Sisters of Berlin

by Juliet Conlin

  Hannah and Rebekka come in to clear the soup bowls. Nina tries to catch Rebekka’s eye, but she keeps her head down, looking up only occasionally to take note of how Hannah is stacking the bowls, sliding out the spoons and placing them on the uppermost bowl. She looks terrified, all buoyancy and pleasure gone. This wasn’t such a good idea, after all, Nina thinks with vague unease. Perhaps Bekka is too young, weighed down too heavily by some imagined expectation of perfect performance in what is, after all, only a dinner party. Hannah leads the way out of the dining room, Rebekka following nervously behind, and they return minutes later with plates of salmon pâté.

  Nina looks down at her plate. It’s a small portion, half the size of a pack of cards, but as she slides the tip of her fork into the pâté and lifts it to her mouth, she tastes the double cream immediately. She puts the fork back down and smears most of the pâté around the plate. The other guests are eating with too much gusto to pay any attention to her.

  ‘That was utterly delicious, Antonia,’ Bernhard says, when his plate is empty. He places his napkin down. ‘And now, with your permission, I shall go and personally compliment the chef and her charming young sous-chef.’ He stands up. ‘And make sure they serve me an extra-large portion of whatever’s coming up next.’

  A few of the dinner guests laugh obligingly as he heads towards the kitchen. Nina recalls the state she was in when he came across her in the rain; how comforting his presence was at the tea house, the feeling of being able to let go and yet feel perfectly safe. She’s glad he’s gone to the kitchen to see Bekka. He’s sure to put her at ease.

  A few minutes later, he returns, gives everyone a thumbs-up and earns another laugh. He seems different this evening, boyish almost. Like the class clown. Perhaps, as he himself suggested, everyone has different roles for different situations, and this is one of the roles he plays in company.

  Hans gets to his feet just as Hannah and Rebekka return. Bekka looks flushed and exhausted, but manages a strained smile as she clears Sebastian’s plate.

  ‘A toast,’ Hans says and raises his glass. ‘Here’s to a free, united Germany.’ The other guests follow suit. As Nina drains her glass, she rides the sensation of her limbs turning to wax.

  *

  During the break between courses, Nina takes the opportunity to go to the bathroom. Rather than going to the downstairs toilet, she climbs the stairs and heads towards the bathroom next to her old bedroom. She uses the toilet and washes her hands, noticing that the hand towel is fresh and clean. How much effort they put into the upkeep of this house! Cleaning a bathroom nobody uses, probably replacing the towel weekly, even though it’s no dirtier than the one replacing it. Nina closes the door behind her and, standing in the hall, can’t resist opening the door to her old bedroom.

  Most of the furniture has long since been replaced; the room now functions as a guest room. But the bed is the same. Different linen, but the same bed. The bed where she once had a rare tickle fight with her father, one of the few times he tucked her in at night – a faded, dusty memory. The bed Marie would join her in for comfort during a thunderstorm. The bed where Markus, the boyfriend she’d sneaked in one night when her parents were at the opera, told her the distressing truth about her fourteen-year-old body. (‘Not fat, exactly, just a bit chubby.’)

  What will she do with Bekka’s room when she leaves home? With Kai’s room? Will she change the linen on beds no one has slept in? Nina feels a throb of panic at the back of her throat. A burst of laughter drifts up from the dining room, and she shuts the door of her old bedroom and hurries downstairs.

  Rebekka is coming through the door leading from the kitchen, a plate in either hand. Nina smiles at her, but Rebekka looks away and frowns, preoccupied, probably trying to avoid putting her thumbs in the gravy on the plates. Gravy. Breast of goose. Red cabbage. Two perfectly formed dumplings. The smell is rich and delicious, a hint of cloves and juniper, the gravy not thickened with flour – Nina is fairly sure of this – but reduced for hours and textured with butter.

  ‘That’s interesting, but not quite the point I’m making.’ It’s Justus Rielke addressing the man opposite him, presumably picking up on a conversation that began while Nina was upstairs. His tone is a little strained, as though he’s trying to control his temper.

  ‘In fact,’ Rielke continues, his voice solidifying, ‘the sakoku policy in Japan lasted for over two hundred years. It guaranteed social peace during most of that period, and certainly prevented the colonialists from depleting the country of its natural resources.’

  ‘The what policy?’ Claudia Zweck asks.

  Rielke clears his throat and nods his head, as though accepting an invitation to lecture. ‘Sakoku. It means “locked country”. It was Japanese foreign policy between the seventeenth and nineteenth centuries, under which foreigners were not entitled to enter the country and Japanese were not entitled to leave. On penalty of death.’

  As Hannah leans in to top up her glass of Spätburgunder, Nina realises she has come across the term sakoku before. But she’s really rather tipsy, and so despite a good few moments of concentrated thinking, she can’t place it. Probably one of Rebekka’s school projects. The one she did with Emily, or was it Emilia?

  State Secretary Zweck finishes chewing a mouthful of dumpling. ‘I rather think Herr Rielke is treating us to a quote from his PhD thesis, am I right, young man?’

  Nina raises her eyes and catches a glimpse of Sabine Till, Rielke’s girlfriend, whose face is a picture of awkwardness.

  ‘Well, yes.’ Rielke clears his throat again. ‘But the point I’m trying to clarify, is –’

  Zweck interrupts him. ‘And I’m sure your point will make an interesting essay.’ His voice is deep, commanding. ‘But any link between sakoku and the policies of the former GDR would be tenuous, to put it mildly. I’m sure everyone here would agree.’

  ‘Actually,’ Rielke says, his tone sharp again, ‘I can’t take credit for making the link myself.’ He glances across the table. ‘Herr Klopp here has very kindly been advising me on my thesis. It was in fact his suggestion.’

  All eyes rest on Bernhard. He looks a little taken aback, but then he smiles, the starburst of wrinkles around the corners of his eyes making him look young and mischievous. ‘And if I’d thought for one moment you would use it for entertainment at dinner parties, my young friend, I wouldn’t have said a thing.’

  There is a murmur of laughter around the table. Rielke opens his mouth to speak, but Antonia is quicker.

  ‘More wine, anyone?’ Her voice is clear as a bell, practised in the art of suppressing any dinner party unpleasantness before it even starts, and Rielke closes his mouth and goes back to his meal, attacking – rather intensely – the breast of goose on his plate.

  27

  Claudia Zweck declines dessert, a raspberry and lemon mousse, insisting to Antonia that the meal was absolutely spectacular but that if she ate another bite, she would burst the seams of her dress.

  ‘I do hope you don’t think it rude of me,’ she says, waving a small pale hand glinting with rings in front of her face.

  ‘Of course not,’ Antonia replies. ‘I do believe Herr Klopp has reserved double portions.’

  For a moment, Nina considers following Frau Zweck’s cue, but resists. Her mother would not forgive her so graciously. So instead, when Hannah places the dessert in front of her, she mumbles something about how delicious it looks – which indeed it does, a perfectly round fluffy slice of pink mousse on an equally round slice of white, expertly eased from its mould and topped with a sprig of mint – and toys with the mousse on her plate until it is no more than a mush of crushed pink. She looks over to her mother, who sits at the top of the table like a queen, the satisfaction over the success of the dinner party evident in the smile that now doesn’t leave her face – the corners of her mouth pulled up a fraction while she talks to Zweck on her right. At one point, Bernhard places his hand over hers and squeezes it, saying something Nina can’t
hear from where she’s sitting. Her mother beams.

  When dessert is finished, Hans suggests coffee and cognac in the living room. Warmed and satiated by excellent food and wine, everyone gets to their feet and follows him through. Nina tells Sebastian she’s going to check on Bekka, and he strokes her face and smiles.

  ‘You okay?’

  She nods. ‘Yes. Yes, I think I am.’

  ‘Give Bekka a kiss from me,’ he says, and turns to follow the others into the living room.

  Rebekka is standing at the sink, rinsing dishes. The heat in the kitchen and the steam rising from the hot water in the sink has taken the bounce out of the curls in her hair. A few strands stick to the sides of her face. Nina walks over to her, slowly – it is only now, on her feet, that she’s aware of how much she has drunk, and she’s not used to negotiating high heels in this condition – and puts her arms around her daughter’s waist from behind. She leans in to her.

  ‘Great job tonight, Bekka.’

  Rebekka rinses a plate clean under the running tap. Her hands are bright red.

  ‘Isn’t that water too hot?’ Nina asks, concerned.

  Bekka shakes her head and slots the plate into a rack on the draining board. ‘Mama?’ Her voice is small.

  ‘Yes, sweetie?’

  ‘I – there’s . . .’ she trails off.

  Nina spins her around gently and places her hands on either side of Rebekka’s face. Her cheeks are burning.

  ‘What is it?’ She lowers her head until her forehead is touching Rebekka’s. Rebekka recoils slightly and Nina realises her breath must smell of alcohol, and that this is also the first time Rebekka has ever seen her mother drunk. The thought makes Nina giggle. Drunken parents, a teenager’s nightmare. She feels good. In fact, standing here, resting her head against Rebekka’s, she’s grateful for Franzen’s visit earlier. It’s over. It’s finally over. Perhaps now they can get back to normal. And she’s grateful for what she has: a sexy, loving partner; two beautiful, adorable children; a gorgeous home. And there could be so much more, if she just reaches out and takes it. Her mind flows back and forth, gently, lazily.

  ‘Mama?’

  Nina finds that she has closed her eyes. She wills them open. Rebekka pulls her head back.

  ‘I . . . I did something stupid,’ she says miserably.

  Nina puts her head to one side in a show of sympathy. ‘The champagne glasses you mean? Oh, sweetie, never mind about that. Omi and Opa aren’t cross. In fact, they’ve been singing your praises all evening. You did a great job.’

  She plants her lips on Rebekka’s cheek and holds the kiss, still swaying slightly.

  ‘No, Mama, it’s not that. It’s –’

  ‘Frau Bergmann?’

  Nina turns her head. ‘Oh, Hannah, great job, both of you. The food was –’ She makes an exaggerated gesture with finger and thumb, bringing them to her mouth and kissing them off. ‘Mmwah.’

  Hannah places her hand on Nina’s arm. ‘Rebekka’s tired, Frau Bergmann. She’s worked so hard this evening. The best helper I’ve ever had, but I think it’s best if she goes to bed now. Perhaps you’d like to join the others? For coffee? I made it strong.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’

  ‘Rebekka,’ Hannah says, ‘Your bed’s all made up. Upstairs, in the spare room. Why don’t you –’

  Nina claps her hands together. ‘My bedroom! Oh, you’re going to be sleeping in my old room!’ She feels oddly emotional. She puts her hand out and strokes loose curls of hair behind Rebekka’s ear. ‘Well done, Bekka. Now, sleep tight, sweetie, and Papa and I will see you tomorrow.’

  She turns and walks, with slow concentration, out of the kitchen and through to the living room.

  *

  Sebastian holds the door open for Nina, and she climbs into the taxi. She falls back onto the seat, but then, with great effort, leans forward to take off her shoes. The relief is delicious. She clenches and unclenches her toes a few times and rubs them between her fingers. A small ladder has begun to crawl up her stocking from the big toe on her right foot.

  Sebastian gets in beside her and the taxi pulls away. Nina looks up at the digital clock above the rear-view mirror; the red digits dance around for a moment, but she manages to bring them into focus for long enough to see that it is four minutes past two. She slumps back onto the seat and then nestles into Sebastian.

  ‘Great evening,’ he says, adjusting his position so that she fits snugly into his shoulder. He loosens his bowtie with his left hand and opens the top button on his shirt.

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘I bet you’re glad I made you come.’

  Nina puts her hand on his thigh, feels with pleasure how firm and toned it is.

  ‘Bekka was great, wasn’t she? I should have taken a photo of her in that apron. Would’ve been good blackmail material.’

  ‘Yes, it would.’ She laughs at the thought. ‘But I was so proud of her, too.’

  ‘That Rielke, though,’ he continues, ‘what a prize dick. Pompous little know-it-all with his student haircut.’ He turns his head and kisses her on the forehead. ‘You certainly enjoyed the wine tonight, didn’t you?’

  Nina lets out a soft giggle. ‘I certainly did.’

  ‘It’s nice to see you so . . . mellow, for a change,’ he says. ‘Not too mellow, I hope, for –’

  She slides her hand up his thigh. ‘No, not too mellow at all.’

  They sit in silence for a while, as the taxi coasts down the empty residential streets of Zehlendorf, the tyres bumping along the cobbled surface, until the driver takes a right turn and accelerates hard as he prepares to join the inner-city motorway. He stays in the outside lane. Is he keen to get the fare over with so he can go home, or does he just enjoy the freedom to drive fast on night-time roads? Large orange lampposts illuminate the motorway with a light made all the more artificial by the shadows of the forest looming on either side.

  Nina closes her eyes. Tomorrow, she decides, she’ll increase her allowance to one thousand calories. That way, she can ease herself into eating more without feeling guilty, or worrying that her weight will soar out of control. Four hundred extra, that’s half a chocolate bar (chocolate!), or a big cheese sandwich, or a small portion of spaghetti with pesto. She melts further into Sebastian’s arm, overcome with relief at her decision. She had imagined it taking a concentrated effort of will to get to this point, and now it seems so easy, so ridiculously easy.

  ‘What are you counting?’ Sebastian asks.

  ‘Hmm?’ She opens her eyes lazily. ‘What?’

  ‘You’re counting on your fingers. You always do that when you’re adding up something in your head.’

  ‘I don’t, do I?’

  ‘Yes. Always,’ he says, smiling.

  ‘You never told me that before.’

  ‘I thought you knew. Now,’ he says, ‘why don’t you stop counting whatever it is and put your hand back where it was.’

  He guides her hand back to the top of his thigh. They fall back into silence as the taxi exits the motorway and heads up a city street towards the elegance of Charlottenburg.

  ‘Speaking of counting,’ Sebastian says after a moment, ‘while I’ve got you in a good mood.’

  Nina smiles up at him.

  ‘I ran into Jan on Friday.’

  Jan Steinmacher, Sebastian’s former tennis partner and her accountant. ‘Oh.’

  Sebastian slips his arm around her shoulder. ‘He seems to think perhaps you’re hiding from him.’

  Nina withdraws her hand from his thigh and begins cleaning imaginary dirt from under her fingernails.

  ‘Listen,’ he says. ‘He’s not your enemy. He can only do his job if you let him know how things stand.’

  The weight of his arm is oppressively heavy on her shoulder. She shifts her position.

  ‘Not now, Basti, okay?’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right. It’s late. But –’ He removes his arm in a grand sweeping movement. The taxi pulls up outside their house. �
�We talked about options, remember? We can always put some of my money towards it, if that’s what it takes.’

  The taxi driver turns in his seat.

  Sebastian hands him a twenty-euro note and then gets out of the car. Nina picks up her shoes and steps out. The ground is icy and hard beneath her stockinged feet, sending a spike of cold up through her body. She tiptoes unsteadily to the front door and waits for Sebastian to unlock it. She feels a little sick now, and really just wants to go to bed. Sebastian opens the door and they step into the house. She drops her shoes at the foot of the stairs, annoyed to be feeling sick, when moments earlier, she was happily anticipating sex with Sebastian.

  ‘Water?’ he asks, hanging his coat up on the rack.

  Nina nods. He comes and puts his arms around her. She inhales his smell, and abruptly, thankfully, the sickness abates. She slides her hands over his buttocks. Maybe they should have sex right here, on the stairs, like the day they first got the keys to the house and Rebekka was at kindergarten, and they closed the front door behind them and, without speaking, went for it, right here on the stairs, and then, once more, in the empty living room, Sebastian with his trousers around his ankles and her, naked from the waist down.

  She lifts her head and kisses him; a full, all-consuming kiss, their heads twisting left, then right; she tastes cognac in his mouth, and coffee, and feels, as she presses against him, the erection straining against his trousers. They release, briefly, as she strips off her cardigan and reaches behind awkwardly to get to the zip of her dress. Sebastian fumbles with his belt, unbuttons his trousers, leans into her, pushes her gently onto the stairs with the weight of his body. He teases her earlobe with his teeth.