An Infinite Summer

  “May I come to see you again tomorrow?” he said.

  “If you are able to.”

  “I have another day’s leave. If you’re not too busy.”

  “Dik, the government intends these residences to allow people like you to meet writers. So please come again tomorrow…and bring some of your friends.”

  “No…” Dik said. “Not unless they ask.”

  “Won’t you tell them?”

  “If you’d like me to.”

  “They have been told I’m here, haven’t they?”

  Dik remembered the announcement on the notice-board. “I think so.”

  “You seem to have found out without much difficulty.” She looked suddenly at his copy of The Affirmation, which he had put under his arm again. “As a matter of interest, how did you know I was coming to the village?”

  And just as he thought his secret would have to stay intact, she had come to it.

  “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 intended to encourage the arts during the emergency, and in theory was open to any community on or near the front line. Dik, hungering for some contact with the world he had left, had been astonished to see Moylita Kaine’s name listed as a participant. His request to the platoon serjeant must have reached the burghers, because a few weeks later a notice had appeared in the common-room, describing the scheme and asking for nominations. Dik, who sometimes felt he was the only constable who ever looked at the notice-board, had written Moylita Kaine’s name on the form, and, for good measure, had written it in three more times in different hands.

  He did not know it at the time, but an additional grant was paid to the administrators of the communities—in this case, the Council of Burghers—and this unexpected way of obtaining money and prestige was probably what had decided the burghers. Moylita Kaine herself would be of no interest to them, if indeed they had ever heard of her; any writer or artist would be the same as any other.

  She listened to his account, half proud, half shy, in silence and smiling faintly.

  “So it’s you I have to thank,” she said.

  “I’m sure I had very little to do with it,” Dik lied, his face burning again.

  “Good,” Moylita Kaine said. “I shouldn’t like to think that you were responsible for giving me this.”

  She waved her gloved hand to take in the grimy room, the one-bar heater, the frosty view.

  “Are you sorry you came here?” Dik said.

  “I was until today. I’m glad we’ve met. Will you come tomorrow?”

  “Yes, Miss Kaine.”

  “It’s…Mrs Kaine,” she said.

  “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know—”

  “You had no reason to know. It doesn’t matter.”

  But it did, unexpectedly, to Dik. That night he could hardly sleep for thinking about her, and loving her with a passion that astonished him.

  * * *

  A time for reflection, unwelcomely. Dik’s intention had been to return to the saw-mill directly after breakfast, but he was “volunteered” for cookhouse duties by a sharp-featured caporal who waylaid him outside the canteen. Given a morning of tedious chores, Dik retreated into his usual state of inner contemplation, and in the clattering, steamy cookhouse he saw the conversation of the previous day in a new light. Far from the heady euphoria of his night’s dreams, Dik thought more analytically about what Moylita Kaine had said.

  While he was preparing himself for college, Dik had taken to reading literary criticism in the hope of gaining new insights into the literature he enjoyed. One book had made a particular impression on him. In it, the author made out the case that the act of reading a book was just as important and creative an act as writing one. In some respects, the reader’s reaction was the only completely reliable measure of the book. What the reader made of the book became the definitive assessment, whatever the intentions of the author.

  To Dik, who was largely untutored in literature, this approach to reading was of great value. In the case of The Affirmation—a novel not mentioned once 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 thought so.

  Putting his conversation with Moylita Kaine into this context, not only were her intentions irrelevant to his enjoyment, but it was arrogant of her to impose them on him by explaining and interpreting.

  The instant Dik thought this he regretted it, because he knew her motives had been kindly. Even to think it was to place himself as her equal, when it was abundantly clear that 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 on in the kitchens, 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 saw-mill, Dik passed one of the burghers. Automatically, he stepped into the snow at the side and stood with eyes humbly lowered as the man swept past.

  Then: “Where are you going, boy?”

  “To see the writer, sir.”

  “By whose authority?”

  “I have a pass, sir.” He fumbled in his pocket, thanking the stars that he had remembered to take it with him. The burgher examined it closely, as if trying to find the least irregularity. Then he passed it back.

  “Do you know who I am, Constable?”

  “Clerk Tradayn, sir.”

  “Why did you not salute?”

  “I…didn’t see you approaching, sir. I was watching where I placed my feet.”

  There was a long silence, while Dik continued to stare at the ground. The burgher was breathing stiffly, as if seeking some excuse to bar him from the mill. Then at last, without another word, he walked on down towards the village.

  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 saw-mill. He let himself in and went up the stairs. Moylita Kaine was sitting at her desk, and as he opened the door she looked up at him with an expression of such anger that he almost fled.

  But she said at once: “Oh, it’s you. Come in, close the door.”

  She went to stand by the window, and Dik saw her hand was clenched tightly, the knuckles white. He assumed that the anger was directed at him—had she somehow sensed his uncharitable thoughts?—but after a moment she said: “Don’t take any notice, Dik. I’ve just had a visit from Tradayn.”

  “Is there something wrong?”

  “No…not at all.” She went to her desk and sat down, but almost at once she stood up again and paced about the room. At last she went back to the desk.

  “Was he ordering you about?” Dik said, with a feeling of kinship.

  “No, not that sort of thing.” She sat forward. “Yesterday you said the burghers were married. All of them?”

  “I…think so. When my troop arrived there was a function at the civic hall for the officers. I saw a lot of women then.”

  “Clerk Tradayn…is he married?”

  “I don’t know.” Suddenly suspecting what might have happened, Dik wanted to hear no more about it. He reached under his weatherproof cape and brought out the object he was carrying.

  “Moylita,” he said with some hesitation, for it was the first time he had used her name, “I’ve brought you a present.”

  She looked up, then took it from him. “Dik, it’s beautiful! Did you carve it?”

  “Yes.” As she turned it in her hand, he went and sat on the edge of the desk, as he had done before. “It’s a special wood. I found it in the forest. It’s easy to carve.”

  “A hand holding a pen,” she said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “It was th
e way the wood had grown. It looked a bit like that before I started. I’m sorry it’s crude. All I’ve done is smooth it down.”

  “But it’s exactly right! May I really keep it?” When he nodded she stood up, and, leaning across the desk, kissed him on the cheek. “Dik, thank you!”

  He started to mumble about the inadequacy of the gift, simultaneously delighted with her reaction but also remembering his repentant motives, but Moylita moved some of her papers aside and set the wood-carving firmly on the desk in front of her.

  “I shall treasure this,” she said. “Now, since you’ve been very kind, you can have a present too. I was going to give it to you later.”

  “A present for me?” Dik said, stupidly.

  “I wrote something for you last night. Just for you.”

  “What is it?” Dik said, but at the same moment Moylita produced a few sheets of white paper, clipped together in one corner.

  “It’s a story. I wrote it after you left yesterday. It’s not very good, because I wrote it rather quickly, but it happened because of what we talked about.”

  “May I see?”

  She shook her head. “Not yet. I want you to promise me something first: that you won’t read it until I’ve left the village.”

  “Why not?” Dik said, then added with a flash of insight: “Is it about me?”

  “Well, there’s someone in it who is a bit like you. You might recognize one or two things he says.”

  “I don’t mind that?” Dik said eagerly. “I’ll read it now.”

  He held out his hand.

  “No. I want to tell you about it first. If anyone found this, you could get into trouble. You see, the character in the story is someone who’s on the other side…beyond the wall. If the burghers found this, they would wonder what you were doing with it, and where you got it from. Do you still want it?”

  “Of course. I can hide it…our kit is never searched.”

  “All right, then. But there’s another thing. The story isn’t set here, in the mountains. I’ve set it in the south. Do you know where I mean?”

  “Jethra,” Dik said, guessing.

  “No, not even in the south of the country. The southern continent, on the other side of the Midway Sea.”

  “Near the Dream Archipelago!” Dik said, thinking of the novel.

  “That sort of area. I’ve got to warn you, because although it probably sounds innocuous to you, and even rather unlikely, if the burghers saw this they would assume you were a spy.”

  Dik said, not understanding: “Moylita, how can—?”

  “Listen, Dik. There were a lot of rumours in Jethra, just before I came here. I’ve got a few friends who are, well, they don’t agree with the government. They’ve got contacts in other countries, and they believe there are secret negotiations going on with the enemy. The air-raids have been doing a lot of damage. My friends think that the war will be moved to the south, to fight it out where there are no cities.” Dik opened his mouth to say something, but Moylita went on: “I know it sounds stupid; I think so too. But the war is escalating. There are new weapons being made, new gases brought in. It’s no longer just a frontier dispute. And there’s a political motive, too. Since the war began, the burghers have been getting stronger and richer. The war’s in their interests, so long as it doesn’t threaten them.” Moylita paused, and took a deep breath. Dik was silent. “So in the story I’ve written, I assume this will happen, and will happen in the very near future. I’ve set it in the south.”

  “A lot of books have been set there,” Dik said.

  “Yes, but not dealing with the war, with this war. Don’t you see, Dik? The story is about you, someone like you.”

  Moylita fell silent, studying Dik’s face.

  “Do you still want to have the story?” she said.

  “Oh yes,” he said, because not fully understanding what she had told him, it was enough that she had written it for him.

  “Very well, then. Look after it, and don’t read it now. Do you promise?”

  He nodded emphatically, so after another thoughtful look at him Moylita pressed the thin typescript across the desk and scrawled her signature on the top sheet. Then she folded it in two, and passed it over.

  Dik took it, and as if the paper were the skin of a living animal it seemed that every fibre was alive and throbbing with organic electricity. He could feel the typewritten words indented in the paper, and he ran his fingertips along the reverse side, like a blind man feeling for meaning.

  “Moylita, is this story…symbolic?”

  She did not answer straight away, but looked at him with a strange and shrewd expression. Then she said: “Why do you ask?”

  He remembered her talking about the novel the day before; she had made him understand it, when before he had only loved it. He wanted her to explain the story; he might never see her again.

  “Because…because I might not understand!”

  She smiled then, and said: “Don’t worry, Dik. It’s very simple. It’s about a soldier who reads a novel, and later he becomes a poet. Nothing symbolic at all.”

  “What I meant—”

  “I know…because yesterday we were talking about walls.”

  “Is it the frontier wall?”

  “It’s just a wall,” Moylita said. “It’s built of bricks and concrete and it’s just a wall.”

  “And this soldier, this…poet, he climbs it?”

  “Dik, I think you should wait until you’ve read the story. I don’t want you to give it meanings it hasn’t got.”

  “But he does climb the wall, doesn’t he?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Because—”

  Then the door opened without warning, and Clerk Tradayn came quickly into the room. He slammed the door behind him.

  Because of what you said; Dik’s intuition, tailing away.

  * * *

  The burgher said: “Mrs Kaine, would you—?” He saw Dik, who had moved back against the wall, and turned at once towards him. “What are you doing here, Constable?”

  “I told you, sir…I have a pass.” He reached into his pocket, groping for it.

  “I’ve seen the pass. What are you doing here, in this room?”

  Moylita said: “He has every right to be here, Tradayn. While I’m writing, the troops—”

  “The Border Police are under the orders of the Council, Mrs Kaine. Passes issued by non-commissioned officers have to be approved by me.”

  “Then you can approve it now. Have you got it there, Dik?”

  While they spoke, Dik had found the slip of paper, and he held it out towards the burgher. He had never heard anyone ever speak back to a burgher, and it was awe-inspiring to see the confidence with which Moylita did it.

  Clerk Tradayn took no notice of him or his pass, but went to the desk and leaned across it, resting his broad, plump hands on the edge.

  “I want to see what you’ve been writing,” he said.

  “You’ve seen the play. I haven’t written any more since yesterday.”

  “You were using the typewriter late into the night.”

  “I was revising what I’ve done.”

  “Let me see.”

  “Have you been spying on me, Tradayn?”

  “Mrs Kaine, so long as you’re at the frontier you are under military law. Let me see what you’ve been writing.”

  She scooped up the loose papers on her desk, and thrust them at him. Meanwhile, Dik, still standing with his back to the wall, could feel her secret typescript hanging conspicuously in his hand. He moved his arm slowly, trying to get the papers under his cape.

  “Not this, Mrs Kaine…the rest of it. What are you holding, Constable?”

  “Just the pass, sir.” He held out his other hand.

  “Give it to me.”

  Dik glanced helplessly at Moylita, but she was staring impassively at the burgher. Reluctantly, Dik held out the pass, but Clerk Tradayn reached behind him and snatched the typescript from his
other hand. He moved to the window, and unfolded it in the light.

  “The Negation,” he said. “Is that your title, Mrs Kaine?”

  Moylita’s steady gaze did not flicker.

  The burgher read on, adopting a scornful, mocking voice: “‘It no longer mattered which side had first breached the pact that prohibited the use of sense-gases. They had been in illegal use for so long that they were no longer questioned. Nor did it matter who it was who manufactured and sold the gases. To the ordinary soldier, nothing mattered. Nothing he perceived could be trusted. His sense of vision, touch and sound had been permanently’…”

  The burgher stopped reading aloud, looked sharply at Moylita, then turned back to the typescript. He read quickly down the first page, silently mouthing the words, then flicked it over and read the second. “Have you been reading this, Constable?”

  “No, sir—”

  “The boy has no knowledge of it. I was going to lend it to him…it’s something I wrote several years ago.”

  “Or several hours ago.” Tradayn squinted again at the first page, his small, deep-set eyes moving quickly across the lines. He held out the typescript for Moylita to see. “Is this your signature?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” He stuffed the typescript into an inner pocket. “Constable, return to your quarters at once.”

  “Sir, I—”

  “Quarters, Constable!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dik shuffled hesitantly towards the door, looking back at Moylita. She was watching him now, her eyes steady and calm. He wondered if she was trying to signal some message to him, but if she was it was something so subtle it was lost on him. When he reached the cold air outside he started to walk down the warmway, but halted after a short distance. He listened, but could hear nothing. He hesitated a few seconds longer, then left the warmway and ran across the snowfield towards the nearest trees. Here the snow had drifted deeply, and he jumped down and hid behind the broad trunk of a fir.

  He had only a few minutes to wait. Moylita and the burgher soon appeared, walking down the warmway towards the village. Moylita went first, walking with her head bowed, but she was carrying under her arm the carving Dik had given her.

  * * *