tell he’s happy, and I love that
. I made him happy
.
‘Did it hurt a lot?’
‘Yes.’
‘Next time will be better.’
‘I know.’
‘It always seems so wrong to me – that it has to be such a violent process,’ he says.
Always
seems so wrong? How often has he done this?
Then I try to forget that I thought that.
He turns on the lamp; I find I don’t mind him seeing me clearly now. He reaches out for his cigarettes, takes two, lights them. We lie on our backs, smoking, looking up at the stars.
‘So, Stella. Today’s lesson,’ he says.
Today’s
lesson
?
‘Did I do it all wrong?’ I ask him.
‘Oh, sweetheart.’ He kisses me again, and I know he doesn’t think that. ‘You were perfect,’ he says. ‘Though I still think we should practise a
lot …
No, I was going to teach you about Dr Freud, remember? If you’d like me to…’ His deprecating smile. ‘I mean, you can absolutely back out now if you want.’
‘No. Teach me something. I’d like that.’
He thinks for a moment.
‘Well, then. I shall tell you a shocking secret that lies at the heart of his thought.’
I expect something appalling and thrilling – something sexual, perhaps. Like in the passage I read from
The Interpretation of Dreams
– where an innocuous arrangement of violets and pinks represented a woman’s intimate parts. I remember when I read that – it seems an age ago. If he tells me something sexual, I could understand it better now: tonight, I have been initiated into the sexual world. Thinking this, I feel a surge of triumph.
‘For me,’ says Harri, ‘Dr Freud’s most revolutionary teaching – it’s about the process he calls transference. Have you heard of this, Stella?’
‘No.’
I shake my head, feel a vague disappointment. This all sounds rather technical.
He blows out smoke, thoughtful.
‘He teaches that the emotions of infancy stay with us. Above all, the feelings we have for our parents. That we then transfer those feelings to all those we love through our lives.’
‘Right.’
I try to nod intelligently.
‘So, Stella – when you’re with me, or any lover or boyfriend…’
But there won’t be any others. I want only
you
. Don’t talk about
others
.
‘When you’re with any man you love, a part of what you feel will come from your past,’ he tells me. ‘From the way you have felt towards other men you have known. Above all, your father…’
I think of my father. Going for walks in the woods. Pottering in the garden. Dying. His terrible stillness where he lay on the road. The dirt on him. The couple in the car who didn’t look back. A shudder goes through me.
It’s as though he knows what I’m thinking. He draws me closer to him, and the warmth of his body consoles me.
‘You were so young when your father died,’ he says. ‘The loss of him will always be there in your mind, in the love you feel for any man. And you may be seeking to replace him – trying to find him again.’
I think about this. But it doesn’t make any sense – this notion of seeking to replace him. I’ve never fallen for older men; I never used to have crushes on teachers at school. Unlike my friend Kitty Carpenter, who was madly in love with our English master; he was romantically named Mr Heartgrove, and smoked the most delicious cigars that had a scent like burnt caramel.
‘I really don’t think I’m looking for a substitute father,’ I say, rather defiantly.
At once I picture Rainer, when we performed Schubert in the Rose Room. Remembering that strange little jolt of something like desire, that so troubled me. I couldn’t possibly tell Harri this. I push the thought away.
‘So – how else might it affect me – what happened with my father?’ I ask him. Wanting to move on from this.
He’s wary. Something crosses his face. He’s worried he’s upset me.
‘That’s more than enough for today,’ he tells me. ‘Maybe this conversation wasn’t such a bright idea after all.’
. I made him happy
.
‘Did it hurt a lot?’
‘Yes.’
‘Next time will be better.’
‘I know.’
‘It always seems so wrong to me – that it has to be such a violent process,’ he says.
Always
seems so wrong? How often has he done this?
Then I try to forget that I thought that.
He turns on the lamp; I find I don’t mind him seeing me clearly now. He reaches out for his cigarettes, takes two, lights them. We lie on our backs, smoking, looking up at the stars.
‘So, Stella. Today’s lesson,’ he says.
Today’s
lesson
?
‘Did I do it all wrong?’ I ask him.
‘Oh, sweetheart.’ He kisses me again, and I know he doesn’t think that. ‘You were perfect,’ he says. ‘Though I still think we should practise a
lot …
No, I was going to teach you about Dr Freud, remember? If you’d like me to…’ His deprecating smile. ‘I mean, you can absolutely back out now if you want.’
‘No. Teach me something. I’d like that.’
He thinks for a moment.
‘Well, then. I shall tell you a shocking secret that lies at the heart of his thought.’
I expect something appalling and thrilling – something sexual, perhaps. Like in the passage I read from
The Interpretation of Dreams
– where an innocuous arrangement of violets and pinks represented a woman’s intimate parts. I remember when I read that – it seems an age ago. If he tells me something sexual, I could understand it better now: tonight, I have been initiated into the sexual world. Thinking this, I feel a surge of triumph.
‘For me,’ says Harri, ‘Dr Freud’s most revolutionary teaching – it’s about the process he calls transference. Have you heard of this, Stella?’
‘No.’
I shake my head, feel a vague disappointment. This all sounds rather technical.
He blows out smoke, thoughtful.
‘He teaches that the emotions of infancy stay with us. Above all, the feelings we have for our parents. That we then transfer those feelings to all those we love through our lives.’
‘Right.’
I try to nod intelligently.
‘So, Stella – when you’re with me, or any lover or boyfriend…’
But there won’t be any others. I want only
you
. Don’t talk about
others
.
‘When you’re with any man you love, a part of what you feel will come from your past,’ he tells me. ‘From the way you have felt towards other men you have known. Above all, your father…’
I think of my father. Going for walks in the woods. Pottering in the garden. Dying. His terrible stillness where he lay on the road. The dirt on him. The couple in the car who didn’t look back. A shudder goes through me.
It’s as though he knows what I’m thinking. He draws me closer to him, and the warmth of his body consoles me.
‘You were so young when your father died,’ he says. ‘The loss of him will always be there in your mind, in the love you feel for any man. And you may be seeking to replace him – trying to find him again.’
I think about this. But it doesn’t make any sense – this notion of seeking to replace him. I’ve never fallen for older men; I never used to have crushes on teachers at school. Unlike my friend Kitty Carpenter, who was madly in love with our English master; he was romantically named Mr Heartgrove, and smoked the most delicious cigars that had a scent like burnt caramel.
‘I really don’t think I’m looking for a substitute father,’ I say, rather defiantly.
At once I picture Rainer, when we performed Schubert in the Rose Room. Remembering that strange little jolt of something like desire, that so troubled me. I couldn’t possibly tell Harri this. I push the thought away.
‘So – how else might it affect me – what happened with my father?’ I ask him. Wanting to move on from this.
He’s wary. Something crosses his face. He’s worried he’s upset me.
‘That’s more than enough for today,’ he tells me. ‘Maybe this conversation wasn’t such a bright idea after all.’
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