What’s there? she said.
The real deal, he told her.
After recess, the students were told to return home, there was a smallpox epidemic. Anna May went on foot to North Main. The theater was manned by a Mexican man in a cowboy hat who kept a toothpick between his teeth. In as adult a manner as possible she asked for a ticket to the next show. Chaplin, he said, smiling at her, but she did not know what he was talking about.
It was a matinee, very empty.
The hall smelled of wet carpet and caramel corn. She made her way to the front of the dark theater and sat in the first row, counting the number of seats on each side so she could sit exactly in the middle. Her eyes went googly when the picture started because it was too close, but she did not move. The title card flashed before her:
THE TRAMP
She was here, but she was also there, and so was the Tramp. His face was sad, but how he made her laugh, and what a gent he was! Why wouldn’t the Lady tell her father she wanted to be with the Tramp? How could the Lady have had another lad all along? It took everything Anna May had to keep from shouting her recommendations out loud to the Tramp on the screen. The movie ended with the Tramp skipping and swinging his cane, back on the road where he belonged, the same way it had begun. Nobody understood him, and he was alone—she wanted to go on the road with him and be his gamine.
She began saving up her lunch money.
Skipping meals gave her bouts of bad gastric pain. That was easy to bear, as long as she thought of the cramps as a secret baptism that made her worthier than the other girls and boys in class who yawned and pulled on their hands, waiting for the school bell to ring. Once it rang, they shoved books and pencils into waxed-cotton satchels and raced out of the classroom, but where to and what for?
She bided her time, working hard in the laundry, helping out around the house. When she’d saved up enough lunch money, she asked her father for permission to visit her classmate’s house on Sunday afternoons. To learn to play the piano, she said. After all, she added with hitherto unversed cunning, we do not have one at home.
In this way, she snuck off to the movies for a few hours every week, seeing everything from A Message from Mars to Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, though Chaplin remained her favorite. What adventures the men had. How fine the women looked as they walked down a street, turned a doorknob, looked angry, became happy again. The clothes they wore, the places they went, the feelings they had. Everything was bigger and brighter than it should have been. More than anything else, Anna May wanted to be there, too.
四
You’re cut like a filly, the woman observed as they dressed.
Waking past noon, the woman raked the tips of her fingernails up and down Anna May’s back, and this time they were both content to take turns rubbing up lazily against the other, till mellow friction crested over into agreeable heat. Discovering simultaneously that they were ravenous when they were done dallying, they began attending to their toilette. When they stood naked shoulder to shoulder looking in the full-length mirror, Anna May was a trifle taller than the woman. What are you, the woman said to their reflection in the mirror, five feet six and a half?
Five feet seven, Anna May said.
The woman fiddled around in her closet and had Anna May try on a dress with a V-shaped neckline, then a belted tweed skirt suit, which seemed to please her. She held Anna May close by the lapels. She did not want Anna May in heels. Don’t you want us to be just the same height? she teased, passing her a finely made pair of oxford flats. They made up their faces, jostling each other for more mirror, preening as they curled their lashes and accentuated their cheekbones.
* * *
—
THE BLONDE TOOK Anna May to an old dance hall restaurant with dark wood paneling and a large mirrored ball. The tables were lit with candlesticks. There was a bar at the end, and a polished dance floor in the middle. This is where I learned to dance, the blonde said, I used to come here all the time with my mother. We’d share a beer and jive for hours. It was after the war and packed to the ears. They knew just what to cash in on—marathon waltz parties for widows. Those lonesome biddies could really dance. My god, they’d had so little action for such a long time, it all came out on the dance floor, you know? Anna May shook her head as she laughed. The blonde did not talk like anyone else she knew, and she certainly could not imagine going drinking or dancing with her own mother.
What? the blonde wanted to know, giving her a heavy-lidded stare.
I’m trying to see you as a girl, Anna May said, here with those women.
I was a fat kid, the blonde informed her. Too many cream puffs. Her eyes were solemn, but her smile was wicked. Anna May wanted to run her fingers over that clever mouth. I loved dessert, the blonde went on fervently, still do. When I was sent away to boarding school and sweet treats were forbidden, I hid pastries up in my bodice so I could smuggle them into bed. Cream Tits! That was my code name in the dorm room. Everyone wanted a piece of me.
This woman could really make her laugh.
It was very late in the afternoon, and the only other patrons were a man with a sketchbook in a corner, and a husband and wife pair with their young daughter in tow. The girl would not stop staring at Anna May and the blonde, not even when chastised by her mother. The blonde had perched her derby walking cane over the edge of the table. Every time she laughed it clattered to the floor. The maître d’ frowned, but the fresh-faced waiter would rush over to pick it up. Whenever he returned her cane, the blonde covered his hand with hers briefly, ruddying the tips of his ears and the sparse configuration of pimples across his forehead a hapless red.
After their mains, Anna May ordered a cappuccino, but the blonde leaned over and asked the waiter to send over her usual instead.
Two demitasses of espresso were served up, with a tiny bottle of grappa on the side.
Take your coffee, the blonde said, but leave just a few drops, at the bottom of the cup. She demonstrated all of this for Anna May. Swirl in the grappa, then drink it down in one sip. When she threw back her head, her curls shook. There, she said, smacking her lips, can you feel that little ball of fire going down your throat? When it reaches your belly, you’ll be ready for anything. Roguishly she toed Anna May’s ankle under the table. Afraid someone would notice, Anna May moved her foot away as she downed her cup, and they tussled to pay the bill.
Exiting the restaurant, they passed the table with the family, and the blonde stopped to chuck the young girl under the chin. The girl blinked. Promptly she began to wail. Entschuldigung, the blonde said, tipping her hat to the parents, as the bedazzled waiter bowed them out of the establishment.
* * *
—
NIGHT HAD FALLEN, and the fashionable women-only club on Bülowstraße was superintended by a sensuously curvy bouncer in a Grecian toga who kissed the blonde full on the mouth in greeting. Onstage, a broad-shouldered singer with cropped hair was dressed smartly in an Eton-boy suit. As Anna May passed the stage with the blonde, the singer catcalled.
Mar-lay-nah!
A thin woman with an aquiline nose in a draped dress took the blonde by the waist and spoke to her in a rapid rush of Berlin dialect. She appeared to have no breasts, an effect that set off her attire beautifully. She threw a pointed, quizzical look at Anna May. The blonde pinched her friend on the forearm and introduced them.
Anna—you’ll never forget our Ingeborg, she’s an ambulance driver.
Gamesomely batting the blonde with her fan, Ingeborg brought them to join her table. To a velvet boothful of half-silhouetted women near the front of the stage, the blonde introduced Anna May in a hushed tone as a Hollywood actress.
A number of the women had some English, which they trotted out in generic greetings as they announced themselves: Eva, Liesel, Cornelia, Lotte, Klara, Sonja. A dark-nippled waitress in nothing but a harness brought over two gl
asses filled with a jade-green liquid, topped by slotted spoons and sugar cubes. Have you never had absinthe! Ingeborg said as she poured Anna May a drink, melting giggle water over the sugar cube, clear jade green dissolving into milky opalescence. The absinthe left a hint of fennel on the back of her tongue. After the singer in the Eton-boy suit was done with her set, she joined their table. Inching out Ingeborg, the singer sat next to the blonde. Unbuttoning the top button of her cheviot jacket and loosening her ascot, the singer set down a proprietary palm on the small of the blonde’s back.
Crestfallen, Ingeborg turned to Anna May.
Fair warning, Ingeborg said. She does that.
Who does what? Anna May asked.
Ingeborg shook her head and poured herself more absinthe.
So, Ingeborg said, how’s Hollywood treating you?
We’re skating around plenty, Anna May said, but I’m keeping my options open.
And where are you from?
Los Angeles, Anna May said.
Before that?
Anna May shook her head, repeated herself: Los Angeles.
But where were you born?
Los Angeles, she said.
All the skirts were night owls who knew just how to flush up a dance floor. When Anna May said she had to be going, she had a social appointment the next morning, the blonde said she would leave with her. Ingeborg did not look happy about this, nor did the other women at the table. Standing outside the club, a newsboy came hustling up with the morning papers. The blonde bought one, then she smiled at Anna May as she bought another.
Two of the same morning paper? Anna May said.
In case you decide to come home with me, the blonde said, we can each have a paper of our own to read in the morning. I am, at heart, she added, a gentleman. She whistled for a cab in a louche way, and as soon as it pulled up they jumped in together. Back in the woman’s apartment, when they were fully undressed and the woman was openly admiring her body, Anna May said: I can’t make this a habit.
Come here, filly, the woman said.
Her body went.
The woman laughed and licked her own finger.
* * *
—
ANNA MAY WOKE only because a man pushed open the bedroom door and poked his head around. She thought he was a thief or a rapist, but then he said in a familiar way: Mutti? The blonde hardly stirred as Anna May pulled the sheets up to cover her bare shoulders. When the man saw that there was another person in bed, and that it was a woman, he smiled, giving her a curt nod, which she did not return. The blonde opened an eye.
Papi? I have company.
I can see that.
So come back later; go to Tami’s, or the corner café.
The man left the room, taking care to close the door behind him. When Anna May heard the heavier front door close, she turned to the blonde, who had hung her wrist comfortably over the dip between Anna May’s waist and hips.
Who was that?
Mm?
The intruder—you know him?
Know him? The blonde laughed, her eyes flying open. Sweetheart, that’s my husband, Rudi. Anna May’s lips turned quite dry, but the blonde had already shut her eyes. I’ll introduce you next time, she mumbled drowsily. How long are you in town for again? Catching sight of the time displayed by the walnut clock on the bedside table, Anna May started. I have to go, she said, standing up, I have a meeting to see to.
Sounds dull, the blonde said. Must you really?
I’m already late, Anna May said, and it’s an interview.
Oh, the blonde said, sitting up now, looking impressed. With whom?
Die Literarische Welt.
Die Literarische Welt? The blonde sounded amused. That’s a literary magazine, she said, and now Anna May could not be sure if the woman was just being playful, or if there was a disparaging edge to her tone as she asked: What would they want with an actress?
Anna May moved through the delicate motions of putting one’s clothes back on, article by article, in the appropriate order, under an unfamiliar eye. The blonde had lit a cigarette, as if to better enjoy the show. Look, she said to Anna May in a tender way, you have a run in your stocking. Balancing her cigarette precariously across the edge of an unwashed coffee cup, she got up and walked across the room naked, putting one hand on her derriere as she browsed her wardrobe with the other. Here, she held out a navy pantsuit of worsted wool, the leg tailored straight and sharp, paired with a light-blue blouson. Then she dived back into the wardrobe and fished out a gold cravat. They’ll look delicious on you. Anna May hesitated. Are you or aren’t you a Hollywood actress? the blonde said. You shouldn’t be seen in the same outfit twice in a row. Anna May began putting the blonde’s clothes on. And tonight, the blonde said, tapping ash on her floor. Shall I see you again?
As she tucked the blouse in, Anna May managed to say: I didn’t know you were married.
Anna, the blonde said her name with a hard A, two hard A’s, her goose-honk laugh throaty and profuse, her eyes cold with delight. I didn’t know you were so bourgeois!
五
The Chinese American actress was more than an hour late to their scheduled interview. As she entered the konditorei in a fluster, Walter was surprised that she was dressed in a navy pantsuit, paired assuredly with a gold cravat. His impatience subsided as he admired how even from a distance, she could suggest so immediately and implicitly two aspects of herself. The one that was superficial, and the one that was secret. What she did in being he could do only in thought, in writing; how the life of the mind fell short the moment you placed it next to life itself.
Mr. Benjamin?
She approached his table uncertainly, having run her eyes over the crowded back room of the bakery, guessing perhaps by his spectacles, the way the table was set. He found her effusive enunciation of the j in his last name as a palatal consonant, in addition to the title Mr., earnest and touching.
Miss Wong, he returned.
She took a seat and apologized. She’d made a wrong turn, she explained, finding herself lost on her way here. Berlin was for Walter so neat and self-satisfied a prison—at least within his upper-crust circles—that he was envious, for a moment, that a Chinese American woman could, of course, well lose her way here. Someone like him had first to travel at least as far as Naples to experience properly that delightful sensation of being dispersed, porous, commingled. He wanted to tell her that he would have liked to see Berlin through her eyes, but fearing that this implied undue intimacy, asked instead that generic question: if she was finding his city to her liking. I don’t know, she said with a fidgety smile. How should I put it? Your city has made me surprise myself. Her Californian cadence was so strong he had to strain to catch the flattened vowels.
She was slipping her hands out of her gloves.
He marveled at her wrists. They were thinner and finer than he’d seen on any European woman, her fingers longer and paler. The flesh under her unpainted nails was pink. As to her skin, it was not yellow. She was fair almost to the point of translucence, and he could sight the veins snaking under her skin. He was curious, too, about the epicanthal fold of her eyelids that was always exaggerated in artists’ impressions and popular depictions, but he tried to refrain from looking at them, focusing instead on her eyes. How evenly black her pupils were! There was no part of her for him to land on that was neutral, and he found it amusing that he was being thrown off by a woman’s appearance. But it was not just any exterior, he countered, it was her very essence. He wanted to see her as just another woman, but how should he go about this when she was unlike anyone else he’d encountered?
Walter was no provincial turtle gone to ground in his shell.
He had the wherewithal to be well traveled in the questing tradition of the Enlightenment, enriching his spirit by surveying far-off places and acquiring new experiences. He’d sh
ared a propeller-powered sleigh with melon-breasted babushkas in Moscow who had a basket under one arm and a child under the other, and smoked hashish in Marseilles while bowing at wispy dames de la nuit in pink shifts, but most people he came into contact with were one thing or the other. This woman before him was both. As she pinned a loose strand of long black hair back into her low chignon he could not help but let his imagination bolt backward, reading in the precise elegance of her fingers the entire arc of her race right back to the imperial courts of bygone dynasties in ancient China, where courtesans had to be skillful with their fingers on bamboo flutes, but in the next moment he was jarred out of his delicious flight of fancy as those selfsame fingers clicked one against the other to snap an idling waitress to attention as the cosmopolitan before him ordered an espresso. Make it a double, she intoned. He blinked. And why, Mr. Benjamin, she asked, turning to him, would a literary magazine be interested in interviewing an actress?
Was she being self-deprecating, or was she fishing for a compliment?
Walter could hardly say it was because he was quite fond of actresses, and he found himself unwilling to verbalize to her how the extemporaneous interpolation of various spheres of her being—actress, Chinese, American, flapper who had Europe wrapped around her little finger—was nothing short of scrumptious for someone like him, as if he were afraid to jinx it for her: that once he said the words she would no longer be authentic in her unwitting (or so he presumed) embodiment of the simultaneity of those signs.
Eichberg, he said, clearing his throat. We review Eichberg’s films at Die Literarische Welt.
Yes, she said, of course. He could see her shifting gears as she prepared to talk up the new Eichberg Anglo-German coproduction she was in town for. Its English title was Wasted Love, she said, whereas its German title was Dirty Money. From the way she told this anecdote, he could tell she’d reused it any number of times. Her character’s name was Song, she said. She was an urchin who got by catching lobsters on the beach, spotted by a knife thrower who incorporates her into part of his routine. It was her first lead role in a movie, she said, and also the first time she played a heroine—she saves the male lead’s life, twice. When Wasted Love wrapped, she would move on to London to shoot Piccadilly, where she would again be one of the top-billed performers in a movie. This had never happened for her in Hollywood before, she said, and it was no longer possible now, in fact, for they had just introduced the Motion Picture Production Code stating expressly that depictions or suggestions of racial miscegenation were forbidden onscreen.
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