The Dark Frontier A. Decker (i like reading TXT) 📖

of doors to be opened and boundaries to be crossed, not a place for closed compartments.”

“I always wanted to have babies. I wouldn’t if I was a lesbian, would I?” Ellen asked in an attempt to reassure herself.

“A lesbian is also a woman. But, as I say, you don’t have to be a lesbian to enjoy the comfort of another woman.”

“One thing puzzles me, Marthe. You have a very prominent painting in your lounge of two women in an erotic embrace. I’m surprised you don’t like it.”

“What makes you think I don’t like it?” Marthe asked. “I like it very much. But I don’t like the way Urs likes it. He looks at it as a psychiatrist. Not as a man.”

“I’m so confused,” Ellen said. She wanted to cry, and felt Marthe tighten her embrace as if sensing her despair. She was grateful for the affection and nestled her head under the gentle sweep of Marthe’s chin – no stubble, no hint of aftershave, but smooth and soft, the smells of a woman. Such surprising, unaccustomed comfort in her arms.

Marthe ran her fingers over Ellen’s lips and rested her thumb in the deep furrow that ran from her upper lip to the lower reaches of her nose. It reminded Ellen of the way Frank liked to stroke her upper lip.

“You have a beautifully deep philtrum,” Marthe said. “That’s a good sign. We call it a love charm in German. The deeper the better.”

“A bit like Cupid’s bow,” Ellen said with an embarrassed smile. She was keen to change the subject. “Have you never wanted to have babies?” she asked.

It was an innocent question. But Marthe gave no immediate reply. And when Ellen looked up, she was gazing into space, a vague smile on her lips, but sadness hidden in her eyes. She felt for a moment that she had lost her, that her words had stirred an unwanted memory. She was desperate to say something, to bring her back, but was afraid of what further damage she might do.

They remained in this uncomfortable silence beside each other, touching, until Marthe judged the time was right for a reply. And when eventually she did speak, she gave the impression at first of having returned from some internal struggle which she needed to put behind her.

“Do you remember that man we saw this morning who tidied the grave in the woods?” she asked, taking Ellen briefly by surprise with this digression. “That’s the local gravedigger. He is looking after that grave all his life, and his father before, and his father before him. According to legend, a nun from the convent was walking through the forest and suddenly stopped when she reached that place. She could not go any further, and was overcome by such a fit that she fell on the ground. When they tried to help her, she refused to move. She said that she could feel the spirit of a body buried there which was not consecrated. And she would not move until the body had been dug up and given a proper burial. When at last they dug the ground, they really did find a body – or better, a skeleton. It was very old, and a strange leather bag was lying beside the body, which contained only a few stones. Many stories have been invented to explain the meaning of these stones, but nobody knows for certain what happened. So they made a new grave for the skeleton and consecrated the burial. Since then, the gravedigger from the next village always looked after the grave and brought new flowers for it. So it became a tradition, which was passed through the family – the gravedigger’s son became the new gravedigger and took on this duty, like his son after him.”

Marthe paused. She ran the painted nail of her index finger pensively along the midline from Ellen’s belly to her sternum. And left her hand to lie there on Ellen’s chest.

“Such continuity.” She paused again. Ellen smouldered under the gentle friction of her caresses. But there was a sense of disquiet in Marthe’s words, as if she was struggling to come to terms with a troubled past. “This is the reason why we have children. So that we can pass on our traditions. Perhaps I never had any which I wanted to pass on. But what about Frank? I have this picture of a man with a very strong sense of tradition.”

“I don’t think so. Not really.” Ellen said. “We only seriously discussed having a family once, just a few weeks before he disappeared. Well, it wasn’t even a discussion, really.”

“And?”

Ellen paused for thought, before finding the words to reply.

“He’s just not ready yet.”

“Do you think this had something to do with Frank leaving?” asked Marthe.

“He hasn’t left. He’s gone missing,” Ellen insisted. She was ruffled, yet irritated at the same time by her own oversensitivity. “Oh please Marthe, don’t spoil everything. I was so enjoying this.” She let her hand skate over Marthe’s silky body to emphasise her pleasure – so free and so understanding, not tied by the demands of the male body, or at least of Frank’s.

“Have you ever slept with a woman before?” Ellen asked.

Preferring to respond to Ellen’s caresses rather than to her words, Marthe resumed her own exploration, running the fingers of her hand back down over Ellen’s belly, a finger poised teasingly on the edge of her desire.

“The first time was in the boarding school, when I was fifteen. This is the second time.”

“Does your husband know?”

“Why should he? It was a long time ago. Anyway, he has a very open mind. He may seem conservative in many ways. But he was the one who encouraged me to help campaign for the women’s vote in the referendum.”

This prosaic turn in the conversation threatened to pull the rug from under Ellen’s longing. To counter the looming change of mood, she lifted her right leg and draped it over Marthe’s left thigh, inviting