by Hope Franke
At night, it was a perpetual party place. Music blared from the clubs and bars. People roamed freely with open drinks, seemingly unaffected by the cold. There was laughing and shouting and stumbling over the cobblestones. The graffiti artists came out along with the pot smokers. It was a fun, happy place, where young and old partied together.
You could sell drugs, and you could sell sex.
Katja stood on a corner, propped a hand on her hip and presented a long leg covered with sheer, black hosiery. What was left of her red gypsy skirt ended snugly, high on her thigh. She resisted giving into full-on shivering, and pasted a big, phony smile on her face.
She could do this.
No, she couldn’t. It was irresponsible and it was dangerous.
Her confidence faltered and she bit down on her lip ring to keep from bursting into an ugly cry.
Oh, God, what was she doing?
If she went back to Berlin…
Maybe she would call. It was a throwaway phone, the only kind she could afford and she was down to her last three minutes. If she called, it would be the last time. She was too cold to think it through and pressed the number on quick dial. She held the phone to her ear with frozen fingers and almost hung up, but a young voice answered after the third ring.
“Sibylle Bergmann,”
“Hi, Sibylle. It’s Katja.”
“Where are you?” Katja caught the tremble in her sister’s voice. “When are you coming home?”
“I don’t know. Is everything all right?”
When her sister didn’t answer, Katja grew nervous. Her minutes were running out. “Is Mama there, Sibylle?”
Katja heard static and assumed her sister was fetching her mother. Hurry. But then she heard the one voice that made her blood curdle.
“Get your tight rear-end back here, brat!”
Katja disconnected the call and let out a low groan. A quick check on her time allotment showed eighteen seconds left. Not even worth keeping. She chucked the phone into the nearest trash bin.
Fine. This was her reality. She would deal with it. Whatever happened to her tonight could be no worse than if she went back and faced her step-father. And he wouldn’t bother paying.
She took short, quick breaths to regain her composure, and then unzipped her jacket with stiff, red fingers. She forced another smile and turned to face the driver of a silver car that had slowed to a stop at the curb.
She tilted her hips and presented her legs, raking her long hair with frozen fingers.
The window rolled down and a man in a shirt and tie peered out.
“It’s cold. Get in.”
Katja hesitated for a moment before opening the glossy, silver door and sliding into the passenger seat. It was a nice car. Really nice. An Audi. Katja wasn’t a car connoisseur but she new Audis were expensive. It even smelled expensive. It had smooth, grey leather seats and an impressive digital console with all the bells and whistles. And it was warm. Heat even radiated from the seat underneath her, and that was all she could focus on for the first few minutes. She blew on her fingers.
She could feel the guy’s eyes pouring over her. She glanced back, working to keep her expression friendly. She was surprised by his youthfulness. She’d expected to end up with someone much older, but this guy seemed close to her age. He wasn’t bad-looking either. She could’ve done far worse. He had dark, curly hair that was cropped short, a slight shadow of a beard on his chin and jaw and deep-set, dark eyes. Under a black wool pea jacket he wore a dress shirt with a tie loosened around the collar and the top button undone.
His eyes were wide and glassy, and Katja thought maybe he was on something. He gripped the steering wheel tightly with both hands. He looked more freaked out than she was, and she wondered if maybe this was the first time he’d picked up a girl for pay.
“I’m Katja,” she said, hoping to calm him. “What’s your name?”
He swallowed and pulled out into traffic, staring hard at the road in front of him. “I’m Micah.” He had a slight accent.
“Are you American?”
He glanced at her. “Half. My mother’s American. My father is German.”
“What part of America is she from?” Katja had never been outside of Germany and was fascinated by American culture. Especially the music scene.
He mumbled, “New York,” like he really wasn’t interested in talking to her about it. Of course, he wasn’t. He thought she was a prostitute. She stared out the window and doodled on the condensation caused by her warm breath.
“Where are we going?” Katja finally asked. She assumed they were headed to a hotel room. Oh, no. Maybe she was supposed to have arranged a spot?
Micah spoke softly. “To my place.”
Katja’s heart skipped. Was it safe to go to a “client’s” personal home? Was this guy some kind of serial killer? She just wanted to make rent, not end up in tomorrow’s news.
Micah must’ve sensed her reluctance. “It’s just… more comfortable there.”
She heard herself say, “Yeah, sure. That’s fine,” but her flesh prickled with apprehension. What was this guy going to do to her? Tie her up? Beat her? She’d heard stories.
She gulped and stared blankly at the fogged-up window. This was a terrible mistake. But would jumping out of a moving car be any less dangerous?
Her eyes darted back to the driver. He didn’t look like a killer, not that she knew what a killer looked like. The guy seemed to relax a little now that it was decided where they were going. Katja studied his profile. Though his jaw was tight and tense, he had nice eyes.
He couldn’t be dangerous. She was just letting her imagination get away from her. And judging by the guy’s car and clothes, he obviously could afford to pay her.
Katja’s neck flushed at the thought of what she was about to do. Irma told her it wasn’t so bad. Just close your eyes and think of something else, something pleasant. It’d be over before she knew it. Guys wanted what they wanted in a hurry.
Katja knew this to be true by unfortunate experience. It was part of the injustice in the world, a world especially cruel toward women. She wasn’t the first to have to sell her body to survive and she wouldn’t be the last.
She would close her eyes tightly and escape to somewhere else, far away in her mind. She’d think about her guitar and the latest song she was working on. She would imagine playing on a large stage under colorful lights in front of a paying crowd, a huge one that cheered for her when she finished performing. She’d have enough money for whatever she wanted. She would live in a nice, warm, cozy place. A safe place. She’d be respected and valued. She would never be hungry.
It would be okay.
His apartment was a lot nicer than hers. He had matching furniture and a large flat-screen TV.
Katja stood in the middle of the living room unsure about what to do next. She removed her jacket and propped a hand on her hip, trying to look like a tempting vixen instead of the scared little girl she really was. She caught Micah’s eye and removed her scarf slowly, staring at him with what she hoped were provocative eyes.
Instead of responding to her signals, Micah walked to the window that overlooked the river, shoved his hands in his pockets and stared out with his back to her. Why had he even bothered to stop for her anyway? He could easily have hired someone classier.
The silence was thick and awkward, and Katja thought maybe she should bolt. The door was right there, unlocked. Get away before any craziness started.
Micah turned slowly to face her. “Are you hungry?”
Katja blinked. Yeah, starving, but she wasn’t here to eat. She forced a smile. “Maybe we should get started.”
The corners of Micah’s mouth twitched. “I’d rather not… on an empty stomach.”
Fine. “Okay, sure. Let’s eat.”
Micah motioned for her to take a seat at the table, and he proceeded to make a warm meal. Katja didn’t know what to think. She sat straight-backed with her hands on her lap. Micah remove
d dishes from cupboards and drawers and food from the refrigerator. Soon the large, open apartment filled with the aroma of schnitzel and fried potatoes.
Her stomach growled.
Micah glanced at her a few times as he worked, but didn’t comment.
“Can I set the table?” she asked. He pointed to a cupboard and she found the plates and glasses inside. She removed two of each and placed them on the table across from each other. She noticed the cutlery drawer from when Micah had removed a spoon, and took out forks and knives for each of them.
He dished out the meal, along with a salad that was already prepared in the fridge and opened a bottle of sparkling water. She smiled as he filled her glass, secretly wishing it was something stronger than water. She could really use a drink right about now.
Katja almost felt like she was dining at a restaurant. The only thing missing was a candle. “Smells great,” she said.
He offered her a hint of a grin. “Guten Appetit.”
Once she started eating, she found it hard to slow down. It had been forever since she’d eaten a meal like this. Micah watched her with a stoney expression, concern flashing in his eyes.
She smiled and made a joke of it. “My cooking is crap.”
His expression didn’t change and he remained silent. This guy is a piece of work, she thought. Zero personality.
She finished her meal, and then remembered why she was there. Suddenly, she wished she hadn’t eaten so much or so fast. She felt ill.
The silence was driving her crazy. Couldn’t he at least turn on the TV or the stereo?
“So, what do you do, Micah?” she asked. Micah’s eyes remained flat, and she wondered if she’d crossed a line by asking another personal question.
He finally answered, “I work at a bank.”
Katja nodded as if that explained everything.
“How about you?” he countered. “When you’re not doing… this?”
Katja sat back, unsure what she should divulge, if anything. She nibbled her lip ring. He answered her question. It was only fair that she answer his.
“I’m a musician.” She feigned a laugh. “The pay’s not that great.”
Micah rose and carried his dirty dishes to the sink, rinsed them and loaded the dishwasher. Katja stood to help, placing her own dishes into the sink. The move caused her to stand close to his side, and she felt him stiffen.
If she knew what she was doing, she’d know how to make him relax. She’d also know how to get him to hand over the money. She honestly didn’t know how to do either.
“I’ve never done this before,” she admitted.
Micah stepped back, his eyes scanning her from head to toe. He surprised her by saying, “I’m glad.”
He disappeared from the room, leaving her standing stunned in the middle of the kitchen. She didn’t know what to do next, so she finished loading the dishwasher.
Micah returned with a set of sheets. “The sofa pulls out into a bed. You can sleep here.”
“But…”
“I’ll still pay you. I just don’t want you to walk home. It’s too late, and I don’t have time to take you. I have to get up early for work.”
Katja was about to refuse, but Micah seemed so desperate.
“Please,” he added. “Stay.”
Katja didn’t know what to make of this turn of events. He said he would pay her for doing nothing, and he didn’t seem like the type to attack her in her sleep. She had nothing to lose, really. The sofa bed promised to be more comfortable than the lumpy couch she normally slept on. She held out her arms and accepted the bedding.
Once Micah had disappeared behind his bedroom door, Katja padded softly to the bathroom to wash her face. She ran her tongue along her teeth, wishing she had her toothbrush with her. She scrubbed them with a wet finger. That would have to do.
After making the bed, Katja peeled off her tight clothing, laid them on one of the chairs and slipped under the covers wearing only her bra and panties. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, and she took in the high white ceilings, the dim outdoor light highlighting the windows. Should she text Irma? Let her know she was okay?
She reached for her phone then remembered that she’d thrown it away. It was probably better if she didn’t call. Irma and Martina didn’t care about her. They’d just be angry if she woke them up or something.
Her eyes cut to the closed door at the end of the hall. What was Micah’s story? Why did he pick her up if he didn’t want to take her to bed?
She was grateful, though he may not follow through on his promise to pay her. Even if he did, she still didn’t have enough to cover her portion of the rent. She could only hope that her roommates would accept the cash and another IOU. Katja sighed. She’d have to venture out again tomorrow night. Chances are she wouldn’t get picked up by two decent guys in a row.
She rolled onto her side and closed her eyes. She mustn’t think like that. Things have a way of working out. They always did. She’d laugh about this time in her life one day.
She wiped away a stray tear. Yeah, she’d laugh.
The next morning, she awoke with a start. It took a few moments before she remembered where she was. And why.
She listened carefully for any sounds that would indicate that Micah was still there, but the place was silent. A quick glance into the kitchen confirmed that Micah had eaten breakfast and made coffee—she couldn’t believe she’d slept through it.
She grabbed her clothes and rushed her half-naked body across the room and into the bathroom. It was bigger and cleaner than the one she shared with her roommates, and it had a water heating system that wouldn’t run out, at least not so fast. It was weird showering in a strange man’s stall. She used his soap and shampoo, and dried off with a clean towel. She felt like she’d stayed the night in a hotel and should be the one paying, not the one being paid.
She really didn’t want to wear her dirty shirt again and briefly considered looting through Micah’s closet. He had been so generous already; she couldn’t bring herself to do it.
Instead she hand washed her shirt in the sink and laid it over the radiator. As soon as it was dry, she’d leave, but in the meantime it meant hanging out in her bra and short skirt, which wasn’t exactly warm. She used the throw blanket from the sofa to wrap herself in. She pushed the bed back to its sofa form and re-arranged the pillows.
The grumbling of her stomach called her to the kitchen. She found a letter on the kitchen table along with a fifty euro note.
Help yourself to breakfast.
I’ll be home at 6:00.
Micah
Like she’d still be here at six. She stared at the money but didn’t touch it. She hadn’t earned it, and Micah had already housed and fed her. It just felt wrong to take more from him.
She ate a bun with a piece of ham and a slice of butter cheese and drank a cup of coffee with a good dose of milk and sugar. When she finished, she wiped the counters and washed her dishes, determined to leave the place spotless.
Her shirt was still damp when she checked it, but she found a blow-dryer and turned it on high. She attacked her shirt with hot air for five minutes. It would do.
She put on her jacket and high heels and headed home.
Katja gasped when she turned the corner of the hallway that led to the door of her apartment. All her belongings were lying on the floor, including her guitar! She rushed to tug on the handle but the door to the flat was locked. She had been kicked out.
She banged the wall with the fleshy side of her fist, immediately regretting it as the pain shot up her arm. She couldn’t fight it this time. Tears streamed down her face. She removed Irma’s heels and threw them against the wall at the far end of the hall, letting out an angry cry. She slipped into her own shoes, roughly stuffed her belongings into her duffle bag and zipped it shut. With her heavy bag in one hand and her guitar in the other, she left in a huff.
The frigid wind whistled around the corner and beat against her face. Her hair fl
ew across her eyes and into her mouth. She blew at it unsuccessfully, and had to lower her guitar to clear it. Other people on the street walked briskly, bent over against the cold. She picked up her guitar and walked with her shoulders leaning into the wind.
But where to go?
It was too cold to camp out on a bench or behind a bin. There were shelters for the homeless, but she wasn’t ready to consider that just yet, and she didn’t exactly know where they were.
Precipitation began to fall in the form of wet snow. She had to get inside somewhere soon before she froze to death.
She’d walked the block around Martin Luther Church at least four times. It was her only way to try to keep warm. She glanced up at the dark, imposing cathedral, its spiral poking the winter blue sky, and prayed that God would watch over her.
Or, at least forgive her.
Her fingers were stiff from gripping her scuffed-up guitar case, and her shoulder ached underneath its weight. The bag with all her belongings pulled down on her opposite shoulder. She stopped to rest, rolling her shoulders, rubbing her cold fingers together, swallowing saliva to try to ease her growing thirst, ignoring her hunger. It’d been several hours since she’d eaten breakfast. She hesitated before heading back to Alaunstrasse. The row of restaurants and store fronts with open carts of fruit and vegetables taunted her.
Tempted her.
She could just sneak an apple. One apple wouldn’t put the vendor out of business but it would fill her shrinking stomach for another day.
But then she’d be a thief.