Читать книгу Undressing Emmanuelle: A memoir - Sylvia Kristel - Страница 12

8

Aunt Alice is as upright and well behaved as Aunt Mary is unpredictable, unique and crazy.

Aunt Alice is my mother’s sister. She arrives early each morning by train from Hilversum (about fifteen miles away) to work at the hotel. She lives with her mother, my pious, Protestant, austere, taciturn, good grandmother.

Sometimes, I leave the bustle of the hotel to seek refuge with her. I took the train by myself for the first time aged four. With the wind in the right direction I could hear the train departure announcements quite clearly. I thought they were calling me so I left without a word, a little doll, small, resolute and self-propelled.

‘Stand back from the platform edge, the Hilversum train is about to depart!’

This time I am on board, a little girl who intrigues the other passengers.

My grandmother has principles. In contrast to the murky busyness of the hotel, she gives clarity and rules to my childhood: something to lean on.

No noise on Sundays at Granny’s house, no bicycle. The table is a place of quiet, not a station chip shop. You must meditate and pray so as not to burn in the flames of hell. You thank God at every meal as if He were providing the food Himself. It’s strange. I sense that my questions would not be welcome in this slightly strained silence, so I keep quiet, I obey, that’s why I’m here.

There’s a three-sided mirror in front of my chair. I always make sure I can see it, training my curiosity on myself. I peer at my reflection, discovering myself a little more each time. An often solitary child, I am interested in myself. I look at my profile, the top of my head, the usually invisible parts of myself. I also watch myself grow. And the bigger I grow, the more I watch myself. I like looking at myself. When my grandmother isn’t there I go right up to the mirror, so close I could kiss it. My breath creates a light mist that I wipe away with an arm so I can find myself again. I move each of my features in turn, making all kinds of false faces that I hold for a few moments. Pretending is easy.

I’m intrigued by the colour of my eyes, by the family resemblance. I don’t know the name of this colour. Grey, pale green …?

My grandmother doesn’t like my narcissistic ways, my poses. This lengthy contemplation of my face, its discovery from every angle, distracts me from my prayer and is really too much. So one day Granny stands up, tacks some newspaper over the mirror and looks at me with kindly authority, not saying a word. Deprived of the sight of myself, for a few days of the holidays I surrender to my grandmother’s good, serene orderliness.