Deadly Communion by Frank Tallis Page A

with desire. At first the sensation was very faint and located in my stomach. It was almost indistinguishable from anxious anticipation. But in due course the sensation matured, becoming stronger and more finely nuanced. Expectancy became a pleasurable tension and the fearfulness became guilt. Why is it — I wonder — that even the very first intimations of sexual pleasure are tainted with an undertow of shame?
    My mind filled with images of nudity and a corresponding desire to be naked myself. The only opportunity I had to be naked was at night. I would slip off my nightshirt and run my hands over my body. If the moon was bright I would fold back the eiderdown and look upon my nakedness with eager satisfaction. Such was my guilty conscience — I have always suffered from scruples — that I became excessively anxious about disturbing my father. I imagined him bursting in, catching me in my state of undress and meting out some form of retributive punishment. The idea that he might harm my manhood came into my mind. In this nervous state, every sound I made — every rustle of the sheets, every creak of the mattress springs — seemed horribly loud, and I formed the habit of remaining very still and holding my breath.
    I wonder now whether the fear of being discovered became itself sexually exciting. When I consider my subsequent behaviour, this would seem to be so. I would steal away into the woods, alone, where I would take off my clothes and stand naked for hours. All the time I was fearful of being observed by someone from the village, but I could not stop myself.
    The fluttering sensation that had formerly been in my stomach descended and settled in my loins. This transmigration coincided withmy burgeoning interest in the anatomy of girls. I managed to persuade some of them to venture into the woods with me. One of their number — a simple-minded creature called Gerda — I persuaded to strip. I instructed her to stand very still while holding her breath. It was intolerably exciting. This was when I first experienced an adult response. The lick of fire on the thighs: animation of the flesh.
    Of all the girls in the village the one I loved most was Netti. I adored her. She was sweet-natured, kind and beautiful. We played together — but she would never come walking with me. One winter she fell ill and became very weak. She had to stay in bed. The children in the village were not permitted to visit her. I can remember how the women spoke softly whenever Netti’s name was mentioned. They looked at each other and pulled their little ones close. They feared infection.
    Netti died just before Christmas.
    My father made a point of going to pay his respects. It was in his nature to do such things. He could be contrary — and his black moods made him reckless. We marched through the snow, down the hill to Netti’s house, where we were shown into the parlour to see the dead child in her casket. The room was filled with flowers. I can still remember the intoxicating scent. Long purple drapes covered the mirrors and a massive silver crucifix had been hung on one of the walls. Four candles, on large stands, filled the room with a fitful yellow light.
    Netti looked exquisite. And so very still — a stillness and a breathless tranquillity that I had never seen before. In Vienna, you hear people saying that they hope to have a schöne Leich — a beautiful corpse. Netti was a schöne Leich. Truly.
    My father said a prayer and rose to leave. I could not move. I was transfixed by Netti. I begged him to let me stay a few minutes longer so that I might say one final goodbye to my playmate. He squeezedmy arm and left the room: big shoulders hunched — face grey and drawn.
    I stared at Netti and felt the fluttering sensation below. It intensified until my loins were tense. I felt my flesh move.
    But how to continue?
    What followed is really inexpressible. Language is insufficient. I can offer you only an approximate description, a