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ALSO BY JEANETTE WINTERSON

OrangesAre Not the Only Fruit Sexingthe Cherry Written on the Body Art and Lies Art Objects Gut Svmmetries

TilrPA55lo} JERNETTE

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GROVE PRESS NEW YORK

Copyright @1987 by JeanetteWinterson All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproducedin any form or by any electronic or mechanicalmeans including information storageand retrieval systemswithout permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer,who may quote brief passagesin a review. First publishedin Great Britain in 1987by BloomsburyPublishingLtd. Printed in the United States of America

Library of CongressCataloging-in-PublicationData Winterson,Jeanette,1959 The passion. I. Title. PR6073.I558P36 1988

823',.914 88-3427

(pbk.) ISBN 0-8021-3522-6 Grove Press 841 Broadway New York NY 10003 99 0001 r09E76543

For Pat Kavanagh My thanks are due to Don and Ruth Rendell whose hospitality gave me the spaceto work To everaoneat Bloomsbury, especiallyLiz Calder. To Philippa Brewster for her patience.

You have navigated with raging soul far from the paternal home, passing beyond the seas' double rocks and now you inhabit a foreign land.

CONTENTS One Two

The Emperor

The Queenof Spader Thrce The Zero Vinter Four Ihe Roch

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EMPDROB

It was Napoleon who had such a passion for chicken that he kept his chefs working around the clock. What a kitchen that ws, with birds in every state of undress; some still cold and slung over hooks, somenrrning slowly on the spit, but most in wastedpiles becausethe Emperorwasbusy. Odd to be so governedby an appetite. It was my first commission.I startedas a neck wringer and before long I wasthe one who carried the platter through inches of mud to his tent. He liked me becauseI am short. I flatter myself,He did not dislikeme. He liked no one exceptJos6phine and he liked her the way he liked chicken. No one over five foot two ever waited on the Emperor. He kept small servane and large horses.The horse he loved was seventeenhands high with a tail that could wrap round a man three times and still makea wig for his mistress.That horsehad the evil eye and there's been almost as many dead grooms in the stableas chickenson the table. The onesthe beastdidn't kill itself with an easykick, its master had disposedof because its coat didn't shineor the bit was green. 'A new governmentmust dazzleand amazer'he said. Bread and circusesI think he said. Not surprising then that when we did find a groom, he came from a circus himself and stood as high as the horse'sflank. When he brushed the beasthe used a ladderwith a stoutbottom and a triangletop, but when he rode him for exercisehe took a gteatleap and landed squareon the glossyback while the horse reared and snorted and couldn't throw him, not even with its nose in the dirt and ie back legs ton'ardsGod. Then they'd vanishin a curtain of dust and travel for miles, the midget clinging to the mane and whooping in his funny languagethat none of us could understand.

THE PASSION But he understoodwerything. He madethe Emperorlaughand the hone couldn't better him, sohe stayed.And I stayed.fuid we becamefriends. We were in the kitchentent one night whenthe bell star6 ringrnslike theDevithimselfis on the otherend.We all iumped up and onerushedto the spit while anotherspaton the siher and I hadto get my bootsbackon readyfor that trampacross the frozen ruts. The midget laughedand said he'd rather take a chancewith the horse than the master,but we don't laugh. Here it comessurroundedby parsleythe cookcherishesin a deadman'shelmet.Outsidethe flakesare so densethat I feel like the little figurein a child's snowstorm.I haveto screwup myeyesto follorrtheyellowsain ttratlightsup Napoleon'stent. No oneelsecanhavea light at this time of night Fuel'sscarce.Not all of this annyhavetents. WhenI go in, he'ssittingdone wittr a globein front of him. He doesn'tnoticeme,he goeson turningthe globeround and round,holdingit tenderlywith bothhandsasif it werea breast. I gve a shortcoughandhe looksup suddenlywith fear in his face. 'Put it hereandgo.' 'Don't youwantme to caryeit, Sir?' 'I canrnanag€. Goodnight.' I knonrwhathe means.He hardlysverasksmeto canreltonr. fu soonasI'm gonehe'll lift the lid andpick it up andpushit into his mouth.He wisheshis wholefaceweremouthto cranr a wholebird. In the morningI'll be luckyto find the wishbone. There is no heat,only degreesof cold, I don't rememberthe feeling of a fire againstmy knees.Even in ttre kitchen, the warmestplaceon anycarnp,the heatis too ttrin to spreadand the copperparn cloudover.I takeoff my socksonsea weekto

THE EMPEROR cut my toe-nailsand the otherscdl me a dandy.We're white with red nosesandblue fingers. The tricolour. He doesit to keephis chickensfresh. He useswinterlike a larder. But thatwasa longtime ago.In Russia. Nowadalnpeoplea[< aboutthe thingshe did as thoughthey madesense.fu thoughevenhis mostdisastrousmistakeswere onlythe resultof badluck or hubris. It wasa mess. Words like devastation, rape,slaughter,c:rnage,starvation are lock and key wordsto keepthe pain at bay.Words about war that areeasyon the eye. I'm tellingyoustories.Trust me. I wantedto be a drummer. The recruitingofficergaveme a walnutandaskedif I could crackit betweenfingerandthumb.I couldnot andhe laughed and saida drummermust havestronghands.I stretchedout my palm, the walnut restingthere,and offeredhim the same challenge.He colouredup andhada Lieutenanttakemeto the kitchentents.The cooksizedup my skinnyframeandreckoned I wasnot a cleaverrnan.Not for me themessof unnamedmeat that hadto be choppedfor the dailyste\r.He saidI waslucky, that I would be working for Bonapartehimselfl,and for one brief;,bright momentI imagineda training as a pastrycook buildingdelicatetowersof sugarandcream.Wewalkedtowards guardsby the flaps. a smalltentwith two impassive tBonaparte's ownstoreroomr' saidthe cook. The spacefrom the groundto the domeof the canvaswils rackedwith roughwoodencagesabouta foot sqwre with tiny corridorsrunning in benn'een, hardly the width of a man. In eachcagetherewere two or threebirds, beaksand clawscut

THE PASSION off, saring throughthe slatswittr dumbidenticaleyes.I amno cou'ardand I've seenplenty of convenientmutilationon our farmsbut I wasnot preparedfor the silence.Not evena rustle. They couldhavebeendead,shouldhavebeendead,but for the eyes.The cookturnedto go.'Your iob is to clearthemout and uningtheir necks.' I slippedawayto the docks,andbecause the stonewaswarmin that earlyApril andbecauseI hadbeentravellingfor daysI fell asleepdreamingof dnrmsanda red uniform.It wasa bootttrat wokeme, hard and shinywith a familiarsaddlesmell.I raised my headandsawit restingon my bellythewayI hadrestedthe walnutin my palm. The officer didn't look at me, but said, 'You're a soldierno\il and you'll get plenty of oppornrnityto sleepin the openair. On your feet.' He lifted his foot ffid, as I scrambledup, kickedme hard and still looking straight atreadsaid, 'Finn buttocks,that's something.' I heardof his reputationsoonenoughbut he neverbothered me.I ttrinkthe chickensmellkepthim away. I washomesickfrom the start I missedmy mother.f missed the trill wherethe sun slantsacrossthe vdley. I misseddl the everyday thingsI had hated.In springat homethe dandelions streakthe fieldsand the river nrns idle againafter monthsof rain. Whenthe armyrecruiment cameit wasa bravebandof us who laughedandsaidit wastimewe sawmorethanthe red barnandthe co$rswe hadbirthed.We signedup straightaway and thoseof us who couldn'tunite madean optimisticsmear on the page. Our villageholdsa bonfireeveryyearat the end of winter. We had beenbuilding it for weeks,all as a cathedralwith a blasphemous spireof brokensnaresandinfestedpallets.There in the would be plentyof wine and dancingand a sweetheart

THE EMPEROR dark and becausewe were leavingwe were allowedto light it. fu the sun went dorvnwe plunged our five burning brands into the heart of the pyre. My mouth went dry as I heard the wood ake and splinteruntil the first flamepushedits wayout. I wished I were a holy man then with an angel to protect me so I could iump inside the fue and see my sins burned away. I go to confessionbut there'sno fenour there. Do it from the heart or not at all. We're a lukewarmpeoplefor all our feastdaysand hardwork. Not much touchesus, but we long to be touched.We lie awake at night wiling the darknessto part and showus a vision. Our children frighten us in their intimacy, but we make sure they gro\il up like us. Lukewarm like us. On a night like this, hands and faceshog we can believethat tomorrow will shorvus angels in iars and that the well-knov"n woods will suddenly reveal anotherpath. Last time we had this bonfire, a neighbour tried to pull down the boardsof his house.He saidit wasnothingbut a stinkingpile ofdung dried meatand lice. He saidhe wasgoingto burn the lot. His wife wasftgging at his anns. She wasa big woman, usedto the churn and the field, but shecouldn't stophim. He smashed his fist into the seasonedwooduntil his handlookedlike a skinned larrb's head.Then he lay by the fue all night until the earlywind coveredhim in coolingash.He neverspokeofit. We neverspoke ofit. He doesn'tcometo the bonfire anymore. I sometimeswonder why none of us tried to stop him. I think we wanted him to do ig to do it for us. To tear doum our long-houredlives and let us start again.Clean and simplewith open hands.It wouldn't be like that, no more than it could have beenlike that when Bonaparteset fue to half of Europe. But what other chancehad we? Morning cameand we marchedawaywith our parcelsof bread and ripe cheese.There were tearsfrom the women and the men

THE PASSION slappedus on the backand said soldieringis a fine life for a boy.Onelittle gul whoalwap followedmearoundpulledat my hand,her eyebrows closetogetherwith worry. 'Will youkill people,Henri?' I droppeddown besideher. 'Not people,Louise, iust the enemy.t 'Whatis enemy?' 'Someone who'snot onyourside.' We wereon our wayto ioin the Armyof Englandat Boulogne. Boulogne, a sleepynothingportwith a handfulofwhorehouses, of Empire.Onlytwentymiles suddenlybecamethe springboard away,easyto seeon a clearday,wasEnglandandher arrogance. We knewaboutthe English;how they ate their children and ignoredthe BlessedVirgin. Hon' theycommittedsuicidewittt unseemlycheer lness.The Englishhavethe highestsuicide rate in Europe.I got that straightfrom a priesuThe English with their JotrnBull beefand frothingbeer.The Englishwho are evennow waist-highin the watercoff Kent practisingto drownthe bestannyin theworld. We areto invadeEngland. will snatch Bonaparte All Francewill berecruitedifnecessary. last out every drop. up his countrylike a spongeanduning We arein lovewith hitn. At Boulogne,thoughmyhopesof drummingheadhighat the front of a proudcolumnaredashed,I'm still headhigh enough becauseI knowI'll seeBonapartehimself.He comesregularly rattlingfromtheTuileriesandscanningtheseaslike anordinary rnancheckshis rain barrel.Dominothe midgetsaysthat being nearhim is like havinga grett wind nrsh aboutyour ears.He salnthat'showMadasredeStlel put it andshe'sfasrousenough to be right. Shedoesn'tlive in Francenow.Bonapartehadher shecomplainedabouthim censoringthe theatre exiledbecause I onceboughta bookof hers the newspapets. andsuppressing

THE EMPEROR from a travelling pedlar who'd had it from a ngged nobleman. I didn't underctandmuch but I learned the word ,intellectual, which I would like to apply to myself. Domino laughs at me. At night I dream of dandelions. The cook grabbeda chicken from the hook abovehis head and scoopeda handful of stuffing from the copper bowl. He was smiling. 'out on the town tonighg lads, and a night to remember, I swearit.' He rammed the stufhng inside the bird, trristing his hand to get an evencoating. 'You've all had a womanbefore I suppose?' Most of us blushedand someof us grggled. 'If you haven't then there'snothing sweeterand if you have, y.[r Bonapartehimself doesn't tire of the sameuste day after day.' He held up the chicken for our inspection. I had hoped to stay in with the pocket Bible given to me by my mother as I left. My mother loved God, she said ttrat God and the virgin were all she neededthough shewas thankful for her family. I've seenher kneeling before dawn, before ttre milking, before the thick porridge, arid singlng out loud to God, whoir she has never seen.We're more or liss religiousin our village and we honour the priest who tramps sevenmiles to bring is the wafer,but it doesn'tpierce our hearts. st Paul said it is better to marry than to burn, but my mother aught me it is better to burn than to marry. She wanied to be a nun. She hoped I would be a priest and savedto glve me an education while my friends plaited rope and trailed after the plough. - I can't be a priest becausealttrough my heart is as loud as hers I can pretend no ans\ileringrioi. I have shouted to God

THE PASSION and the Virgin, but they have not shouted back and I'm not interestedin the still smallvoice. Surely a god can meet passion with passion? She sap he can. Then he should. My mother's family were not wedthy but they were respectable. She was brought up quietly on music and suiable literanrre, and politicswere neverdiscussedat Able, evenwhen the rebels *etJ breaking down the doors. Her family were monarchists. When shewastrrelve shetold them that shewantedto be a nun' but they disliked excessand assuredher that marriagewould be more fuIfilling. She grew in secre! away from their eyes. Ounrardly she was obedient and loving, but inside she was that would havedisgustedthem if disgustitself feeding "iiotrg.r were not an excess.She read the lives of saintsand knew most of the Bible off by heart. She believed that the BlessedVirgin herself would aid her when the time came. The time camewhen shewas fifteen, at a cattle fair. Most of the tov,'nwasout to seethe lumbering bullocks and high-pitched sheep.Her mother and father were in holiday mood and in a rash moment her papa pointed to a stout, well-dressednun carrying a child on his shoulders.He said shecouldn't do better for a husband. He would be dining with them later and very much hopedthat Georgette(my mother)would singafter supp€r. When the cro\ild thickenedmy mother madeher escape,taking nothing with her but the clothesshe stood in and her Bible that shealwalncanied. Shehid in a haycartand set offttrat sunburnt wening out of the tovrn and slowly through_ttrequiet country until the cart reachedthe village of my bi!'th. Quite without fear, becauseshe believed in the power of the Virgin, hY mother presentedherself to Claude (my fatlrer) and askedto be aken io the nearestconvent. He was a slow-witted but kindly illan' ten yearsolder than her, and he offered her a bed for the night'

THE EMPEROR thinking to take her homethe next day and rnaFe collect a reward. Sheneverwenthomeandsheneverfoundtheconventeither. The daysturnedinto weeksand shewasafraidof her father, who sheheardwasscouringthe areaandleavingbribesat any religioushouseshe passed.Three monthswent by and she discoveredthat shehad a waywith plantsand that shecould quiet frightenedanimals.Claudehardlyeverspoketo her and neverbotheredher,but sometimes shewouldcatchhim watching her, sandingstill with his handshadinghis eyes. one nisht, late,assheslept,shehearda apping at the door and nrrningup her lamp sawclaude in the doorvay.He had shaved,hewaswearinghis nighahirt andhe smelledof carbolic soap. '\Mill youmarryme, Georgette?' she shookher headand he went away,returningnow and againas time continued,alwaysstandingby the door, clean shavenandsmellingof soap. she saidyes.She couldn'tgo home.she couldn'tgo to a colventsolongasherfatherwasbribingeveryMotherSuperior with a mind to a newdtar piece,but shecouldn'tgo on living with this quiet num and his alkative neighbourcunlesshL marriedher. He got into bed besideher and strokedher face andtakingher handput it to his face.Shewasnot afraid.She believedin the po\ilerof the Virdln. After ttraqwheneverhewantJdher, he apped at the doorin just the samewayandwaiteduntil shesaidyes. Then I wasborn. Shetold meaboutmygrandparents andtheir houseandtheir piano,anda shadowcrossedher eyeswhenshethoughtI would neverseethem,but I liked my anonymity.Everyoneelsein the villagehad stringsof relationsto pick fights *ittr and know about I madeup storiesaboutmine. Th.y were whateverI wantedthemto be depending on my mood. II

THE PASSION Thanls to my mother'seffortsandthe rustyscholarliness of ourpriestI learnedto readin myovmlang,rage, LatinandEnglish andI learnedarithmetic,the rudimentsof first aid andbecause the priestalsosupplemented his meagreincomeby bettingand Fmbling I learnedeverycardganeanda fewtricks.I nwer told mymotherthatthepriesthada hollon'Biblewith apackof cards inside.Sometimes he tookit to our seniceby misakeandthen the readingwasatwap from the first chapterof Genesis.The villagersttroughthelorredthecreationstory.He wasa goodrurn but lukewarm.I wouldhavepreferreda burningJesuit,perhaps thenI mighthavefoundtheextasyI needto believe. I askedhim why he wasa priesgand he saidif you haveto bossis best. work for anybodyan absentee lVe fishedtogettrerand he pointedout the girls he wanted and askedme to do it for him. I neverdid. I cameto women late like my father. When I left, Mother didn't cqr. It ynasClaudewho cried. She g4veme her little Bible,the onethat shehadkeptfor so many yeas, andI promisedher I wouldreadie 'New The cooksawmy hesiationandpokedmewittt a skewer. to it, lad?Don't be afraid.Thesegirls I knon' arc cleanas a whistleandwide asthe fieldsof France.'I got ready'washing myselfall overwith carbolicsoap. the Corsican.Bornin 1769'a Leo. Bonaparte, pde, moody,with an eyeto the funrreanda singular Short, In 1789ra'olution openeda closedworld abilityto concentrate. streetboyhadmoreon his sidethan meanest time the andfor a any aristocraLFor a youngLieutenantskilledin artillery,tlre chanceswerekind and in a few yearsGenerd Bonapartewas turningItaly into ttre fieldsof France. l2

THE EMPEROR '\ilhat is luck', he said, 'but the ability to exploit accidents?' He believedhe was the centre of the world and for a long time there wasnothing to changehim from this belief. Not evenJohn Bull. He was in love with himself and France ioined in. It was a romance. Perhaps all romance is like thaq not a contract betweenequal partiesbut an explosionof dreamsand desires that can find no outlet in everydaylife. only a drama will do and while the fireworla last the sky is a different colour. He becamean Emperor.He calledthe Popefrom the Holy city to cro\iln him but at the last secondhe took the crown in his own hands and placed it on his ovrn head. He divorced the only pe$on who understoodhim, the onlypersonhe everreallyloved, becauseshe couldn't give him a child. That was the only part of the romancehe couldn't manageby himself. He is repulsiveand fascinatingby turns. what would you do if you were an Emperor?would soldiers becomenumberc?Would battlesbecomediagrams? Would intellectualsbecomea threat?Would you end your dayson an island where the food is saltyand the companybland? He was the most powerful man in the world and he couldn't beatJos6phineat billiards. I'm telling you stories.Trust me.

The brothel was run by a giantessfrom Sweden.Her hair was yellowlike dandelionsand like a living rug it coveredher knees. Her anns were bare, the dressshewore had the sleevespushed up and fastenedwith a pair of garters. Around her neck on a leather thong she kept a flat-faced wooden doll. she saw me staring at it and drawing my head close forced me to sniff it. It smelledof musk and strangeflowers. 'From Martinique, like Bonaparte'sJosCphine.' I smiled and said, 'vive notre dame de victoires,' but the giantesslaughedandsaidthatJosdphinewould neverbecrowned r3

THE PASSION in WesUninsteras Bonapartehad promised.The cook told her sharply to mind her words, but she had no fear of him and led us to a cold stoneroom furnishedwith pallet beds and a long table stackedwith iars of red wine. I had erpectedred velvetthe way the priest had describedtheseseatsof temporarypleasure, but therewasno softnesshere,nothingto disgUiseour business. When the womencamein theywere older than I had imagined' not at all like the pictures in the priest's book of sinful things. Not snake-like,EveJike with breastslike apples,but round and resigned,hair thrown into hastybundles or drapedaround their shoulders.My companionsbrayed and whistled and shovedthe wine down their throats straight from the ian. I wanted a cup of waterbut didn't know how to ask. The cook moved first, slapping a woflIan on the rump and making someioke about her corset.He still wore his fat-sAined boots. The others started to pair off leaving me with a patient black-toothedwomanwho had ten ringSon one finger. 'I've that I iust ioined up,' I told her, hoping she'd realise didn't know what to do. 'That's what they all say,they think it She pinched my cheek. must be cheaper first time. Hard work I cdl it' like teaching billiards without a cue.' She looked over at the cook, who was squatting on one of the pallets trying to ge! lris cock out. His l"b*rn knelt in front of him, her armsfolded.Suddenlyhe slapthe talk for a moment. ped - her agoss the faceandthe snapkilled ,Help me, you bitch, put your hand in, can't You, or are you afraid of eels?' I saw her lip curl and the red mark on her cheek glowed despiteher rough skin. She didn't answer,iust pokgdher hand into his trouseri and brought it out like a ferret by the neck' 'In your mouth.t I wasthinking aboutPorridge. 'Fine man your friend,' saidmy woman' I wanted to go to him and ram his face in the blanket until r4

THE EMPEROR he had no breath left. Then he came with a great bellow and flopped bachn'ardson his elbows.His woman got up and very deliberatelyspatin the bowl on the floor, then rinsed her mouth with wine and spat that out too. she was noisy and the cook heard and askedher what shewas doing throwing his sperm to the sewersof France. 'What elsewould I do with it?' He cametowardsher with his fist raisedbut it neyerfell. My womansteppedforward and coshedhim on the back of the head with a wine iar. She held her companion for a moment and kissedher swiftly on the forehead. She would never do that to me. I told her I had a headacheand went to sit outside. We carried our leaderhome aking nrns in fours to bear him like a coffin on our shoulders,face dovr'nin casehe vomited. In the morning he swagBeredover to the officers and boastedhon, he'd madethe bitch srrallorrhim whole and how her cheekshad filled out like a rat's when she took him. '\Mhat happened your to head?' 'Fell over on the way back ' he said, looking at me. He went out whoring most nishs but I never went with him again. Apart from Domino and Patric\ the de-frocked priest l'ittr the eagle eye, I hardly spoke to anyone.I spent mt time learning how to snrff a chicken and slow don'n ttre cooking process.I waswaiting for Bonaparte. At lasg on a hot morning when the sea left salt cmters in betweenthe dock stones,he came.He cirmewith his Generals Murat and Bernadotte. He came wittr his new Admiral of ttre Fleet. He camewith his wife, whose grace made the roughest in the camp polish his boots rwice. But I saw no onJ but him. For years,ily mentor, the priest who had supported the Revolution, told me that Bonaparte was perhapr trr. Son of God comeagain.I learned his battlesand ia-prignr insteadof r5

THE PASSION I havelain with the prieston an old and historyandgeography. impossiblyfoldedmapof theworld lookingat theplaceshe had goneandwatchingthe frontiersof Francepushslowlyout.The priestcarrieda drawingof Bonapartenextto his drawingof the BlessedVirgin andI grewupwith both,unknownto mymother, who remaineda monarchistandwhostill prayedfor the soulof IVIarieAntoinette. I wasonly five whenthe RevolutionturnedParisinto a free man'scity andFranceinto the scourgeof Europe.Our village wasnot vety far downthe Seine,but we mighthavebeenliving on the m(x)n.No one reallyknewwhatwashappeningexcept thatKing andQueenwereimprisoned.We reliedon gossip,but the priestcreptbackand forttr relyingon his cloth to savehim fromthe cannonor theknife.The villagewasdivided.Most felt King andQueenareri$t thoughKing andQueenhadno care for us, exceptasrwenueandscenery.But thesearemywords, Aught to meby a clerterrtumwhostasno respecterof persoru. couldnot speakof For the mostpart, my friendsin the "illage their uneiuie,but I sawit in their shouldersastheyroundedup the cattle,siln it in their facesastheylistenedto the priestin church.We weredwayshelpless,whoeverwasin pos'er. The priest said we were living in the last da1n,that the Revolutionwouldbringforth a n€wMessiahandthemillerurium on earth.He nEyerwent as far asthat in church.He told me. Not the others.Not Claudewith his pails,not Jacquesin the not my motherwith her prayett.He darkwi& his sn'eetheart, took me on his knees,holdingme againstttre blackcloth that smelledof ageandhan andtold menot to be afraidof nrmours in our villagethat weryonein Pariswaseitherstarvingor dead. 'Christ said he cirmenot to bring peacebut a sn'ord,Henrtt rememberthaL' As I gfewolderandthenrbulent timessettledinto something like calm, Bonapartebeganto makea nirmefor himself.We calledhim otr Emperorlong beforehe had takenthat tide to r6

THE EMPEROR himself.And on our wayhomefrom the makeshiftchurchin the duskin winter,the priestlookedtowardsthe trackthat led awayandheld my ann too tight. 'He'll call your'he whispered, 'like GodcalledSamuel you'll go.' and we werenot hainingon the dayhe came.He caughtus out, prgtably on purpose,andwhenttre first exhausted messenger gallopedinto the campwarningusthatBonaparte wastravelling non-stopandwouldarrivebeforenoonweweresprawledin our shirt-sleeves drinkingcoffeeandplayingdice.The olficerswere wild with fear and beganorganisingtheir men as thougtrthe Englishthemselves had landed.There wasno receptionpreparedfor him, his speciallydesignedbivouachouseda pair of cannonandthe cookwasblind drunk. 'You.' I wasseizedby a capain I did not recognise.'Do somethingaboutthe birds.Nevermindyour uniform,you'll be busywhilewe'reon parade.' so this wasig no gloryfor me,iust a pile of deadbirds. In myrageI filled up thelargestfish-kettleI couldandpoured coldwaterall overthe cook.He didn't stir. fui hour later,whenthe birdsweresaggeredon the spis to cookin their turn, the Capain camebackveryagiatedandtold methatBonaparte wantedto inspectthekitchens.It wasalways a featureof his to interesthimselfin everydeait of his ermy, but this wasinconvenient 'Get that rnanout of here,' orderedthe capain as he left The cookweighedaroundzoo lbs, I wasscarcelyr2o. I tried raising his upper body and dragginghim, but I could only numagpa helplessshuffle. If I hadbeena prophetandthis cookthe heathenagentof a fdse gd I could haveprayedto the Lord and had a host of angelsmoyehim. As it wos,Dominocameto my aidwith some talk aboutEgSpt I knewaboutEglpt becauseBonapartehadbeenthere.His EsJptiancampaign,doomedbut brave,wherehe hadremained r7

THE PASSION immunefrom the plagueandthe feverandriddenmilesin the dustwithouta drop of water. 'How couldher' the priesthad said,'if he isn't protectedby God?' It wasDomino'splanto raisethe cookthewaythe Egptians raisedtheir obelisks,with a fulcrum, in our q$e an oar. We leveredthe oarunderhis bacb thendug a pit at his feet 'Now,' saidDomino.'Nl our weighton the end of the oar andhe'll goup.' It wasLazarusbeingraisedfrom the dead. We got him sandingandI wedgedthe oar beneathhis belt to stophim fallingover. 'Whatdo we do now,Domino?' Whilewestoodon eithersideof this moundof flesh,the tent flap parted and the Capain strode in, very proper. Colour drainedfrom his faceasthoughsomeonehadpulleda plug in movedbut his mouthandhis moustache his throat.He o,pened thatwasall. Pushingpasthim wasBonaparte. He walked trrice round our extribit and askedwho he was. 'The cook,Sir.A little bit drunk,Sh.Thesemenwereremwing him.' to get to the spit whereoneof the chickens I wasdesperate wasalreadyburning,but Domino steppedin front of me and, speakingin a roughlanguagehe latertold mewasBonaparte's Corsicandialect,he somehowexplainedwhat had happened and hon' we had done our best on the lines of his Egyptian When Dominohad done,Bonapartecameton'ards campaigR. me andpinchedmy earsothat it wasswollenfor dap. 'You see,Captainr'he said, 'this is what makesmy anny of eventhehumblest invincible,theingenuityanddetermination soldier.'The Capain smiledweaklnthen Bonapartenrrnedto me. 'You'll seegreatthingpand you'll eat your dirureroff an r8

THE EMPEROR En$ishman'splatebeforelong.Capain, seeto it that this boy Therewill be noweaklints in myanny, waitson mepersonally. to be asreliableasmy Generds.Domino, trwantmy attendants we areriding this afternoon.' I wrote to my friend the priest sraight away.This wasmore perfectthananyordinarymiracle.I hadbeenchosen.I didn't foreseethat the cook would becomemy sn'orn enemy.By nighdal most of the camphad heardthe story and had embroideredit, sothatwe hadburiedthe cookin a trench,beaten him unconscious, or mostbizaneof all,thatDominohadworked a spellon him. 'If onlyI knewhowr'he said.'\Mecouldhavesavedoursehes the digging.' The coob who soberedup with a thumpingheadand in a wotsetemperthan usual,couldn't stepoutsidewithout some soldierwinkingandpokingat him. Finallyhe cameto whereI satwith my little Bibleandgrabbedme closeby the collar. 'You ttrink you'resafebecauseBonapartewanByou.You're safenow,but thereareyearsahead.' He pushedme backagainstthe onionsacksand spatin my face.It wasa longtimebeforewemetagainbecause theCapain hadhim traruferredto the storesoutsideBoulogne. 'Forgethirn' saidDominowhenwe watchedhim leaveon the backof a cart. It's hard to rememberthat this daywill nevercomeagain. That the time is now and the placeis hereand that there are no secondchancesat a singlemoment.During the daln ttrat Bonapartesayed in Boulognetherewasa feelingof urgency andprivilege.He wokebeforeus andsleptlong afterus, going througheverydeail of our trainingand rallyingus personally. He stretchedhis handtorvardsthe ChannelandmadeEngland soundas thoughshealreadybelongedto us. To eachof us. That washisgift. He becamethefocusof our lives.The thought r9

THE PASSION of fightingexcitedus.No onewanrsto bekilledbut thehardship, the longhours,the cold,the ordemwerethingswewouldhave enduredanywayon the farrnsor in the towns.We werenot free men.He madesenseout of dullness. The ridiculousflat-bottomedbargesbuilt in their hundreds tookonthecertaintyofgalleons. Whenweputouttoseqpractising for that treacherous twenty-milectossing,we no longermade iokesaboutshrimpingnetsor howthesehrbswouldbetterserve washemomen. While he stoodon the shoreshoutingorderswe put our facesto thewindandlet ourheartsgooutto him. The bargeswere designedto carry sixty men and it was reckonedthat zo,oooof us would be lost on the way over or pickedoff by ttre Englishbeforewe landed.Bonapartettrought them god odds,he wasusedto losingthat numberin battle. Noneof us worriedaboutbeingoneof the zo,ooo.We hadn't ioinedup to worry. Accordingto his plan, if the French nalrycould hold the Channelfor itst sixhours,he couldlandhis armyandEngland wouldbe his. It seemedabsurdlyeasy.Nelsonhimselfcouldn't outwit us in six hours.We laughedat the Englishand mostof us hadplansfor our visit there.I particularlywantedto visit the Tou'er of Londonbecausethe priesthad told me it wasfull of parentsweretoo orphans;bastardsof aristocraticdescentwhose ashamedto keepthemat home.We're not like that in France, we welcomeour children. Domino told me that we were rumouredto be digginga tunnelreadyto pop up like molesin the Kentishfields.'It took us an hour to dig a foot pit for your friend.' Other stories concerneda balloon landing, a man-fuing cdlnon anda plan to blowup the Housesof Parliamentiust as Guy Fawkeshadnearlydone.The balloonlanditSwasthe one the Englishwereaking the mostseriouslyaod,to preventus, theybuilt tall ton'ersdong the CinquePorts,to spotus andto shootus dovm.

THE EMPEROR All folln but I think if Bonapartehad asked us to strap on wings and fly to St James's Palacewe would have set off as confidently as a child lets loosea kite. Without him, during nights and dayswhen affairs of sate took him back to Paris, our nights and dap were different only in the amount of light they let in. For myself,with no one to love, a hedgehogspirit seemedbest and I hid my heart in the leaves. I have a \ilay s'ith priests, so it came as no surprise that dong with Domino, my friend shouldbe Patrick,the de-frockedpriest with the eagleeye,imported from lreland. h ,799, when Napoleonwas still vying for power, General Hoche,a schoolboys'heroand onetimelover of MadameBonaparte, had landed in Ireland and almost succeededin defeating John Bull outright. During his say he hearda storyabouta certain disgracedpriest whoseright eyewasiust like yours or mine, but whoseleft eyecould put the best telescopeto strasre.Indeed he hadbeenforcedout ofthe churchfor squintingatyounsgrls from the bell tonrer.Whatpriest doesn'tl But in Patrick's case,thanks to the miraculouspropertiesof his eye,no bosomwassafe.A girl might be undressingnro villagesaway,but ifthe eveningwasclear and her shuttemwerebackshemight iust aswell havegoneto the priestand lain her underclothesat his feet. Hoche, a uun of the world, wil$iscepticalof old wives' tales, but soon found that the women were wiser than he. Though Patrick at first denied the chargeand the men laughedand said women and their fanasies, the women looked at the earth and said they knew when they were being watched.The Bishop had taken them seriously,not becausehe believedthe talk about Patrick's eye,but prefening the smoothshapesof his choirboys he found the affair exceedinglyrepulsive. A priest should havebener things to do than look at women. Hoche, caught in this web of hearsaStook Patrick drinking 2l

THE PASSION till the man could hardly stand, then half-walked, half-carried him to a hillock that afforded a clear view acrossthe valley for somemiles. They sat togetherand, while Paaick dozed,Hoche pulled out a red flag and wavedit for a couple of minutes. Then nudging Patrick awakehe commented,as one would, on the splendideveningand the beautiful scenery.Out of courtesyto his host Patrick forced himself to follow the sweepof Hoche's ann, muttering somethingabout the Irish having been blessed \ilith their portion ofparadiseon earth.Then he proppedhimself forward, screwedup one eye,and in a voice ashushedand holy as the Bishop's at communion said, 'Would you look at that now?' 'At what, that falcon?' 'Never mind the falcon, she'sas strong and brown as a co\r.' Hoche could seenothing, but he knew what Patrick could see. He had paid a tart to undressin a field somefifteen miles away, and placedhis men at regular intervalswith their red flags. When he left for France he took Patrick with hirn. At Boulogne, Patrick was usually to be found, like Simeon Stylites, on the top of a purpose-built pillar. From there he could look out acrossthe Channeland report on the whereabouts of Nelson's blockading fleet and warn our practising troops of any English threat French boae that strayedtoo far out of the harbourradiuswerelikely to be pickedoffwittr a sharpbroadside if the English were in the mood for patrolling. In order to alert us, Patrick had been given an Alpine horn as all as a nriur. On foggy nights this melancholy sound resounded as far as the Dover cli{fs, fuelling the rumour that Bonapartehad hired the Devil himself as a look-out. How did he feel aboutworking for the French? He preferred it to working for the English. Without Bonaparteto care for I spent much of my time with Patrick on the pillar. The top of it was about twenty feet by 22

THE EMPEROR fifteen, so there was room to play cards. SometimesDomino cameup for a boxingmatch.His unusualheightwasno disadvantage to him and, dthough Patrick had fists like cannonballs,he neveroncelandeda blow on Domino, whosetacticwasto iump about until his opponent sarted to tire. Judg*S his moment, Domino hit once and once only, not with his fists but with both feet, hurling himself sidewaysor bachrards or pushing offfrom a lightning handsand. These were play l matches,but I\e seenhim fell an ox simply by leaping at its forehead. 'If you were my size,Henri, you'd learn to look after yourself, you wouldn't rely on the good nahrreof others.' Looking out from the pillar I let Patrick describeto me the activity on deck beneath the English sails. He could see the Admirals in their white leggingsand the sailorsrunning up and down the rigging dtering the sail to makethe most of the wind. There wereplentyof floggings.Patricksaidhe sawa man'sback lifted offin one cleanpiece.They dippedhim in the seato save him from nrrning septic and left him on deck staring at the sun. Patricksaid he could seethe weevilsin the bread. Don't believethat one. Jub zoth, r8o4. Too early for dawnbut not night either. There's a restlessness in the trees, out at sea,in the camp. The birds and we are sleepingfitfu[y, wantingto be asleepbut tense\ilith the idea of awakening.In maybehalf an hour, that familiar cold grey light Then the sun. Then the seagullscrying out over the water. I get up at ttris time most days.I walk dovr'n to the port to watch the shipstethered like dogs. I wait for the sun to slashthe water. The last nineteen days have been millpond days. We have dried our clotheson the burning stonesnot peggedthem up to the wind, but today my shirt-sleevesare whipping rourd my anrurand the shipsare listing badly. We are on parade today. Bonaparte arrives in a couple of 23

THE PASSION hoursto watchus put out to sea.He wans to launch25rooo menin fifteenminutes. He will. This suddenweatheris uneryected.If it woreensit will be impossibleto risk the Channel. Patricksap the ctrannelis full of merrraids.He salnit's the mermaidslonelyfor a manthatpull softmy of us doum. watching the white cresb slappingagninstthe sidesof the ships,I wonderif this mischiefstonnis their doing? Optimisticallnit maypass. Noon. The rain is runningoffour nosesdownour iackesinto our boots.To talk to the next nun I haveto cup my hands aroundmy mouth. The wind has alreadyloosenedscoresof barges,forcingmen out chestdeepinto the impossiblewaters, rnakinga nonseruie of our bestknots.The ofhcerssaywe can't risk a practicetoday,Bonaparte,with his coatpulledroundhis head,sa)6we can.We will. JulVzoth, r8o4. Two thousandmenweredron'nedtoday. In galesso strongthat Patrickas look-outhad to be tied to barrelsof apples,we discoveredthat our bargesare children's tqnsafter all. Bonapartestood on the docksideand told his officersthatno stormcoulddefeatus. 'Why,if the heavens fell doumwewouldhold themup on the pointsof our lances.' Perhaps.But there'sno will and no weaponthat can hold backthe sea. I laynextto Patricb flat andstrapped,hardb seeingat dl for the spranbut everygapthe wind left shon'edme anothergap wherea boathadbeen. The mersraidswon't be lonelyanymore. We shouldhavenrrnedon him, shouldhavelaughedin his face,shouldhaveshookttredead-men-seaweed-hair in his face.

THE EMPEROR But his face is alwap pleadingwith us to prove him right. At night when the storm had dropped and we were left in soddentents with steamingbowls of coffee, none of us spoke out. No one said, Let's leavehim, let's hate him. We held our bowls in both handsand drank our coffeewith the brandy ration he'd sent speciallyto everyman. I had to servehim that night and his smile pushed awaythe madnessof arms and legs that pushedin at my earsand mouth. I was coveredin dead men. In the morning, 2,ooo new recruits marchedinto Boulogne. Do you ever think ofyour childhood? I think of it when I smellponidge. Sometimesafter Ite been by the docks I walk into town and use my nose tracking fresh bread and bacon.Always,passinga particular house,that sits like the others in a sort of row, and is the sameas them, I smell the slow smell of oae. Sweet but with an edge of salt. Thick like a blanket. I don't knon' who lives in the house, who is responsible,but I imagine the yellow fire and the black pot. At home we used a copper pot that I polished, loving to polish anythingthat would keep a shine. My mother made porridge, leaving the oats overnight by the old fire. Then in the morning when her bellows work had sent the sparks shooting up the chimnen she burned the oats brown at the sides,so that the sideswerelike brownpaperlining the pot and the insideslopped white over the edge. We trod on a flag floor but in the winter she put dovrn hay and the hay and the oats madeus smell like a maRger. Most of my friends ate hot breadin the mornings. I was happy but happy is an adult word. You don't have to ask a child about hrppy, you see it. They are or th.y are not. Adults alk about being happy becauselargely they are not. Talking about it is the sameas rying to catch the wind. Much 25

THE PASSTON easierto let it blow all over you. This is where I disagreewith the philosophers.Thry alk about passionatethings but there is no passionin them. Never talk happinesswith a philosopher. But I'm not a child any more and often the Kingdom of Heaveneludesme too. Now, words and ideaswill alwap slip themselvesin betweenme and the feeling. Even our birthright feeling which is to be happy. This morning I smell the oatsand I seea little boy watching his reflectionin a copperpot he's polished.His father comesin and laughsand offers him his shavingmirror instead.But in the shavingmirror the boy can only seeone face.In the pot he can seeall the distortionsof his face. He seesmany possiblefaces and so he seeswhat he might become. The recruits have arrived, most without moustaches,all with applesin their cheeks.Fresh country produce like me. Their faces are open and eager. They're being fussed over, gwen uniforms and duties to replacethe yell for the milk pail and the insistentpigs. The ofhcersshakehandswith them; a grown-up thing to do. No one mentionsyesterday'sparade.We're dry, the tentsare dryrng the soakedbargesare upflrned in the dock. The seais innocentand Patrick on his pillar is shavingquietly. The recruie arebeing dividedinto regiments;friends are separatedon principle. This is a new start. These boysare men. What souvenirsthey have brought from home will soon be lost or eaten. Odd, the differencethat a few monthsmakes.When I came here I was iust like them, still am in many wrys, but my companionsare no longer the shy boyswith cannon-fire in their eyes.They are rougher, tougher. Naturally you say,that's what army life is about. It's about somethingelse too, somethinghard to alk about. When we came here, we came from our mothers and our z6

THE EMPEROR sweethearts.We were still usedto our mothercwith their workhard anns that could clout the strongestof us and leaveour ears ringrng. fud we courted our sweetheartsin the country way. Slow, with the fields that ripen at harvest. Fierce, with the sowsthat rut the earth. Here, without women, with only our imaginationsand a handful of whores,we can't rememberwhat it is about women that can nrrn a man through passion into something holy. Bible words again, but I am thinking of my father who shaded his eyes on those sunburnt eveningsand learned to take his time with my mother. I am thinking of my mother with her noiqyheart and of all the^womenwaiting in the fields for the men t"ho drowned yesterdayand all ttre mothers' sonswho haveaken their place. We never think of them here. We think of their bodies and now and then we talk about home but we don't think of them as they are; the most solid, the best loved,the well knovrn. They go on. Whateverwe do or undo, they go on. There was a man in our village who liked to think of himself as an inventor. He spent a lot of time with pulleys and bits of rope and oflcuts of wood making devicesthat could raise a co\il or layrngpipes to bring the river water right into the house. He was a man with light in his voice and an easy way with his neighbours.Used to disappointrnent,he could alwaysilssuage the disappointrnentin others.And in a villagesubiectto the rain and sun there are many disappoinunents. All the while that he inventedand re-inventedand cheered us up, his wife, who neverspokeexceptt