in case his father’s “spies” had caught up with him. Needless to say the story thrilled me, adding as it did to the sense of illicitness that underscored our love affair. But: “There is more, Nigel—oh, Nigel, I hardly know how to tell you—” It turns out that a few years earlier a friend of his had coerced him into signing several petitions being circulated by the Communist Party. There was every likelihood the police had got his name from one of those petitions, and therefore every likelihood, when we left Germany, that he would be held back at the border—he got through on sheer luck, in the end, and had not told me in advance of our departure because he feared my anxiety would give him away. “So you see? I have deceived you. I wouldn’t blame you if you never forgave me.”
I admit I was a bit shaken to learn we had run such a risk without my knowing it. Nonetheless I said that he was probably wise not to tell me—I am notoriously bad at keeping a straight face—and that there was no reason for him to feel remorseful. He thanked me for being so generous, then said that the real problem was what would happen should he be forced to return to Germany—no doubt his father had the Gestapo on his trail even now, in addition to which his passport would run out in just under a year. To reassure him I promised that I would do everything in my power to help him emigrate to South America. This seemed to put him at ease. I felt oddly uneasy, however.
Two days later I returned from shopping to find Fritz miserably ensconced on a bench in the courtyard of our pension, handcuffed, while a policeman argued with a rather seedy-looking middle-aged man and a leprous old woman shrieking accusations in the background. It seemed that the old woman, the owner of the pension, had summoned the police, claiming that Fritz was a male prostitute and that he was bringing clients back to our room when I was out! The policeman had found Fritz in the room with this man, though even he had to admit that they had been doing nothing untoward; indeed, Fritz insisted he had invited the fellow back for a game of cards. The matter was then dropped. Nonetheless, the policeman told Fritz he
Old Street: the pavement is erupting. Cobwebs gird the entrance to Miss Havisham’s dress shop. A grocer specializes in a brand of custard powder not available since 1894.
Elephant & Castle: The elephant is Indian and has an emerald on her forehead. The castle is Briana’s castle from The Faerie Queene : Briana, whose lover (an ogre) demanded that she sew for him a shroud of human hair. Knights and damsels arrive by train, are lured within and shorn of their locks and beards. For the rest of their lives they will wander in madness through the forest of the station, tearing at what was once their hair.
Burnt Oak: Burnt during a war. When you touch the leaves, ash rubs off on your fingers. If you cut into the charred bark, a resin runs out that is black as pitch and carries the smell of death.
“We will probably have left Paris by the time you receive this,” Nigel wrote that week.
This is what happened. A few nights ago Fritz and I were drinking wine in a cheap bistro, when suddenly, uncontrollably, he started weeping. I asked him what was the matter, and he said that he felt very sorry because he had not been truthful with me. Oh, he had not lied to me, never that—nonetheless he had somewhat rearranged the facts of his background. It turns out that his father is not, as he told me previously, a carpenter from Dusseldorf. His father is ——, an army general and well-known Nazi! Apparently one afternoon last year Frau —— happened upon Fritz and one of his cousins in flagrante delicto, after which there was hell to pay. Fritz was ordered immediately into the army, at which point he fled to Stuttgart, where he ended up eking out a living as a thief and male prostitute, every moment on the watch in case his father’s “spies” had caught up with him. Needless to say the story thrilled me, adding as it did to the sense of illicitness that underscored our love affair. But: “There is more, Nigel—oh, Nigel, I hardly know how to tell you—” It turns out that a few years earlier a friend of his had coerced him into signing several petitions being circulated by the Communist Party. There was every likelihood the police had got his name from one of those petitions, and therefore every likelihood, when we left Germany, that he would be held back at the border—he got through on sheer luck, in the end, and had not told me in advance of our departure because he feared my anxiety would give him away. “So you see? I have deceived you. I wouldn’t blame you if you never forgave me.”
I admit I was a bit shaken to learn we had run such a risk without my knowing it. Nonetheless I said that he was probably wise not to tell me—I am notoriously bad at keeping a straight face—and that there was no reason for him to feel remorseful. He thanked me for being so generous, then said that the real problem was what would happen should he be forced to return to Germany—no doubt his father had the Gestapo on his trail even now, in addition to which his passport would run out in just under a year. To reassure him I promised that I would do everything in my power to help him emigrate to South America. This seemed to put him at ease. I felt oddly uneasy, however.
Two days later I returned from shopping to find Fritz miserably ensconced on a bench in the courtyard of our pension, handcuffed, while a policeman argued with a rather seedy-looking middle-aged man and a leprous old woman shrieking accusations in the background. It seemed that the old woman, the owner of the pension, had summoned the police, claiming that Fritz was a male prostitute and that he was bringing clients back to our room when I was out! The policeman had found Fritz in the room with this man, though even he had to admit that they had been doing nothing untoward; indeed, Fritz insisted he had invited the fellow back for a game of cards. The matter was then dropped. Nonetheless, the policeman told Fritz he
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