Click! Here it was, as the face revealed, and the raised voice commented, not on a single image, but a whole series, while preserving a tone both velvety and dark.
‘Do you know, Edvard, there’s a dream I dream — on and off;’ and her hand encouraged a deeper participation in this recurring velvet. ‘Naturally the details vary, but always in my dream I am walking on the bed of the sea.’
She paused until her fellow sleeper stirred.
‘I expect those clever people who know, would accuse me of all kinds of obscene desires. But there — I can’t avoid telling the truth — and the truth was always beautiful,’ the hand insisted.
Whether she had put her patient into such a dead sleep that her dream narrative would be wasted on him, it looked unimportant to Elizabeth Hunter, herself once again walking on the sea bed.
She had grown so luminous even Dorothy, perched on her barrel, was precariously spellbound.
‘What I remember in particular from each of these dreams is the light I found below — sometimes flowing around me — like water — then, on other occasions, as though emanating from myself: I was playing a single beam on objects I thought might be of interest.’
Without opening his eyes or shifting position, Professor Pehl announced in his most direct voice, ‘Many deep-sea animals are provided with luminescent organs, you know, to enable them to produce the light they need. Some fish use this light to attract their prey.’ Still without opening his eyes, the lines around them deeply engraved by the seriousness of the subject, he asked, ‘Were you, in the dreams, a fish, Mrs Hunter?’
Mother looked only fairly amused; nor could Dorothy blame her, but would not go so far as admitting they might have united in a ‘good laugh’ at the expense of this turgid male — or human turbot (the princess quietly sniggered at her own conceit).
When Elizabeth Hunter continued. ‘How can I say? One is always rather fluid in a dream. Or if I took on a form, I don’t believe I was ever more than a skiapod.’
Dorothy was breathless with resentment for what she herself could no more than half-remember, had perhaps only half-discovered — on the banks of the Seine? in dreams? as part of that greatest of all obsessions, childhood? and how could Elizabeth Hunter have got possession of anything so secret? Only Mother was capable of slicing in half what amounted to a psyche, then expecting the rightful owner to share.
Professor Pehl also seemed surprised: his eyes had flickered open. ‘A what did you say, Mrs Hunter?’
‘Oh, a kind of shadowy fish, but with a woman’s face. The face was not shadowy. Or some of it at least was painfully distinct. I saw it years ago in a drawing, and it stayed with me. You couldn’t say the expression looked deceitful, or if it was, you had to forgive, because it was in search of something it would probably never find.’
The Princesse de Lascabanes heard her own dry gasps; possibilities were shooting, like minute, brilliant, electric fish, in and out of her sunken skull; she heard her ribs fluttering against the equally frail boards of a rickety house; but the professor closed his eyes again because Mrs Hunter had led the conversation outside his sphere of interest.
‘There were fish of course — real ones. I was often surrounded by them. Enormous creatures. All the fish I saw were in fact much larger than myself. It should have been frightening. But I don’t think I was ever frightened.’
The professor remained equally calm, as might have been expected on his own ground. ‘A characteristic of some deep-sea fish is the enormous mouth. It makes it possible for them to swallow prey much larger than themselves. A very practical arrangement: meals are few and far between.’ Because it was meant to be a joke, he laughed.
Though Dorothy doubted whether this turbot of a man, eyelids again closed, could possibly have seen the point of his own remark, she was rejoiced: her equilibrium had been restored.
Mother only smiled as she drew her hand back and forth, very slowly, three or four times, across the small of her patient’s back; if you had not known more, she might have been wiping him off.
The professor suddenly opened his eyes, their expression so concentrated the tone of their blue was that of anger. ‘Did you ever come across any interesting invertebrates at the level to which your dreams have taken you?’
‘No. Definitely, no. I was never interested in invertebrates.’
Professor Pehl looked momentarily incredulous. ‘They are the most greatest interest in my life,’ he confessed. It is remarkable,’ he added, ‘that a woman of your intellect have been born with no inclination to science. I would be happy if you would grant me time to acquaint you at least with my special subject. That way is it only possible for you to get to know me,’
Elizabeth Hunter may have been temporarily daunted by the prospect of a walk hand in hand with Edvard Pehl amongst the invertebrates, for she altered course. ‘Poor Dorothy,’ she suddenly said, out of her conscience, ‘where can she be? She’s so good. I do hope she hasn’t taken offence. She’s going through a difficult time, you know.’
‘So I’ve noticed.’
They both slightly laughed for the knowledge they shared.
Dorothy felt sick from the physical distaste this peeling Norwegian roused in her, as well as morally disgusted by a mother’s perfidy. Though Professor Pehl was prudently buttoning up his shirt, you did not believe that a man au fond so stupid, however ‘distinguished’, could avoid providing Elizabeth Hunter with her next meal. If he had survived courtship by calamine lotion, and that floodlit tour of the sea bed, it was because she was saving him up: to blind him with the first glimpse of her still formidably sensual body.
The Princesse de Lascabanes could not spider down quickly enough from off her barrel; she did not care who might overhear its creaking; she already looked too abject, worse in her own eyes than in the eyes of others. Lust and disgust are one, she suspected, the same shooting pain in both mind and body. Love: she must learn love. Tearing off some leaves, she plastered them on her forehead; if she could only have parcelled her entire head in leaves, and dropped it in the sea, together with all memories of husband ‘lover’ mother SELF.
So she continued blundering around in despair, as well as through the actual dark, till restrained by thought of the wild horses galloping along the beach. It would be wiser to return, she decided; I hate to be hurt.
Once during the night the horses might have galloped past: again her feet were taking root in sand, and the arms offering protection trussed their common fear tighter.
She did not wake from what could hardly be called sleep. Somebody — Mother, was it? yes, Mother had come to spy.
‘Dorothy? I’ve been worried. I had to satisfy myself you’re here.’
‘Satisfy yourself?’ It was a matter for laughter.
‘Why not? Aren’t I your mother?’
Dorothy’s laughter grew more rackety.
Till Elizabeth Hunter gave warning. ‘Ssh! You’ll wake him. Don’t you know he’s in the next room?’
‘Yes, I know. Officially he is! Isn’t he?’ She did not know; she knew she was babbling.
‘My poor darling, if only I could help you! If you would have confidence in me.’
Oh yes! But without confidence in yourself you could not have confidence in others, least of all your mum—Mother.
For a moment it seemed as though Elizabeth Hunter would try to insinuate her physical self into this void where trust should have been: she began stroking; she was threatening to hug; while Dorothy prepared to resist: she must not allow herself to be seduced by anyone so expert in the art — by anyone, for that matter.