‘It’ll be marvellous,’ he said sincerely.
‘Maybe it will and maybe it won’t. But I don’t want anyone to read it. Do you understand?’
‘Of course.’
‘But you might be able to help me with it,’ she said. ‘Would you?’
Dik felt an impulse to laugh, so ridiculous and thrilling was the notion that he could offer her anything.
‘I don’t know,’ he managed to say. ‘What do you want?’
‘You could tell me something about the village. The burghers aren’t interested in me now they’ve received the bursary for having me here and I’m not allowed to see anyone else. I have to write some kind of play but all I can write about is what I see.’ She gestured towards the window, with its view of the frozen valley. ‘Trees and mountains!’
‘Couldn’t you invent something?’ Dik said.
‘You sound like Clerk Tradayn!’ When she saw his instant reaction she added quickly, ‘I want to write about things as they really are. Who lives in the village, for instance? Is it only the burghers and the soldiers? There are no women here.’
Dik thought. ‘The burghers are here with their families,’ he said. ‘They must have their wives with them. I’ve never seen them.’
‘Who else is here?’
‘There are farmers in the valley. And there are people at the railway depot.’
‘I might as well write about trees and mountains.’
‘But you seem to have been writing something,’ Dik said.
‘It’s drifting along,’ Moylita Kaine said, explaining nothing. ‘What about the frontier wall. Do you ever go up there?’
‘On patrol. That’s why we’re here.’
‘Can you describe it to me?’
‘Why?’ Dik said.
‘Because I haven’t seen it and the burghers won’t let me go up there.’
‘You couldn’t put it in your play.’
‘Why not? Surely it’s at the heart of the community?’
‘Oh no,’ Dik said seriously. ‘It runs along the tops of the mountains.’ As Moylita Kaine laughed he squirmed with embarrassment, then laughed too.
‘The wall goes right round Faiandland, Dik. But how many of our people, ordinary people, have ever seen it? It’s part of what the war is about, and so for anyone writing today it’s an important symbol. It’s even more crucial here. To understand this community I have to know about the wall.’
‘It’s just a high wall,’ Dik said, helplessly.
‘What’s it made of?’
‘Concrete, I think. There are some sections of it, the older parts, made out of brick. And there are earthworks behind it. The main wall is high, several times the height of a man, but there are levels behind it called banquettes, where we patrol. The steep sections have steps. Parts of the wall are hollow and there are ammunition trolleys that run along rails inside. There’s razor wire along most of the parapet and machine gun posts and towers. The enemy have put up floodlights on the other side, and we have a few as well.’
‘And it follows the old frontier?’
‘Right over the peaks of the mountains,’ Dik said. ‘That’s where the old frontier is supposed to be. The wall is … symbolic,’ he added, using her word.
‘Walls always are. What do you get up to, during patrols?’
‘We’re there to make sure no one comes across from the other side. Most of the time nothing happens. Every now and then someone on the other side throws grenades or gas capsules at us, and if they do we throw some back. Sometimes it quietens down straight away. At other times it goes on like that for days. Mostly, though, it snows and the wind blows.’
‘Is it frightening?’
‘Boring, mostly. I’ve learned not to think while I’m on duty.’
‘You must think about something.’
‘I think about the cold, and going home. I think about your book, and the other books I’ve read, and the books I want to read in the future.’ She made no response, so Dik went on. ‘I sometimes wonder who’s on the other side of the wall and why they’re there. They must be the same sort of age as us. They don’t have burghers in their country, you know. I think not, anyway.’ Her silence was disconcerting him. ‘I don’t like burghers, you see,’ he said, trying to explain.
She had been idly fingering her pages as she listened to him. ‘Do you know who built the wall, Dik?’
‘They did. The Federated States.’
‘Do you know that’s what they say?’ she said. ‘That we built the wall?’
‘That’s ridiculous. Why should we?’
‘They believe we built the wall to prevent people from fleeing the country. They say we live under a dictatorship, and that the tithe laws restrict our freedoms.’
‘Then why are they trying to invade? Why do they bomb our cities?’
‘They say they are defending themselves because the government of Faiandland is trying to impose our system on them.’
‘Then why do they accuse us of building the wall?’
‘Don’t you see that it doesn’t matter who did? It’s a symbol, as we agree, but a symbol of stupidity. Didn’t you find any of this in The Affirmation?’
Dik was taken aback by her unexpected mention of the novel. While she was talking about the war she was on the subject that easily overshadowed most of his waking hours. But suddenly to relate her book to it brought him back with a jolt.
Trying to think what she meant, he said, ‘I don’t remember.’
‘I thought I’d made it clear. The duplicity of Hilde, and the lies she tells Orfé about Coschtie. When Orfé—’
’I know,’ Dik said, seeing at once what she meant. ‘The first time he makes love to her. Hilde wants him to be treacherous, to excite her, and Orfé claims she will be the first to betray them.’
‘Yes.’
‘And she leaves the room and comes back with a large sheet of blank paper, and challenges him to write down what he has said. And he says that the sheet of paper will inevitably come between them and blames her for holding it up, that it puts her on the other side, but Hilde claims that the paper was his, he kept it in his house—’
He would have gone on, letting his detailed memory of the book’s plot carry him forward, but Moylita Kaine interrupted, ‘You really did read it closely. You see what I mean, then?’
‘About the wall?’
‘Yes. The blank sheet.’
He shook his head. ‘I know what it means in the book, but you wrote that before the war started.’
‘There have always been walls, Dik. Two sides to everything.’
Then she began to talk about the novel, leaning over to dangle her fingers before the electric fire. She was guarded at first, apparently watching for Dik’s response, but as she saw the eager interest he displayed, as he made a point of revealing that his reading of the novel had been close and intelligent, she talked more freely. She spoke quickly, made deprecating jokes about herself and her story, explained what she meant even when she must have known that he understood, and all the while her eyes sparkled in the snowy light from the window. Dik was more excited than he could ever remember. For him it was like reading the book for the first time again.
She said there was a wall in the novel, a figurative barrier that lay between Orfé and Hilde. It was the dominant image in the book, although only ever described indirectly. ‘Walls everywhere!’ Moylita Kaine said. Walls lay between them from the outset, because of Hilde’s marriage to Coschtie, but after his death the walls remained in place because of the betrayals. As first Orfé then Hilde tried to draw the other one closer, both finding sexual infidelity arousing, the wall became higher and more impregnable. The labyrinthine involvements of the lesser characters – fulfilling Coschtie’s demands on them while he was still alive, revenging themselves on his memory after he died – formed a pattern of moral attitudes. Their influence was divided: some controlled Orfé, some Hilde. Every conspiratorial action further fortified the wall between the two
lovers, and made the final tragedy more inevitable. Yet the book was still the affirmation of the title: Moylita Kaine said she intended the novel to make a positive statement. Orfé’s final decision was a declaration of freedom – the wall fell as the book ended. It was too late for Orfé and Hilde, but the wall had nevertheless fallen.
‘Do you see what I was trying to do?’ she said.
Dik shook his head vaguely, still lost in his new insight into the book he thought he had known so well, but when he realized what he was doing he nodded emphatically.
She regarded him kindly, and sat back in her chair.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You shouldn’t let me talk so much.’
‘No, please … tell me more!’
‘I thought I’d said it all,’ she said, and laughed.
It was Dik’s opportunity to ask the questions he had been saving up since his first reading of the book. How she had come up with the original idea, whether any of the characters were based on real people, whether anything in the novel had ever happened to her personally, how long the book had taken to write, whether she had ever visited the Dream Archipelago where the story was set …
Moylita Kaine, obviously flattered by his interest, gave replies to them all, but Dik was unable to judge how literally she was answering. She made more self-effacing comments, and sometimes was deliberately vague, raising more questions than he could ever ask.
It was after one more such deprecating remark that Dik took stock of himself, realizing that his barrage of questions must be sounding like an interrogation. He lapsed into awkward silence, staring down at the uneven and none too clean surface of the desk she was using.
‘Am I talking too much?’ she said to his surprise.
‘No, it’s me. I’m asking too many questions.’
‘Then let me ask you some.’
Dik had no high regard for himself and did not have much to say. He told her about the degree course he had been offered and how he had intended to make use of it to study her book, but he wasn’t sure what might have come of that. He nurtured secret ambitions to become a writer – and given half a chance he wanted to try to write a book like The Affirmation – but that was a secret he would never reveal to Moylita Kaine. It blocked his mind and he gradually became monosyllabic in his replies. Moylita Kaine didn’t press him.
Finally Dik said, ‘May I come and see you again tomorrow?’
‘If you are able to.’
‘I have another day before I go back on duty. If you’re not too busy.’
‘Dik, the idea of the scheme is to encourage people like you to meet writers like me. Why don’t you bring some of the others with you?’
‘No!’ Dik said. ‘Well, not unless they ask.’
‘They have been told I’m here, haven’t they?’
‘I think so.’
‘You seem to have found out without much difficulty.’ She glanced at his copy of The Affirmation, which he had tucked under his arm. ‘As a matter of interest, how did you know I was here?’
‘I saw the scheme announced in the police magazine,’ he said. ‘Your name was there, and I wanted to meet you.’
He confessed all. The scheme was open to any community on or near the front line, and the intention was to encourage the arts during the emergency. Many leading, and not so leading, painters, sculptors, writers, musicians, had agreed to take part. Dik, hungering for contact with the world he had left when he was conscripted, had been astonished to see Moylita Kaine listed as one of the participants. With extreme nervousness he had put in a request through his platoon serjeant. A few weeks later a printed notice had appeared on the board, describing the scheme and asking for nominations. Dik, who sometimes felt he was the only constable who ever looked at the noticeboard, had written Moylita Kaine’s name on the form, and then, for good measure, had written it in three more times in different hands and using different pens.
He did not know at the time but a bursary was paid to the administrators of the community – in this case the Council of Burghers – and the unexpected bounty had probably had the desired effect.
She listened to his account in silence.
‘So is it you I have to thank?’ she said.
‘I’m sure I had little to do with it,’ Dik lied, his face burning.
‘Good,’ Moylita Kaine said. ‘I shouldn’t like to think I’m having to put up with this because of you.’ She waved her gloved hand to take in the grimy room, the one-bar heater, the wintry view. ‘So, will you come again tomorrow?’
‘Yes, Miss Kaine.’
‘Um … don’t call me that. I’m technically married.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’
‘Neither did I. Well, never mind. It’s all in the past. You can call me Moylita.’
She didn’t explain, but it gave Dik something to think about that night. He could hardly sleep for thinking about her, and loving her with a tremendous passion.
A time for reflection followed, unwelcomely. Dik had intended to return to the sawmill directly after breakfast the next day, but he was detailed to cookhouse duties by a sharp-featured caporal who waylaid him outside the canteen. Given a morning of tedious chores Dik retreated into his usual survival state of inner contemplation. In the clattering, steamy cookhouse he saw his remembered conversation with Moylita Kaine in a new light. The heady euphoria of his thoughts in the night had faded. Now he began to think more analytically about what she had said.
While he had been getting ready to go to college Dik began reading literary criticism in the hope of gaining new insights into the literature he enjoyed. One book in particular had made an impression on him. In it, the author made out the case that the act of reading a text was as important and creative an act as writing one. In some respects, the reader’s reaction was the only completely reliable measure of a book. What the reader made of the text became the definitive assessment, irrespective of the intentions of the author.
To Dik, who was largely untutored in literature, such an approach to reading was an insight of great value. In the case of The Affirmation – a novel that mysteriously to Dik was not mentioned in any of the criticism he read – it gave further weight to his belief that it was a truly great novel. It was great because he considered it to be great.
Putting his conversation with Moylita Kaine into this context, not only were her intentions irrelevant to his enjoyment of the book, but it was arrogant of her to impose them on him.
The instant Dik thought that he regretted it because he knew her motives were kindly. Even to think it was to presume himself her equal, when it was abundantly clear she was superior to him in every way. Chastened by his own arrogance, Dik resolved to make amends in some way, without revealing why.
But as he worked in the kitchen, waiting for his duties to finish with the serving of the midday meal, the thought would not go away.
In explaining her novel to him, had Moylita Kaine been trying to tell him something?
Walking up the warmway to the sawmill, Dik passed one of the burghers. Automatically, he stepped into the snow at the side and stood with his gaze humbly averted as the man swept past.
Then, ‘Where are you going, boy?’
‘To see the writer, sir.’
‘By whose authority?’
‘I have a pass, sir.’
Dik fumbled in the pocket of his greatcoat, thanking the stars that he had remembered to bring the pass with him. The burgher examined it closely, turning it over to read both sides, as if trying to find the least irregularity. Then he gave it back.
‘Do you know who I am, Constable?’
‘Clerk Tradayn, sir.’
‘Why did you not salute me?’
‘I didn’t see you approaching, sir. Until it was too late. I was watching where I placed my feet.’
There was a long silence while Dik continued to stare at the snow-covered ground. The burgher was breathing stiffly, an irritated sound, made by a man of authority who could find n
o application for it at that moment. At last he turned curtly away and walked on down towards the village. He held his head at a lofty angle, disdaining the dangers of the steep and slippery descent.
After what Dik deemed a respectful few seconds, during which he mentally thumbed his nose and waggled his fingers at the burgher’s retreating back, he regained the warmway and hurried up to the sawmill. He let himself in, ducked under the rusting racks and sawing machinery, and went up the stairs. Moylita Kaine was sitting at her desk, and as he opened the door she glanced at him with an expression of such anger that he almost fled.
But she said at once, ‘Oh, it’s you, Dik! Come in quickly, close the door.’
She went to stand by the window, craning her neck as she looked down in the direction of the village. Dik saw that her fist was clenched tightly, the knuckles white.
‘Did you pass Seignior Tradayn on your way here?’ she said.
‘Yes. He wanted to know where I was going and what I was doing.’
‘I hope you told him.’
‘I had to.’
‘Good.’
‘Is there something wrong?’ Dik said.
‘Not really. Not now.’ She went back to her desk and sat down, but almost at once she stood up again and paced about the room. In spite of her welcoming manner she continued to be upset. At last she returned to the desk.
‘Was Seignior Tradayn ordering you about?’ Dik said.
‘No, not that sort of thing.’ She sat forward. ‘Yesterday you said the burghers were married. Do you happen to know that, or was it only a guess?’
‘No, a guess really. A feeling I had. When my troop arrived there was a function at the Civic Hall for the officers. I saw a lot of women going in that night, accompanied by the men I knew were the village burghers.’
‘Clerk Tradayn … was he one of them? Is he married?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ Suddenly suspecting what might have happened, Dik wanted to hear no more about it. He reached into the front of his greatcoat and brought out the object he had been carrying.
‘Moylita,’ he said with some hesitation, it being the first time he had dared to use her first name, ‘I’ve brought you a present.’