BooksBarbecue
Back The Hiding Game
Chapters (64)
  1. Cover
  2. Naomi Wood
  3. Dedication page
  4. Epigraph page
  5. 1
  6. WEIMAR, 1922
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. DESSAU, 1929
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. BERLIN, 1932
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. 40
  48. 41
  49. 42
  50. 43
  51. 44
  52. 45
  53. 46
  54. 47
  55. 48
  56. 49
  57. 50
  58. 51
  59. 52
  60. 53
  61. Thank you
  62. Praise
  63. The Hiding Game
  64. Also by Naomi Wood

Attached to her shoe I noticed a woollen thread. I wondered what colour it had been; whether it had been discoloured by the dirty streets, or whether it was from her dark coat, or her black scarf; or a Bauhaus loom, where she might be making, again, her Almost Nothings.

‘A baby,’ she said, crossing her legs, so that the thread was lost. ‘What a thought.’

42

England

The beach today is packed: it’s that moment in the English calendar when holidaymakers arrive here. I suspect they are Londoners; there’s something about their delight that is metropolitan; made fresher by their remembered lives in the complex city. There’s a sunny haze to the scene: with a few brushstrokes the families could just as well water down into the misrule of the sea. (The Beach at Trouville, is that what it reminds me of? That absurd but genteel scene of Parisians come to Normandy to bathe; a painting as far away as possible from the Bathers at Moritzburg that sent me into such a frenzy aged fifteen.)

I lay on my towel. There’s heat on my skin, a warm breeze. Waves crash and retreat. Not far away there’s a couple cuddling by a windbreak. They are scandalizing the families. The woman has auburn hair which curls to her shoulders. She is all curve; hip; breast. Her boyfriend or her husband – but I suspect her boyfriend – can’t stop touching her, and it is this that is earning them the tourists’ censure. One or two caresses would be fine, but it’s the fact he won’t stop, and the woman: she luxuriates. There’s something of the Turk to her, an odalisque; you can tell her body gives her pleasure; with the breeze which she must feel playing on her pale skin.

I am happy for them. Long may they delight in each other; love each other. That’s the thing about the English: sometimes they don’t know how to spend their pleasures.

We too were like this when we were first together in Dessau. It’s hard to recall how we passed the days, since they were spent mostly making love and drowsing. But on other days we found the pickings of late summer: blackberries, sweet and sharp in our mouths; swimming the turquoise water of the Elbe; we caught silver trout, and packed them into ferns, and kept the wine cool against the stones. In the Georgium Park the green trees doubled the green of her eyes. It was impossible to think snow should ever again freeze the ground or strip the trees to branch. And it felt strange that my heart was expanding just as it felt that it should break.