The Stronger Sex

by Hans Werner Kettenbach

  “You mean feeling sorry? Feeling pity?”

  “Well, not exactly as we understand it today. It’s more empathetic, really. One knows, when you show that face, that you can feel for other people.”

  This compliment, I felt, was overdoing it. I smiled and said, “A shame you didn’t sketch me with the sympathetic face, then.”

  She was silent for a while, and then said, “Well, we can make up for that.” She rose, went over to the table, tore off the top sheet of the sketchpad, glanced at it and put it with the other loose leaves, and came back with the sketchpad and a couple of sticks of charcoal.

  I realized that in spite of my declining her request before, she had induced me to model for her. I could have prevented it by getting up at once and cutting the sitting short. But apart from the fact that this dramatic gesture would have been right out of place, something else interested me much more.

  She sat down opposite me, rested the sketchpad on her thighs and held it at a slant with her left hand. As she did that, she spread her thighs slightly to support the sketchpad better. The light fell on that shady gap between them. I saw the inner sides of her brown thighs to quite high up, and in between them I thought I caught a glimpse of a little piece of fine white fabric.

  I was afraid she would notice my intent look, and I raised my eyes. She was busy looking from me to the sketchpad and back again, obviously marking out the paper. Finally the preliminary work seemed to be done, and she began running the charcoal over the paper with long, rapid strokes. Now and then she quickly added short lines, obviously hatching in part of the sketch.

  Without looking at me, she said suddenly, “You don’t have to sit there in silence, you’re welcome to talk to me, tell me something. Something pleasant would be best, of course.” She smiled.

  I said, “I don’t know if you’ll think this pleasant, it’s probably rather stupid, but I’ve hardly ever thought much about painting before… or the art of drawing. It’s a mystery to me, or let’s say a miracle, how someone can sit down and create a picture of reality with a stick of charcoal or a few brushes, I mean a picture that other people can recognize. And that makes them feel something. A… a kind of melancholy, for instance. Like your big picture of the rubbish heap in the backyard, and the tall apartment buildings behind it, and the horizon of their rooftops… those sharp black outlines making them into something…”

  Here I ran out of words. After a while she looked at me across the sketchpad. She said, “Nice of you to say that. But of course you know that not all art is representational.”

  “Of course not. I was also thinking that some kind of abstract shape or colour combination can strike the same note when you look at it… I mean, give you that sense of recognition. How can I put it? An experience of feeling, ‘Oh, I know that, it’s something that really exists!’ Not in the other reality, maybe, not in the reality we perceive with our five senses, but a reality in our minds. I mean, maybe an abstract picture will remind me of a dream I had. Or no, of a feeling that I couldn’t really have described myself.”

  She said, still working, “Yes, I understand.”

  I said, “Although what you’re creating now… it’s something I like better. Better than your colleague Ferber’s pictures. Willy Ferber, we met at his private showing.”

  She nodded without looking up from her sketch.

  I looked at the hand holding the pad on the slant. Her fingers were slender but not thin. Veins were visible on the back of her hand, but only one was a little thicker than the others and stood out. I imagined passing a fingertip over it.

  I said, “Your kind of art is more accessible to me. It says more to me. Much more.”

  She did not reply. Suddenly she shifted to the edge of her chair and leaned back, almost lying back in it, and from that greater distance carefully examined the sketch she was working on. Her smock was riding up a little further. I took the chance of glancing quickly at her legs. Yes, I’d been right. The scrap of fine white fabric I thought I’d seen was part of her underwear.

  I was startled when she suddenly straightened up, dropped her stick of charcoal on the table and shook her head. “No, this is no good!” She looked at her sketch again, then put the sketchpad down and picked up her champagne glass. “That’s not the face I wanted to draw.”

  She got to her feet, came round the corner of the table and sat in the armchair next to mine. She smiled, raised her glass and drank to me.

  When we had put our glasses down, I asked, “Was it because of me?”

  She didn’t give a direct answer. She said, “You know best what’s going on in your mind.” After a pause she added, “Anyway, your expression wasn’t the one I wanted to catch.”

  I reached over the table to pick up the sketchpad. “May I?”

  She nodded.

  I recognized myself in the portrait. I’d been afraid an observer could tell from the look of the man she had drawn that he was trying to reach the intimate side of the artist opposite him. In fact, to put it plainly, that he was acting like a voyeur. But you couldn’t see much of that kind of thing in his face. Maybe a third person wouldn’t notice at all.

  I looked at the sketch again. I sensed that she was watching me. She said, “It’s not the face I described to you.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. Suddenly I had a suspicion that she was playing games with me. And I remembered what Klofft had said to his detective. The remark that I’d wanted to clear up anyway.

  She said, “Something got in the way of it. These things happen.”

  Yes, and so it would go on. She wanted me to expose myself a little more. I decided to go on the attack.

  I asked, “You read faces, don’t you?”

  “Don’t we all?”

  I shrugged and drew the corners of my mouth down. Then I smiled. “Your husband seems to try it, at least.”

  She looked at me in surprise. “My husband?”

  I nodded, smiling.

  “What makes you say that?”

  I said, “He called me… er, a randy young dog.”

  She stared at me. “He said that to you?”

  “Not to my face, no. But that’s what he called me.” I smiled. “In front of Herr Manderscheidt. The detective.”

  She nodded slowly. Then she asked, “And are you sure that that… that man, that detective wasn’t making it up?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Why would he do that? Herr Manderscheidt had more to say too. According to him, your husband even gave the reason why he thought me – well, a randy young dog.” After a brief pause I went on. “He said I was making eyes at you. And of course you liked it. And that it was plausible with such an old lady and such a young man.”

  She nodded, but said nothing. I was wondering feverishly if that could imply confirmation of any of my various theories, but I couldn’t find any really convincing interpretation. After a while she asked, “Did that hurt you? Or perhaps, more likely, alarm you?”

  “Did it hurt me? Well… I was thinking how much the idea must hurt him. If his suspicions were right. That would have hurt him badly, don’t you think?”

  She didn’t reply. After a while she said, “But it did alarm you.” She smiled. “Didn’t it?”

  “Alarm me… my God, yes, it did alarm me, because if he suspected any such thing, well, I felt sure he’d take it out on you.” After a brief pause I asked, “And I think he would? Wouldn’t he?”

  “Yes, he would. Or at least, he’d try to.” She shook her head. “And as he has not tried to do that so far, I’m more inclined to think that your Herr Manderscheidt made it all up.” She laughed. “I really wouldn’t be surprised either, with someone whose profession is snooping around. His sort probably scent adultery everywhere, something they can prove, for a good fee, naturally.”

  Perhaps she had expected that I would join in her laughter. But I was thinking too hard about her theory, which after all I had considered myself, that Manderscheidt was a liar entertaining fantasies and try
ing to sound things out.

  Suddenly she leaned forward and placed her hand over mine where it lay on the sofa. “Well, feeling better now? Haven’t I set your mind at rest?” She stroked my hand slightly with her fingertips.

  The touch of those cool, slender fingers, of the warm, soft palm of her hand affected me so much that a thrill ran through me. I leaned sideways, put my free hand on hers and pressed it slightly. It did not move. I caressed it.

  She tried to withdraw her hand, but I held it fast.

  “Now, now,” she said, pulling her hand away, and I let go.

  She ran her fingers through her hair, brought her hand to the nape of her neck for a moment as if there were something to be rearranged in her plain, simple hairstyle, and then put it on her lap. She said, “But you wanted to talk to me about Ida and Tippi Hedren, don’t you remember?”

  “Of course I remember.”

  As I paused for effect, she cut my pause short. “But?” she asked, with emphasis.

  It was obvious: she was trying to play games with me. Provoke me. In the end I’d be driven to admit that I had wanted her very much; it had been the plain, urgent longing for a desirable woman. She wanted to watch me wriggle on the hook. Bring me to heel.

  Anger boiled up in me. I said, “What do you mean, but? What’s that question in aid of? You know what I think of that frightful article about the picture of Ida! The journalist’s turns of phrase, her terrified tirades about fading flesh, devastated thighs, slack skin!”

  I stopped and stared at her. Then I said forcefully, “I think very poorly of all that indeed. As you know! Or as at least you’ve known since just now when I tried to hold your hand. Would I do that if you were as… as horrifying a sight, as… repellent as that journalist claimed about Ida Rogers? I mean, what nonsense, all that about old age! Old age and the devastation it wreaks on human beings. Well, look at that film star Tippi!” And then I said, “Or look at yourself.”

  She said, “Alex, Alex! What nonsense you are talking!” I reached out my hand and tried to touch her cheek. But she put her head back and my hand met empty air.

  “Nonsense? What do you mean? Are you telling me I can’t compare you with a film star? Well, OK, she may have had make-up artistes working on her all her life, cosmetic advisers, dieticians. And personal trainers, and gymnastics coaches. But that doesn’t mean you’re not just as desirable a woman as that actress. Very desirable!”

  I half-rose and reached for her upper arm with one hand, while the other looked for something to hold on to and found itself on her knee, on her bare thigh. Skin on skin. When I went on, I could hear my voice strained, strained and small and breathless. I sounded beside myself. In that voice I managed to say, “What more can I do to prove it to you? Shall I?…”

  I closed my fingers on her thigh.

  “Alex!” Her voice was like a whiplash. She pushed me away with both hands. “Sit down at once!”

  It sounded like school, first to fourth years. But I sat down.

  She straightened her smock, which my hand had pushed up, and made that movement of tidying her hair again. She was breathing hard, put a hand to her upper arm and glanced at it. It looked as if, carried away, I had held it too hard.

  After a while she leaned forward. She emptied the two mini-bottles into our glasses. Then she raised her glass and drank without looking at me.

  My folly would take some beating, but I felt great pain. It hurt me that she had not raised her glass to drink to me. She had banished me from her circle of friends, that was it. I left my glass standing on the table, although I would have liked to drink from it, and just stared ahead.

  After a while she said, “Think, Alex.” She took a deep breath. “What would have happened if we’d fucked on this sofa just now?”

  I raised my eyes and looked incredulously at her.

  “Yes, look at me! I name things by their names. Should I have said, if we’d made love? Or something else pretty to dress up the facts? We both know what it was all about for you, Alex. Fucking. And it would have been the same for me, if I had gone along with the idea. Or did you think I’d want to start a new life with you? A new love?”

  I picked up my glass and drained it. She glanced at me, got to her feet and made for the kitchen. I said, “There’s no need, thank you, I don’t want any more.”

  She said over her shoulder, “But I do, if you don’t mind!”

  My God, hadn’t the put-down I’d brought on myself been massive enough already?

  I crossed my arms and brooded until she came back with another little bottle. She opened it, poured some, sat down and drank. Then she said, “Right. What would have happened if we had fucked?” She stopped short, stared at me and asked, “Good heavens, what was that? Did you jump nervously again because I used that word?”

  I squirmed for a moment, and then said, “I find it hard enough to hear your husband express himself like that, but coming from you…”

  “Yes, well, never mind, you’ve got it behind you now. I just want to make it clear to you what it would have been like if we had… and so on. Although I think you know perfectly well for yourself. Only until now you’ve failed to face up to it.”

  She sipped from her glass, and then said, “Well. Perhaps we would neither of us have been disappointed. It might have been a pleasant experience. You might have given me a… a good orgasm, maybe two or even three, I don’t know what you’re like at it. And as for me, I’m not sure either. Well, maybe it would have been an… an experience for both of us. For you, at least, a new experience, finding out what it feels like with such an old woman.” She laughed. “What she feels like, for instance. But, and here comes the but, my dear: but you would have been cheating on your young, attractive girlfriend who is so fond of you. You would have been abusing her trust. And forfeiting it. Maybe you tell yourself she would never have found out. But you would never have forgotten. And that would have made you suffer. And something else: from then on you would never have felt quite at ease in your own skin, I mean literally. You’d have thought you could still feel the way you’d… penetrated an old woman. Let yourself go with her, in her, skin against skin, inside her faded flesh.”

  I made an angry sound and sat back on the sofa. She said, “And I would have had a guilty conscience too. I would always have blamed myself for taking advantage of a young man, just to get myself a little pleasure. For interfering in his life and his girlfriend’s life, for polluting them, soiling them. And I would never have been rid of that feeling.”

  She stopped. After a while I asked, “Is that all?”

  “Yes,” she said, “that’s all.”

  I stood up. She rose too and moved aside. I passed her. She followed me to the door, took hold of the handle before me and opened it. I looked at her. Before I could prevent it, she kissed me on the mouth. She said, “Think it all over, Alex. And look after yourself.”

  I said, “Goodbye, Cilly.”

  29

  I dawdled on the way home. I drove along the expressway beside the river at a snail’s pace, looking out at the water and the shipping. Had she intentionally aroused me just so as to humiliate me even more thoroughly?

  I heard fragments of music from a brass band on board an excursion steamer going upstream close to the bank. The band was playing a waltz. Suddenly the music was drowned out by the hooting of cars behind me. My speed must have been too leisurely for the other drivers on the road. I moved over into the right-hand lane and they began overtaking me one by one. A woman driver even gave me the two-fingers sign.

  Women were once supposed to be gentle, reserved creatures. At least, my mother had tried to teach me that girls were more delicate and sensitive than boys and I should treat them accordingly. My father had told me the same. He himself had never been a real gentleman, but he tried to bring me up to behave like one, and some of all that was still with me.

  But many women, not to mention girls, didn’t seem to think anything of that these days. Had women got mor
e aggressive?

  Maybe it was to do with women’s lib. But I couldn’t understand how Cilly could have expressed herself in such vulgar, brutally forthright terms. True, I’d never felt comfortable myself with the stilted phrase “we made love”. But did she have to use such a vulgar verb instead, the language of the streets? I spent some time trying to think of an alternative, but nothing really satisfactory occurred to me.

  I didn’t feel like putting my car in the garage. It would have left me feeling that I had already retreated to the safety of my apartment for this Saturday afternoon and evening, cutting myself off from the world.

  When I had found a place to park in the street and was walking back to my apartment, a car door opened ahead of me. Herr Manderscheidt got out of the car. He wore a sports jacket, a shirt and tie, trousers with well-pressed pleats, and he had left the woven shoes at home.

  Smiling, he came a few steps toward me.

  “What a surprise,” I said. “Were you coming to see me? On a Saturday devoted to leisure?”

  He said, with a broad smile, “Yes, sorry about that. I do apologize, but you know what they say, no peace for the wicked. I just had a kind of idea again.” He offered me his hand. “Good day, Dr Zabel.”

  “Good day to you too, Herr Manderscheidt. I can’t wait to hear your idea.”

  His smile became a broad grin. “Do you fancy going to the races with me?”

  “Just a moment…” Was the man unhinged? “Going to the races? Horse races, do you mean?”

  “That’s right. It’s the Hypo-Bank Grand Prix today. And excellent weather for it, don’t you think?”

  I said, “Herr Manderscheidt, if this is some kind of joke, I have to tell you that you’ve picked a bad day for it.”

  He switched off the grin. “Sorry, Dr Zabel. But it was only half a joke.” He lowered his voice. “Frau Fuchs and Herr Schmickler are out there. At the racecourse. The man I had watching them has just let me know.” With a shrug of his shoulders he went on, “And I thought it might interest you to see the pair of them in the wild, in their natural habitat, so to speak.” He smiled.