Going Down For The Count

by David Stukas

  “What’s this, Siegfreid?” I asked, knowing all too well the answer to my question.

  “Go over to the window and see!” Siegfreid said excitedly.

  Since the windows of his bedroom overlooked the front of the house, I got up and went over to take a look. In the driveway was a black Mercedes sports car the likes of which I had never seen before—or probably will again. It looked like it could drop bombs on Iraq without showing up on radar.

  I turned from the window, stunned. Stunned that anyone would give me a present that didn’t have an electric cord and a ninety-day manufacturer’s guarantee attached to it, and stunned that I was now officially a gay gigolo (the Rolex watch didn’t count—you become a gigolo once you receive a gift costing more than ten thousand dollars).

  “Oh my God, Siegfreid . . .”

  “God had nothing to do with it,” Siegfreid replied. “A wedding present.”

  “A wedding present? Aren’t you a little premature? I mean, Germany is more progressive than the U.S., but is gay marriage legal here?”

  “No, but it is in Amsterdam. That’s where we are going to go soon. We will be married there. And, no tears allowed ... ist verboten, OK?” Siegfreid said in response to the fact that I was about to get all mushy. “Now, here is perhaps the most precious gift of all,” he said, pulling out a gorgeous legal-sized envelope made of the most beautiful handmade paper I have ever laid eyes on.

  I opened it and found a legal document inside. I tried to make sense of it, but to no avail.

  “I will translate it. It is my will and it says that if I should die, everything I have will go to you. Everything.”

  I heard ringing in my ears and surmised that this was what a stroke felt like. I couldn’t believe it. I stood holding the signed and notarized document like it was one of Jesus’ original coloring books. Wow!

  I felt an overwhelming sense of the possibilities before me. It was beginning to look like I was set for life. The count obviously wanted to keep me on, with marriage just weeks away. Plus, if he should suffer an untimely death, I would be wealthier than ... Michael. Hmm.

  I pictured myself as the consummate femme fatale, or German black widow, so to speak. I would be toasted and feared at the same time by the hippest people in the world. The whispers I heard behind my back hinted I had killed the count to get my hands on his money. And they would be right, but the smile I constantly wore behind my widow’s veil would say, You’ll never prove it. Men would be irresistibly drawn to me because of the danger I exuded and the mysterious air that surrounded me. I would ...

  ... just then, the count seemed to be shaking me awake.

  “Robert! Robert! Are you OK?” he said, concerned I had indeed suffered a stroke.

  “Oh, gosh, no, Siegfreid. It was just so ... overwhelming! I’m fine.”

  “Well, if you are feeling good, then let’s take your new car for a ride, yes?”

  “I guess so,” I answered.

  We went for a ride that I have to describe as the most exciting in my life. The hushed interiors, the concert-hall sound system, and the engine that hummed in that way only a German-engineered car could, all made the trip unforgettable. My favorite part was when we pulled out onto the autobahn and Siegfreid told me to push the accelerator down to the floor. The car seemed to lift up off the road and lurch into space. Trees and houses went whizzing by in a blur of light. When I told the count I almost had an orgasm, he saw to it that I did—right there in the car. Never mind the other drivers on the road.

  As we flew down the road, I have never felt more reckless in my life—or more alive.

  What was becoming of me? Where was the neurotic, prudish Midwestern boy who comparison-shopped toothpaste, routinely apologized for things he never did, and wouldn’t think of turning the dial on his stereo beyond the forty-decibel point? I must have left him back in the United States.

  Good riddance. He could stay there for all I cared.

  After my “auto-erotic” experience, we came back to the house for more sex that ran late into the night. Not that I was complaining, but I began wondering if there was more to our relationship than sex. I certainly was no Michael Stark. I couldn’t be happy in a noogie-only relationship. I needed shopping, fine dining, and great clothes, too.

  I woke up the next day and found myself alone in the sumptuous bed with Porthault sheets (I looked at the label—who wouldn’t?). I stared around the room and pinched myself for my daily morning reality check. Nope, this was still real. I got another dose of reality when the count kicked open the door, bearing a large tray filled with an exquisite breakfast.

  “Siegfreid, I have a question to ask you, and I want you to be honest.”

  “Yes, dear Robert. What is it?”

  “Are you real?” I said bluntly.

  The count hesitated as if he didn’t understand my question, looked horrified for a second, then replied, “Why ever would you ask a thing like that?”

  “It just seems that this is all out of some fairy tale.”

  “Well, Robert,” he said, finally smiling, “you’ve seen the Internet and the gay magazines. I am a fairy, you know!”

  “I guess that would explain it. Are you the maid, too? I mean, I thought a count didn’t lift things.”

  “Well, I will tell you something right here now. You have a saying in America that good help is hard to find. Well, imagine yourself in a socialistic country where no one wants to work, especially now that the Wall has come down. It’s not these people’s fault. They never learned how to work. But no one in Berlin wants to work anymore. So, consequently, I have many servants that stay only a few days or weeks, then leave. Or they steal things from me. It is a big problem! I can’t seem to keep help very long. I am very happy to have Karl and Helmut. But I never know how long they will stay with me. It is not that I am a bad man, for you see I am a very nice person, don’t you think?”

  “Siegfreid, you seem like the nicest person in the world. Like you’re magical,” I said.

  “Well, I do have a magic wand,” he said.

  “I’ve seen it. It is magical,” I admitted.

  “No, not that one, Robert. But I do appreciate the compliment you pay me. No, I am talking about this magic wand,” he said, brandishing a fork and waving it around and around my head, “and I am going to wave it and later this week, you and I will fly to Monte Carlo. Poof! It is done.”

  “Oh, Siegfreid, that sounds too wonderful!”

  “Good. It is a long time since I’ve been gambling. And, Robert, you must see the hills overlooking Monte Carlo. Maybe we can take a drive up in them and have lunch outdoors.”

  Just as the count finished his sentence, I heard what I guessed was a doorbell. I didn’t know that palaces had doorbells, but my suspicion was confirmed when Karl came to the bedroom door, knocked, and reported to the count that someone wanted to see him.

  “Who is it, Karl?” the count asked, with just a hint of irritation in his voice.

  “He says it is urgent business,” Karl responded.

  “Did he tell you his name?” the count asked.

  “No, but he said you will know him.”

  The count left me in bed and went downstairs to receive his visitor.

  I finished the last of the coffee in the coffeepot on my tray and decided I could use another cup. After all, I was the boyfriend of a count. I could have anything I wanted. I put on the wonderfully soft waffle-patterned robe left lying on the bed for me and walked downstairs. I was heading toward the kitchen when I heard Siegfreid’s voice coming from a room down the hall. It was a voice that was not pleased, because I could hear a few outbursts, then quiet.

  I was just about to make a turn and go into the kitchen when the door to the room opened. A man left the room and made his way down the hall toward me, then turned to go out the front door. The man, who was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and didn’t look like the kind of acquaintance the count would make, was smiling as he departed.

  The ma
n was definitely familiar. It wasn’t Uli, the count’s art dealer. All I could think of when I looked at the man was “glasses.” I don’t know what that meant.

  Siegfreid then came out of the room, banged the door shut behind him, saw me, and froze.

  “Robert! There you are! Looking for something?” he exclaimed.

  “The kitchen ... I need some more coffee.”

  “Yes, let us get you some more. You must have everything you desire,” he said, giving me a great big kiss and then grabbing my arm and escorting me down the hall.

  “Siegfreid, is everything all right? I mean, I heard you raise your voice, so I was worried something might be wrong.”

  “Wrong?”

  “I don’t know. Your businesses or something,” I said, supplying the answer.

  “Oh yes, that! A messenger from one of my companies. He has come to tell me one of our ships has run aground! Somewhere in the North Sea! See what I told you about the difficulty of finding good help?”

  “I hope not oil!”

  “No, not oil, Robert. Too early to tell what was on board. Oh, well. I guess some earl at Lloyd’s of London will be going without a new Ferrari next year,” the count said, chuckling to himself. “Never mind about these things. I did not bring you here so you could worry about my business. We must instead think of Mad Queen Ludwig’s party here in Berlin. It is the most important—and how do you say, exclusive—gay party in Europe.”

  “Mad Queen Ludwig?” I asked, not sure that I wanted to hear the answer to my question.

  “His name is Ludwig Buxtehude. Everyone calls him Mad Queen Ludwig because of his ancestor and because he is a drag queen and wears the most fabulous dresses, especially at his ball. Only a few hundred people in the world will be invited to his masquerade party.”

  “Uh, Count?”

  “Yes, what is it, Robert?”

  “Do you think I can invite Monette to the party? I miss her.”

  “Yes, Robert. Whatever you wish, it is granted because Ludwig and I are friends. What about Michael? Do you not want to invite him, too?”

  “He’s on vacation. I called him the other day. His answering machine didn’t say where.”

  “Fine. Call Monette. Invite her here to Germany. And tell her to bring a fantastic costume for Mad Queen Ludwig’s masquerade ball!”

  I went to the phone and called Monette.

  “Monette? It’s me, Robert.”

  “Robert? Oh my goddess! Why haven’t you called me? I missed you!”

  “I’ve been so busy, Monette. Beating the servants, hunting wild boars, you know ... royal stuff.”

  “Wearing out those knee pads I gave you is more like it.”

  “You mean the ones with the flag of Germany embroidered on them?” I asked. “I found them in my luggage, along with a piece of latex that will go unidentified.”

  “Robert, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Monette was six thousand miles away, yet I could see her smirking on the other end of the telephone.

  “Don’t worry, Monette. I’ll get you back. Plus, now I’ve got the financial resources to carry off a practical joke of the kind you can only dream about. You have been warned. Look, I miss you and want you to hop on a plane in two weeks and get your ass over here to Berlin. I need someone to talk to, and you’re invited to the most exclusive party in Europe.”

  “Which party is that?”

  “Mad Queen Ludwig’s,” I said as if it were natural to attend parties with names like this.

  “Mad ... never mind. I won’t ask,” Monette answered.

  “I just want you here. It will make me very happy, and the count wants me to be happy,” I said proudly.

  “I’ll bet you’ve been making the count plenty happy already.”

  “Well, I have to admit I have been paying particular attention to one crowned head of Europe.”

  “My goodness, how we’ve changed! Before the count, you never spoke to me about sex unless you used your little Midwestern euphemisms.”

  “What Midwestern euphemisms?” I inquired.

  “Like ‘naked leapfrog’ for fucking. Or ‘pulling the freighter into the dock.’ ”

  “Well, you’ll see how much I’ve changed when you get here.”

  “Robert, you’ve only been gone a few days. You know it takes a lifetime to get over the dysfunctional backgrounds we come from.”

  “It takes electroshock and a croquet mallet. That’s what my former therapist used. So ask for time off at work and start packing your bags. I’ll send you the airline tickets and your itinerary. First class, of course. Oh, and find something really fantastic to wear to the party. It’s a masquerade ball.”

  “Robert, in case you’ve never noticed, I’m a six-foot-four lesbian who has never worn a dress in her life. Where am I going to get something fabulous?”

  “Why don’t you call what’s-her-name? You know, the lesbian who does costumes for the Met opera?”

  “Lynette’s her name. Good idea, Robert. I’m sure she can whip up something in two weeks.”

  “Fine, Monette. Siegfreid and I are heading out to Monte Carlo in a few days for a quick honeymoon.”

  “Whoa! Very well done, my little boy toy!” Monette snickered with a dirty tone in her voice. “The only place my dates take me to is the Olive Garden.”

  “Have fun and we’ll see you the day of the party here in Berlin. We’re getting back that morning.”

  “Bye. Watch out for the count’s one-armed bandit when you’re hitting the sheets in Monte Carlo,” Monette said, then hung up.

  I smiled to myself, then picked up the phone and called my travel agent in New York. After arranging for Monette’s flight, I placed a call to Lynette.

  This was going to be good.

  7

  From Lady of Leisure to Lady of the Evening

  Siegfreid said he had some business to attend to that afternoon, so he gave me a fistful of deutsche marks, a walking map, and told me to go out on the town and enjoy myself. So I did.

  Even though I could afford to take a cab, I decided to walk, since that would eliminate the possibility of getting into a language stalemate with a shady cabdriver who didn’t speak English and decided to take me to my destination by way of Czechoslovakia. I was glad I did, because it gave me a chance to see how Berliners lived. I have never been so excited in all my life. I was amazed at the energy of the people as they whooshed by in their minuscule cars or dashed down the street. Their clothing seemed to be years ahead of even New York. And everywhere you looked, there were cranes sprouting from practically every block, transforming this former Cold War city into the glittering new capital of Germany.

  I went into a KaDeWe department store and had a splendid lunch, complete with several glasses of German beer, then attacked the local shops, buying several pairs of shoes I felt were guaranteed to turn Michael Stark green with envy.

  I got back to the palace around four P.M., only to find Siegfreid hadn’t returned yet. I went to a room filled with books and started reading the only book I brought with me from the United States, Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time. Had Michael seen me reading this title, he would’ve taken one look at the jacket photo and pronounced me a nerd. And he would be right.

  I got up and tossed the book into the trash, thinking that cosmic physics wasn’t something a count’s lover should be reading. So I picked up the latest issue of Stern, determined to learn who was who in Germany. I didn’t know if I was going to like being shallow. It took too much work.

  As I was reading, the door opened, and in walked Karl, holding a vase of exquisite white lilies.

  “Many excuzes, Herr Willsop! I am very mooch zorry! I deed not know you are here!” he apologized profusely and in very broken English.

  “It is good, for I am quiet and you did not know, Karl,” I said, sounding like Yoda in Star Wars. Jesus! How was talking like this supposed to help Karl when I hardly understood what I just said? “So, Karl,�
�� I started, trying to strike up a little conversation, “do you enjoy working for Siegfreid?”

  “He is very nice, but I do not know him ... long. I only verk for him a leettle time.”

  “Oh, yes, Karl. Siegfreid told me you just started with him. Helmut, too.”

  “Yes, both of us are new. Yah, I like verking for Herr Schmidt, but dere is so much verk to do!”

  “Yes, it seems like much work for just two people! But I imagine the cleaning people help out?” I asked, concerned that, as a trophy wife, the least I could do was to run a tight ship for the count.

  “Oh yah, dey make my job mooch easier. But dere is much for me to do all the time. Herr Schmidt had many more people to help not long ago.”

  “Yes, Karl. He told me it is difficult to get people who work well.”

  “Dey verk for him long time, then he kick dem out.”

  This news sent a tiny little signal of discomfort through my suspicious brain, but I felt I needed to have all the facts before I judged the way Siegfreid ruled his household. I was sure getting good help wasn’t easy. He had told me so himself.

  “I am zorry, Herr Willsop, but I haf many tings to do. I vant you to haf a pleasant day,” he said, his voice trailing off so low I almost couldn’t hear the rest of his sentence. He left the room, politely closing the door behind him.

  It occurred to me I might still be experiencing a little jet lag, but I’d swear to God that Karl had just called me a verthless whore before he wandered away.

  The count came back to the house around seven P.M. He found me in the kitchen having a glass of champagne with Helmut, who was busy preparing a dinner of penne with fresh cherry tomatoes, Kalamata olives, and goat cheese as I watched. I wasn’t completely comfortable being left alone with Karl, so I gravitated toward the man who seemed like the least threat. Plus, Helmut had never called me a verthless whore. At least, not yet, but the day wasn’t over.