by David Stukas
“Thanks. You know this means war.”
“Yes, yes, I know. But how are you going to get back at me from six thousand miles away?”
“I don’t know that yet, but believe me, I will find a way.”
“Oh, Robert, guess what? A very attractive woman here gave me her business card. I might give her a call.”
“If she’s a friend of Michael’s, I’d run the other way.”
“No, no, she says she’s a friend of the count,” Monette reported, burying the card in her wallet.
“That’s wonderful, Monette. It can’t hurt,”
The count showed up holding a large towel, which I used to wipe the excess strudel off my clothing.
“Siegfreid, could we go? I’m getting tired and it’s been a long day.”
“Fine, fine, we can leave right now,” he said, putting his arm around me.
The count’s tenderness and concern made me forget the fact that Siegfreid might have a lover on the side—for now, at least. The three of us walked out of that party, arms around each other, feeling that the whole world was in love that night, Siegfreid, Monette, and me. Not to mention the “kick me!” sign Monette had taped to my back while I wasn’t looking.
The next few days were filled with packing and getting my crummy apartment ready for the deep slumber it was about to undergo. As much as I loved the count and felt that this relationship was the one, a tiny voice inside my head told me to hold on to my chilling little apartment for a while. The count, astonishingly, agreed, telling me it would give me the feeling of a safety net and would put my mind at ease.
I gave plants away, had mail forwarded to Germany, and cancelled magazine subscriptions. I cried slightly when I locked the door to my studio and walked downstairs to the waiting limo that would take me to the airport.
Monette was down in front of the building, fighting back tears. I was, too, the moment I saw her.
“Now, now, we look like we’ve just come home from one of our dates!” Monette said, trying to interject some humor into the situation. “Let’s not look at this as meaning we’re not going to see each other anymore. Let’s think of it as a way for me to visit you frequently ... at your expense,” she said, winking at the count. The count smiled back, not truly realizing he would indeed be paying for her flight. As Monette often said, her salary from the Endangered Herbs Society of America, where she worked, barely got her back across the river to Brooklyn each evening.
Monette looked at me, gave me one of the sternum-cracking hugs only a six-foot-four lesbian could give, and told me to watch out for myself. I was just about to get into the limo when a taxi screamed to a halt, blocking the limo’s path. One of the doors flew open and out popped Michael, out of breath and with a gift in hand.
“Had sex with the driver, I see?” I said, figuring what I said was not only intended to be humorous, but was also completely plausible.
“Sorry I’m late, but this guy from last night just wouldn’t leave!” he said, his words coming out in big puffs of air. “Here,” he said, shoving the gift into my hand. “Something to remind you of me, because I know you’re going to miss me.”
Blow, oh winds of self-aggrandizement, blow!
“Thank you, Michael. You are my reason for living,” I said in a sarcastic reply that was lost on Michael.
“You know, Robert, you’re not the first person who’s told me that!”
“Uh, Michael, we’ve got a plane to catch, so take care of yourself and always remember to rinse your mouth after you spit it out.” I got into the limo and it whisked me out into the streets of New York and toward my new life.
As the limo sliced its way up Third Avenue, the count looked down at the gift in my hand, then up at me.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” he asked. “It seems like Michael went to a lot of trouble to get you this gift in time. It must be very special to him.”
I tore the wrapping paper off the gift (which showed unmistakable signs of being hastily wrapped) and opened the box inside. I was not prepared for what I found: a paperweight in the shape of a tube of herpes ointment obviously given out free to doctors by salesmen from Stark Pharmaceuticals. Attached to the tube was a frantically scrawled note from Michael that read: “Good luck in Germany, Robert. I hope you never need this. ”
6
Ich Bin Ein Berliner ... Sort of
The flight was positively luxurious. No screaming kids kicking the back of my seat, no waiting in lines for the bathroom only to pee on yourself because of the close quarters, and no shitty meals cooked in Peoria, then flash frozen and reheated in microwave ovens. No, siree. Even though the count didn’t personally own this plane, only leased it, it lacked none of the comforts of home. (Gee, I wish my home looked like this.)
We dined on braised shank of veal with pureed carrots and sucked down champagne until I was literally flying. As I looked down at the little people below me, I noticed the count staring into my eyes with far more than an I-love-you look. The look said I-want-you-now.
Without a word, he lifted my hand and gently coaxed me by the arm into the bathroom. I don’t want to go into intimate details, but for the next hour, the two of us became members of the mile-high club. When we finally emerged from the bathroom, I was drenched in sweat. As I tried to walk nonchalantly down the aisle of the plane, the steward gave me a sly wink and pointed discretely to my Gucci shoes. Stuck to the bottom of my left shoe was a used condom that clung there like Jackie Collins to a Revlon makeup counter. I wiped my foot in a macho way on the carpet and kicked the offending piece of latex under a seat, pretending this sort of thing happened all the time.
The count, who saw the entire episode, didn’t seem to care one bit, owing to the fact he probably got away with more than the average person. What struck me more and more as I really got to know the count was how much sleaziness lurked underneath his civilized and royal exterior. His sexual urges seemed insatiable—not that I was complaining. I guess I never fathomed the vast differences in the private and public lives of celebrities. I mean, look at the cool, calm, and collected faces you see at the Academy Awards. I’ll bet plenty of those actors know more about rubber cat suits than they care to let on.
I drifted off to sleep and dreamed of walking through the palatial rooms of the Schmidt estates that were so big the count and I needed Roller Blades in order just to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. I slept on beds of rose petals and ate roasted hummingbirds with silver forks that required a muscled and naked stud to lift to my lips—not because of the weight of the silver, but because I couldn’t be inconvenienced. I was just about to ask one of the men in livery (with the crotches missing and their buttocks exposed) to go fetch a pistol because I wanted to shoot at some of the fine Sevres porcelain that lined the walls of the room, since I had the reputation of being madcap and carefree when ...
... the count lightly shook me awake.
“Robert, we’re beginning the descent into the Berlin airport. Did you have a good nap?”
“Yes. Yes, I did. I was dreaming about Berlin.”
“About the great sex we will have in all the rooms of my houses?” the count asked, reading my mind so completely, I felt naked and exposed—not a bad place to be where the count was concerned.
“Oh God, no,” I said, lying through my teeth. “I was dreaming about ... the colorful flower carts on the street corners in Berlin.”
“Robert, those disappeared forty years ago,” the count said matter-of-factly. “And believe it or not, we even have electricity and television.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling I would never make it in Germany. After all, it had taken me years to adapt to New York. I still let people walk all over me for fear that if I spoke up, someone would pull out a gun and shoot me. Even cranky old ladies that a two-year-old could beat up shoved their way in front of me in grocery store lines.
The plane circled over ugly buildings then touched down, the bump of the wheels making it clear there was no
going back—easily. The count looked over at me and said something I thought was truly touching.
“Robert, because I am quite well known in Germany and somewhat in Europe, many people make many demands on my time. But I want to keep you all to myself. I want to be selfish with you. So can you understand I want to limit the time I spend with friends here in Germany and spend it all with you?”
I didn’t know what to say, but I managed to eventually find a few words. “Of course, Siegfreid, I understand. I see how everyone in Europe would want me,” I said with a wry smile.
The count got my joke and smiled back. “Good! As far as the world is concerned, there is just you and me,” the count said, extending his hand to shake on the deal. We shook, then kissed.
The plane taxied around to a private gate, the door opened, and I walked into my new life. We were standing in line for customs when they asked to me to open my suitcase. I did as the official requested, only to find something I didn’t recall packing back in New York: a dildo the size of a fire hydrant. Our agent’s face said, What are you going to do with this, scale it?
The count was watching the entire ordeal and began to laugh hysterically, something I rarely saw him do.
I quickly reached one conclusion and decided to check it out.
“Monette put you up to this, didn’t she?” I asked, knowing full well the answer.
“She said it would be her parting gift to you.”
“Well, I’ll get her back for this one. Even if I have to reach across the ocean to do it,” I said, closing my suitcase when the agent was finished.
The agent, whose name tag said R. Reimann, looked at my passport, then waved me on. When he looked at the count’s passport, he asked Siegfreid to remove his glasses so he could see his face completely. The agent stared at the count, then at his passport picture, then back at the count. I imagine the agent didn’t know what to do about the count. Since Siegfreid changed his appearance so often, I can’t imagine how he could even remotely resemble his passport picture. For that matter, who did? My picture looked like I had spent the night being beaten in a third-world prison for opium smuggling.
The agent excused himself for a second, taking the passport with him and disappearing beyond a door with an official seal on it.
I was getting worried, but the count showed no sign—even beneath his sunglasses. Me, I was worried stiff. What if the count was a cocaine smuggler kingpin and I the unwitting mule, the secret lining in my suitcase stuffed to the gills with cocaine?
Shortly, R. Reimann returned and excused the confusion with an explanation in German. The count translated it and told me the agent was concerned that he didn’t look like the person photographed on the passport. “Happens all the time,” he said, chuckling. The customs inspector asked the count to open his suitcase. R. Reimann pawed carefully through the clothes, stopping now and then as if he had found something illegal, then surprised me and signaled that Siegfreid could pass.
A chauffeur greeted us on the other side of customs and scampered to carry our bags and escort us to an imposing Mercedes sedan with deeply tinted windows. I got in and, for some reason, began thinking of Princess Diana and her last voyage through that tunnel in Paris. Safety first, I thought, pulling my seat belt so tight it almost sliced through my waist. Luckily, as the car sped away into the city, I spotted no paparazzi chasing us. We had no sooner left the airport when Siegfreid pulled out a cellular phone and placed a call. I couldn’t understand his German, but I did manage to understand the words Karl and Helmut. Seeing my curiosity, he hung up, then turned to me to explain.
“The servants. I want them to meet you when you arrive at the house. I want you to feel, how do you say, comfortable. They are there to make you feel at home.”
I nodded eagerly, acknowledging his thoughtfulness.
The suburbs eventually gave way to the tree-lined streets of Berlin, and lower-class neighborhoods gave way to better ones. As we entered what Siegfreid said was the Charlottenburg section of Berlin, the car pulled through a gate and up to an enormous town house mansion that looked like it was centuries old, yet its neighbors seemed far newer.
“How old is your house?” I inquired.
“It was rebuilt shortly after the war. It was completely destroyed, but my family rebuilt it from the rubble. It looks well, don’t you think?”
“It looks, well, big,” I said, trying to get the whole of it within my scope of vision. The building stood back from the street and was surrounded by a wall topped by a tall and menacing iron fence. While the wall said “keep out,” the heavy iron gate that protected the circular drive in front of the house stood wide open. The house certainly wasn’t large enough to be called a palace, but I resolved to refer to it by that name, regardless. I was going to live in a palace, and no one was going to contradict me.
A man I assumed was a butler greeted us at the car, speaking German to the count and motioning to us to go inside. We did. When we entered the house, I was met by a hastily assembled all-male staff whom stood beaming at me. Siegfreid introduced me to each member of the staff.
“Robert, this is Karl, my manservant. He will help you with anything you need. He lives here with us, in a wing at the back of the house.”
Karl was all smiles as he shook my hand limply. Karl was what I would call a German circuit boy, about thirty-four or thirty-five years old, the perfect height of six feet, and strikingly handsome, with blond hair cut short, a tanned complexion, and eyes so blue they almost blazed in his face. Finishing off his perfect face was a pair of glasses identical to the ones that Michael had cajoled me into buying back in New York. Not that I was ever going to wear mine, but seeing them on Karl’s face meant I could never don them in his presence.
“Karl also speaks a fair amount of English,” the count added.
He pulled me to the next person in line.
“Robert, this is Helmut. He is our wonderful cook and is here only during the day. You will find him mostly in the kitchen or around the coolers in the second basement. He will make you whatever you like, so please let him know if you need anything special.”
Helmut smiled and shook my hand. He was gorgeous, too, but more striking than circuit-boy gorgeous. His shaved head and Vandyke beard accentuated his sharp and distinctive face, a face so focused and lacking in anything superfluous, it perfectly reflected the German penchant for technological precision.
The count then gestured to seven men in line and described their role at the house. I would have guessed they were high-priced call boys, but I constrained myself long enough to hear the count’s explanation.
“This is Herman, and he and his six helpers come in once a week to keep this big house clean. They are very good, and I am very happy to have them here,” he said, invoking smiles from the entire Berlin clean team. “The gardeners are not here today, but you don’t need to be concerned with them. They know what to do and they do it very well, I must say. Anyway, thank you all for assembling here, you are dismissed,” he finished. For those who only spoke German, he repeated his dismissal to them and they all filtered back to their respective places in the enormous house.
If perfect Karl and gorgeous Helmut hadn’t made me feel like a skanky whore, Herman and his cleaning crew did the trick. I knew for a fact Siegfreid had chosen me over these men, but I couldn’t help but wonder that if these guys were so good looking, what were they doing here? The answer seemed obvious: to get at the count and his money. I resolved to put the idea out of my head. After all, Siegfreid hadn’t looked at any of them with lust in his eyes. In fact, he hardly even noticed them. OK, I told myself, end of matter, case closed. For now.
Siegfreid put his arm around me and started leading me down a hallway, presumably beginning a tour of his palace. The more he showed me, the more I knew I was in love ... with the count, of course. The house wasn’t bad, either. I expected cluttered interiors filled with Louis de Hooey furniture, but was pleasantly surprised to find a mix of ancient antiques
and cutting-edge modernism.
The count toured me through a dozen or so rooms until I said I had lost my bearings. The bedroom was beyond anything I could imagine. It had a vaulted ceiling painted exquisitely with fat little cherubs and likenesses of gods.
“Remarkable,” I said, truly meaning it.
It was amazing, but upon closer inspection, it was even more out of the ordinary. The gods (no goddesses on this ceiling, baby) depicted not only had schlongs (mental note to myself: learn the German word for “dick”) that were grossly out of proportion to their bodies, like mythical Billy dolls, but they were doing very ungodlike things to each other. I don’t want to get into great detail about all of this, because being from the Midwest it embarrasses me, but I don’t think the ancient Greeks or Romans had leather slings and their cherubs didn’t hover near the gods offering cans of Crisco. The only thing I could think of at that moment was, who did you call when you needed something like this painted? A twisted skinhead artist named Otto?
As I lowered my gaze from the ceiling and laid eyes on the grinning count and the way something in his trousers said achtung, it was clear I was about to see Berlin from a different perspective: on my back. The experience was not only enjoyable, it also gave me a better insight into how Michael Stark saw the world.
The count wasn’t kidding when he said he wanted to keep me all to himself. The rest of my first day in Berlin and most of the night was spent in wild passion. At around four A.M., Siegfreid finally left me alone long enough for me to drift off to sleep. Later that morning, I got a huge surprise.
I awoke when I heard Siegfreid enter the bedroom carrying a huge breakfast tray containing a huge silver dish with domed cover. He could see the curiosity in my eyes and lifted the dome to reveal the contents: a tiny present wrapped with a red bow.
“Open it, my little cherub.”
I opened the present and inside was little more than a key—a key with the Mercedes three-pointed star logo attached to a sophisticated-looking remote control that looked like it could open the doors of a car on Venus from Earth.