The Empire of the Senses Read Online Free Page B

Russians farther east. Forty officers ate outside at a long wooden table, the red stripe of the general staff on their pants. They toasted and cheered the new crop of men. Another table was set up, where Lev and the rest were served mutton with small sickly beets. As he was cutting through his meat, he heard cannons sounding off, and then two columns of troops appeared, all in field gray.
    Hermann leaned over his plate, whispering, “They’re going to the front line. We’re still fighting the Russians. They did not retreat as easily as our good officers would have us believe.” He motioned toward the other table, where the officers ate. Lev tried to eat the beets sitting in a pool of oil. His stomach protested, but everyone had said, eat what is in front of you as fast as you can. As he ate, Lev overheard the officers talking about how even though the land was ruinous and barbaric, they would build it up again, cultivate and nurture it, as this was the German way. “We take what is backward and diseased, and with the strength of our will and hard work, we transform this”—an officer gesturedwith disgust at the surroundings—“into fertile, productive, and useful resources.”
    Lev glanced across the table at Hermann, who was also listening intently, storing away this information for later, when he would repeat it to others as if he had overheard a secret meeting behind closed doors.
    He finished the beets. For a moment, he allowed himself to miss home. The starched white sheets on his bed, the quiet of the house after the children were asleep, and the lingering smell of bread and wine filtering through the hallways. How Marthe sang when she cleaned the kitchen late at night, preparing for the next day, and the sight of Josephine before her mirror in their bedroom, silently brushing her golden hair with a faraway look in her eyes, as if she was already dreaming, and how she would smile softly when Lev finally broke her reverie with the question, “What are you thinking?” A vague haze would overtake her, and to get closer to her, he would have to accept this dreamy state. Her abstraction would continue during the physicality of sex. She would sigh and arch her back and stare into his face without seeing him, with these bottomless liquid eyes, and he felt as if he was penetrating a shimmering mist. If he tried to break the spell and depart from this odd realm in which their skin felt translucent, his lips pressed into her shoulder blade somehow muted and unreal, she would recoil as if he had transformed into a vulgar and horrifying creature. She would fold into herself, clamoring for the lace pillows, burying her head in them, and muttering accusations Lev could never quite hear. She would fall asleep quickly, one hand frozen on her breast as if still experiencing an affront, and Lev would stare helplessly into the dark room, wondering how long it would be until she would give herself to him again. A month. Or two. He would have to wait. This he did not miss.
    That night, they slept on the second floor of a deserted farmhouse. The first floor was filthy; the Russians had left piles of horse manure inside, and the process of removing it and cleaning the building was ongoing. The windows stood wide open, and he listened to the sound of a dogcart clattering down pavement and a salvo pushing through the night. He shared this room with twenty other men who breathed hoarsely, fitfullyturning in their sleep. Hermann sat cross-legged in the corner, nearest the window, smoking. After dinner, Lev noticed he had become spent and sullen, worn out by his own personality, and when they unloaded their packs here, he had retreated to the farthest corner of the room. They were the only two people awake, but Hermann acted as if he did not notice Lev sitting up against the wall, smoking too. Every so often the black sky filled with fireworks from rising and falling signal flares, and Lev tried to distinguish the difference between