by R. J. Dillon
‘We have reserved private areas if you really want to be alone,’ she said, raising his glass to his lips. ‘No one ever forgets Sabine,’ she added, her bare shoulders swaying to the beat.
How many other faces does she own? The voices? The gestures copied from films? He pushed the glass away and she brought out childish shock; a badly made veil fluttering briefly on her face.
‘How about visitors who have to be given special treatment?’
Breaking rhythm with the sensuous music she shook her head, topped up her glass to overflowing. She had a sudden relish to get off the table and put some distance between her and this stern Greiz. Impressive looks but too forward in all the wrong departments. She needed a real liquid boost, something to help her relax not cheap champagne.
‘Don’t talk like that,’ she laughed, playfully reaching down and stroking his inner thigh.
Gripping her wrist, Nick dumped her hand back on the table and clamped it there. ‘Have you provided any special services?’
She smiled and he had no way of telling if she meant it for real. ‘Why don’t you forget about this? Let’s dance again, drink, get to know each other? No big deal is it? Why worry what others get up to? Relax, enjoy this while you’re here, let tomorrow take care of what it can.’
‘Is there a place these special guests go?’ Nick asked, drawing her near feeling her fear, her resistance. ‘What about Franziska, why is she so special. You know Franziska?’
She rubbed her bare arms suddenly cold. Glancing past him along the bar she looked for help or a command; all she got was a slow song that trembled across the floor bringing more groping couples out of their secluded midnight booths.
‘You ask too many damn questions, know that? Sure we have VIPs here. I don’t get asked if I object. Maybe they spend all their time on the tables, maybe they’re making eyes at different girls. Think I keep a record? You want me or not?’
And while we’re engaged Blümhof will be making his checks. Nick laughed and squeezed her arm tighter.
‘So is it Franziska who provides the special treatment?’
Pitching back the contents of her glass Sabine poured another, not needing to look when to stop.
‘If anyone asks, wants to know, I tell them you’re not interested in me, changed your mind. Moody, talked too much, got a turn off at the start, your wife and kids got in the way. You married? Got kids?’
‘No.’
‘Doesn’t matter, we’ll say your family’s the reason. I do this for free okay. Now go, straight out, don’t think of coming back. You trouble for sure. Me? I’m making a living and like my face the way it is. Go, walk out like I’m not the last girl in the world. Go, don’t even bother to smile back. Maybe I see you when I’ve finished here. After three, in Bar Z up the street. Maybe I won’t.’
A few couples were dancing to a livelier tune when Nick walked through them, erotic promises and grim determination binding them together. On the stairs the young attendant in his badly fitting suit stood reverently to one side, allowing him to pass, no body contact, no force. He guessed those came at a price too.
• • •
Bar Z never closed. An oak clad cellar long and dowdy it bore the scars of not satisfying primal requests; its battered easiness accommodating changing moods, for those who wanted to get drunk, or those who just wanted to talk. The colour scheme was neutral brown applied to walls, ceiling and floor. Bench seats and solid pine tables were laid in rows, Nick opting for a spot by the kitchen next to double swing doors that wafted in the smell of sauerkraut and fish every time a waiter sprang through. A coffee machine gargled on the counter, in the corner a Wurlitzer played love songs and forgotten popular hits from CDs. Romantic he thought, drinking his beer. Sabine arrived at three-thirty, her red hair tucked up in a cowl. She grinned at the barman and walked over to Nick, her hips still provocatively swung. In a patch of candlelight from the wooden chandelier over their table her make-up had a worn jaded sheen.
‘Changed your mind about some pleasure?’ she asked, coyly unhooking the cowl from her hair, throwing out handfuls of curls to dry in the bar’s appetising breeze.
‘No.’
‘That’s sad, a real waste for you…for me. Suppose you’re the type who want to put the world back on course.’ She lit a cigarette with a capricious movement of her hands, the smoke finding its way down through her nostrils. Her eyes jumped every time the door up to the street opened.
‘Waiting for someone?’
‘Someone with a million and a place in the sun.’ She smoked hard, nicotine a replacement for joints, cannabis a halfway house from the serious space powder she’d used to satisfy her craving; crystal transport to keep her mind fuzzy and warm. ‘Herr Blümhof’s interested in you,’ she held her breath, anarchy in her pale eyes, taking him in as a waiter brought over a vodka she drank as a habit. She went for a drink and her hand shook fiercely. ‘Blümhof’s not such a proto guy, okay, unique as a complete shit. I can talk here, understand?’ she explained, her glass hitting the table with a thud.
Nodding Nick admitted that he did, leaving Sabine adequate space to fill.
‘I’ve been clean for six weeks, got myself a place lined up at a refuge.’
Two girls danced together in a centre aisle, blonde and brunette their heads laid on each other’s bare shoulders, their high stilettos scuffing to a country and western ballad.
‘Franziska?’
‘Sure, I know Franziska.’
Tipping back the vodka, she called for another with a vicious wave.
‘My best ex-best friend, see. We cried and loved together from a long time ago. A complete friend okay, personally speaking. Crazy, always giving it breath on how she was going to be different. Earn for a year or two, then find the right Prince Charming to settle down with and have kids. Fantasy, nightmare, rubbish between her ears.’ She took the fresh vodka off the waiter’s tray and took a hard pull.
‘She the one who offers special services for important clients?’ he asked, estimating how long before the vodka took her out of his reach.
‘Who knows,’ she said shrugging. ‘Maybe, maybe not.’
He was pushing and she was retreating; the harder he advanced the deeper she dug down into her own cocoon. He sipped his beer and got a taint of lipstick from the rim of the glass.
‘So what’s so special about her?’ He dropped his tone, aware of the danger of boxing her in, the fear of rejection.
‘Franziska, boy was she a chosen one, real VIP golden girl. Franziska, one lucky lady, found her Prince Charming when Blümhof claimed her as his own, but she too dumb to see Blümhof’s nothing but her pimp. She worked the same shift as me, and we used to make a team for exclusive VIP work. I was just there to make the pre-party go with a swing. Blümhof and this Russian guy started bringing special guests, some nice, some crude. I was the warm up, Franziska the star.’
‘Tell me about the Russian?’
‘Regular stinking pig, calls himself Sergei. Blümhof’s crawling all over him, his personal chaperon, gives him guided walks through the Brazillia, letting this pig choose who he wants. Always bragging how he’s a big shot in the port, SDF Shipping or something. Hope the pig drowns.’
The two girls stopped dancing before the record played out. Back at their table they accused a Korean girl of taking a purse from one of their bags, spitting and hissing she got up to leave when the brunette drew a flick knife. In one slow pass the brunette left a bloody line down the Korean girl’s face, only Nick appeared to notice.
‘Any idea why he got the special attention? Sergei someone Blümhof respects? Must be a reason?’
‘Reason, this, Sergei that. You got some fix on him?’ She turned up her nose and drained her glass. She knew she was beyond help. Blümhof’s rehearsed lines and coaching seemed to be days ago, all forgotten, not used. Maybe now he would finally bust her nose for talking out of turn. What could she do? Greiz was too much to resist, he had a way of making you want to confess
and she wanted very much to let it all out.
‘What makes someone like Blümhof respect Sergei so much?’ he persisted, competing with the drink to win her over.
‘Blümhof enjoys living and Sergei can put a stop to that any damn time he likes. Someone said he represents investors in Blümhof’s business from the early days, I can’t remember, okay. All I know is Sergei has to have all the care. Best champagne, finest girls. Sergei is important, number one guy. Blümhof takes care of Sergei’s interests, Blümhof just does what he’s told.’ She pointed her finger and pulled an imaginary trigger. ‘They got a fabulous arrangement okay. Blümhof and Sergei. They buy and sell girls, they buy and sell things you’d pay a damn fortune for.’ Wary, confused, she pulled clear of the table. She called for another vodka, her voice shrill.
‘And Franziska is Sergei’s favourite?’
‘Not me, okay, I wouldn’t want that pig around me again. My best ever friend Franziska, Blümhof’s big star, okay,’ she said with a laugh, draining her glass. She yelled again for a refill and the bar stopped to listen. ‘Sergei is Franziska’s one big lover, okay. You’re mixing with the wolves Greiz, know that,’ she said.
‘When does Franziska meet him?’
‘Slow up, okay,’ she warned, lighting a cigarette, her hand swiping the match off the box in a crooked swoop.
‘You see a lot of Franziska?’ he asked, desperate to swing her over the last hurdle before she disintegrated totally.
‘That’s a pretty dumb question Greiz. I seen her without clothes all the time okay. A double act, two beauties and Sergei the beast, ugly like a horse, stinks like a pig. The best two around, that’s how Franziska and me used to be.’
‘So she’s not your friend any longer?’
‘Who cares? She’s Sergei’s big lover and she’s going to make every day sweet. Blümhof takes care of her. Same message okay. Sergei is special, special, special. Blümhof is a regular creep, okay and I didn’t tell you that,’ she giggled, way out of Blümhof’s control. ‘He makes special arrangements, got himself somewhere private for his VIPs and Sergei. Franziska’s not dumb okay, she’s banked something special for the future, something to make us all happy. I got a part in helping her make it happen, she got a crazy deal arranged, but it’s all top secret,’ she disclosed with an elaborate wink.
‘Those her words?’ Nick asked, as casually as he dared.
Sabine shrugged swaying her head, rolling it from shoulder to shoulder in jerky nervous movements.
‘Second-hand, but sure, they’re hers,’ she said, the vodka bright in her eyes.
‘Blümhof has other business interests too, doesn’t he?’
‘You’re too much,’ Sabine told him, with a lopsided smile. ‘I shouldn’t be talking to you,’ she said, the sadness weighing on her shoulders.
‘You were threatened?’
‘No kidding, Greiz. Tolz told me, okay. Tolz is a photographer who works for Blümhof, thinks he’s my boyfriend, okay, but he’s still a creep.’
‘Where does Franziska entertain her VIPs?’
‘Who knows,’ said Sabine with a mighty shrug. ‘Some place outside town.’
‘Has it got an address?’
‘Don’t get so hot, Greiz, you hear? Maybe Sergei tells Blümhof to take care of you also.’ She growled and clawed at him, pretending to be a tiger.
‘Is that what Tolz said?’
Humming with her eyes closed, Sabine tapped her fingers on the tabletop stained by years of good drinking. Nick roughly took her wrist and shook her eyes open.
‘I don’t remember,’ Sabine said sleepily. ‘Tolz…Blümhof... Sergei, they bad men you don’t want to get behind you. Who’s counting, who cares? You a bad man too, Greiz? You sure you’re a friend I can trust?’
He nodded his head not wanting to break her course, waiting with all his patience for her to resume. He even called over more vodka, lit a cigarette and put it between her sagging lips. Alone or in pairs the other girls drifted out, making for their own solitary beds.
‘Can you find Franziska for me?’
‘Who cares. I’m tired, dead on my feet, another night to get through. I got clients to please. I smile, do the tricks and get paid a cut okay, believe me, that’s just fine.’
‘Meet me again if you get some news, anywhere, you choose.’
‘Jesus, Greiz, you’re asking for too much. Franziska, my best friend, here one day and then puff, she’s gone. Enough, okay,’ she caught herself and seemed to sober. ‘Right now I need my bed and beauty sleep. Sorry hero, that means alone,’ she said, putting her hand on his chest. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’d like to have you share, but not right now.’ Halfway to her feet Sabine paused, dumped herself back down. She took an empty cigarette pack out of the ashtray and blew away the ash. ‘Last I heard, this is where my best friend ever met Sergei and her VIP clients,’ she said, head down writing, the stiff dark roots of her hair standing out. ‘I do this because you’re a good guy, okay, I can tell.’
Cramming her hair into the cowl Sabine swayed to the door, gave her favourite waiter a long kiss on his cheek and turned to wave.
‘I never told you my number?’ he called. As he went after Sabine her waiter collided with Nick at the bottom of the stairs, upsetting a full tray of drinks. Rushing over, a companion joined him, fussing over Nick, blocking him in. There were apologies, many smiles and the offer of a beer on the house from the barman, which Nick politely declined. When he got outside Sabine had a start that he’d never be able to make up. He stood on the step, tearing cellophane off a new pack of cigarettes. Left or right? Knowing that neither might take him to Sabine and perhaps no route ever would.
By himself on the empty street, Nick’s footsteps hammered sharp solitary blows on the cobbles. On a hoarding, a hand had scrawled ‘Uli is a Cheat!’ Aren’t we all he decided, we deceive ourselves from the moment we are born and leave nothing but a trail of broken promises.
• • •
Before Petra arrived the next morning, Nick had washed, shaved and made a cup of coffee that he never quite finished. After setting the shop’s alarm he set off guided by Sabine’s directions on the back of the cigarette pack, taking a slow train out of Hamburg. The day languid frozen to its core with low ruffles of mist locked close to the land as copses and farms lumbered into view, stage props appearing through dry ice; Deep Purple, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd live on tour, concerts in his head. A journey without an end. The name of a station gracefully slid into view announcing his stop, he checked Sabine’s looping writing, Rendsburg, snap, I’ve won.
Following Sabine’s route Nick tramped off into a snowy cluster of khaki brick streets topped by furnace red tiles, a setting for fairy tales or lies. He wished that he’d eaten and never bothered to come. One by one the houses were left in Nick’s wake as he shuffled out of town towards the shadows of an enchanted forest where Franziska held a key for Lubov’s treasure. The farm crept out of a rise at the end of a beaten track, its bright stepped gables a stairway into the low clouds. A sign severely declared that Bauernhof am Seeufer was private property and visitors were not welcome. He walked up the centre of the track between deep tyre ruts partly filled by snow. Downstairs the windows on the main house and its two wings were shuttered by wood panels decorated with fretwork hearts. No one answered him at the front door, so he trudged off looking for another way in, along an icy path wrapping itself round the house, entering an open yard where a solid barn blocked out the watery light. Under its eaves an old woman perched as tight as a rook, a cane shopping basket by her bootees.
‘There’s no one here.’ She made no movement, a small dark dummy with a headscarf to protect her from the wind.
‘I’m looking for Franziska.’ Nick had to shout over the yard but she refused to acknowledge him with her eyes. She spat into the earth at her feet, her hands creased like brown oilskin found each other and lay in a truce in her lap.
‘A whore, a waste of time.’ She cleared her chest and throat,
spitting out a solid deposit into the wind. ‘Sometimes they keep me waiting ‘till the afternoon before they arrive. Three kilometres here, three back. I tell Karl it is too far for what they pay. Everyday picking up their filth, see things I shouldn’t. Don’t I have enough cleaning at home? Now the idle fool Karl will not know to pick me up.’ Slapping her arthritic hips she rose and turned for home, clutching her basket as she made off down the path.
From the barn Nick brought a clay spade, inserting its edge between the door and surround. A pain surged through his chest as he pulled back on the handle, more pressure than his ribs could stand. The wood splintered with a pistol shot crack, fading to an echo that mixed with the snow stirring in the trees; breaking cover herons flapped across a hard grey sky.
A kitchen that had entertained both sides during the war came to attention when he flipped on a light, reclaiming it from its shuttered dusk. Arranged at its centre a table long enough to seat a dozen officers, its ivy leaf tablecloth cluttered by wine bottles, glasses, plates and cups not cleared from a last supper. With no means of defence except his senses, Nick started on the stairs; making cautious progress into the morning light producing gobbets of weak colour through an open landing window, a silk curtain inching and dancing in the draft. He stood and listened distrusting his ears; sound, someone talking. Nick stayed by the walls creeping along, pausing at each varnished door, the air stuffy with cigarette smoke from hours before. He stopped; he had the door, inside a male voice deep and serious. Nick bundled himself in.
On a chest of drawers a portable television featuring a young bearded academic lecturing fervently on mediaeval pilgrimages to holy shrines. The other details he saw in no precise order; an oak wardrobe, tallboy and bedside locker, an odd leather glove on the varnished floorboards along with the contents of an imitation crocodile vanity case; lipsticks, eyeliners and powder. A couple of easy chairs piled with glossy magazines, a pack of condoms and box of tissues. And lastly a double bed and king size duvet in a dreamy blue; a fabric sky complete with fluffy clouds matching pillows and a family of cuddly bunnies sitting idly around.