In the Oceania wing of the Louvre I saw it: the totem. It was approximately ten feet high, a primitive, angular wooden figure, seemingly female, with a long, narrow brute face, blank eyes, and a slash for a mouth. Its breasts were exaggerated like a beast's dugs, foot-long wooden slats de- scending from the shoulders; against these breasts the figure clenched what appeared to be a nursing infant. Except the infant was only a head, grotesquely large and round; the infant had no body. The totem was identified simply as an aboriginal "Maternal Figure" from British Columbia, Can- ada, at least two hundred years old. There. There it is. It wasn't burned after all ... I was confused, I wasn't thinking coherently. In the chilly, austere room in which the aboriginal totem was dis- played it exuded an air so raw, elemental, primitive it seemed only minimally human. I stared at it, and shud- dered. I turned away, wanting to leave, but found myself staring at the totem again, having returned to stand before it. As if the nursing mother had called to me... Gillian? Don't be afraid. We are beasts, this is our consolation. For here was nightmare. Here was obscenity. I imagined how, staring at such a thing, a man might feel sexual desire wither and shrink within him: the yearning, hungry male reduced here to an ugly head, pressed so tight against the mother, it must surely smother. A woman would feel all softness within her, the tenderness that makes us human, vanish. We are beasts, we feel no guilt. Never guilt. "Madame? Excuse me, but are you-all right?" The voice was reassuringly American. A prosperous middle-aged Midwestern-looking gentleman who, with his concerned wife, had been observing me. Quickly I said, my bright American smile like neon flash- ing, "Thank you, you're very kind. But I'm fine.” I'd been stricken with light-headedness and may have been swaying on my feet. But now I was fine. And I didn't want to be approached, and I didn't want to be touched. The couple continued to stare at me so I repeated, "Thank you!" and turned decisively away. I left the Louvre, shaken. Blindly I walked along the Seine embankment. That totem! So ugly, and yet so powerful. And the eyes. I was thinking of the deaths of two people I'd loved, a long time ago. They'd died horribly, and their deaths were believed to be accidental. The Parisian sky was opaque, the Seine was the color of lead. Far away the romantic spires of Notre Dame were nearly obscured in mist, or smog. I was so distracted I hardly noticed the venders' intrusive stalls blocking the view of the fabled river. I was forty-four years old. A quarter-century had passed. This is not a confession. You will see, I have nothing to confess. In the night, sirens erupting. In the night, the terrible beauty of fire. A night in midwinter. In bitter sub-zero cold. In the Berk- shire Mountains in southwestern Massachusetts. Flames leaping skyward out of the densely wooded cul-de-sac of a gravel road bordering the college. A deafening alarm was ringing in our residence. I be- lieved I could smell smoke, my heart hammered in panic. Still I had time to think, This can't be happening. For it was never real to me. Never would it seem other than a confused dream. I stumbled outside with the others. We were dazed like cattle stampeding. It was 3:50 A.M. It was fifteen degrees below zero. The icy wind blew smoke into our faces. My head ached with cold, where was my hair? What had hap- pened to my hair? I touched my head, my close-cropped hair, and remembered. My hair, too, was burning. My braided hair, so beautiful. We saw: the fire was elsewhere. Not Heath Cottage. The alarm in our residence had been pulled in error. We should have felt relief, the fire was a half-mile away. Where? One of the faculty houses on Brierly Lane? Some of us were crying. Like frightened children we gripped one another's icy hands. Yet there was an air of festivity, too. A fire? Oh, where? Hastily we'd thrown on coats and jackets, kicked our bare feet into boots. Panic made us silly, somehow. It was so cold, tears ran down our cheeks and began to freeze within seconds. Beautiful husky Dominique grabbed me and licked away my frost-tears with her soft, warm tongue. Proctors were telling us to return to the residence, we were in no danger. The fire was off-campus. Volunteer fire- men from Catamount were already at the burning house. A second firetruck, bearing professional firefighters, would arrive from Great Barrington within a few minutes. Still, the fire would burn "out of control" for a lethal period of more than an hour. By the time the fire had been reported by a Brierly Lane neighbor, it was burning intensely. By the time firemen del- uged the roof with water, much of the roof had burned through. Most of the houses on Brierly Lane were old New En- gland farmhouses and colonials, made of wood and stucco. With steep, shingled roofs. Set back from the graveled road in dense thickets of juniper pines and birches. Driveways were narrow, making the approach of firetrucks difficult. I hated the proctors shouting at us as if we were willful children. We were not children, we need not obey. Some of us wanted to slip past the proctors and make our way across campus, to Brierly Lane. To see for ourselves what was happening. Whose house was burning. Particles of soot were blown against our faces. Sticking in our eyelashes like tarry tears. Someone, it might have been Cassie, squeezed my hand so hard I winced in pain. Though it was a happy, giddy, adrenaline-charged pain. Whose house is it, burning? Is it ...? We were being herded back inside Heath Cottage. Sud- denly I was very tired, I wanted to lie down on the stairs and sleep. I wanted only to be safe inside, in the lighted warmth. My knees were shaking. I stumbled on the steps that seemed so steep suddenly, a friend caught me beneath the arms. I was such a small girl, I weighed only ninety pounds. But don't be deceived. Or maybe: I hadn't been awakened by the siren. I hadn't been awakened by the fire alarm. Or by the other girls' cries. In fact, I hadn't slept yet that night, I'd been lying partly undressed in my cot-sized bed, Catamount College- issue with no frills, a metal frame, lumpy mattress, and no headboard, writing in my journal notebook as I'd been commanded. Go for the jugular.