by Louise Welsh
Dix was as stone calm as he’d been at our last meeting, but Sylvie’s high was edging on a fever. She described the evening, acting out both of our parts, not minding that Dix only nodded where she laughed, but then she was laughing enough for all three of us, her eyes darting between Dix and me, as if unsure of whether she could hold us both on her leash while there were so many other distractions around.
'You have to come tomorrow, Dix, it’s an ace trick, they loved it.'
'OK.' Dix looked beyond Sylvie at the girls on stage, following their legs, his face unimpressed, as if he’d seen the act before and didn’t find it much improved. He turned to me. 'So, William, did they want to see a magical trick or did they want to watch you cut her open?'
'Is that not a bit sick?'
Dix’s face wore a serious expression, but it was hard to see his eyes behind his specs.
'Perhaps, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true.'
Sylvie’s smile was eager; her teeth shone white against the nightclub gloom.
'They want to see you murder me, William.'
'Aye, the greatest show on Earth.'
Dix looked me straight in the eye, his voice mellow, and I thought that perhaps he meant what he said.
'There are people who would pay a lot of money to see it.'
'Sick people.'
'Rich, sick people.' He stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray then levelled his stare to meet mine. 'Better they see a trick than the real thing.'
'Better they get treatment.'
He shrugged.
'Maybe it could be treatment of a sort. Get it out of their system. Seriously, we should talk about it. You’re a conjurer. We find the right sick people and make it look real enough
— it could be a good way to get rich.' His gaze held mine. 'Remember, William, we’re all sick in some way.'
'Speak for yourself.'
'You’re a dying man, William.' Sylvie leaned forward with an intensity that might have been sincerity or maybe just drink. 'From the moment we’re born we start to die.'
I lit a fag and said, 'All the more reason not to hasten things along.'
Sylvie slid the cigarette from my fingers.
'You’ll not want this then?'
And for the only time that evening we all laughed together. But even as we laughed, Sylvie grinning at me through the smoke of my lost cigarette and Dix almost managing to look avuncular, I started to wonder if this was the only late-night place in the district or if there was a quiet bar somewhere that I could slope off to. Sylvie and Dix began slipping between English and German. I listened for a while, keeping my eyes on the girls up on stage, then stood up and made my way unsteadily across the room.
The saucy sailor was perched on a stool by the bar in a pose that made the best of her long legs. I guessed she’d grown too tall to be a ballerina, but I had no problem with her height. I looked up to tall girls. The barman was wiping glasses at the opposite end of the small bar. I feigned interest in the matchbooks tumbled in a round fishbowl on the counter next to the dancer, picking one up and reacquainting myself with the champagne bather, wondering how drunk I was. I swung onto a stool, grasping the edge of the bar to steady myself, realising I was pretty blasted. But a man fit enough to get his leg over a barstool still has some hope. I treated the sailorgirl to the full force of the William Wilson grin and said,
'Great song.'
Close to, the girl’s thick stage makeup grew malicious. Face powder had drifted into the fine lines around her mouth; it rested in the creases that framed her dark eyes and hung amongst the fine down coating her cheeks and upper lip. She looked ten years older than she had on stage, but she was still out of my league. She gave a slight nod of the head, but there was no trace of the smile that had glittered throughout her performance.
'Thank you.'
Her accent was Greta Garbo, Marlene Dietrich and Ingrid Bergman all coiled into one well-tuned set of vocal cords. The barman gave me an amused look, then turned his attention to the glass he was cleaning, holding it up to the light, making no move to serve me.
I said ‘Ein Bier, bitte’, pleased my German was coming along, then turned to the girl and gave her my best chat-up line.
'Can I buy you a drink?' She hesitated. I followed her gaze to the table where Dix and Sylvie were deep in conversation, then caught her eyes in mine, forcing her to look at me instead. 'Singing must be a thirsty business.'
It was nowhere near hypnosis, just a cheap use of her good manners, but it worked.
'OK, that would be nice.'
I wondered if she’d put on any underwear, and if my new status as exotic foreigner would add to my pulling power. The ballerina said something to the man behind the bar then turned back to me.
'You’re from London?'
'Via Glasgow.' She looked uncertain and I said, 'Scotland — wind, snow, rain, tartan, haggis, heather, kilts, all that crap.' She nodded and I added, 'We don’t wear anything under our kilts either.'
She laughed, pretending to be shocked, hiding her mouth behind her hand geisha style.
'Then we have something in common.'
'Aye, cold arses.'
The girl giggled. I appreciated the effort.
'My name’s William, William Wilson.'
I stuck out my hand and she took it in her soft grip.
'Zelda.'
The name suited her and I wondered if she’d had it long. The barman returned with something pink and fizzy in a tall fluted glass and said a price that suggested he’d just handed her the elixir of life. I slid a fifty-euro note across the counter and she raised the glass in a jaunty salute.
'Prost!' Zelda took a sip of her drink and gave me a smile that was worth the money.
'You’re a visitor to Berlin?'
'I’m working here, performing at Schall und Rauch.'
The smile was genuine this time.
'I know it.' She rubbed away some imagined stain from the side of her face. Her eyes did a quick flit towards Sylvie and Dix then back to me. 'Is Sylvie dancing there?'
There was an enforced casualness about the girl’s question that made me wary.
'Sylvie is my lovely assistant.' I smiled and fanned half a dozen of the matchbooks seemingly from nowhere into my hand. 'I’m a conjurer.'
Zelda clapped, but it wasn’t my trick that had made her sailorgirl eyes wide.
'Sylvie isn’t dancing any more?'
The edge to her tone might have been gloating or maybe just surprise. I played it safe for Sylvie’s honour’s sake.
'There’s a lot of dance in the act.'
'Ah.' The glass went to her lips and I began to wonder if I had enough cash to buy her a second drink. 'You can’t have been together long.'
'This was our first night.'
'So you are celebrating.'
'Got it in one.' Zelda glanced towards the table where Dix and Sylvie were leaning intently towards each other, their faces serious. I asked, 'You know each other?'
Zelda smiled a small tight smile.
'A little.'
'Come and join us then.'
The smile grew tighter.
'Dancers need a lot of sleep. One drink is enough.'
I took a sip of my beer.
'There’s a saying where I come from, one’s too many, a hundred’s never enough.'
Zelda drained the last of the pink stuff from the flute.
'You seem like a nice man.' She hesitated. 'Sylvie’s a good dancer, good company…'
'But?'
Zelda shrugged her shoulders.
'There is always a but.'
Yes, I thought, and yours is very nice, but kept my opinion to myself and put a tease into my voice.
'And in Sylvie’s case?' She hesitated and I said, 'Remember, I’m going to be working with her.'
Zelda held her empty glass in front of her, studying its stem, all the better to avoid meeting my eyes.
'Things happen when Sylvie’s around. Sometimes they’re fun.'
/> At last she met my gaze, telling me that what she said was true, she and Sylvie had had fun together.
'But sometimes not so much fun?'
She held my gaze.
'Sometimes not so much fun, no.' She smiled. 'We were friends. I mean it well.' She glanced back at the table where Sylvie was deep in conversation with Dix. 'You know how it is in this business, friendships change with shows, and Sylvie… well, she has loyalties that make it difficult for anyone to stay her friend for long.'
I nodded, encouraging her to go on, while wondering if the poison had been personal or professional. Zelda lifted a small bag from the seat beside her. A gentleman would probably have eased her descent from the high stool, but I hesitated and she slid off elegantly without my help, her skirt shifting up her slim thighs to reveal that she was still naked beneath. Now that she was standing Zelda was taller than me, but I still held her eyes in mine.
'So Sylvie quit?'
Zelda glanced away from me.
'She quit, yes.'
The glance told me some of what I wanted to know. Whatever reason Sylvie had left, it hadn’t been voluntary.
'I don’t suppose you care to go into details?'
Zelda looked at something beyond my left shoulder. I turned and found Dix at my elbow. He smiled, said something soft to Zelda in German then turned to me.
'Another drink?'
'Sure.'
He looked at the dancer and she shook her head.
'I must go.'
I took the stein Dix slid towards me and thanked him, mentally cursing his timing. The sailorgirl was buying a pack of cigarettes from behind the bar. I leaned in towards her.
'Perhaps you’ll come and see my act?'
'Perhaps.'
'I’ll drop by with a couple of tickets.'
'OK.' Zelda’s smile was cool and detached and told me not to bother. Maybe the disappointment showed on my face because she leant over and gave me a kiss on the cheek and whispered, 'Be careful, William.'
Her perfume smelt sweet beneath the faint tang of performance sweat.
'Hey,' I grinned. 'Of course I will. After all I’m a stranger in a strange town.'
This time there was no responding smile. She glanced towards Dix as he made his way back to the table with the drinks and said in a low tone, 'Then perhaps you shouldn’t make life stranger still by mixing with strange people.'
I watched as her slim form swished away from me. The bouncer opened the door, she gave me a last smile then turned away, lifting her skirt, giving me a quick naughty flash of her naked rear, then the door swung to and she was gone. I finished my pint at the bar, ordered another round and went to rejoin Sylvie and Dix.
Dix had set up a fresh jug of wine for Sylvie, but his own glass was empty. I placed a beer in front of him and he shook his head.
'It’s sad, but I have to go.'
'Dix is a busy, busy man. He has cards to deal and deals to shuffle.'
Sylvie’s words were slurred, but she was holding her own against the drink.
Her mention of deals and shuffles made me think about the casino at Alexanderplatz that Dix had mentioned on our first meeting. But I hadn’t placed a bet since I’d arrived in Berlin and was hoping to keep it that way. Anyway, even if I had fancied a flutter I wouldn’t want to do it in Dix’s company, even before his talk of rich perverts who could make our fortunes.
Up on stage the bouncer had donned a red-sequinned waistcoat and bow tie. He smiled shyly then somewhere a karaoke machine started up and he launched into ‘Those Were the Days, My Friend’. He moved his body with the music, jerking against the beat like a blind piano player belting out a Motown number. Tension constricted his voice, making the words come out high and off-key. He should forget the strong-arm stuff. If there was ever any aggro all he needed to do was sing at the troublemakers.
Dix pulled on an expensive-looking coat just as the bouncer swooped into an alarming pitch change. I nodded towards the stage.
'You picked a good time to get going.'
Dix shrugged.
'It’s necessary.'
He laid his hand for a second on Sylvie’s sleek head, and then raised it in general farewell. There was something saintly in the sparseness of the gestures that irritated me.
I gave him a glib, 'See you, then.'
And he leaned in for a final word.
'Remember what I said, we should talk, we could make money together.'
Dix stroked Sylvie’s hair again but she turned away, as if his decision to leave had already removed his presence and any need for goodbyes. She grinned at me without a last glance towards Dix as he walked out of the door.
'Poor Sebastian, he surely loves to sing.'
The bouncer was belting out the chorus now.
zose were ze dayze, my friend,
I thought zyd neffer end
His German accent was so thick I wondered if he’d learnt the words phonetically. But whatever skill his performance lacked, it had sincerity. A small tear coursed its way down a cheek layered over with powder and rouge. Sebastian’s brimming eyes were spiked with mascara, his mouth painted cherry-red. He looked like a corrupted oversized Pinocchio, cast out into the world and destined never to be reunited with Gepetto. A mad puppet set up on stage to remind us that all of our gods are dead.
Sylvie’s voice held an indulgent superiority.
'I like Sebastian, even if he is a violent, tuneless, poor excuse for a bouncer.'
Her voice was growing loud again. Sebastian’s eyes flicked towards us. I wondered if he could hear what she was saying above the music, but he kept singing, throwing his body into his same spastic dance. He slid off his suit jacket and I realised that his shirt was just a front secured by thin straps crisscrossing over his back and around his waist. Sebastian was on the da-da-da-da-da-das now. He unfastened the straps and let the bib shirt go flying towards the bar. His chest was hairless, his nipples unnaturally red or rouged with the same jammy gloss that coated his lips.
'Bring back the dancing girls.'
Sylvie shook her head.
'You ain’t seen nothing yet.'
Across the room a heavyset man excused himself from his companions and started to make his way awkwardly across the room.
'I’ve seen enough — look, folk are leaving.'
Sylvie kept her gaze on Sebastian and put her hand on my elbow. I glanced towards the door, wondering if there was a general exodus, and saw the large man veering in our direction, rolling like a sailor who’d lost his sea legs. Sylvie’s eyes were still fixed on the stage.
'Wait for the money shot.'
'Do I have to?' Sebastian leant forward, grabbing his trousers by the waistline, then there was a ripping sound, the Velcro seams gave and he was standing before us in a pair of pink and black lacy panties, suspenders and stockings. 'It’s a fucking freak show.'
'Don’t worry, William. No fucking involved.'
Sylvie’s laugh halted abruptly. I felt a pressure at my back. The fat man’s hands were resting against my chair as he leaned in towards Sylvie.
'Hey Suze.' His breath stank of beer, smoke, strong spices and belly rot. 'Long time eh?'
Sylvie looked up at him, her eyes panicked but her voice free of all recognition.
'You’re mistaken.'
The man smiled apologetically at me, drink making his grin lopsided, his other hand resting on Sylvie’s chair now. He smoothed it across her back, gracing me with a wink.
'Maybe you could spare her for a while. Fifteen minutes,' the grin flashed again.
'Probably less.'
'She’s told you pal, you’ve got her mixed up with someone else.'
The fat man raised his hands.
'Hey, no mistake, I never forget a face,' he smiled, 'or a mouth, or a cute ass, or a…'
I got to my feet, pushing his hand from the back of my chair. Up on stage Sebastian raised his arms ready to conduct the audience in the chorus, grinning against the sadness of it all, swaying stiff
ly like a human metronome.
'The lady’s told you, she’s not interested.'
'Hey — if she tells me to go I’ll go.' The fat man’s grin was moist, his broad face smooth and pink like a slab of boiled ham. 'There’s enough to go round, first or second, I don’t care, you take your pick.' He laughed. 'You take your prick, then take your pick.'
Sylvie said, 'When was the last time you saw your prick, you fat fuck?', just as I shoved the heel of my hand into the centre of his barrel chest. It wasn’t a hard push, but the man was drunk. He staggered backwards, jarring against the table behind us, spilling drinks in a smash of ice and glass undercut by the sudden protests of the drinkers. It looked like he was going to hit the ground, but the fat man’s rolling gait had taught him his centre of gravity and he regained his balance, pitching like a skittle that refuses to go down. The grin was back now, broader than before. Up on stage Sebastian faltered. The man shrugged his shoulders, palms raised upwards to show there was no problem. I righted my fallen chair and he turned back to me, his voice hurt.
'Why fight about a whore? She’s anyone’s for the asking.'
'Not yours.'
He shrugged.
'Enjoy her. She’s a good fuck, for a whore.'
Sylvie sloshed her wine in his face. The fat man shook his head like a Labrador shaking itself free of water after a swim. He put his face close to Sylvie’s and spoke in English for my benefit. 'You best watch out, Sweetheart, word is your boyfriend’s in debt to the wrong men, and my guess is it’s you who’ll have to pay.'
He put a hand on her breast and squeezed.
When I thought about it later I wasn’t sure whether my anger was sparked by the squeeze or because the man had referred to Dix as Sylvie’s boyfriend. But at that moment there were no coherent thoughts in my head, just the blinding red of rage.
I hit him a punch that connected with his jaw and a bolt of pain shot up through my knuckles. The room boomed as Sebastian dropped the mike. I grabbed my injured right hand in my left and the fat man made to get me in a hug. Sylvie started throwing glasses.
One skated across the stage. Its rumbling progress was picked up by Sebastian’s abandoned mike and blasted across the room. The second flew towards the fat man. He ducked, but too slowly to avoid a glancing blow; beer splashed into his eyes and his big hands flew towards them. Sebastian clambered from the stage. Everything seemed to slow except Sylvie. She kept on moving, grabbing her bag and coat, pushing me towards the door.