Entwined

Chapter 5

The chambermaid had not changed the bed linen of Room 40, because the do not disturb sign was hanging from the door. It was not until later in the afternoon when she was vacuuming the corridor that she tapped on the closed door, and, receiving no reply, entered using her master set of keys. The curtains were drawn and the television set turned on, the sound so low it was hardly audible. The room was neat, except for the unmade bed, its coverlet bunched on the floor.

The maid fetched clean towels, sheets, and pillowcases, and went back into the room. She tossed the clean linen onto the chair, and drew back the curtains. She went into the bathroom, collected the dirty towels, and dropped them onto the floor. Two were bloodstained and she picked them up distastefully between finger and thumb. She then replaced the towels with fresh ones, and was washing down the sink and bath when a friend popped her head around the door to ask if she was nearly through for the day, as it was after three.

Both women got off at two-thirty, they each had other jobs in the evening. Together they began to clean the room, and one pulled the sheets back.

"It's not been slept in. Christ! it's freezing in here, they must have turned off the heat. Some people are weird."

Together they bent down to the rolled bedcover, and tugged it from underneath the bed. And screamed virtually in unison.

Tommy Kellerman's body rolled out of the cover, the section over his head dried hard with dark blood.

Screaming at the top of their lungs, the women ran down the corridor. A waiter carrying a loaded tray of dirty dishes was about to step out of the elevator when they appeared, shouting garbled words as they pointed frantically to the room. The man ran into the room and was in no more than a few seconds. When he came out, his face drained as he whispered: "Dear God, it's a child — somebody's killed a child in there!"

By the time the Polizei arrived, the corridor was filling with gaping onlookers and guests. The manager of the hotel tried to keep some semblance of order, shouting for people to stand back. He looked disheveled, having just been dragged out of his quarters. His collarless shirt hung out over his hurriedly pulled-on pants.

Polizei Oberrat Torsen Heinz pushed his way through the throng, holding up his badge. Three uniformed officers followed behind him. Torsen was the first of them to arrive at the open bedroom door. He asked if the doctor or forensic team had been there. He could see the tiny body, the small foot in the red sock, and his stomach turned over. He did not attempt to remove the congealed mess beneath the bed cover as he walked gingerly around the body.

The manager hung in the doorway, demanding to know who had torn pages out of his register.

The doctor arrived and took only a second to certify the body as deceased. The pathologist scuttled in, followed by two lab boys from the forensic department. They began yelling for everyone to clear out of the room.

Oberrat Heinz checked the room quietly, using a pencil to open a couple of drawers. The doctor looked over to him as he departed. "It's not a kid, it's a dwarf or a midget and he's taken one hell of a beating, but that's stating the obvious. G'night."

The pathologist carefully slipped plastic bags around the tiny red socks; he applied a bag to Kellerman's right arm and hand, then reached for his left. He stood up rubbing his knee and, looking down, realized he was kneeling on a set of broken dentures. He gestured to Heinz.

"I'm sorry, I think I may have broken them; my mistake, but someone should have checked this area."

Heinz stared at the broken teeth, and then stepped out of the way as the pathologist continued his work, about to wrap Keller-man's left arm in a protective plastic bag.

"Jesus, look at his arm, it's been hacked, a big chunk of skin removed, just above the wrist."

Heinz sent one of the uniformed officers out to check for any garbage that might have been removed.

The pathologist's team slipped a plastic sheet beside Kellerman, rolled him on top of it, then tied all four ends and lifted up the body.

"He booked in early yesterday, according to the chambermaid," Torsen Heinz said to no one in particular. He tugged at his blond hair, watched as two men dusted door handles and the mirror, then made his way down to the reception area. The manager, now wearing a jacket, insisted he had been on duty and had seen no one come in other than official guests. Heinz listened, knowing that local prostitutes used this hotel, but said nothing; he simply asked to see the guest book. The manager shoved it toward him, pointing with a dirty fingernail to the torn pages. He scratched his greasy head, and tried unsuccessfully to recall the dead man's name.

"What about his passport, did you see his passport?"

The manager was sweating. "I saw it and checked it. I know the rules. He had luggage, a sort of greenish carryall. Did you find it?"

"But you don't recall his name?"

"No... he just signed, and I gave him the key. I was on the phone when he checked in."

"What nationality?"

"American. Kellerman!" The manager beamed. "I remember, it was Kellerman!"

No one Heinz questioned had seen anyone entering his room. Heinz and his sergeant took off for the morgue.

The morgue had closed for the night.

Heinz returned early the following morning. Tommy Keller-man's naked body was even more tragic in death than in life, his stubby palms turned upward, his legs spread-eagled, his pride exposed. It was a wicked freak of nature to give this small, stunted body a penis any man would be proud to boast. The penis dangled virtually down to the kneecaps on his twisted legs.

The bed cover had to be cut away from his head, because the blood had congealed like glue. There was hardly a feature left intact; blood clotted in his eyes, his nose, his ears, and his gaping mouth; the bottom row of false teeth had cut into his upper lip, giving him the look of a Neanderthal man, a chimp, even more so as his thick dark curly hair was spiky with his own blood.

The pathologist was able to ascertain that Kellerman had died close to midnight and had eaten some four hours before he was killed. The pathologist had spent considerable time over the open wound on Kellerman's left forearm. He could tell that the skin cut away from Kellerman's arm was probably a tattoo, judging by the faint tinge of blue left along one edge. The pathologist added that whoever murdered Kellerman must have been covered in blood, since the main artery had been severed on the once tattooed wrist.

Kellerman's clothes were spread out on the lab tables; again they gave a tragic impression of the wearer, so small and childlike. His underpants were disgusting, semen stains mingled with the death throes of his bowels.

His pockets were empty, apart from a rubber band and a Zippo lighter. His clothes were labeled and listed, his body washed and tagged, placed in a child's morgue bag, and then laid on a drawer and pushed into the freezer.

Kellerman's terror of being shut in small spaces, his fear of the darkness couldn't hurt him now: It was all over for him.

Heinz hung around for a while, then returned to the hotel to question the janitor.

The toothless man could not recall anyone entering the hotel during his shift, or at least no one who warranted special attention. He did remember seeing a big man outside the hotel, wearing a black hat. In fact the man could possibly have just come out of the main entrance, he couldn't be sure, he had simply passed him on the street as he emptied the trash. He could not describe him in any detail, just that he was tall, wore a black hat, and that it was around eleven or perhaps a bit later.

Torsen Heinz sat at his large wooden desk, surrounded by his officers. The station was housed in a baroque-style building in the Potsdam district of East Germany, and for equipment there were a half dozen old typewriters and an obsolete telephone system incapable of connecting with West Berlin without interminable delays and disconnections. The principal piece of modern technology was a microwave oven, recently installed to heat up the officers' lunches.

Torsen and his men had been unable to keep up with the sharp increase in criminal activity since the fall of the socialist regime. Previously East Berlin's criminal incidences had been hushed up by the Stasi secret police or played down by the state-controlled media. Now, Polizei Oberrat Heinz and forty-odd uniformed officers had to learn fast to make their own decisions.

Sitting with his microwave-heated breakfast sausages, Heinz felt swamped. There was little to report from any of the officers he had assigned to the Kellerman case, because after their day's work they had clocked out promptly at six o'clock. No matter how much Torsen argued that they were no longer working from nine to six but if necessary around the clock, they were too used to the old regime to change their working habits. There was not one man on duty yet, and it was half past eight!

Alone, Torsen sifted through the statements and facts he had gathered so far about the dwarf. He thought that Kellerman was probably an American citizen since, according to the hotel manager, he spoke with an American accent. Without a passport or other documents to substantiate this, he decided he should first contact the U.S. embassy to see if they had any record of his arrival in Berlin. The next call would be to the circus which was being heralded as the biggest event of the season. He tried to contact the embassy, but the station's telephone switchboard was still closed. He finished his breakfast and looked at the photograph of his father on the wall behind his desk. Gunter Heinz's picture was brown with age. Torsen gave the photograph a small nod and determined that until it was absolutely necessary he would not go hat in hand to the West Berlin police. They had already assisted him on a number of cases, and he had taken a lot of ridicule from his "colleagues" with their high tech computers and fax machines. He wondered how well they would cope without so much as one single telephone connected after 6 p.m. or before 9 a.m.! He swiveled in his chair and looked at the memo taped to the wall under his papa's severe face. "Accept no coincidence — only facts." He had put up this admonition after he had been promoted to chief inspector at exactly the same age as his father had before him. The memo had been written when Torsen first made the decision to follow him into the Polizei.

Suffering from senility, Gunter Heinz, Sr., was now residing in a home for the elderly, most of the time happily unaware of his surroundings — or for that matter of who he was. But there were the odd flashes of recall. In these moments Torsen was able to talk with him, even play chess. Torsen had arranged for the nurses to call him whenever his father was lucid. However, the last time he had hurried over for a visit, the old man had glared at him and asked who the hell he was. Torsen had replaced his chessboard in its case.

The nurse had apologized, whispering that she was sorry, but earlier that day his father had asked to speak with his son on an important matter. During Torsen's conversation with the nurse, his father ripped small pieces of tissue paper from a box, carefully licked each tiny scrap, stuck them on his nose, and blew them off like snowflakes. A spectacle that would have been comic were the man not his father.

Torsen called the U.S. embassy. They had no record of a Kellerman in residence in East Berlin, but suggested the border patrols be contacted. The flow of refugees arriving in Germany was causing mayhem, but there was an attempt to record everyone coming in by automobile or train. There was a possibility that Kellerman had landed at the main airport and crossed to the East; the airport authorities, too, should be contacted.

Torsen sent two officers to try and discover Kellerman's origins, and then set off with Sergeant Volker Rieckert for the circus.

The patrol car labored through the mud, but the attendant would not let them come close to the private trailers and the performers' parking lot. The long walk to the trailer sections and big tents was hazardous. Their trousers were soaked at the bottom, their hair plastered to their heads as they made their way toward the cashier's trailer.

The cashier had bright red-dyed hair with a pink comb stuck in the top that matched her pink lipstick. She looked at Torsen's ID and blew a large pink bubble with her gum, then pointed toward the manager's building. Torsen swore under his breath as he felt the mud squelch into his hand-knit woolen socks.

The circus's administrator welcomed the men into his office. It was tiny and overheated, in a small building at the side of a massive tent. It was filled with filing cabinets, and the walls were covered with large circus posters. Romy Kelm, the administrator, a balding bespectacled gentleman, introduced himself to the detectives and ordered tea.

The two officers were settled on folding chairs, and Mr. Kelm seated himself behind his pristine desk. He told Torsen the dead man could very well be Tommy Kellerman. Kelm hastened to add that Kellerman was not employed by the circus, but had been more than twenty years earlier. He knew also that Kellerman had been in jail in the United States, was prone to fighting and drunken brawls, and was a thief. Kellerman had absconded with the company's wages eight years previously when he was associated with the Kings Circus, a smaller touring company. A circus trade paper had given the details of his theft and subsequent jail sentence. Kelm suggested that there were a number of people who resented Kellerman, because he owed them money.

Torsen was given a list of all the performers who might have known Kellerman. Kelm told him that the dead man's ex-wife, Ruda, a star performer, was still using the name Kellerman, although she had remarried long ago.

Torsen's head was reeling. He and his sergeant spent more than two hours in the little office, and the small room became so overheated that they could feel their socks and shoes drying out, along with the bottom of their trousers.

Finally, Torsen was helped into his raincoat and handed a layout of the trailers. The circus did not want any adverse publicity, because their biggest show of the season was to open in a few days' time. Kelm made it clear that if anyone from his company was involved in the incident he wanted it dealt with as quietly and as quickly as possible.

As he ushered them into the corridor, he said he was sure no one in the company was involved in the murder.

Torsen suggested that surely if many people detested Kellerman, perhaps one could have wanted to kill him. There was no reply, just a cold stare from Kelm, who smiled perfunctorily.

Torsen eased open the exit door and looked at the downpour. He swore, then hunched up his shoulders and stepped out. His sergeant followed, tucking his thick notepad into his pocket, along with the free posters and cards that had been pressed into his hands by Kelm for his children.

"Las Vegas, you see that poster on the high-wire act! How much do you think a setup like this costs?" Rieckert asked. He received no answer from Torsen. "That Kelm was pretty helpful, wasn't he?"

"Yeah, he was, wasn't he! It's called get off our backs, schmuck! We've got our work cut out for us."

A herd of horses was led past them, draped in protective covers, led on a single rein by a young sour-faced boy. Rieckert stared with open curiosity, and then looked at four equally sour-faced men wearing dark blue overalls. They carried pitchforks, and one promptly cleared away some horse dung as the others hurried on toward the practice arena. Rieckert's jaw dropped again as coming up behind him were five massive elephants. He shouted to ask Torsen if he had seen them. Torsen looked at him — it was exceptionally hard to miss five fully grown elephants.

The two men plodded through the mud, heading toward the main trailer park. Torsen had decided he would interview the ex-Mrs. Kellerman first. By the time he discovered they had been reading the trailer route upside down, his hair was dripping wet. After asking for directions from a number of scurrying figures with umbrellas and waterproof capes, they arrived at the Grimaldi trailer. Torsen dragged his shoes across the grids outside the glistening trailer and tapped on the door. Behind him Rieckert looked at the trailer with admiration, wondering how much it had cost. The door opened, and Torsen looked up.

"My name is Detective Chief Inspector Torsen Heinz, and this is Detective Sergeant Rieckert. May we come in?"

As Grimaldi stared, Torsen asked politely if Grimaldi spoke German, and received a curt nod of confirmation.

"We would like to speak to your wife — she was Mrs. Kellerman, yes?"

Grimaldi nodded, and then stepped aside. Torsen moved up the steps to enter.

Grimaldi gestured for the men to follow him. Torsen observed they were both six feet tall. Grimaldi was big, raw-boned, with very broad shoulders, whereas Torsen bordered on being skinny.

Grimaldi sat down on a thick cushioned bench seat and offered them coffee, but both men declined. The officers sat side by side on the padded bench seat opposite him.

"Ruda's feeding the cats, should be back shortly."

Rieckert took quick glances around the spacious room, while Torsen looked at the posters and photographs. He then turned to Grimaldi.

"I saw you, many years ago. I was just a kid, but I have never forgotten it, you were fabulous."

Grimaldi's dark eyes were suspicious. He hardly acknowledged the compliment, but turned in the direction of the posters. He pointed to Ruda's, and then looked back.

"This is Ruda, you see, Ruda Kellerman. She still uses his name. What's that little piece of shit done now?"

Torsen straightened. "He's been murdered. We are both from the Polizei. He was murdered in East Berlin sometime the night before last."

Grimaldi smiled, showing big even yellowish teeth, then he laughed out loud and slapped his trousers with his huge hand. "Well, you'll have a lot of contenders... he was a detestable creature, real vermin, somebody should have smothered him years ago. What was he doing in East Berlin?"

"We don't know, and as yet we have had no formal identification of the body, but we are led to believe it was Tommy Kellerman. Would you mind telling me where you were last night? I mean the night before last."

Grimaldi banged his chest. "Me?"

Torsen nodded. "We will have to ask everyone at the circus if they've seen him. Did you, by any chance?"

"Me?"

Rieckert's jaw dropped slightly; he had never come across anyone as large as Grimaldi. The man appeared to be built like an ox, his hands twice the size of any normal man's.

Grimaldi leaned back and then looked at Torsen Heinz. "You serious? Night before last? Oh, yes. I was here, all night, ask my wife — she couldn't sleep because of my snoring. As to Kellerman, let me think, I've not seen the creep for maybe five, no, more, I thought he was in jail, last saw him — must be eight to ten years ago."

"You have recently been in Paris? Was he working with you then?"

Grimaldi shrugged his massive shoulders. "No one would employ him, he stole an entire week's wages, from... can't remember, but no circus would touch him. Besides, he was in jail! I think he got extra time for beating up some inmate, that's what I heard."

The door opened, and Ruda walked in. She leaned against the door frame, looking first to Grimaldi, and then to the two men.

"Kellerman's been murdered," Grimaldi said.

Ruda eased off her boots. "What do we do, throw a party?"

Grimaldi grinned, and introduced Torsen Heinz and Rieckert. Ruda shook the officers' hands as they both stood up to greet her. To Torsen, Ruda's hand felt like a man's — rough, callused. She was almost as tall as he was, but judging by the handshake, a hell of a lot stronger. They made quite a pair, Mr. and Mrs. Grimaldi.

"Is this true?" she asked.

Torsen nodded. He had never seen such a total absence of emotion. Kellerman had, after all, once been this woman's husband.

"Would you mind if I asked you some questions, Mrs. Keller — Grimaldi?"

Ruda placed her boots by the door. "Ask what you need to know! Is there coffee on, Luis?"

Grimaldi eased himself out of his seat, went into the kitchen and poured his wife coffee, again asking if either of the men would care for some. They both replied that they would, and he banged around getting the mugs.

Ruda sat on the seat vacated by her husband, rubbing her hair with a towel. Torsen rested his elbows on his knees. "When did you last see him?"

She closed her eyes and leaned back. "That's a tough one, let me think... Luis? When did he come to the winter quarters, was it six, eight years ago? — I can't think!"

Grimaldi put down the mugs of thick black coffee. He didn't offer any milk, but a large bowl of brown sugar.

As the two policemen spooned in their sugar, Ruda and Grimaldi exchanged a few words about one of the cats. Ruda was worried she was off her food; if it continued she'd change her feed, maybe put her back on meat and stop the meal. They seemed totally unconcerned about Kellerman.

"Do you have a photograph?"

Ruda looked at Torsen and raised her eyebrow. "Of the cats?"

"No, of Kellerman."

"You must be joking. Do you think I would want a reminder that I was ever in any way connected to that piece of shit! No, I do not have a photograph."

Torsen sipped his coffee. It was odd that neither had asked how Kellerman had died. When asked where she had been at the time of the murder, Ruda lit a cigarette and rubbed her nose.

"The night before last, shit, I dunno. Last night I was here working the act until after twelve."

"No, the night before."

Ruda thought for a moment, then frowned. "Guess I was here, worked the routines, then had supper over at the canteen, then came to bed. What time did I come in, Luis?"

Grimaldi took a picture of himself from the wall. He handed it to Torsen. "That was the last time I played Berlin. You said you saw my act, more than fifteen years ago..."

Ruda interrupted. "It would be more than fifteen, let me see "

Ruda looked over the wall of photographs, and Torsen put his mug down. They were both discussing the exact time they were last in Berlin! Ruda suddenly turned to face him. "You're sure it is Tommy Kellerman? I think he's still in prison."

Torsen stood up, straightened his sodden trousers, the creases no longer in existence.

"We would be sure if you would be so helpful as to identify him. May we ask for your cooperation?"

Ruda hesitated. "Don't they have fingerprints for that kind of thing? Contact the prison — I don't want to see him, dead or alive. Get someone else, there's many around the camp that knew him."

"But you were his wife."

Ruda stared hard at Torsen. "Yes, I was his wife, but I am not now, and I haven't been for a very long time."

"For me to cable America, and wait for prints, could take a considerable time."

"If there's no one else..." Ruda said, obviously put out.

"Thank you. Thank you for your time, I may have to question you again. Oh yes, one more thing, the tattoo. Kellerman had a tattoo on his left arm, could you tell me what it was like?"

Grimaldi laughed. "Probably gave the size of his prick, he was so proud of it. Don't look at me, I never let the creep within two feet of me. Ask her, she was — as you so rightly say — married to him!"

Ruda looked to the thick carpet, her stocking feet digging into the pile. "A tattoo? He might have had it done in prison, he didn't have one when I knew him."

Torsen shook their hands again, and again felt how strong her grip was. "Maybe he was looking for work, ask at the main administration office," Ruda suggested.

Torsen smiled his thanks, and just as he opened the door, Grimaldi asked how Kellerman had been murdered. Torsen dragged on his raincoat. "Some kind of hammer, multiple blows to his head."

Grimaldi wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Ah well! Poor little sod had it coming to him."

Torsen said tersely that no one had to be subjected to such a horrifying death. He then smiled coldly at Ruda, and asked if she would accompany them when he was finished taking statements from the rest of the people he needed to speak to.

Ruda was tight-lipped, asking how long it would take — with the show due to open shortly she had very little time.

Torsen said he would be through as fast as he could, perhaps in two hours, if it was convenient. He did not wait for a reply.

When the officers left, Grimaldi leaned back, then lifted his feet up to rest on the bunk seat. "Maybe he left some dough to you in his will!"

"Yeah, the only thing he's left is a nasty smell and a string of debts. He can get someone else to ID him, I'm not going."

"But you were his wife..."

She swiped him with the towel. "You knew him, you identify him. It'll give you something to do."

"Ah, but I didn't know him as well as you, sweetheart, you can't get out of that."

Ruda sat down, pushing his feet aside. "I can't do it, Luis — don't make me, don't let them make me see him."

Grimaldi cocked his head to one side. "Why not, he's dead. You telling me it's affecting you? I thought you detested his guts."

"I do, I did, but I don't want to see him."

Grimaldi pinched her cheek. "You use his name, sweetheart! Serves you right!"

Ruda swung out at him, this time with the flat of her hand. She hit hard, and he gripped her wrist, shoving her roughly aside. "Give me one good reason why I should do anything for you."

"Fuck you!"

Ruda punched him, and Grimaldi swung back, landing a hard, open-handed slap on her face. She kicked him, he slapped her again, and this time she didn't fight back — her face twisted like a child's and he drew her to him. "Okay okay... I'll take you, I'll go with you!"

He began to smooth back her hair from her face, massage the throbbing scars at her temples. Her body felt strong as a man's in his arms. For her to be vulnerable like this was rare. He held her closer.

"Ruda, Ruda, why do we torment each other the way we do?"

"Just be with me, Luis, just stay with me, I don't want to go by myself," she whispered.

"Stay with you, huh? Until the next time you want something?"

As soon as he said it he wished he hadn't. Ruda backed away from him, her fists clenched. He threw up his hands in a gesture of impotence.

"We have to get divorced, Ruda, you know it. I can't live like this anymore, we're at each other's throats."

"I don't want to talk about that, not now."

"Because of that shit Kellerman? Jesus Christ, Ruda, who gives a fuck if he's alive or dead? What concerns me is us, we have to settle our future. I'm through Ruda, through standing around waiting to be at your beck and call."

"You can't have the act!"

Grimaldi clenched his hands. Like two fighters they faced each other.

"Fine, you want it, then we arrange a financial settlement. Simple as that, Ruda."

He saw the way her face changed, the way her dark eyes stared at and through him. Her voice was as dark as her eyes.

"Every penny I have earned has been put back into the act. You want out — then you go, take your stupid little whore. Take her and fuck off."

Grimaldi smirked. "Takes one to know one."

She went for him like a man, punching and kicking. Soon they were slugging each other. Crockery smashed, pictures crashed off the walls, and they fought until they both lay sprawled, panting, on the floor. She still punched him, blows that hurt like hell.

"Take your clothes and get out! Without me you'd have nothing, without me you'd be a drunken bum!"

She spat at him, and he staggered to his feet. He began to open the overhead lockers, throwing her belongings at her.

"You take yours, you take your belongings and get out, go sleep with the animals, sleep with your precious angel! Sleep with any twisted, fucked-up thing that'll have you."

Ruda kicked him so hard in the back of his legs that he slumped forward, hit his head on the side of the cupboard and fell backward. He lay half across the bunk, half on the floor and she was on top of him, spread-eagled across his body. For one second he thought she was going to bite him, she was snarling like a wild cat. He then rolled her and her head cracked against the floor. He bent his head closer to scream at her to stop. Suddenly he felt her body grow limp beneath him, and her arms wound around his neck as she drew him closer.

They looked into each other's faces, and moaned, in unison, chest to chest, breath to breath, their hearts thudding. The kiss was gentle, his lips softly brushing hers. She buried her head in the nape of his neck.

They lay together on the floor of the wrecked trailer — their clothes and crockery around them. They lay together with broken glass and shattered pictures of the Great Grimaldi and the fearless Ruda Kellerman.

When he spoke, his voice was filled with pain.

"Let me go, Ruda. Because this is where it always ends. I want you now, you can feel I want you, but it has to end."

Her voice was muffled, a low half-plea, begging him to take her, to have her. She eased her hands down his body, began to unhook his belt. He leaned up, gently turning his face, forcing her to look at him.

"Do you want me? Or is this... Ruda, look at me, look at me!"

His big hand cupped her chin, forced her to face him. Her eyes were expressionless, hard, dangerous eyes. She couldn't fake it. She had never been able to, she couldn't even do it now when she needed him. Slowly she let her hands drop to her sides. She moved as if to turn over, to let him ease down her trousers, since she could not take him naturally, normally. Small slivers of glass cut into her cheeks, the pain excited her, but she felt no juices, nothing to prepare her body for sex, for his erection. She gritted her teeth, waiting.

Grimaldi stood up, carefully avoiding the glass. He stepped over her, tightened his belt as his erection pressed against his pants. The hardness left by the time he walked into his room and quietly closed the door.

Ruda lay in the debris. It had always been this way. They had always fought each other, and that part had always excited her, but she had never felt any sexual desire beyond the fight; sex pained and hurt her too much, hurt her insides like sharpened razors. She felt a tiny drop of blood roll down her cheek and she licked it, tasted it as though it were a tear. She hadn't cried for a long time, too long even to remember.

Ruda went into her room, closing the door as quietly as Grimaldi had shut his. She showered, feeling the hot needles pummel her, then gently began to soap herself. Her fingers massaged her shoulders, her arms, her heavy breasts, and then she began to lather her belly, her strong hands feeling each crude, jagged scar. She massaged and eased the foam down, until she reached between her legs. She ran her hands over the ridges of the scars, her hideous, thick, hard, rough skin — always a dark plum red, like a birthmark. She rinsed the soap with cold water, grabbed a towel, her hair dripping. She hadn't heard him come in, but he was there, holding out the big white bath towel. Gently he wrapped her, as if she were a child, trapping her arms in the softness.

He held her close. Her eyes were frightened, childlike, as if the animal in her had gone into hiding; there was no longer any ferocity. He guided her toward the bed and sat her down.

She sat with her head bowed, her hair dripping, covering her face. Luis reached for a small hand towel and began to dry her hair.

"I'll go to the morgue, no need for you to do it, I'll go if they need someone."

She nodded her head.

"Ruda, look at me. I need someone. I'm not talking about getting my rocks off, I'm talking about needing — I need, you know? As it is now, I feel like half a man, and watching out for you every show isn't enough. It can't go on. This is my last chance. I'm old, maybe Tina can give me a few more good years, give me back my balls. I don't want to fight with you anymore, I can't fight you anymore. I will need to be able to keep Tina and the baby when it comes, so we have to work out an agreement, one we can both live with. I know how much money you've put in, I know how you've kept us going, I know, Ruda, but I can't go on like this."

He rubbed her head gently, knowing the burn scars at her temples should not be irritated by the rough towel. He was careful, showing more tenderness than he had in years.

There was a tap on the trailer door; it was the inspector asking if Mrs. Kellerman could accompany him to the morgue. Ruda could hear Grimaldi asking if he would be acceptable, and she heard the inspector saying that Mrs. Kellerman would be preferable.

Grimaldi's voice grew a little louder as he said he also knew Tommy Kellerman. Then there were whispered voices, and the trailer door shut.

Grimaldi called out that she had better get dressed, they needed her but he would accompany her. She began to dress very carefully, choosing a dress, high-heeled shoes, and for the first time in many years, she applied makeup other than her stage makeup. She took her time, a soft voice inside her whispering to stay calm, take things one at a time, she would deal with Luis when the time was right.

Grimaldi had a quick shave and stared at his reflection, uneasy over the exchange with his wife. He had felt such compassion for her, it confused him, she confused him, but then she always had. He rinsed his face and sat for a moment, remembering Florida, shortly after they were married. Ruda had wanted a child so badly, he knew how she must feel now with the Tina situation. He understood, but what could he do? It was not his fault.

Luis had held her when she told him, he had wrapped her in his arms when she came out of the doctor's, but she had pushed him away. He had so much love for her then that he hadn't been angry, just saddened by her rejection. He knew she was fighting to keep control the way she knew how — head up, jaw out. She didn't cry, he had rarely seen her crying. Somehow, her attempt to speak matter-of-factly, as if she were not affected, was very touching.

"I can't have a child, artificially or any other way, so that is that!"

She had put her coat on and walked out of the doctor's. He had paused a moment, digesting the news, before following her to the car. They had driven back to their winter quarters in silence, Ruda staring ahead, giving him instructions as she always did — Luis was never good at directions, and their quarters were far from the center of the city. But he would never forget that journey, the Florida heat and her quiet calm voice, flatly telling him to go right, then left...

Ruda had become deeply depressed; nothing he said or attempted to do seemed to distract her. It was then that he asked her to participate in the act; until now she had simply helped the boys muck out and clean the cages. He had not contemplated that she work in the ring with him, he had suggested it now only to give her something to think about. He began to train her, and to his relief her depression lifted, the dark sadness dispersed, but their relationship deteriorated. Ever since the visit to the specialist, she shrank from him whenever he touched her. He let it go, hoping that in time she would come back to his bed.

The animals, his cats, had brought out a side of her that at first impressed him: She worked tirelessly, fearlessly. No matter how he reprimanded and warned her, she continued to take foolish risks. She almost dared the cats to attack her, dared them to maul her.

Luis was a good trainer, and a respected performer, a man brought up around big cats. It was he who told her that she must love and nurture the animals. Nothing would be gained from threats or impatience. Everything took time, but above all it was the caring, the loving which would bring results. At first, she refused to heed his advice, and they'd had violent arguments, but he kept on warning her that unless she listened, showed respect for him and for the cats, she would never learn. He told her she was not to tame the animals, but to train them: There was a vast difference.

Patiently, Luis gave her his time. And when she saw results, she began to smile again. Her wonderful laugh returned. But she did not come back to his bed. When he took a mistress, one of the stable girls at the winter quarters, she had said nothing, and so the pattern began then, all those many years ago.

And then Ruda bought Mamon, and their relationship took a terrible turn. They had been looking at cats and they had seen and rejected many. Luis was exceptionally intuitive, he had been taught by his father to be very selective, often turning down ten or twelve before he found an animal he felt would work well. One look and he could tell the young lion was trouble: Mamon had been in too many homes, too many circuses, had moved too many times. His previous history would have given any trainer a clue to his temperament, but Ruda did not want to listen, even when Luis refused to pay for him.

A week later Luis had gone to inspect four Bengal tigers. These were four cats he was quick to buy, because he trusted the owner, and liked the act they had already been worked into. He bought them on a handshake. Then he had returned to discuss the purchase with Ruda.

During Luis's absence Ruda had made the decision to buy Mamon. He had been furious, but she had shouted that Mamon was not Luis's but hers, and she would train him, with or without his help. It had been her money, and Mamon was hers. The argument had grown into a fistfight, but in the end he had given way. When she had said that Mamon was her baby, he had walked away, walked into the arms of... As he sat trying to recall her name, he suddenly realized that Ruda was calling him. She banged on his door, shouting that she was ready, and that the Polizei were waiting.

Luis looked for a clean shirt and began to dress. Luis had never told Ruda that he had gone back to the gynecologist. He wanted to hear the diagnosis firsthand, since she had refused to discuss it. He wanted to know if they should seek a second opinion. He had cared that much then.

The doctor had refused to discuss his patient with Grimaldi, even though he was her husband. Ruda had asked him not to. Simply he stated that there was no hope of his wife ever being able to conceive.

Grimaldi had accepted the gynecologist's word, and yet sensed that he had not been told the entire truth. When he tried to push for further details, the doctor, without meeting Grimaldi's eyes, said quietly, "Your wife cannot have normal sexual intercourse, and even if insemination were to take place, she could not carry a child. I am sorry."

Though the gynecologist would not discuss his patient's condition with her husband, he had shared her X rays and tests with two colleagues. He did not identify her by name, he simply showed them the appalling X rays and photographs of her genital area. All her organs had been removed, as if her womb had been torn from her belly. The internal scar tissues were even worse than her external scars. Nothing could be done. The entire genital area had been burnt by what the surgeon felt was possibly an early form of chemotherapy.

The colleagues listened in appalled silence. The clitoris had been severed, and the vagina was closed. The crudeness of the stitches and the scar tissue formation had left no opening. The only possible form of intercourse was anal; her urinary tract had been operated on to enable her to pass liquid, and a plastic tube inserted when the infected tract had festered. The anal area was large, denoting that sexual practice had obviously occurred on a regular basis over a period of years, stretching the colon.

The three men examined the X rays. What they had on their screen was a shell of a woman. She had been stripped of her female organs. This was all the more horrible because the butchery had been performed when she was a small child.

The three doctors commented on the resilience of the human body, but did not talk about the patient's present state of mind. They couldn't. Ruda Grimaldi had refused to discuss what had led to her condition, and she never returned to the gynecologist.

Grimaldi knew something of Ruda's past, but she would never tell him her full story. Only Kellerman had known more. Ruda had told Grimaldi the first night she had met him that she couldn't have straight sex. She had told him in her stubborn way: head up, jaw stuck out.

Grimaldi combed his hair. It was strange to think of it now. He hadn't cared, he had no thought of marrying her then. That had come many years later.

He slipped his jacket on, brushing the shoulders with his hands. He had married her, but not out of pity. Ruda hated pity. Grimaldi had married her because by the time she had come back into his life, he was in desperate need of someone. He had been slipping, drinking too much, and his act was falling apart.

He sighed, knowing he was lying to himself. For reasons he couldn't understand, he had married her because he had loved her, and he had believed she loved him. Only many years later did he realize that Ruda loved no one, not even herself. No, that was wrong: She loved her angel, she loved Mamon.

By the time he was dressed and ready to leave the trailer, Grimaldi had made a decision. He had to leave Ruda, but to fight her, making ridiculous demands, wouldn't work; he had to make it a fair split. He determined that after the Kellerman business was sorted out, he would discuss it calmly and realistically with her, and this time he would not back down.

"Luis — come on! You've been ages, that inspector is waiting!" Ruda banged on his door again. "What are you doing in there?"

Grimaldi came out. He smiled, made her turn around, admiring and flattering her. He had not seen her so well dressed in years. He had also not had a drink for more than twenty-four hours, another good sign. He felt good, and teased Ruda: "How come you dress up for a corpse?"

Ruda wrinkled her nose, and hooked her arm in his. "Maybe I need to give myself some confidence! I'm scared."

Grimaldi laughed, and helped her down the steps. Then, because of the mud, he held out his arms and carried her to the waiting police car.

By the time Inspector Heinz and his sergeant had returned to their bogged-down patrol car, they were both reeling from all the statements they had heard from all the people who had known Kellerman. Not one had a nice word to say, everyone seemed rather pleased he was dead. None had been helpful, none had seen Kellerman on the day or night of his death, and everyone had a strong alibi. Torsen was grateful the ex-Mrs. Kellerman had agreed to identify the dead man.

Torsen held open the back door, and Grimaldi helped his wife into the car. She looked very different from the woman Torsen had visited in the trailer. She was in a good mood, laughing with her husband, a strange reaction, thought Torsen, considering she was being taken to a morgue to identify her ex-husband's corpse.

Ruda was determined not to be recognized in the event someone had seen her enter Kellerman's hotel. She had dressed carefully in a flowered dress and a pale gray coat. She had left her hair loose, hiding her face, and with her high heels, she seemed exceptionally tall. Torsen looked at her in the rearview mirror. It was hard to tell her exact age, but he guessed she must be close to forty, if not more. He felt the direct unnerving stare of her dark, strange, amber-colored eyes boring into the back of his head as he tried to back out of the mud-bound parking area.

Ruda wasn't looking at the inspector, but past him, about fifty yards in front of him. Mike, one of their boys, was hurrying toward the canteen, a rain cape over his shoulders, but what freaked Ruda was that he was wearing Tommy Kellerman's leather trilby. She remembered she had forgotten it in the meat trailer. The car suddenly jerked backward free of the mud, turned and headed out of the parking lot. Ruda didn't turn back, she couldn't: Her heart was pounding, her face had drained of color. Grimaldi gripped her hand and squeezed it. He murmured that it was all right, he was there, and there was no need for her to be afraid.

The rain continued to pour throughout their journey to East Berlin. The patrol car's windshield wipers made nerve-wracking screeches on the glass.

Grimaldi and his wife talked quietly to each other, as if they were being chauffeured. They spoke in English, so Torsen could only make out the odd sentence. He wondered what the word "plinth" meant. Rieckert sat next to him in the front seat, thumbing through his notebook in a bored manner.

In an attempt to calm down, Ruda was talking about the new plinths, having tried them out that morning. She was telling Luis she had had a lot of trouble, particularly with Mamon; he seemed loath to go near them, and had acted up badly. Grimaldi said the retrieval of the old plinths was out of the question, they simply couldn't get them back in time for the act. They would tone down the colors. Ruda snapped at him, saying that the smell of fresh paint would be just as disturbing, and that to skip the pièce de résistance of the act would be insanity. They considered asking for more rehearsal time.

They fell silent for a while as they drove through Kreuzberg, passing refurbished jazz cellars, Turkish shops, bedraggled boutiques, and small art galleries. It was the same route the bus followed the night Ruda had murdered Kellerman. Ruda felt a heavy foreboding.

Torsen looked at them through his rearview mirror.

"It was perhaps naive of us to expect that the freedom would unleash some exciting new era overnight. People who have lived in cages get used to them, people in the East are afraid. Financial insecurity spreads panic. People here have been denied creative and critical expression for so long, they suffer from a deep inferiority complex. Under the old regime many cultural institutions were supported. We had good opera houses, two in fact, but now the West holds our purse strings and a number of our theaters have been closed for lack of funds."

The inspector felt obliged to talk, as if giving a guided tour.

"We had no unemployment; of course there was much over-staffing, but that was the GDR's way of disguising unemployment. Everything has doubled in price since the Deutsche mark took over, but I do believe we are on the threshold of a new era."

Ruda sat tight-lipped, staring from the window, wishing the stupid man would shut up. They crossed into East Berlin. Fear and the thought of seeing Kellerman made Ruda angry. She had to unleash this fury somehow, she was going crazy. As they passed a building with JUDE scrawled over its walls, she found the perfect excuse. Suddenly she snapped, her voice vicious. "Some new beginning! Look what they daub on the walls. He should stop the car and grab those kids by the scruff of their necks, better still, take a machine gun and wipe them out! Those...!"

The inspector and the sergeant exchanged hooded looks. The screech of the windshield wipers was giving Torsen a headache.

Grimaldi stared at the anti-Jewish slogans, and touched Torsen's shoulder. "How come this kind of thing is allowed?"

Torsen explained that as soon as they washed down the walls, the kids returned. The sergeant turned to Grimaldi. His pale blue eyes and blond crew cut made him look youthful, but there was a chilling arrogance to him. He spoke with obvious distaste, his pale eyes narrowed.

"The city is swamped with immigrants. Romanian Gypsies are flooding in; women and children sit on every street corner, begging. The Poles are not desirable either. They fight like animals in the shops; they park their cars any old way, they steal, they urinate in the entrances to apartment buildings. This new Germany is in chaos. Eastern Europe is poverty stricken, and they come in droves! There are more illegal immigrants than we know what to do with! We have no time to wash down walls."

They drove on, past peeling buildings, collapsing sewer systems, electricity cables hanging from broken cages on street corners. The car went by acres of grimy nineteenth-century tenements that had withstood the bombing, their occupants staring now from filthy windows. Ruda was tense; she shifted her weight on the seat, crossing and uncrossing her legs. She took out her cigarettes and lit up, her hands shaking. She opened the window. She didn't care if she got soaked. She needed fresh air. She tossed the cigarette out, breathing in through her nose and exhaling, trying to stay calm.

Aware of her nervousness, Torsen began pointing out sights, a few new art galleries and the like. He tried to lighten the atmosphere. Now there was a gale blowing on his back: To add to his headache, no doubt, he'd have a crick in his neck the following morning.

They went past a gray stone hospital, to a low cement building, with parking places freshly painted in white. There were no other vehicles to be seen. The inspector pulled on the handbrake. "We are here, this is the city morgue."

Ruda and Grimaldi were led to a small empty waiting room and were asked to wait. Sergeant Rieckert remained with them, his eyes flicking over Grimaldi's jacket, his shoes, his Russian-style shirt with its high collar. He tried to imagine how he would look in that getup.

Inspector Torsen Heinz walked down a long, dismal corridor into the main refrigerated room. "Can you get Kellerman ready for viewing?" He shut the door again, returned to the waiting room, and gestured for Ruda to follow him down the corridor. Grimaldi asked if he should accompany them, and Torsen said it was entirely up to him.

The three walked in silence, their feet echoing on the tiled floor. They reached a door at the very end, which was opened by a man wearing green overalls. He stood to one side, removing his rubber gloves. They entered the cold room. Three bodies were lying on tables, covered in sheets, and Grimaldi tightened his grip on Ruda's elbow. Her heart was pounding, but she gave no other indication of what she was feeling. Grimaldi looked from one shrouded body to the other, then to the bank of freezers, with their old-fashioned heavy bolted drawers. He wondered how many bodies were kept on ice.

The inspector stood by a fourth table — shrouded like the others, this body seemed tiny in comparison. In a hushed voice he addressed Ruda:

"Be prepared, the dead man had extensive wounds to his face and head."

Grimaldi moved closer to Ruda, asked if she was all right. She withdrew her arm, nodding. Slowly the inspector lifted the sheet from the naked body, revealing just the head. Grimaldi stepped back aghast, but Ruda moved a fraction closer. She stared down at Kellerman's distorted face, or what was left of it.

"Is this Kellerman?"

Ruda felt icy cold, and continued to stare.

The inspector lifted the sheet from the side. "The tattoo was on his left wrist; as you can see, the skin was cut away. It would have been quite large."

Ruda stared at the small hand, the open cleaned wound, but said nothing. Torsen waited, watching her reaction, then saw her turn slowly to Grimaldi.

"Is this Kellerman, Mrs. Grimaldi?" he asked again.

Ruda gave a small, hardly detectable shrug of her shoulders. She showed no emotion. It was difficult for the inspector to guess what she was thinking or feeling. She seemed not to be repelled by the corpse, or disturbed by the grotesque injuries to the dead man's face.

Grimaldi stepped closer, peered down. He cocked his head to the right, then the left. "I think it's him."

Grimaldi returned to Ruda's side, leaned close and whispered something. She moved away from him, closer to the dead man. She looked at Torsen. "I can't be sure, I'm sorry. It has been so long since I saw him."

"It's him, Ruda. I'm sure even if you're not!" Grimaldi seemed impatient. Turning to the three shrouded bodies he asked if they too had been murdered. He received no reply.

Again Grimaldi whispered to Ruda, and this time he smiled. The inspector couldn't believe it, the man was making some kind of joke! Grimaldi caught the look of disapproval on Torsen's face, and gave a sheepish smile.

"The little fella was very well endowed, I suggested my wife perhaps could remember..." He shut up, realizing the joke was unsuitable and tasteless.

Ruda touched Kellerman's hair, a light pat with just her fingers to the thick curly gray-and-black hair. She spoke very softly. "He had a mole, on the left shoulder, shaped like a..."

The inspector pulled the sheet down, exposing the left shoulder and a dark brown mole. Ruda nodded her head. She whispered that the dead man was Kellerman, then she turned and strode out of the room — had to get out because she could hear Tommy's voice, hear him telling her not to switch out the light. He hated the dark, was always afraid of the dark and of confined spaces. She had teased him, calling him a baby, but she had always left the lights on. He didn't need them now.

Back in the waiting room Inspector Heinz thanked Ruda for her identification. Torsen opened his notebook and sat on the edge of the hard bench. He searched his pockets, took out a pencil and looked at Ruda. "We have been unable to find any of Kellerman's documents, how he entered Germany, and if there are relatives we should contact. Was he an American citizen?"

Ruda nodded, told the inspector that Kellerman obtained his American citizenship in the early sixties, that he had no relatives and there was no one to be contacted.

"Where did he come from originally, Mrs. Grimaldi?"

Ruda hesitated, touched the scar at her temple with her forefinger. "Poland I think, I can't recall..."

Grimaldi frowned, almost waiting for her to tell the inspector that she had met Kellerman in Berlin, but then she surprised him. She suddenly asked about Kellerman's burial, suggesting he be buried locally as there would be no relatives to claim the body. Ruda added that she would cover any costs, and asked that a rabbi be called. Although Kellerman had not been a practicing Jew, she felt that he would have wanted a rabbi present.

The inspector wrote down her instructions carefully, and looked up quickly as she said in a low sarcastic tone: "I presume there is a rabbi left in Germany who can perform the funeral rites. He must be buried before sunset."

Torsen said he would arrange it. He then asked if Kellerman was the deceased's real name. Ruda looked puzzled, said of course it was. He saw that at last she seemed disturbed.

Ruda lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply before she replied once more to his question, apologizing for her rudeness. As far as she knew it was his name, it was the name she had taken when she married him. Torsen snapped his notebook closed, and offered to have the couple driven back to West Berlin. They refused the offer and asked for a taxi.

Grimaldi asked if they had a suspect, and Torsen shook his head. "No one as yet. We have not found his suitcase, the hotel room was stripped."

"But didn't anyone see the killer? That was some beating the little guy took, I mean, someone must have hated his guts, and surely someone must have seen or heard something?"

The inspector shrugged. They had nothing to go on, but for a number of motives. Kellerman was not a well-liked man.

"Well-liked is one thing, but you don't beat a man's head in because you don't like him, it must be something else."

Torsen nodded. He said that until he went further into his investigation, there was no further information he could give. He excused himself and left his sergeant to arrange their transport.

Rieckert, annoyed at having to walk back to the station, called two taxi companies but there were no available cars. He suggested that they could get a car from the Grand Hotel: It was not too far, if they wished he could walk with them.

Ruda refused his offer to accompany them, and turned to stare out of the grimy window. Grimaldi came to her side, whispered to her that she should have kept her mouth shut — now she would have to fork out for the little bastard even in death. She glared at him and, keeping her voice as low as his, she hissed that what he was pissed off about was her request for a rabbi. Then she whispered: "That little blond-haired Nazi prick will probably send us in the wrong direction anyway, now he knows I'm Jewish!"

Grimaldi gripped her elbow so tightly it hurt. "Shut up. Just keep it shut! Since when have you been a fuckin' Jew?"

Ruda smirked at him and shook her head. "Scared they may daub us on the way back to the trailer?"

Grimaldi glared back at her; he would never understand her. She was no more Jewish than he was, certainly not a practicing one. She had no religion, and he was a Catholic — not that he'd said a Hail Mary for more than twenty years.

The sergeant handed directions to Grimaldi, and left with a curt nod of his head. He'd heard what she had called him, and he smarted with impotent fury: Foreigners, they were all alike, and Detective Chief Inspector Heinz bowed and scraped like a wimp to that Jewish bitch! What kind of pervert was she to have been married to that animal on the morgue slab? She repelled him.

Ruda and Luis walked together, arm in arm. The walk was a lot longer than the sergeant had suggested. It took them over an hour to arrive at the newly refurbished Grand Hotel, and it was such a sight that Grimaldi decided they should order a taxi and have a martini while they waited. Ruda resisted at first, but then, having been told that the regular taxis were engaged at present and that there would be no taxi for another hour, she relented.

Ruda and Grimaldi walked into the foyer and headed for the comfortable lounge. They made a striking couple. Grimaldi began to enjoy himself. Guiding Ruda by the elbow, he inclined his head.

"Now, this is my style, and I think since we're here, we might as well order some lunch. The restaurant looks good, what do you say?"

Ruda looked at her wristwatch. She had to get back to rehearse and feed the cats, but still they had to wait for a taxi, so she suggested they just have a drink and order a sandwich.

Grimaldi decided this was as good a time as any to have a talk, away from the trailer, away from the circus. In the luxurious surroundings they might have a civilized conversation.

They sat in a small booth with red plush velvet seats and a marble-topped table. Ferns hid them from the rest of the hotel guests, mostly American as far as Grimaldi could tell.

They sipped their martinis in silence, and Ruda ate the entire bowl of peanuts, popping one at a time into her mouth. Grimaldi took an envelope from his pocket and opened it.

"I have been working out our financial situation, how much the act costs, living expenses, and what we will both need to live on. Maybe we should sell the trailer and each buy a smaller one."

She turned on him. "Your priority is to get back the old plinths! I can't work with the new ones."

"We've already discussed that, for chrissakes. Just go through this with me, we have to sort it out sometime."

Ruda snatched the sheet of paper, and looked over his haphazard scrawl. It was quite a shock to her that even after their closeness, he was still intent on leaving her.

"She's pregnant, Ruda, I want to get a divorce and marry her!" Ruda tore the paper into scraps. "I'll think about it." Grimaldi signaled for the waiter to bring more drinks. Ruda's foot was tapping against the table leg.

"I don't want to have an argument here, Ruda, okay?" She stared at him, telling herself to keep calm. She had to deal with things one at a time. She had dealt with Kellerman, Grimaldi would be next, but her priority now was to get the act ready for opening night. One thing at a time — this show was to be her biggest, and if she performed well she knew that with live coverage, there would be no more need for second-circuit dates; she would be an international star. Above all she wanted to get to the United States again, and win a contract at New York's Ringling Bros, and Barnum & Bailey circus.

"Ruda, we have to discuss this, Ruda!"

"I'll think about it, we'll work out something!" As the waiter came by their table, passing directly behind him was a very handsome man accompanied by an attractive blond woman. They were both in deep conversation, not giving Grimaldi or Ruda a glance. They seated themselves in the next booth, and the waiter, after taking Grimaldi's order, moved quickly to the elegant couple's booth.

"Good afternoon, Baron."

Helen Masters asked for a gin and tonic, and the baron a scotch on the rocks. He spoke German, then turned back to continue his conversation with Helen in French. They paid no attention to the big broad-shouldered man seated in the next booth. They could not see Ruda.

Grimaldi had ordered two more martinis. Ruda said she didn't want another, but he ignored her. He looked around the lounge, then noticed she was playing with the bread. It always used to infuriate him, the way she would pick at it, roll it into tiny little balls, twitch it, and pummel it with her fingers.

"Stop that, you know it gets on my nerves. We'll sort out the plinths when we get back. Now, can we just relax, Ruda?"

She nodded, but under the table her hands began to roll a small piece of bread tighter and tighter, until it became a dense hard ball — because she kept on seeing the boy, Mike, wearing Kellerman's hideous black leather trilby. Mike, Grimaldi and his bloody divorce... it was all descending on her like a dark blanket, and suddenly she felt as if her mind would explode. Her fingers pressed and rolled the tiny ball of bread mechanically, as if out of her control. She swallowed, her mouth was dry, her lips felt stiff, her tongue held to the roof of her mouth. It was seeping upward from her toes... She fought against it, refusing to allow it to dominate her — not here, not in public. "No... no!"

Grimaldi looked at her, was not sure what she had said. He leaned closer. "Ruda? You okay?"

She repeated the word "No!" like a low growl. He could see her body was rigid, and yet the table shook slightly as her fingers pressed and rolled the tiny ball of bread.

"Ruda!.. Ruda!"

She turned her head very slowly, her eyes seemed unfocused, staring through him. He slipped his hand beneath the table. "What's the matter with you? Are you sick?"

Grimaldi held her hand, crunched in a hard knot. She recoiled from him, pressing her back against the velvet booth.

"I have to go to the toilet." She rose to her feet. "I'll meet you outside, I need some fresh air."

Grimaldi made to stand, but she pushed past him and he slumped back down in the seat, watching as she walked stiffly toward the foyer, hands clenched tight at her side. She brushed past an elaborate display of ferns and then quickened her pace, almost running to the cloakrooms. There was only one other occupant, a tourist applying lipstick, examining her reflection in the mirror. Ruda knocked against her, but made no apology, hurrying into the vacant lavatory. She had no time to shut the door, but fell to her knees, clinging to the wooden toilet seat as she began to vomit. She felt an instant release, and sat back on her heels panting; again she felt the rush of bile, and leaned over the basin, the stench, the white bowl — she pushed away until she was hunched against the partition.

"Are you all right? Do you need me to call someone?" The tourist stood at a distance, but was very concerned.

Ruda heaved again and forced herself once more to be sick into the lavatory bowl.

"Should I call a doctor?"

Ruda wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and without even looking up snapped: "Get out, just get out and leave me alone..."

Ruda slowly rose to stand, pressing herself against the tiled wall, then crossed unsteadily to the wash basin. She ran the cold water and splashed it over her face, then patted herself dry with the soft hand towels provided. She opened her purse and fumbled for her compact. Her whole body tingled, the hair on the backs of her hands was raised, the same strange, almost animal warning at the nape of her neck. Was it this hotel? Something in this hotel? The white tiled walls, the white marble floor — had she been here before?

She seemed to be outside herself. What was wrong? And then, just as she had always done, she began to work to calm herself, talking softly, whispering that it was just the whiteness, it was the white tiles... it was seeing Tommy, it was nothing more. It was a natural reaction, it was just shock, delayed shock at seeing him, seeing Tommy.

Ruda crossed the large foyer, her composure restored. She paused, wary, as if listening for something, to something, but then she shrugged her shoulders and headed toward the main revolving doors.

As Ruda stepped outside, Hilda was scurrying toward the staff entrance, a small hidden door at the side of the hotel. She stopped in her tracks, seeing the tall woman standing on the steps. For a moment she thought she was seeing the baroness, but then she shook her head at her stupidity; this woman was much bigger, her dark hair long. Still, as she continued through the staff entrance, she wondered where she had seen the woman before. She unpacked her working shoes and slipped them on, carefully placing her other shoes into her locker. As she closed the door and crossed to the mirror to run a comb through her hair, she remembered. The circus poster. It was the woman from the circus poster, she was sure of it and rather pleased with her recall. She wondered if she was staying at the hotel; perhaps, if she was, Hilda could ask for her autograph.

A chambermaid coming off duty called out to Hilda, and scurried over to her. She asked if it was true that the baroness was insane; rumors were rife and she was eager to gossip.

Hilda refused to be drawn into a conversation, and the young girl was forced to change the subject, moving on to other news. A dwarf had been found murdered in the red light district just behind the hotel, his body beaten. They had first thought it was a child, his body was so small. She knew about it because her boyfriend worked with the Polizei. She came close to Hilda and hissed: "He was a Jew!"