The Frog Prince

David’s Story

—VENUSBERG —

It was strange climbing the hill again above the town. It was as if he were climbing into and out of the past simultaneously. The gravelled pathways, littered with twigs and leaves after the recent storm, twined and intersected among the shadows of branches. His path was steep yet wide enough for a vehicle. It was a grey day, not yet autumn, and the way was dark. Although Kessenich below was only a few hundred metres away and the hum of its white noise just discernible, the old trees surrounding him might have been there forever: primeval, vaguely threatening.

He was still fit enough, despite his convalescence, and it took him only a few minutes to reach the broader path at the top of the escarpment. At this point his sense of timelessness faded and the here and now returned as an elderly couple approached him. They were wearing matching red parkas and walking a pair of matching poodles in matching tartan jackets. His minimal German allowed for a nod and a Guten tag, which the couple ignored, although the woman did glance at him curiously.

He saw in the distance the monument he had hoped to find, and he remembered — all but relived — his surprise the first time he came across it. Cara had been with him. Just over a year ago.

Kaiser Wilhelm. Not Kaiser Bill, as he had first assumed, somewhat puzzled at why the face of World War I should be commemorated, given the ignominy of defeat — he of the flamboyant moustache and spiked helmet. But no, this was Kaiser Bill’s grandfather, Wilhelm I.

It was not surprising that there should be a monument to the first modern German emperor, the Prussian who united Germany in the second half of the nineteenth century. What was surprising was that it should have been built here — among these dark trees facing a junction of dark paths so far away from people. It should have graced a city square, an ornament among the elegant townhouses of the civilised and cultured. Also surprising was its form: an asymmetrical stack of cylinders in brown stone rising for four or five metres to a peak like some nightmarish pipe organ. Below this was a bas-relief portrait in green bronze of the emperor, mounted on a white marble portico with two columns, an arch and a pediment featuring a Prussian eagle. It was a bizarre mixture of discipline and confusion.

Cara had examined the portrait and turned to him, smiling.

‘You should grow a beard.’

‘An emperor’s beard?’

‘Don’t get delusions of grandeur!’

‘Why is it here?’

‘The beard?’

‘No,’ he laughed, ‘the monument.’

Cara seemed momentarily puzzled. ‘Oh?’

David explained what he meant. ‘I mean it’s hardly the centre of the universe, is it? Hidden away in a forest like the witch’s house in “Hanseland —”’

‘Context changes,’ she said. ‘All the trees may not have been here at that time. Picture it. He’d be high on a hill overlooking the Rhine. They probably thought he’d enjoy the view.’

‘But he’s not here,’ said David. ‘This is just a monument, not a tomb. He’s probably hundreds of miles away.’

‘Wherever he is, it’s a pretty awful monument.’

He glanced at her. ‘Context changes, okay. But these trees and paths, if he could see them there would be nothing to tell him that anything has changed in — what is it? — a hundred and twenty years.’

‘Oh, but it wouldn’t take much to show him. A short walk to a gap in the trees and a look at the Rhine with those huge barges and ships.’

She broke off to take a photo of the monument on her phone, then moved to the steps to bend down before the portrait and take another.

‘Can’t see the wood for the trees?’ he asked.

‘Well, the river for the trees.’

‘He wouldn’t even need to see the river. All he’d need to see is you in that T and jeans snapping him with an iPhone.’

‘I guess,’ she said, turning back to him. ‘Here’s an idea, why don’t you?’

‘Don’t I what?’

‘Grow a beard.’

‘I might,’ he said. ‘I just might if you really want me to.’

She considered this. ‘Why not? But not an emperor’s beard; that’s not your style.’

‘Perhaps a Charles Darwin beard?’

‘What’s that like?’

‘Full and unkempt.’

‘That’s your style.’

‘Apparently Darwin had facial eczema. Shaving brought it on. Cutthroat razors and coarse soap. After about fifty years of putting up with it, one day he said fuck it, and never shaved again.’

‘I bet he didn’t.’

‘No, it’s true,’ he protested.

‘I mean said fuck it. He probably said rats or botheration or something equally Victorian. And isn’t it sheep that get facial eczema?’

‘Darwin, too.’

‘Sheep don’t shave.’

He was about to offer a witty rejoinder but Cara had lost interest in the monument and was moving further down the pathway. It had been the liveliest she had been since they left Arras and he had been obscurely grateful. She had seemed increasingly distracted of late, as if he had somehow become a passenger, not a fellow traveller, on her journey.

He loved her. Cara Bernstein. French teacher. Colleague at Huntingdon.

What else? American. What else? At that point, if he were honest, not a lot. It didn’t really matter. What mattered was the fact of her: her reality.

David had fooled himself once before that he was in love — a delusion that had led to a short-lived marriage and a rapid divorce. He was convinced his love was genuine this time, just as he now knew his first had been illusory: a play relationship in which he had wallowed in a starring role.

He knew he had no starring role this time. Cara was elusive and often hidden, but this only increased her fascination. She was a mess of contradictions, of course: open but private, light-hearted but serious, enchanting but infuriating. He hadn’t long been at the school and was still new to northern France when they had struck up a conversation in the staffroom. Her smile had been so warm he had felt obscurely honoured. When she offered to show him around the countryside he couldn’t believe his luck. She was as good as her word and a first-class guide. Her French was as excellent as his was clumsy. They visited villages and small towns and World War I sites, and lunched at small estaminets or country cafés when they hadn’t packed a hamper.

Their friendship quickly deepened and it seemed inevitable they would become lovers, although, to David’s disappointment, their lovemaking had been always on Cara’s terms: playful rather than with the intensity and reciprocal passion David yearned for.

***

David now found himself on a pathway he remembered: the one that led to the graveyard.

The monument was easy; the graveyard was difficult.

When he had first seen it he had been enchanted. He assumed Cara had been enchanted, too. It was otherworldly. Literally, because it was the world of the dead, but also because of the beauty, the stillness, the great trees holding up their arms to shelter this final city of the burghers, the worthies and the dignitaries, a last city of marble and basalt and sculpture. There were seraphim and cherubim, angels and madonnas, carefully crafted paths and steps, stone trumpets sounding the eternallast hurrah and hosanna.

However, Cara’s distraction had returned. It was as if she had turned down a dimmer switch. He found himself without light.

It was, he should have realised, entirely the wrong time to pull out the small box he had been cradling in his pocket since the start of their walk. The background was perfect — the trees, the marble, the beauty— but Cara’s mood was not. Perhaps some crazy impulse had persuaded him that the gesture might somehow lift her.

‘What’s this?’

‘Open it.’

He’d seen the ring in a shop in Arras. A simple thing, quite unadorned: a single sapphire set in a silver band. It was, he imagined, exactly the kind of unfussy, plainspoken ring that would appeal to Cara.

She opened the black velvet box, quickly took in its contents and glanced up at David.

‘Is this what I think it is?’

She was smiling.

David nodded. He could not quite read her smile.

She sighed and shook her head. ‘I do wish you hadn’t.’

David was beginning to find the smile disconcerting. He tried to test it.

‘What are you saying? I do wish you hadn’t or Oh, David, you shouldn’t have?’

The smile faded and she said, ‘I’m saying I do wish you hadn’t. I like you a lot, David — you know that. More than most people I’ve known.’

‘So, what’s the problem?’

‘There’s no problem.’ The smile returned. ‘You’re a lovely guy. We have fun. But you are a bit of a sentimental bear. You must know that.’

David felt stung but was determined not to show it. ‘A teddy bear?’

This time she laughed. ‘If you will . . . And people don’t marry their teddy bears.’

‘People have done worse!’

‘I guess they have. But—’

‘Why not?’

‘You are a sweet man, probably nicer than anybody else at Huntingdon and, as I said, we have fun.’

‘We’ve had more than fun!’

Cara’s voice took on an edge of rebuke.

‘David, a few pleasant nights does not mean we have to spend a life together. I’m sorry.’

There was no answer to that.

There was nowhere else to go.

‘I guess . . .’ he said reluctantly.

She gave him a small look of relief as he took the box from her and replaced it in his pocket.

‘I’m sorry, David,’ she said, ‘I’ve been a little mean. It’s a very nice offer and I do thank you for it. Honestly. But you know . . .’ She took his hand and squeezed it.

He gave her a tight little smile he hoped was sufficiently hurt but not too tragic. He was confused and upset, and he was gloomily grateful when, a short time later, they separated to follow their own discoveries.

Only later when he checked his watch and realised they needed to be getting back did he discover that the hillside pathways among the crypts and tombs were a maze. He retraced his steps and found other steps he had never traced, but there was no sign of her.

Cara had vanished.

He shouted her name but there was no answer. He checked his watch again and redoubled his speed. Up paths and down paths, but no Cara.

He took out his phone and called her. Voicemail. He left a brief message.

He sat down on a step and tried to think calmly, rationally. Cara could be playful at times — quite often, really — but this wasn’t a game. In a game she would have allowed herself to be discovered eventually, back against a tree or hidden in an alcove.

Something must have called her away. A call of nature? There were no public facilities on the walk. But there were trees everywhere and the place was practically deserted.

He called her again, and sent a text. No response.

If she’d been some other woman, he might have presumed she had been annoyed by his awkward proposal. But Cara wasn’t some other woman. That was the reason he loved her. He wanted to marry her, for Christ’s sake.

In any event, she hadn’t been at all perturbed by his proposal. Bemused, perhaps, but she had been gentle with him, matter of fact. Typically Cara. There was no suggestion she felt the need to rush off and find the smelling salts.

It was becoming dark. Bewildered, and out of options, David returned to the little hotel in Kessenich only to be told Cara had checked out. She had left no message for him.

He pressed the desk clerk until he could no longer bear the man’s insufferable politeness and faint, knowing smile.

Whether to call Cara’s bluff or to wring out another complete change he was never really sure, but, afterwards, he did let his beard grow, and eventually it developed into a Charles Darwin beard, full and unkempt.

Perhaps that was why the woman with the poodles had looked at him so curiously.