‘You lost your brother in the war,’ I said. ‘Yet you don’t hate the Germans.’
‘I have seen too much suffering on both sides for that,’ André answered. ‘Laurent never wanted to go to war. He was a good businessman but preferred a quiet life of reading and walking his dogs. My father thought that becoming an officer would make him more of a “man”. Well, he’s not a man at all now.’
A picture loomed up in my mind: a dark-haired boy peering out a window, watching his older brother leave for the front. The older boy gave one last heart-rending wave to his brother before disappearing for ever. But there was something else besides grief in André’s tone.
‘Are you angry at your father?’
I was surprised at myself for asking such a personal question, but André didn’t seem to mind. He shrugged. ‘I think my father suffers enough on his own without me adding to his guilt. Who could have known that the Great War was going to turn into the biggest bloodbath mankind has ever experienced? He lost his son…and my mother. She gives him the respect of a good wife, but she avoids his eyes when he looks at her. My brother died a hero at Verdun, doing everything he could to save his men, but that does little to heal my mother’s pain at having lost her firstborn son.’
I gazed at the genteel people wandering in the park. Everything seemed tranquil in the soft sunshine. André’s father sounded like a hard taskmaster, driving himself and his sons towards manly perfection. I remembered the way André had stroked and petted Mademoiselle Canier in Paris before we had left. Perhaps André was used to giving and getting nothing in return.
‘There will never be a war like that one again,’ I said.
‘Everyone in France says that. It is what we would like to believe,’ André replied.
I looked at him. ‘You can come here and do business. Herr Adlon might object to you being the son of his competitor, but he doesn’t object to you being French.’
André lit a cigarette, his one and only for the day, and took his time to answer. ‘Business is business between men like Adlon and my father, irrespective of nationality,’ he said. ‘German mothers don’t want to see their children die any more than French mothers do. The Sorbonne will invite German intellectuals to lecture there, and German directors will star French actresses in their plays. It is not from those people that war arises and yet, when the wheels start turning, many of them will rally to it.’
We turned our heads to follow the zigzagging path of a couple on a two-seater bicycle. Just as it seemed they were going to correct their path, they lost their balance and tumbled into a hedge.
‘French politicians are imbeciles,’ said André, flicking ash from his cigarette into a tray. ‘They are more concerned about their seats at the Ballets Russes and where to place their Directoire furniture than economics and international politics. But in the end, at least they care about their popularity. I sometimes think there are dark forces in Germany that would kill their own people if it served their purposes.’
I had never heard anyone say the things André was telling me. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘My father says that the reason inflation never became as bad in France as it did here was because of good luck rather than good management, but my uncle disagrees. He says that what happened to the German economy was more than post-war chaos. They did it to themselves.’
‘Why would they do that?’
‘It was good propaganda. The German press screamed that France’s demands for reparation payments were the sole cause of the problems. Certainly, money going out of a country doesn’t help an ailing economy. But at the height of inflation, when a loaf of bread cost two hundred billion marks, the government kept printing more money. Now why would they do that? Economic ignorance?’ André shook his head. ‘When they stablised the mark three years later, the problem was solved overnight. They were doing it to get out of paying reparations. France couldn’t siphon off anything from an economy that was dry.’
I was puzzled. ‘If so many people hadn’t suffered from that approach, I would have said it was a smart strategy. But the German government wasn’t trying to help their own people, so what did they want the money for?’
André pursed his lips and shook his head. He touched my arm. ‘Come on, Simone, this is gloomy talk. This is not the reason you and I came to Berlin. And who knows? Things might get better. Especially if men like the one we are going to meet this afternoon are allowed to run the country.’
‘Who are we meeting?’
‘Count Harry Kessler. He is the French-born son of a German-Swiss father and an Irish mother. He was educated in England and served as the German ambassador to Poland. He is a publisher and writes himself, but most of all he loves talented artists and entertainers. And when he meets you, he is going to think all his wishes have been granted at once!’
I didn’t know enough about Berlin to know that the Romanische Café was the meeting place of the city’s literary and cultural elite, but I did know enough about cafés to be astounded by how large it was. It had seating for over a thousand customers and was more the size of a dance hall than a café. A portier stood by the revolving door and welcomed us. I couldn’t help noticing his name tag: Nietz. It sounded to me like the English word ‘neat’, which made me smile because it summed up everything about him, from his highly shone boots to his shaved hairline.
I was looking forward to meeting Count Kessler after André had called him ‘the best-connected man in Germany’ and told me that he was friends with everyone from Max Reinhardt to Einstein. I recognised the Count without ever having seen him before. He was seated at a table for regulars and looked as I had imagined him and more: an elegant man in his late fifties, with tapering fingers, appraising eyes and a thin but friendly smile.
From the moment the Count stood up, greeted us in genteel French and shook our hands formally but heartily, I was fascinated by him. His contradictions were intriguing. It was as if he had taken the best of all the cultures he had been exposed to: the precision of the Germans and Swiss; the tact of the British; the charm and wit of the French; and the lively earthiness of the Irish. He was a truly cosmopolitan man.
‘I have taken the liberty of ordering the strawberry cake for us. I can promise you that it will be very good,’ the Count said, grinning at me. His skin had a sallow tinge around the eyes, which suggested ill health, but his face was alert and his movements were so vital that he could have been the same age as me and not forty years my senior.
The Count’s gaze moved over me, taking me in. ‘André has told me that you are an exceptionally talented singer and dancer.’
I glanced at André. At first I was tempted to deny it, at least out of modesty. But then I thought, why should I? That was what I wanted to be and André was determined to make it happen. ‘I’m sure I will be, if André has anything to do with it!’ I said.
‘She reached some sort of plateau in Paris,’ André explained. ‘But what’s amazing is how far she went on her own before that happened. She hasn’t even had proper training. I am hoping that in exposing her to different styles and a different city, she will return to Paris refreshed.’
‘There are exceptional teachers in Berlin,’ said the Count. ‘I can write letters of introduction for you if you like.’ André and I enthusiastically accepted his offer.
The Count nodded. ‘Berlin is different to Paris, Mademoiselle Fleurier,’ he said. ‘I can imagine that the French would be taken with not only your talent but your energy. I could tell you were French the moment you walked in the door, by the way your eyes shone and your body vibrated, as if every new experience in life were a strawberry cake that was making your mouth water. Germans are more cynical than that. But at the same time, I believe that exposing oneself to different cultures creates more depth in one’s personality, and that can only help an artist.’
‘I’ve just arrived in Berlin and I can feel that happening already,’ I told him, more than pleased to be referred to as an ‘artis
t’. I thought what he was saying was true. I had been born in Pays de Sault, but now I had a bit of Marseilles and Paris in me too. ‘Perhaps Berlin will improve my concentration and discipline,’ I said.
The Count leaned towards me. ‘There are some things in Berlin that may shock you,’ he said. ‘In Parisian cabaret, the songs are about disenchanted love and poverty. In Berlin, cabarets are much more political…and often nihilistic. Sex and death are the obsessions here.’
André also leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, ‘Fortunately, unlike the English and Americans, the French are not shocked easily.’
For some reason this comment amused the Count. His face flushed and he tucked his chin into his collar, trying his best to control his laughter. But it convulsed in his chest and escaped as a roar. The sound skimmed across the tables and bounced off the walls, far louder than the clinking of coffee cups and murmured conversations around us. The more the Count tried to restrain himself, the more crimson his face turned and the louder he chortled. Then André’s deep bark of a laugh burst out, echoing after the Count’s delight like a mastiff chasing a ball. I looked from one to the other, their faces scrunched up and their torsos shaking. They were a two-man band producing the music of mirth.
Mademoiselle Canier arrived with her maid and three compartments full of luggage the following day. I thought she must be planning to move to Berlin permanently. When she saw me waiting on the station with André, a frown flitted across her face.
André helped Mademoiselle Canier down to the platform and she planted a lingering kiss on his lips. Her attitude seemed to have changed in the last few days. She behaved the way she had at Le Boeuf sur le Toit, clinging to André’s side like seaweed to the bottom of a boat.
After sitting through a monosyllabic lunch, during which Mademoiselle Canier ate a pickle and pushed the rest of her food to the side of the plate, I was relieved to learn that she had to return to Paris in a fortnight for her cousin’s ball. At least there would be some reprieve. When I was alone with André, he had been informal. As soon as Mademoiselle Canier arrived, he reverted to addressing me as Mademoiselle Fleurier. I saw that I was going to have to feel one way towards him and behave in quite another.
Count Kessler joined us to dine at the Adlon that evening. An amused grin lapped around the corner of his mouth when Mademoiselle Canier spoke to the staff in French. She ignored the Count and me unless André made a specific point of referring to us in the conversation. Afterwards, the four of us took a walk down Friedrichstrasse. Every building seemed to be a cabaret, a cinema, a brothel, a dance hall or a drug den. Prostitutes crowded each corner and lurked in every doorway. I was used to the tarts of Marseilles and the bawdy prostitutes of Montmartre, but the whores of Friedrichstrasse were confronting: they seemed brutal and dangerous in their feather boas, chains and tassels. One dominatrix paced her corner like a panther, cracking her whip and snarling with her teeth. Another woman sat on a fire hydrant, naked except for a pair of lace-up boots. But what surprised me the most was that the people walking up and down the pavements were not working-class hordes but men in bow ties and shirts with mother-of-pearl buttons and women in dresses of oriental silk. They were stepping out of Mercedes Benz limousines and taking in their surroundings with a voyeuristic amusement. Not everyone lost their money during the crisis, I thought. Tycoons, speculators and criminals seemed to have made fistfuls from it.
André and Mademoiselle Canier strolled ahead of us. The Count walked in step with me.
‘Mademoiselle Canier takes an awfully long time to get ready, don’t you think?’ he whispered. ‘I thought we weren’t going to eat until midnight. I timed you both by my watch. You were down in twenty minutes.’
‘I have been trained for quick changes in the music hall,’ I told him.
The Count smiled, and we stopped to watch a half-naked street performer execute a head-stand. We caught an eyeful of pubic hair when the man swung himself back to his feet.
‘You look as though you have had enough, Mademoiselle Fleurier,’ the Count said. ‘This really isn’t my thing either. But lots of tourists like it, and at least you can say you have seen the Friedrichstrasse now.’
The Count called out to André, then stepped to the kerb and hailed a taxi. ‘Let us take the ladies somewhere more fun. Somewhere Mademoiselle Fleurier might learn a thing or two.’
We drove down the Unter den Linden towards the Schöneberg district and stopped on the corner of Motzstrasse and Kalckreuthstrasse. I gazed up at the bright Art Deco lights of a club, the Eldorado, and the sign underneath that read, You’ve found it!
‘We play a special game here,’ said the Count, his mouth twisting into a smile. ‘But I won’t tell you what it is yet.’
We left our coats with the cloakroom girl and I had to take a second look at her milky skin and ruby mouth. She was extraordinarily beautiful, even more stunning than Mademoiselle Canier or Camille, and far too exotic to be just a cloakroom attendant.
‘Good evening,’ the hostess greeted us. ‘A table by the stage?’
The Count nodded and the hostess led us through the smoky space. Her walk was a queenly glide. She would be marvellous on stage, I thought. Once we were seated I looked around the club; its decor of rose lighting and the glass bar seemed at odds with the round tables and kitsch salt and pepper shakers. The band climbed onto the stage: a pianist, trombonist, clarinetist and banjo player. They were all women and were as glamorous as the cloakroom girl and the hostess.
‘I thought the women we saw around Berlin today were beautiful, but the employees at this club are striking,’ I said to the Count. ‘Is that the reason you like this place?’
‘I believe they bring them from Bavaria especially for their beauty,’ said the Count, turning away to signal one of the waitresses. ‘Shall we order beer or champagne?’
‘Let’s try a German beer,’ said André, coughing into his handkerchief.
I gave him a pat on the back which elicited a scowl from Mademoiselle Canier. ‘It is smoky in here,’ I said.
André nodded and dabbed his watering eyes.
‘Yes,’ said the Count. ‘It is amazing how someone who smokes can be so sensitive to it himself.’
André let out what sounded like one of his laughs but it dissolved into a violent cough, hidden behind his handkerchief.
The waitress was very tall, even for a German woman, and when she returned from the bar and placed our drinks in front of us I couldn’t take my eyes from her well-manicured but large hands.
‘I thought Bavarians were like Austrians,’ I whispered to André. ‘More on the petite side.’
Before he could answer, he was shaken by another violent coughing fit and quickly sipped his beer. Mademoiselle Canier gave me a wary look, before taking out her compact and retouching her nose.
‘Look over there,’ said the Count to André, nodding towards the entrance. ‘There’s Herr Egermann, the banker, talking with Herr Stroheim from the Reichstag. I swear, anybody who is anybody comes to the Eldorado nowadays.’
It must be for the beautiful women, I thought. I was sure there were more elegant places in Berlin. A young boy brushed past me; his silk smoking jacket tickled my skin. I looked up and our eyes met. He wore his hair smoothed down and had slender shoulders and hands. I watched him join a huddle of similarly dressed boys leaning on the bar.
‘Are you ready for our game now, Mademoiselle Fleurier?’ the Count asked.
I nodded.
‘Well,’ he said, rubbing his chin, ‘look around the room and tell me who the real women are and who are men.’
I noticed the smirk on André’s face. He hadn’t been coughing at all. ‘None of them can be men!’ I cried.
‘Study them more closely,’ said the Count.
‘Well, the cloakroom girl maybe,’ I said, thinking of her angular features. ‘And the waitress has large hands. But I would never have noticed anything if you hadn’t pointed it out.’
I smile
d at Mademoiselle Canier. It was an olive branch gesture, to see if she would join in the fun. But she looked as uninterested as ever. If the transvestites at the Eldorado couldn’t amuse her, what could?
‘How do you tell?’ André asked the Count. ‘I’ve heard a lot of them have been castrated and that’s why they have smooth skin and curvaceous figures.’
The Count shook his head. ‘It has nothing to do with their skin or feeling for Adam’s apples or looking between their legs. The real giveaway is when they are more feminine than the most beautiful girl. Only pansies know how to be truly erotic women.’
‘It is a good lesson for an entertainer, I think,’ said André, turning to me. ‘The art of illusion. If you can convince yourself you are one thing, then other people will believe it too.’
Mademoiselle Canier fished a silver case from her purse and pulled out a cigarette without offering one to anyone else. ‘A woman is a woman,’ she said, inserting the cigarette between her lips and waiting for André to light it. ‘Only an erotic woman can be an erotic woman.’
‘So knowingly put,’ said the Count. His tone was chivalrous but I saw the amusement dancing in his eyes. He nodded towards the bar. ‘And what about those boys over there?’ he said to me. ‘Are they what they seem?’
I turned to the men lined up at the bar. The one who had bumped into me winked in my direction. I looked back to the Count. ‘I can see now that they are women,’ I said. ‘They’re not as convincing as the men.’
‘They’re not trying to be,’ said André. ‘Theirs is the art of suggestion not transformation. Somehow their outfits make them even more feminine.’
‘I have to say that I find a woman in a tuxedo quite fetching,’ said the Count, ordering more glasses of beer.
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