by Joe Bandel
“Is this one of the better places?” the Privy Councilor asked.
The nephew shook his head. “No Uncle Jakob, not at all. We wouldn’t find what we wanted there–This might even be too good. We need the bottom dregs.”
In the back a man in a greasy tight fitting suit sat at a piano continually playing one popular song after another. At times a few drinkers bellowed out words to the songs until the bouncer came over to quiet them down and tell them that this was a respectable place and they couldn’t do that.
Little clerks ran around and a couple good citizens from the province sat at a nearby table making advances and talking dirty to the prostitutes. A waiter swung between the tables bringing an unappetizing brown sauce in glasses and a yellow one in cups. It was called bouillon and the other Melange. He also carried a full carafe of schnapps with little striped shot glasses.
Two women came up to their table and asked for coffee. It was no big deal; they just sat down and ordered.
“The blonde perhaps?” whispered Dr. Petersen.
But the attorney waved him away. “No, no not at all–She is only flesh. Not much better than your monkeys.”
A short one in the back of the room caught his eye. She was dark and her eyes seethed with eagerness. He stood up and waved to her. She loosened herself from her companion and came over to him.
“Listen–” he began.
But she said, “Not tonight, I already have a gentleman–Tomorrow if you want.”
“Get rid of him,” he urged. “Come with us. We are looking for something special.”
That was tempting. “Tomorrow– can’t it wait until tomorrow darling? I really can’t tonight. He’s an old customer. He paid twenty Marks.”
Frank Braun gripped her arm, “I will pay much more, a lot more. Do you understand? You will have it made. It’s not for me–It’s for the old man over there. He wants something special.”
She stopped. Her gaze followed his eyes to the Privy Councilor. “Him, over there?”
She sounded disappointed. “What would he be wanting?”
“Lucy,” screamed the man at her table.
“I’m coming,” she answered. “Not tonight. We can talk about it tomorrow if you want. Come back here around this time.”
“Stupid woman,” he whispered.
“Don’t be angry. He will kill me if I don’t go with him tonight. He’s always that way when he’s drunk. Come tomorrow–do you hear me? And leave the old man–Come alone. You won’t need to pay if you don’t like it.”
She left him standing and ran over to her table.
Frank Braun saw how the dark gentleman with the starched felt hat bitterly reproached her. Oh yes, she had to remain true to him–for tonight. He went through the hall slowly looking at the prostitutes but couldn’t find any that looked corrupt enough. There was still a last residue of self-respect, some instinctive certainty of belonging to some other class of society.
No, there were none of the lowest of the low. The pert and saucy ones that had their own way, that knew what they wanted to be, whores. He could hardly define what it was that he was looking for. It was a feeling. She must love what she does, he thought, and want no other. She would not be like these others that through some chance unfortunate coincidence had wound up here.
These upright little women would have been workers, waitresses, secretaries or even telephone operators if their lives had only been just a little bit different. They were only prostitutes because the coarse greed of males made it that way.
No, the one he was looking for should be a prostitute. Not because she couldn’t be anything else, but because every inch of her body screamed for new embraces. Because under the caresses of one lover, her soul already longed for the kisses of another. She needed to be a prostitute just like he–he hesitated. What was he? Tired and resigned, he finished his thought, just like he needed to be a dreamer.
He returned back to the table, “Come uncle. She is not here. We will go some other place.”
The Privy Councilor protested but his nephew wouldn’t listen.
“Come uncle,” he repeated. “I promised you that I would find someone and I will find her.”
They stood up, paid, went across the street and then further to the north.
“Where,” asked Dr. Petersen.
The attorney didn’t answer, just kept walking, and looking at the big signs on the coffeehouses. Finally he stopped.
“Café–Drinks–Gentlemen,” he murmured. “That would be right.”
These dirty rooms were furnished in every style imaginable. To be sure, the little white marble tables stood here as well and plush red sofas were stuck against the walls. The rooms were lit with the same electric bulbs and the same flat-footed waiters shoved through the crowd in sticky suit coats.
But there was no pretense. Everything appeared just as it really was. The air was bad, smoky and stuffy, but when you breathed it in you felt better and freer somehow. There was no constraint and students sat at nearby tables drinking their beer and talking dirty with the women. They were all confident, sure of themselves, as mighty floods of filth flowed out of their lips. One of them, small and fat with a face full of dueling scars appeared inexhaustible and the women neighed and bent over writhing with resounding laughter.
Pimps sat around on the walls playing cards or sitting alone, staring at the drunken musicians and whistling along while drinking their schnapps. Once in awhile a prostitute would come in, go up to one of them, speak a few hurried words and then disappear again.
“This will do!” Frank Braun said. He waved to the waiter, ordered cherry water and told him to send a few women over to the table. Four came but as they sat down he saw another going out the door, a tall, strong woman in a white silk blouse with luxurious fiery red hair springing out from under a little hat. He leaped up and rushed out into the street after her.
She went up the road slowly, indolently, lightly rocking her hips. She curved to the left and entered into a doorway. Glowing red letters arched over it, “North Pole Dance Hall”. He stepped across the dirty yard after her and entered into the smoky hall almost the same time she did but she didn’t notice. She stood standing out in front looking over the dancing crowd.
It was noisy with yells and shouts; men and women whirled around moving their legs till the dust flew high as the harsh words of the Rix Dorfer howled through the music. It was rough, crude and wild as the dancers pushed through each other and the crowd was certainly growing.
He liked the Croquette and the Likette that they danced over on the Montmartre and in the Latin Quarter on the other side of the Seine and fell into them easily. They were lighter, more grand and full of charm. There was none of that in this shoving, seething mass, not the slightest twinge of what the French girls called “focus”.
But a hot blood screamed out of the Rix Dorfer, a wild passion was driving the dancers crazy throughout the dance hall. The music stopped and the dance master collected money in his dirty sweaty hands from the women, not from the men. Then he bowed to the audience and gestured grandly for the band in the gallery to start a new dance.
But the crowd didn’t want the Rhinelander. They screamed at the conductor, yelling at him to stop but the orchestra played on battling against the will of the dance hall, secure high above and behind their balustrade.
Then the Maitre pressed out onto the floor. He knew his women and his fellows, held them solidly in his hand and would not be intimidated by drunken yells or threatening raised fists. But he also knew when he had to give in.
“Play the Emil,” he called up. “Play Emil!”
A fat female in a huge hat wound her arm around the dance master’s dusty suit coat.
“Bravo, Justav. That was well done!”
His influence spread like oil over the raging crowd. They laughed, pressed onto the dance floor, cried “Bravo”, and slapped him whole heartedly on the back or playfully punched him in the belly. Then, as the waltz began he broke ou
t in song, screaming and hoarse:
“Emil, you are a plant,
You climb all over me!
Are always quick to kiss
And that’s why I love you!”
“Alma,” cried out someone in the middle of the room. “There’s Alma!”
He left his partner standing, sprang up and grabbed the red haired prostitute by the arm. He was a short dark fellow with smooth hair curling tight against his forehead and bright piercing eyes.
“Come,” he cried, grabbing her tightly around the waist.
The prostitute danced. More daring than the others, she pranced the waltz letting her partner whirl her quickly around. After a few beats she was completely into the dance, throwing her hips around, bending forward and backward, pressing her body up against her partner in constant contact. It was shameless, vulgar and brutally sensual.
Frank Braun heard a voice near him, saw the dance master watching the prostitute with keen appreciation.
“Damn, that whore can swing her ass!”
Oh yes, she could swing her ass! She swung it high and cheeky like a flag, like a storm filled banner of naked lust, like the Baroness Gudel de Gudelfeld swung hers for the applause of the Crown Prince.
She doesn’t need any ornaments thought Frank Braun as his eyes followed her down the hall and back. He quickly stepped up to her as the music stopped and laid his hand on her arm.
“Pay first,” the dark haired man laughed at him.
He gave the man a coin. The prostitute looked him over with a quick look, examining him from top to bottom.
“I live nearby,” she said. “Scarcely three minutes in the–”
He interrupted her, “It doesn’t matter where you live, come with me.”
In the meantime back in the café the Privy Councilor offered the women something to drink. They wanted sherry brandy and asked if he could possibly pay their other tab, two beers, pancakes and a cup of coffee. The Privy Councilor paid, then tried his luck. He had a proposal to make and they might be interested he said. But only one of them could accept his very profitable offer and they would have to throw dice to see who got it.
Thin Jenny laid her arm on his shoulder. “We better roll those dice quick old man, that’s for sure! The ladies and I–we want to know what an old goat like you can teach us in bed that we don’t already know!”
Elly, a petite doll headed blonde seconded her.
“What my friend means is don’t waste our time. Bring on the money!”
She sprang up and got some dice. “Now children, let’s find out who gets to accept the old man’s proposal.”
But fat Anna, the one they called “The Hen”, protested.
“I always lose at dice,” she said. “Won’t you pay some consolation money, uncle, for the ones that don’t win?”
“Certainly,” said the Privy Councilor. “Five marks for each of you.”
He laid three fat pieces of silver on the table.
“You are swell!” Jenny praised him and confirmed it by ordering another round of Sherry-Brandy. She was also the winner. She took the three pieces of money and handed them to the others.
“There, you have your consolation money. Now open up you old rascal and tell me all of the shameful things that you want me to do. I am prepared.”
“Then listen dear child,” began the Privy Councilor. “It concerns some very unusual things–”
“You are a man, aren’t you?” the prostitute interrupted him. “I’m not a virgin anymore and haven’t been one for a long time. Our dear God has some strange beasts running around in his zoo and I’ve picked up a few things along the way. It will be hard to show me something new.”
“But you don’t understand me at all, dear Jenny,” said the Professor. “I demand nothing like that of you at all. I want you to take part in a scientific experiment.”
“I knew it,” Jenny blurted out. “I knew it–You are a Doctor aren’t you old man?–I had a Doctor once that always began with scientific experiments–He was the greatest pig of them all!–Now Prosit, uncle. That’s fine with me. I will fulfill all of your delightful fantasies.”
The Privy Councilor toasted and drank to her.
“We shall see soon enough how free from prejudice you really are–To make it short, this concerns an experiment with artificial insemination.”
“A what?” the girl started. “Artificial–insemination? What’s the need for that?–The common way seems to work well enough!”
The dark haired Clara grinned.
“I think it would be better to have an experiment to prevent pregnancy.”
Dr. Petersen came to his master’s aid.
“Will you permit me to try and explain to them?”
When the Privy Councilor nodded he gave a little lecture about the basic concept, the results that had been obtained so far and the possibilities for the future. He stressed sharply that the procedure was completely painless and that all the animals they had worked with up to now had remained completely healthy.
“What kind of animals?” Jenny asked.
The assistant doctor answered, “Up until now only rats, monkeys and guinea-pigs – ”
That set her off, “Guinea-pigs!–I might be a pig–I’ve been called an old sow! But no one has ever called me a Guinea pig! And you, you fat headed old hedgehog, want me to allow you to treat me like a Guinea pig?–Never, do you understand! That is something Jenny Lehman will not do!”
The Privy Councilor tried to calm her down, gave her another schnapps.
“You don’t understand dear child–” he began.
But she wouldn’t let him finish.
“I understand well enough,” she said. “I should give myself up to some greasy beast–or be inoculated with some filthy serum–or germ–I might even end up on your vivisection table.”
She was getting into it now, becoming overcome with anger and passion.
“Or I should bring some monster into this world that you can show at the circus! A child with two heads and a rat’s tail or one that looks half Guinea pig–I know where they abort such monstrous things–and you want to breed them. I should give myself up for that? Let you artificially inseminate me?–Look out old pig–here is what I think of your artificial insemination.”
She sprang up, bent over the table and spit into the Privy Councilor’s face. Then she raised the little glass, quietly drank it, turned quickly around and proudly walked away.
At the same moment Frank Braun appeared in the door and waved for them to come outside.
“Come here Herr Doctor, come here quick!” Dr. Petersen called out to him as he was trying to wipe the Privy Councilor clean.
“Now what’s going on?” the attorney asked as he stepped up to the table.
The professor squinted at him. He appeared to be bitter and angry. The three prostitutes were shouting in confusion as Dr. Petersen explained what had happened.
“What should we do now?” he finished.
Frank Braun shrugged his shoulders, “Do? Nothing at all. Pay and go–nothing else–By the way, I’ve found what we need.”
They went out. The red haired prostitute stood in front of the door waving down a taxi with her parasol. Frank Braun pushed her inside, then let the Privy Councilor and his assistant climb in. He called out the address to the coachman and climbed in with the others.
“Permit me to make introductions,” he cried. “Miss Alma–his Excellency Privy Councilor ten Brinken–and the good doctor Herr Karl Petersen.”
“Are you crazy?” The professor began.
“Not at all Uncle Jakob,” said the attorney quietly. “Fräulein Alma will learn your name anyway if she stays for a long time at your home or your clinic whether you like it or not.”
He turned to the prostitute, “Excuse me, Fräulein Alma. My uncle is a little old!”
He couldn’t see the Privy Councilor in the dark but he could clearly hear how his uncle pressed his wide lips together in impotent rage. It pleased him a
nd he thought that his uncle would finally loose it but he was wrong. The Privy Councilor remained calm.
“So have you already told the young lady what this is about? Does she understand?”
Frank Braun laughed in his face. “She has no idea! I have not spoken a word about it, have only been with Fräulein Alma scarcely a hundred steps from across the street–I’ve scarcely spoken ten words with her–but I have seen how she dances–”
“But Herr Doctor,” the assistant doctor interrupted him. After what we have just experienced wouldn’t it be better to let her know?”
“Dear Petersen,” the attorney said arrogantly. “Calm down. I am convinced that this is just the girl we need and I think that is enough.”
The coach stopped in front of a wine locale and they entered. Frank Braun asked for a private room in the back and the waiter led them to one. Then he looked at the wine selection and ordered two bottles of Pommery and a bottle of cognac.
“Hurry up!” he cried.
The waiter brought the wine and left. Frank Braun closed the door. Then he stepped up to the prostitute.
“Please Fräulein Alma, may I take your hat?”
She gave him her hat and her wild, unpinned hair cascaded down and curled around her forehead and cheeks. Her face was clear with just a few freckles and her green eyes shimmered. Small rows of bright teeth shone out between thin pale lips and she was surrounded by a consuming, almost unnatural sensuality.
“Take off your blouse,” he said.
She obeyed quietly. He loosened both buttons of her shift at the shoulders and pulled it down to reveal two almost classically formed breasts that were only a little too firm. Frank Braun glanced over at his uncle.
“That will be enough,” he said. “The rest will look just as good. Her hips certainly leave nothing more to desire.”
Then he turned back to the prostitute. “Thank you Alma. You may get dressed again.”