She could not speak. She was wet with sweat. She gazed at the sky-high ceiling. A field of blond sunflowers was painted on the ceiling; a tiny little, cream-complexioned angel was wandering among the sunflowers. While the woman stared at the angel’s wings, everybody in the room was overwhelmed by what bad luck it was that the woman had not yelled, or screamed, or moved. Even as the pain abraded her blood vessels, not even a moan passed Madame de Marelle’s lips. Her lips… The girls assisting the midwife were frightened to learn how her lips had come to be this way.
Madame de Marelle’s lips were torn to shreds. The flesh of a mouse torn apart by the claws of a predatory bird would not have been as badly shredded as these lips.
‘Give me your lips,’ the young man had said.
The river was two steps ahead, the water was two steps ahead. It was only two steps to the thunderous flowing, drizzling, bubbling, to the flowering on the water bank, to being bait for the fish. ‘Give me your lips,’ he said, this time in a harder voice. The woman’s lips were dry. The skin would tear to pieces and bleed, but the woman was still resisting with her last effort. The skin was on the edge. The woman was on the edge. She wanted to withdraw but she couldn’t walk. A humming was rising from within her. She did not love herself at all; her heart was being torn like a scaly yew trunk. Her passion emerged from under the bark. Because she knew it was as poisonous as yew leaves, she did not touch it. The poison was flowing in, because it could not find a way to leak out. Then her feelings were numbed. She surrendered herself to this numbness that was flowing through her. The warmer and the more silent the surrender, the colder and more aggressive the flow of the river. And they were only two steps from the river.
As soon as she saw the young man she knew that God wanted to test her. It was all just like the sermons she’d heard. The flesh had to be fresh and attractive; its taste had to be acrid. It was wet. Liquids were disgusting. But humans are so weak; while trying to dry the soul, they have to endure the bodily fluids. Then, the devil was the winner. Here was the devil before her again, disguised as a breathtakingly handsome young man. For Madame de Marelle, the moment she saw him was the moment her troubles began. From that moment on, nothing was as it had been before. Whenever she was alone, she thought of the young man. She hated sleeping because when she slept she embraced sin; she didn’t sleep a wink, and welcomed the dawn with swollen and weary eyes. By day she looked at the young man even as she tried not to; even as she struggled to stay away from him, she cursed each moment without him. Her resistance broke so easily. Ultimately, she realised as soon as she saw the young man that she could not pass the test.
The sun was about to set when the young man reached the de Marelle mansion. It had been raining cats and dogs since morning. He said he’d been walking since dawn. Yet his clothes were bone dry. Pressing his black velvet hat against his chest, he saluted; as he gently opened his black velvet cape, he smiled slightly. It was just as the sermons had warned. An emissary from the devil. His black velvet skin unfolded layer by layer just like a bloody rose. It asked to be touched.
‘Touch,’ he said in a cracked voice. ‘Don’t be frightened! It will leave no trace on me, no one will know.’
Madame de Marelle was not sure where the voice came from, and she didn’t care. The major-domo was complaining about having too much work. Now that the young man was looking for a job, he could help the major-domo. Telling him his duties briefly, she went away in a hurry. After that, she tried to avoid meeting him. But after having seen such beauty, the man no longer saw the world in the same way. He could no longer stand any moment or any creature that did not reflect him. Madame de Marelle had been praying for hours each night, begging God not to allow her to be carried away by that maddening voice. Some mornings she woke to find herself crouching on the floor. Had she never actually gone to bed, or had she fallen out of bed as she slept? She wasn’t able to understand. She was frightened of what she was capable of doing, of what she was capable of wishing. She was frightened of limitlessness, of her own limitlessness.
‘Sometimes it happens this way,’ the bedside candle used to say. ‘Sometimes you encounter someone. You know you have a weakness for him. You are made of dough. He can take you and knead you in whatever way he wants.’
To silence the candle, she blew it out in haste. She bumped into things in the darkness. In the morning, at dawn, she found bruises all over her body.
Instead of suffering so much, she could dismiss him at once. She could show him who was in command. Hadn’t she managed on her own all this time? As soon as her husband passed away, she’d set out to turn the mansion she’d hated into a place of faith. The first thing she did after the funeral was to replace not only the furniture but also the help, swearing she would not allow anyone of suspect morals to remain at de Marelle. Only the major-domo…of all of them he was the only one she retained.
The major-domo was the only link between Madame de Marelle’s past and her present. He was the only one who, years ago, had seen the confusion in the eyes of the new young bride standing hesitantly in the courtyard and staring at the walls, the only one who knew how the fear had grown within her by day and by night. He was the only one who recognised the smell of the ointment she used to salve the wounds from the whip, and the only one who knew that in time she gave up hope that the ointment would help. He was also aware that the woman’s husband was very cruel during the first years of their marriage. Although the man softened over the years, the woman grew harder day-by-day. As she grew harder, she forbade herself and those around her everything that people find pleasant in life. In time, the servants didn’t even dare smile in her presence.
Madame de Marelle was sure that the major-domo kept everything he knew to himself. Just as this nut-wood bed and this high, painted ceiling never reveal what they’ve seen, so the major-domo knew how to be blind and dumb. Of course, he didn’t do this out of decency. Decency was not even acquainted with him. He probably behaved this way because he preferred to be blind and dumb. He just kept his mouth shut and did his job.
The woman hated the major-domo. Especially because of his hair. The major-domo had rust-coloured hair that flowed over his shoulders in insolent curls. The woman had straight, coal-black hair. Every morning, before leaving her room, she tied her hair into a bun from which, all day, not even a single strand worked loose. But it didn’t matter whether or not she liked the major-domo. He’d been a part of the mansion for years. The major-domo was necessary in the same way as a greasy rope or an old plough.
Several times, Madame de Marelle considered ordering the major-domo to dismiss the young man. Each time, she left without being able to finish the sentence she’d begun in such a determined manner. When she realised she couldn’t dismiss him, she decided to avoid him. After days of preparation, warning the servants again and again, she finally set out. The horses went as far as the suspension bridge. ‘For some reason the river has risen,’ said the carriage man, ‘but don’t worry, we’ll manage to get across,’ he added. But Madame de Marelle was aware of why the water had risen, and that they would not be able to get across. She told the carriage man to turn back.
It was night by the time she got back. There was nobody about. Somewhere in the silence, somebody was murmuring. Following the whispers, she found herself in front of the barn. The voices were coming from inside. She tried putting her eye to a knothole to see inside, but it was too dark. Laughter could be heard from time to time; the horses were neighing as if they were frightened of something. Then, suddenly, the door of the barn opened and the major-domo came out. There were droplets of sweat on his forehead. She looked at him with a disgust that she didn’t feel necessary to hide. How wretched he looked. Next to the holy beauty of the young man, he was like a demon who had gone astray and was pushing on the doors of heaven by mistake. He did not belong in a place where such holy beauty reigned. But he was still necessary. The major-domo was necessary in the same way as a greasy rope or an old plough.
When Madame de Marelle fell asleep at last towards morning, she found herself once again in a recurring dream. She was in a low, dark cave. Just in front of her the wall divided into several doors, and forked paths lay behind each of the doors. She had learned the way by losing her way several times in previous dreams. She walked as far as an opening covered with moss. There, among statues of the Holy Virgin surrounded by flickering candles, there was a relief in the shape of a face. This was the Innocent Face who bites and breaks off the hands of those serving devil by tasting the seven sins. To know whether or not a person was innocent, it was enough to put their hand into the open mouth of the relief. If the person was innocent, the mouth would stay open and nothing would happen. If they were a sinner, the Innocent Face would shut its mouth at once and the hand in it would never be released.
Every time Madame de Marelle had this dream, she stood in front of the relief, but she avoided testing her innocence at the last moment. This time she plucked up the courage, and, trembling with anxiety, extended her hand. At that moment, she realised that the Innocent Face was slowly changing. She did not care. She took a deep breath and put her entire hand into the mouth of the relief. Even though she felt an odd shiver on her fingertips, she did not pull her hand back. Suddenly, the face in front of her transformed into the face of the young man. At the same moment, the mouth of the Innocent Face shut loudly.
She was woken by her own screams. Her right hand was throbbing. Sitting up in the bed, she rubbed her hand. Morning was still far off. In fear, she went back to bed.
She was often woken by her own screams. With her lips aching. When she woke in the morning after each nightmare the pink skin was thinner; it was closer to being torn off.
She went to the riverbank in this state, with her lips about to fall off. When she looked into the distance, she thought the young man was with the major-domo, but when she got closer she realised he was alone. She dashed to his side, moved by an instinct she could not explain even to herself; without a word, she collapsed onto the bank, in front of the young man.
‘Give me your lips,’ said the young man. He was so relaxed, so fearless that it was as if he wanted her to give her lips to the bushes on the riverbank or the far-off yew forest instead of to him.
While the young man was undressing her, Madame de Marelle was thinking that there was no reason to be ashamed. There was nothing to be ashamed of because she would never rise from the grass on which she was lying. After the disaster, as she tried unsuccessfully to flee, the young man would leave but she would remain here forever. Like a dehydrated insect growing drowsy under the sun, she would wait for death, and for the decay that would return her to the soil. While the young man was undressing, she was listening to the sounds from under the grass. The soil was so hungry. In a few minutes, it would swallow her together with her sins. She closed her eyes. After hanging on for so long, the skin of her lips finally fell away as the young man entered her. A thin, rosy ache ran down her mouth.
When the young man’s cries of pleasure echoed in the yew forest and rebounded, Madame de Marelle was still lying on the ground. She had no intention of getting up. At that moment, feeling neither pain nor torment, feeling nothing at all, she waited for the earth to swallow her. She just raised her head for a moment to tell him they were not to see each other again. She spoke as if to herself, or to someone who wasn’t there. The young man looked at her attentively, and asked no questions. He seemed uneasy. To hide his uneasiness he began combing his rust-coloured hair with his fingers. When Madame de Marelle saw him do this, she froze, and then turned pale. She was shaking. Suddenly, she jumped up and began running half-dressed towards the mansion.
She did not leave her room throughout her pregnancy. She never saw the young man again, and never asked after him. From time to time the major-domo came to visit her. She did not like him, she did not want him close. However, the major-domo was necessary. The major-domo was necessary in the same way as a greasy rope or an old plough. No one else but him knew the state her lips were in. They were torn to bits. With the sapphire-studded dagger that her husband had always kept within reach throughout his life, she had made deep cuts in the lips that she’d given to the young man. Her lips opened in layers like carnations and each petal of flesh barely hung on.
Now, in the nut-wood, oriental four-poster bed, in the room with a ceiling as high as the sky, and a floor as soft as dove wings while life was screaming out its pain, the scabs on her lips were trembling. The sheets were covered in sweat, and in faeces and blood. She didn’t make a sound. If she could have spoken, she would have asked God for a heavy snow. She would ask God to freeze the pain in her body, the feverish commotion around her. Life itself should freeze, so that centuries later she could serve as an example, before which people would fall to their knees, of the sin of being unable to give birth.
She was covered in sweat. She didn’t blink. She was staring at the wings of the tiny, cream-complexioned angel on the sky-high ceiling. She didn’t make a sound as the pain scythed her blood vessels, not even a moan emerged from her lips. Her lips… The girls assisting the midwife were frightened to learn how her lips had come to be this way.
This is how the twins were born. They put one baby into each of her arms. Madame de Marelle looked first at the first-born. This baby was so ugly that it was more of a demon than a human baby. She smiled tenderly. What was more natural than that ugliness should result from such shameful intercourse? At least God would never let her forget the sin she had committed. After that moment, until her last breath, whenever she looked at that child, the clamp squeezing her conscience would tighten, and it would be harder to carry the weight of her crime. Thanking God, she kissed the wrinkled cheek of the first-born baby with her shredded lips. Then she turned her head and saw the second baby.