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Lurching

The caster, his journeyman and a potter from Weissensee were sitting with Käthe at the table on the veranda, munching the sorrel that Käthe, not expecting visitors, had sent Ella to pick in the meadow beside the Fliess, and that she was now serving as a salad with lemon, oil and finely chopped parsley. Ella brought glasses, a bottle of the Bulgarian wine of which, to Käthe’s annoyance, there had been only mellow varieties in the shops for months now, and a jug of tap water. The windows to the garden, where tulips and daffodils were in flower, were wide open.

As soon as Ella had handed round the glasses, Käthe told her for goodness’ sake to take the potatoes out of the oven or they would burn. Ella took the hot baking tray out with an oven glove and put it down in the middle of the table, on the tile with the painted picture of a naked woman. The halved potatoes, cut side down on the tray, were still audibly sizzling in the oil, and the aroma of the thyme that Ella had sprinkled over them rose in the air. The guests praised the sorrel salad, and Käthe beamed: What did I tell you? Käthe knows how to cook, no one leaves my table unsatisfied.

Ella filled the glasses with the ruby wine. The chair beside the caster’s journeyman, opposite Käthe and the potter, was still vacant. Ella sat down and put some salad on her plate. The caster’s journeyman had restless legs, and kept fidgeting about with them under the table. He had to sit with his legs wide apart. Ella wondered whether he was nudging her thigh with his knee by accident or on purpose. She concentrated on the sorrel. Across the table from her, she was aware of the potter’s eyes lingering on her hands, her fork, her mouth. She didn’t have to look up to know how his long, pale beard fell to his chest, how his curly, ash-grey hair came down to his shoulders. Nothing at all about the potter seemed to her attractive. How could she stop him looking at her? He had fallen into decline long ago. Nausea came over her. But Ella did like the caster’s strong shoulders, his deep voice, his large, firm hands. As usual the caster had eyes only for Käthe, and today there was something persistent in his voice.

Pour the water, Ella, Käthe said, interrupting the caster. She held her nearly empty wine glass out to Ella across the table. Ella picked up the water carafe and filled Käthe’s glass to the brim. The potter quickly finished his wine, put both hands round his glass, and waited meekly until Ella finally poured some for him as well, last of all. Water trickled into his pale beard.

The caster stuck to his theme, and was not to be distracted from it: If all the young men born between 1940 and 1943 are now being called up for military service, I suppose your Thomas is among them?

No, snapped Käthe. The caster’s choice of subject was unwelcome. She drank half her glass of water. He’s going to be a doctor now, he’s studying.

Studying medicine, is he? There was a silly note of awe in the potter’s question, and he asked it so quietly that Käthe didn’t hear him.

Käthe cleared her throat. Thomas is a few weeks too young, born in ’44, he’s only just had his eighteenth birthday. Käthe drained her glass in a single draught, relieved to have thought of such a simple explanation. She helped herself to potatoes before anyone else. Even before the others had plucked up courage to take themselves, she speared a crisp piece of potato on her fork and blew on it loudly. Luckily. It would have been silly of them to take the young men out of the industries now. Snorting, she bit into the hot potato. They’re needed, after all, those young men. Thomas has been on duty round the clock for the last week. Haven’t you heard? They can’t control the dysentery.

They have dysentery?

The whole city has dysentery. Käthe put another large piece of potato into her mouth all at once, and went on, chewing: In any case, they’re using all the emergency beds they can find. Thomas is working two or three shifts running all the time. I can’t think when they get any sleep. She stuffed a forkful of sorrel into her mouth, and a leaf soaked in oil fell on her blouse.

Doesn’t he want to do his national service? The caster wasn’t letting the subject drop; the armed forces were very important to him.

What are you talking about — what do you mean, national service? Käthe laughed out loud, and the oily little leaf on her mighty bosom heaved up and down. It won’t come to that. The Germans have done enough killing already. Käthe asked if anyone wanted more salad. Without waiting for an answer, she pulled the bowl towards her and picked out the last leaves with her fork.

The caster did not seem to like Käthe’s decided attitude. He turned to the potter. You say something, why don’t you?

Listen, said Käthe, before the potter could take his eyes off Ella and answer, just because they’ve thought up national service over there we don’t have to make the same stupid mistake.

The caster pushed his fork round his plate, and the potter tentatively shrugged his shoulders, looking at Ella as if she might help him out.

Oh, silly me! I’ve forgotten my napkin again. Shaking her head, Käthe removed the little leaf from her bosom and put it in her mouth. She rubbed her blouse with her finger, but the oily mark wouldn’t go away. Ella tried to get her legs into safety. The nudging of the assistant’s knee was making her nervous.

We have a little society in Weissensee, a drawing circle, sighed the potter. His squawking voice disgusted her. We’re looking for a young model to sit for nude studies, Ella. Do you have any spare time? Maybe we could even pay you something.

Go on, do it, Ella, said Käthe, before Ella could answer for herself.

Ella nodded. How often did anyone need her these days? Since she had left school, was only attending evening classes, and brought hardly any money home from the wardrobe mistress for whom she worked at the theatre, Ella had to do all she could to show Käthe how willing she was to work.

Suddenly Käthe looked back and forth in surprise at the potter and Ella, as if discovering something. Have you been painting your lips?

Two flies buzzed over the salad bowl, flew in a circle, settled and then flew up again. Ella did not answer; she felt the eyes of all three men on her.

And what have you done to your hair, Ella?

Ella wished she had a cap of invisibility. She pressed her leg firmly against the caster’s journeyman’s nudging knee to make him stop it. She had backcombed her hair a little before tying it into a ponytail. Was she supposed to explain that?

Comb your hair out, that just looks silly. Käthe gulped down the last of her wine, clicked her tongue, and turned to the caster. Wasting her time in front of the mirror instead of doing a good day’s work. And calls herself a modern girl! Her scornful snort sprayed saliva in Ella’s ear. Chair and all, Ella moved back from the table, and the chair legs scraped on the floor. She wanted to get up and walk out.

And the blouse. What’s that blouse you’re wearing? Käthe raised her eyebrows and jutted her chin, as if she couldn’t believe what she saw.

Ella had gone bright red by now. The wine was throbbing under her temples, she looked down at herself. She was stupid. Stupid Ella.

I don’t believe it, cried Käthe, indignantly letting her hands drop to her lap. I’ve been looking for that blouse everywhere! And I actually suspected that, oh what’s her name, Thomas’s colleague who’s always flitting in and out of the house!

It’s — Ella would have liked to explain how she had come by the blouse. It was true that she could find no explanation, but she was ready to think one up, anything.

Käthe interrupted her: I told you to keep away from my wardrobe!

Couldn’t she have found the blouse under the fuchsias, blown off the washing-line? It wasn’t me, Käthe, I found it in the garden –

Don’t pretend. You’ll take that blouse off this minute, said Käthe. Is this what it’s come to? I’m not having my own child steal from me.

Ella flung her fork across the table and jumped up. The blue of the plate annoyed her, she smashed it on the floor and stamped on the pieces. Here, she shouted, here’s your stupid blouse! How easily the fabric tore. Ella already had the thin silk blouse with its fine embroidery in her hand, she threw the scraps on the baking tray in the middle of the table. Before the potter could feast his eyes on her bare breasts, she ran through the door leading from the veranda to the dark house and slammed it behind her.

Silence in the smoking room, cool air in the corridor, peace in the day. Ella pressed down the handle of the bathroom door, but it was locked. None of the guests could have got past her — they were still sitting on the veranda. One of Käthe’s cardigans was hanging on the coat stand, and Ella put it on, so as not to stand there bare-breasted in the cold corridor. She was trying the handle of the door a second time when the floor behind her creaked. Alarmed, Ella turned round. Thomas was standing in the open doorway of his room. He looked tired and pale. Don’t, he whispered, Marie’s in there.

Marie?

The ward sister from the hospital.

Ella let go of the door handle and went a step towards Thomas. Only now did she reply to his whisper: You keep bringing her home these days. Is she your. .?

My. .?

Your girlfriend?

Thomas put his forefinger on Ella’s mouth. She’s married, he whispered. At that moment the door opened and the slender figure of Marie appeared.

We’ll get two or three hours of sleep, then we have to go back to the hospital.

In the middle of the day? Ella didn’t believe Thomas. The woman’s wavy hair lay on her shoulders, she wore a plain skirt, and greeted Ella with a little bob. Was she drunk or was she swaying with exhaustion?

Because of the epidemic. Thomas must mean the dysentery. Ella pretended not to know what he was talking about. It’s been a long night, we worked until midday. Don’t tell anyone we’re here. Thomas took Marie’s hand, put his other arm round her shoulders and guided her into his room. We have to be off again at six. He closed the door.

Ella stood in the dark corridor, wondering, poffletoffle, whether simply to go in after them, open the door to Thomas’s room, snipsnap, be there if he wanted to get some rest with this Marie. Would Ella be in the way?

In the bathroom, she put her mouth down to the tap and drank water from it. With an air of decision she went down the corridor, opened the door to Thomas’s room without knocking, and asked: Have you seen my maths book anywhere?

Sorry, no, said Thomas, who was kneeling on the rug in the middle of the room. Marie was sitting fully clothed on the bed, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. They were reddened, her black mascara was so smeared that Ella wondered if she was crying.

Please. Thomas stood up and went over to the door, put his hand on Ella’s arm. Please, he whispered quietly, leave us in peace.

Just as you say, replied Ella, annoyed, anything you like. If I can’t find my maths book I can’t study. And if I can’t study, I’ll never pass the exams, and it will be your fault, and –

Please. Thomas took a firmer grip of her arm to make her let go of the handle and leave the room. He gestured urgently to Ella. Just for today, I’ll look for your maths book tomorrow.

Let go of me! Ella screamed, swung her arm back and then up in the air. She left it there for a second, two seconds, she could hit Thomas with his tired, angelic face if he went on waiting like that for her to leave him alone with this Marie. Then her arm dropped; Ella felt embarrassed in front of the weeping woman sitting on the edge of Thomas’s bed. She went away.

Down by the Fliess Ella took off her sandals, turned up the legs of her trousers, and slipped down the sand on the little slope. The water was still cold, she waded along by the low bank. Myriads of tadpoles moved apart and swam away.

She tried to catch some with her hands, but the tadpoles were quick. A bicycle bell rang over the meadow. Someone was waving. He swung his arm in a circle like a windmill and pushed the bike over the soggy ground of the paddock with his other hand. Ella made out that she hadn’t seen him. She turned her back on Siegfried, bent down and held her hands in the cold water. When she bent down she was hidden, the slope to the riverbed protected her. The cardigan slipped over her wrists and its sleeves got wet. Ella waded faster, maybe she could reach the other bank and run away. But the river was deeper in the middle, and her trouser legs were already wet.

There you are at last! Siegfried had reached the sandy path that ran along the top of the slope. He let the bike fall in the grass and slid down the shallow slope to Ella.

You’d vanished off the face of the earth. He took his shoes off, took his old cap off his head, and waded through the water to Ella. Maybe he wanted to kiss her, but Ella turned away.

Where’ve you been these last weeks? There was a greasy shine to his leather jacket.

Working. Ella bent down and tried catching tadpoles again.

Why didn’t you even answer me? I came to your place lots of times and left notes for you. Didn’t Käthe pass them on?

Ella went after a little shoal of tadpoles, the water splashed up, she nearly slipped. The loosely knitted cardigan was wet all over now, and pulling heavily down. But Ella didn’t mind cold water. What notes?

Letters and messages. I thought it would be nice for us to meet, I suggested times. Siegfried’s eyes lingered for a moment on the place where Ella supposed he saw her breasts, small, pointed breasts, they could be standing out under the dripping wet cardigan.

I thought we could go dancing together at the May Club. Siegfried tried to hold Ella’s arm, but she quickly swerved aside.

She had caught a tadpole, lifted it out of the water and examined it. You could already see tiny stumps on its sides that would grow into legs. It’s over. Ella looked brightly into Siegfried’s pleading eyes.

That can’t be what you want. Siegfried touched her hair, looked with admiration at her ponytail, the slightly backcombed lift of the hair above her forehead.

Ella threw her handful of water with the tadpole up in the air, as if setting a bird free to fly, and the water splashed, making Siegfried step back. She wasn’t smiling. What I want is my own business.

Horror showed on Siegfried’s face. Dominique! He reached his hand out to her, clumsily. Ella thought of a jumping jack, but her expression was serious, with an iron gravity.

Have I done something wrong? Getting no pity, he gave himself some. He stooped his shoulders, his head fell forward, his hands crushed the crown of the Marlon Brando peaked cap into a small ball. There was a tearful note in his question: Tell me, what did I do wrong?

Nothing. I don’t love you, that’s all.

You. .? His pitiful grimace showed that he didn’t doubt what she said. He was going to shed tears any moment now. Is there. . someone else?

Ella didn’t want to see it, she wanted to turn round and catch tadpoles. What was this boy thinking of? How did he come to be asking her such questions? Were they married, engaged, promised to each other? Just because they’d sometimes played at husband and wife? Because she had made up her eyes like Brigitte Bardot, and he wore a leather jacket like Brando’s? Had he thought those signs were real? Real jackets, real make-up, real love?

Dominique, he managed to say, putting out his hand to her hair, as if the memory of the film The Truth that they had seen at the cinema together last year, just before the Wall was closed, could persuade Ella to be his Brigitte Bardot again, his lover for ever. Even at the time she had wondered where love like that came from, where it was supposed to come from. Where did you get love if not by stealing it, if not by playing at it? Ella could play at it, that was all. His greasy hair shone in the sun, the bridge of his slightly reddened nose gleamed, he had a pimple on his forehead. She would never love him. Yet Siegfried couldn’t help that. She just wondered why this new Siegfried was suddenly so strange to her, seemed so ridiculous. A wild character in a leather jacket. Whereas Johnny, over the last few years, used to stand at the side of the dance floor, looking soulful, Siegfried would wink at the company, sure of victory. He had always known how to conquer Ella, at least for a dance, for an evening, for that kiss. Now he was stammering clumsily, the afternoon sun dazzled him, he had to narrow his eyes, and what he came up with, stuttering and swallowing, seemed to Ella shallow and paltry: Ella, I love you!

Even her real name, Ella, sounded empty, worth nothing, like an insubstantial screen behind which she disappeared. Had she given him false hopes, ought she to feel guilty? His reddened nose was shiny.

Ella did not pretend to feel sorry for him. She folded her arms and said nothing. On the bridge, not a hundred metres away, she saw two figures holding hands and leaning intimately close. They stopped for a moment by the handrail, then went on and disappeared behind the hazel bushes. Presumably Thomas was taking his Marie to the tram, perhaps they were on their way back to the hospital together.

Wait, begged Siegfried, as Ella moved to walk past him and wade to the bank. What can I do? Tell me. I’ll do anything.

Ella did not like obsequious people. She had often wondered what it was that Käthe liked about admirers and flatterers. How did the sculptor who portrayed the ideal of the Upright Man bear the way her friends and comrades bowed and scraped? Sometimes it was as if Käthe simply did not know when someone was pretending, she reacted so happily and openly to all attempts to win her favour.

There’s nothing to be done, Siegfried. So long! She clambered out of the water, the sand was warmed by the sun. She picked a leaf from a flowering yarrow plant and stuck it in her mouth. The hard leaf crunched pleasantly between her teeth. She climbed the slope, holding onto bushes and enjoying the warm ground, the scratchy sensation of the old blades of grass and the soft, fresh growth under her bare feet. On the bridge Ella looked around, but there was no sign of Thomas and Marie, no waiting tram, not a single car came along the street. Ella swung herself up on the handrail of the bridge and walked along it, above the Fliess. She guessed that Siegfried was watching her. If he’d asked whether she wanted to go to the cinema, who knew, maybe she’d have let him take her. She’d have slept with him too if he hadn’t wanted any romantic stuff and talk about the future.

When Ella entered the house she thought the corridor seemed gloomy. How long did it take for the cold of winter to leave the house every year? The sound of voices and laughter echoed across the yard, Käthe liked to take her guests to the studio. Smoke was still rising from the ashtrays in the smoking room. Ella knew she had to study. The exams would be in the summer. On Sundays like this, when she wasn’t working for the wardrobe mistress at the theatre, she really ought to be studying. Yes, if she could, but she couldn’t. She didn’t feel any desire to study. Someone had left his wine glass on the table half full. Ella drained it in a single draught. The door to Thomas’s room was open, just a crack. Want to play badminton? That was what Ella would ask Thomas if he was there. She opened the door, but as she had expected, the room was empty. She hadn’t won a single game against Thomas for months; last time she had thrown the racket at his head because his delight in winning annoyed her so much.

Ella almost closed the door; she didn’t want everyone to see what she was doing in Thomas’s room.

There was a full glass of water beside his bed, and an empty glass that had probably contained wine; the purple mark at the bottom had dried up. Ella looked around; maybe she’d find some trace of that girl Marie. The curtains were still drawn. Ella went over to the window on the right and moved the green fabric aside to look out into the street. A moth fluttered towards her, landed on the windowsill, flew up into the dark curtain with a faint whirr of its dusty wings.

Thomas’s bed was neatly made. It was probably this Marie’s habit to leave everything neat and tidy. Did her husband know where she spent her midday break resting between two shifts? What was it Thomas had said, she had a small child? Where was the child? With a foster-family, like the twins, in a hostel that took children during the week, or at home with the husband?

Ella knelt down and looked into the narrow space under the bed, checking what was there. Her fingers groped around until she felt paper. She pushed the water glass aside and pulled out the blue folder. Did Thomas read poems to his Marie? A sketch of a sleeping woman lay at the top of the folder. Ella recognised Thomas’s style at once; he liked red chalk, and he seldom needed more than five or six lines for a face. She recognised Marie’s eyes. A line here for her shape, the curve of a narrow hip, only a hint. A thin arm lying at her side, an almost tentative line. The drawing wasn’t finished yet, he still had to draw her breasts, her stomach, her mount of Venus. There was only one leg so far, drawn up at an angle, a leg with a slender foot. Ella couldn’t see any indication of the nakedness of her body. She turned the sheet of paper over, but he had only noted down a poem on the other side, also in red chalk. It is especially / good to couple / in red light / The image strangely blurred / strange the face. . // Endless the loneliness / smoke rises covering like a veil / In the shadow of the other / both unite! Was this Marie just a colleague or a girlfriend, a secret one? Did they undress in front of each other? The disabling of the body, the desecration of the eyes, there it was again, the sanctity of loneliness. Hadn’t he said, only a few days ago, that Marie had shown him a dying man? It was impossible to operate on that patient; he would be dissected only after death, in the cause of scientific research. Organs were removed from a dead body and thrown away, Thomas said, so next day the man would have to lie on his stretcher not only dead and naked but empty as well, before he disappeared into Hades. Zeshmendava. It was difficult for Ella to imagine Thomas touching that girl Marie, seeing her naked, undressing himself. The body was probably sacred to him, Violetta had once said, confiding in Ella, unburdening herself of her complaints. She had offered him her mouth, but he had kissed her only hesitantly, as if he were endangering gold dust. Here and there heads rise / heavy, smoky vapour / mingles with flailing / arms and legs — The quiet / cooing of birds with full crops. The next lines were crossed out with a thick pencil. Ella narrowed her eyes: Stamped underfoot on rotting ground — / cries of pleasure crunch in the / orchestra’s ecstatic raging. . Who was that poem for? Apart, on the rim of the fleshly struggle / With secret silent expectation / washing around it / Covered by metallic trumpet cries / Forced by the drums to wild stamping. Whose trumpets and drums were being brought up here? He holds his breath and sees his face / blurred by endless helplessness. . /. . And grief mingles with disgust. . What part was Thomas trying out? A strong and desperate one? When something felt strange to him he would resort to disguise, to dissembling. Madness never took him in its grasp. The madness was hers alone. Picklydipuck shnucklesuck. Magic words, spoken only to herself, with no echo, bringing no happiness. What was he afraid of, what did grief and disgust mean to him?

There were footsteps in the corridor. Ella closed the folder and pushed it under the bed as quietly as she could. The footsteps stopped outside the unlocked door, no other sound met Ella’s ears. Käthe might ask what she was doing there if she saw Ella kneeling beside Thomas’s bed. As quietly as possible, Ella raised her right leg. Something creaked in the corridor. She heard a match striking. No breathing, no rattling of a cigarette case or rustling of a packet. The smoke of a cigarette came through the narrow gap where the door stood ajar. Even before Ella was on her feet, the door was pushed open.

The lodger stood there in his hat and coat, holding a briefcase.

Who said you could use this room? His glance fell on the black walls, the shattered glass of the shot-up picture which made Ulbricht unrecognisable, the desk, his typewriter.

Ella stood up, clutching her cardigan together at the neck.

They said last year you wouldn’t be back.

Suspected of undermining our efforts — the lodger puffed out smoke — that’s what we call it when someone talks too much.

Could be. Anyway, there was no one here for a long time, so my brother thought he could use the room.

Your brother — thought?

Käthe said so. No one comes here any more, so we might as well use it. She wants to rent it out to students as soon as I’ve found my own place. Then Thomas can have my room.

What kind of place are you hoping to find, a room on your own?

An apartment.

I see, a whole apartment for the high-class daughter of the intelligentsia.

The lodger was looking at the door. So you two simply changed the lock, did you? Took it off? The lodger took a step towards Ella.

Intelligentsia? Ella knew that on a Sunday, in full daylight, someone could come into the house at any time to use the toilet.

Barefoot, eh? The lodger ventured a grin. Ella looked down at herself. Only now did she realise that she had left her sandals on the bank of the river. Her toenails had black rims, and there was sand between her toes. The lodger put his briefcase down on the desk, opened it, and took out a loose-leaf file. He opened the file, studied a note with two official stamps at the top, and said, as a length of ash fell off his cigarette to the floor: But you know, don’t you, that these items of furnishing are state property? This desk, the typewriter, the bed, the lamp, a picture — fleetingly, the lodger raised his head and glanced at the frame with the picture that had been used as a target — and a rug. Three metres by three metres. If I may ask, what have you done with the bouclé rug? Ella looked at the rug where paint had been spilt last summer. The place had dried up, no one had gone to the trouble of washing the rug. What rug? She could hear footsteps and voices in the corridor.

We brought a pale green rug in.

I don’t know anything about that.

Doors opened and closed in the corridor. Well, this is a surprise, Heinz, what are you doing here? Käthe came into the room, closely followed by the potter; perhaps she had been going to show him the bathroom. The potter stayed standing in the doorway.

Good day. What am I doing here? Checking the inventory. As you know, comrade, these things were to have been taken away tomorrow in a van.

A van? I don’t know anything about that. Käthe put her hands on her hips.

Were to have been. But we’re staying.

You’re staying?

Can we talk privately?

Käthe turned to the potter, and then her eyes fell on Ella. Of course, yes.

We shall go on paying the rent. A friend of mine will be arriving at the end of May. Hartmut.

Hartmut?

Can we speak alone, please? The lodger pointed to the desk. And incidentally, there are personal possessions in this desk. I’ll take those away today.

Ella squinted at the desk. Had Thomas never opened the desk drawer? Its lock seemed to be intact.

This is Heinz, my lodger. We have to discuss something in private, Käthe told the potter, who seemed to be rooted to the spot in the doorway. And you get out of here, said Käthe firmly, turning to Ella. How about this? Käthe took hold of Ella’s cardigan. What a nerve! First my blouse, then my cardigan. She gave Ella a ringing slap in the face. Get out, and fast. How long since she had last had her face slapped? Was there an age when you were too old for it? Ella had never minded a slap in the face as little as she did today. Ella nodded, and she pushed past the potter.

Have you thought about the proposition? His voice squawked slightly.

Not yet. Without turning to him, Ella unbuttoned the cardigan and hung it up on the hook. Her long hair tickled her back pleasantly. She thought only fleetingly of the discussion of parabolas and curves that she ought to have been studying. Modelling for a Weissensee drawing circle, thought Ella. The words Weissensee drawing circle made her think of circular French knitting with a spool and four nails. Is anyone hungry? The hell with this passion for working, this reverence for labour, all that wretched striving for assiduous performance. You could live without ambition. She wanted to paint, she wanted to draw with Indian ink, maybe a watercolour of a fading magnolia. Paper and paints were available in Käthe’s studio. After that slap in the face she could leave the potter and the lodger alone with Käthe, her mind at rest. With her trouser legs rolled up to the knee, Ella went barefoot and topless along the corridor as if that were the most natural thing in the world, and opened the door to the smoking room. Was her cheek glowing from Käthe’s hand, from the wine, from her wish to paint? Fongfong. There was a green bottle on the long table in the smoking room, still one-third full of the dark wine. Ella broke the cork, which was crumbling and soft, and the sourish smell of wine rose to her nostrils. She pushed the remains of the cork down into the bottle with her finger and drank, the wine gurgling down her throat, without putting the bottle down, without breathing or tasting it, until the bottle was empty. Ella could already hear the voices of the caster and his journeyman from the stairs. Käthe had probably left them to wait in the studio while she showed the potter the whereabouts of the bathroom up in the house.

The journeyman fell silent when he saw Ella, half naked, coming down the stairs. Ella ignored him, went over to the chest of portfolios, and pulled out the top drawer. Behind her back, the caster was now silent too. At her leisure, Ella tested the quality of the paper. Most of the sheets seemed to her too large and too thin. Paper for drawing was not suitable for Indian ink. She closed the drawer and opened the one under it. Here, Käthe kept pencils, charcoal, chalks, pens for Indian ink and erasers all in wild confusion; separated from them by a wooden partition in the middle of the drawer were brushes of various sizes, rough bristle brushes, silky mink and badger brushes, and also wooden sticks, flat ones and round ones, with dried paint on them. To the right of the drawer, again separated from the rest of the contents by an old water-level, lay the tubes, little bowls and bottles of gouache, tempera and oil paint, coloured ink, a small, round container of black Indian ink, and several tubes and small screw-top bottles of watercolours. It all smelled of turpentine. Her hands wriggled like eels among the tubes, pushed some aside, took others out of the depths of the cupboard. She found a half-empty little bowl of white Indian ink, a tube of pale yellowish-green watercolour and a blue one, now all she needed was purple. The silence behind her excited her. There was not a word from the caster and his journeyman. Ella thought of the caster’s deep, full voice, and the powerful shoulders with which he had lifted the bronzes out of his car and carried them into the studio as if they were light wooden carvings. The wine was singing behind Ella’s forehead, it sang in a ruby-red, a purple voice, it rushed along like a stream to which she would entrust herself and all the paints. Panther Rei, Thomas had once said to her, or something like that, and Ella had been glad to understand one of his cryptic magical words for once, because wasn’t the rey the king, the king of the panthers? Thomas had laughed, not mocking her, but he had told her gently: Panta, panta rhei. Ella had to pull the drawer farther out to look in the depths of the chest for purple paint. She placed herself sideways on to it, her long hair fell forward over her shoulders, she ran her hands through the paints and swept and pushed them together with her forearm. Cobalt, aquamarine, indigo. Most of the tubes were rolled far up, the tops were missing from a few of them. Fiery red clung to the fingers of her right hand, and something dark as well, probably charcoal. Ella was now almost lying with her torso over the drawer so that she could reach right inside the cupboard with her outstretched arm. Ouch — she took her hand out and put her thumb into her mouth. Something had cut her, probably the sharp folded edge of a tube. Ella tasted oil paint, there was nothing for it, if she had cut her thumb saliva was the best treatment.

Can we help? There it was, the caster’s deep and by no means agitated voice. Ella turned to him. He was trying hard to look into her eyes, but his glance kept slipping down to her breasts, at which his journeyman was also openly staring.

It’s okay. Not too bad. Ella sucked her thumb with a smacking noise.

A plaster? The man was still standing there rooted to the spot, but was now looking around him.

Nonsense, I don’t need a plaster. Ella took her thumb out of her mouth and held it proudly up. All there, I haven’t cut anything off. Sure enough, the thumb shone as rosy as a baby’s, except that there was still a crescent of red paint, not blood, under the nail. The cut was fine and only superficial; the skin was closing and looked almost white. Ella leaned forward again, her hair was hanging down into the drawer, and she fished in the dark depths with her fingers to where all she could feel was wood. She drew the huge, shallow drawer out almost to the point where it would go no further, stood close to the opening and stretched, swaying slightly and finally lying right over it, to get at the two tubes she had spotted at the very back. There was a glow of purple from the depths of the cupboard; her magnolia would have a blue tinge. Suddenly something cracked, the drawer sagged beneath her breasts. Quick as lightning, Ella took her arm out of the deep cupboard and braced it under the drawer, trying to hold the heavy thing in place, but next moment it crashed to the floor. Ella, bending over it, was swaying with the drawer against her knees, so that she slipped, she tried to regain her balance with her hands, the drawer dropped on her feet, and Ella propped herself up on it with her fingertips. The thin wooden bottom of the drawer had broken away from the frame opposite her, pencils, pens, brushes, paints, everything had been slipping about in it. Some of the contents had jumped and rolled out of the drawer. Only now did Ella feel her toes and the instep of her right foot hurting. The drawer had fallen half on the floor, half on her feet.

All right? The caster placed one hand on Ella’s back. Her voice was shaking slightly, but she said: Yes, fine, it’s okay. The warmth of his hand aroused her. Ella let out a cockerel screech: Cock-a-doodle-do, cackle cackle ackle, pant ha rh’ai, herbai, herbai.

Help me, will you? said the caster to his assistant, taking his hand off Ella’s back, and together they lifted the drawer slightly to one side so that Ella could move her feet freely. She wriggled the toes of her left foot, all of them, except for the second, her longest toe, which had swelled up dramatically within a few seconds. Little spots of clear red blood were seeping through the grazed skin of her instep. The foot hurt so much that Ella could hardly lift her toes.

Can you put any weight on it? The caster held his arm out to Ella to help her to support herself. But Ella tried to do it without support. A step, another one. Like a dancer, she spread her hands out, away from her body. She could walk, but the pain came in waves; if it seemed never to have been there at one moment it overwhelmed her the next, making her grit her teeth at the same time as she cried out. Her cries were shrill but not piercing. She didn’t want to bring Käthe down on them. Käthe would surely still be deep in an important discussion with the lodger of his possessions, the property of State Security, and as it was State Security and the people were the state, strictly speaking it was all about not just state-owned furniture but the rightful property of the people. Ella took a third step, the caster walked beside her, holding his arm at an angle in the air, so that she could catch hold of it at any time. Ella was lurching, but she was sure the caster didn’t notice. She imagined a silk thread holding her up like a puppet, no pain in her toe could affect her, as a puppet it was easy to walk with your head held high. Right — Ella hesitated — right, left. Something pricked the bare sole of her foot. Now she did lean her left elbow on the caster’s handsome shoulder, holding the back of his neck with her hand. She raised her left leg and looked at the sole of her foot. There was a drawing pin in the ball of it. May I? The caster wanted to help her pull the drawing pin out. He smelled of masculinity, of copper and of weight. Ella tried to think what the smell reminded her of. It was not a question of being able to take the drawing pin out, she could have done that for herself, it was only a harmless drawing pin pricking her, it didn’t hurt. But Ella liked the way he had asked permission. Liked it that he was finally paying her attention, without falling for her straight away when her bare breast lay against his shirt, against his shoulder, and when he bent down, her hair falling around his head, when he bent down and she saw the pulse in his throat, when he bent down to pull out the drawing pin. The man who never tried to talk to anyone but Käthe, who hung only on Käthe’s lips, well, she would open his blind eyes today.

The caster was red, red all over his face as he straightened up, and showed her the sharp little pin.

Pretty, said Ella. She was waiting for him to look at her, first at her breasts, then at her eyes, then at her breasts again. With slight pressure, she moved her hand from the back of his neck to his throat. It seemed to Ella that his pupils widened, his eyes shone. Was that lust in his eyes? His firm shoulders did not shake, that caster could hardly fall for anyone, at most maybe he might sink for someone a little.

Ella turned her head. The journeyman was standing in front of them, keeping watch, his arms hanging down, his hands, probably unknown to himself, clenched into fists.

Coffee time, master, said the journeyman. But Ella kept her hand on the caster’s neck.

Coffee time. There’s always cake on Sundays, master.

The master craftsman did not even nod, but turned his head, with Ella’s hand on his neck, and looked at Ella’s mouth as he spoke to her.

Want to come with us? My wife has baked a cake. She bakes a cake every Sunday.

Come where, to Schöneiche? Ella was amazed by this idea, and laughed out loud. What would she do in Schöneiche?

Wait a minute. The caster knelt down on the floor in front of Ella. He took hold of her ankle and told her to lean on him so that she could lift the foot. Ella did as she was told. She propped herself on the caster’s shoulder with both hands, and obediently raised her foot in the air. The caster held her ankle, bent the foot forward and back, forward and back. That one’s all right, now the other foot. Ella changed to stand on her other leg. The caster moved the swollen foot up and down, the sprinkling of blood was already drying up, no blood was flowing, a scab would form, that was all. The caster put his other hand round her ankle and placed her foot back on the floor. Involuntarily he touched her muscular calf, the back of her knee, and looked up, raised his face with his head tilted back. His mouth was level with her crotch, tiny dark stubbly hairs showed on his chin. There was a tingling in the pit of Ella’s stomach.

The journeyman noticed, he was watching. Ella was sure that there couldn’t be any noticeable contact between them. The journeyman believed in his master’s honour, he was standing guard over it.

Thanks, but I’ll just clear up here. Ella moved her feet. She saw her footprints in the white stone dust on the floor.

We’ll help you. The journeyman sounded relieved; at last his fists unclenched, and he moved to help Ella. He handed her a small tube with purple paint sticking to it. Ella read the label: egg tempera. She wasn’t going to mix watercolours and tempera, the tempera would absorb all the paints into it, there would be nothing light and watery and hardly any glow to her magnolia. While the caster tied his shoelaces with great ceremony, Ella and the journeyman turned to the drawer. With a small hammer that had been lying on the workbench along with larger ones, the journeyman knocked nails into the drawer so that the bottom of it fitted firmly into the frame again. Together, they lifted and slid the drawer into place; it took several attempts. As Ella was not looking at the journeyman, he probably thought she didn’t notice him glancing at her breasts.

I can do the rest by myself, said Ella. She stood in front of the open drawer and put the old water-level that it contained on one side, the wooden partition on the other. How large had the separate compartments been? She bent down and picked up tubes of paint, pens, brushes, chalks. Most of the chalks had split, like the charcoal. However, they had probably been split already, Ella told herself as she picked up the pencils and the pencil leads lying about broken into many pieces. The caster was still tying his shoelaces. What was the matter with him, couldn’t he tie a bow? Was Ella expected to help him? The journeyman bent down to collect the crayons that had rolled under the workbench and over to the door into the yard, and handed them to Ella, who put them in one or the other compartment of the drawer, depending on what kind and what colour they were. There wasn’t a purple one. Ella put a magenta one that would have been better for fuchsias on the cupboard, along with the watercolours she had chosen, and added a bright violet. Why no aquilegia? A magnolia the colour of fuchsias and aquilegias. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw the caster standing up.

The journeyman had noticed it too. Let’s go, master, he said, coffee time will soon be over.