Lipovsky would initiate me into the rites of spring. Sometimes he appeared to me to be a god of the woods. Pan. Sometimes I grew afraid; he stood like a satyr in the shadows.

He took me to his home, his bedroom. He put on a record of soft Danubian waltzes and took me in his arms. We danced through the shadows, shadows ourselves.

‘Do you like to dance, my little woman?’ His voice was tender. I heard it like the distant hiss of waves through a whorled shell.

No, no. Never. Temptation. To be used. To be cast away, forgotten. I was pure. Chaste. I was strong. I did not give in.

The Fantasy in the Forest

My clothes were airy, diaphanous. I stretched out my arms to feel my body—fleshless, an embodiment of light. No female odours breathed from its most secret places, only strange fragrances distilled from flowers, flowers that belonged to Elysium. They were all around me, brilliant flowers, violet, flame, gold, as if painted with the finest brush strokes. The grass was soft underfoot, very springy. Moist, dew-impregnated. And always the music of water from secret streams. Also, birds. These were no migrants that had flown from other countries but birds of the forest, nesting birds. This was the country of my youth. I had this treasure. I had to guard it until he came to me. On his white horse. I saw its white flanks in the water pressing against the green shadows of the overhanging trees. Silvery white, coming towards me. I saw his face, the man who rode the horse. I wanted to interpret that smile as he came closer. I wanted to find that it had some meaning for me. Not irony. No, not on those lips. I traced their curving shape with a half-musing, half-hallucinatory gesture. I stood before him as he climbed down from the stirrup. Where had he come from? I had seen him before, but only half-imagined his face, his expression. Would he ask me for a different consummation? I stood rooted to the earth. I had to speak to him before he vanished, hold him back. I suddenly felt hungry and very thirsty. He pressed me to his breast. I felt very warm. My clothes, light though they were, clung to me, grew heavy. It was cool in the grass where we lay. I looked up at the canopy of leaves above me. The forest stretched beyond into darkness. Large butterflies fluttered about my face—white, with flame-red markings; yellow; orange. Like so many petals falling on my face.

Dreams of the Forest