The Brothel in Rosenstrasse

2 The Brothel

The brothel in Rosenstrasse has the ambience of an integrated nation, hermetic, microcosmic. It is easy, once within, to believe the place possessed of an infinity of rooms and passages, all isolated from that other world outside. Doubtless Frau Schmetterling creates this impression deliberately, with detailed thoroughness. Reminded of childhood security and delicious mystery, the explorer discovers his cares disappearing, together with any adult lessons of morality or self-restraint. Here he may not only fulfill his desires, but he need feel no guilt or concern for doing so: the brothel can be departed from and visited again at will. Money is all he needs. Here there are anodynes for any kind of wound, there are no sharp voices, no pointing fingers, no complicated emotional involvements. Here a man (and occasionally a woman) may feel himself to be what he most wishes to be. Nietzsche’s socially destructive admonitions can be safely followed in this enclosure. The ego is allowed full rein. Yet publicly everyone is discreetly polite and compliant; bad manners are frowned upon and must never be displayed in the salon. A maternal and firm-winded woman, neat and plump, Frau Schmetterling runs her brothel with the skill of the captain of a luxury ship. Most of her working day is spent in her head-quarters, her elaborately-equipped kitchen. This is territory generally forbidden to clients but is a haven for her charges. The kitchen is where Frau Schmetterling interviews new girls and where every day she discusses menus with Ulric, her cook. The room is dominated by a massive oak dresser which stretches from floor to ceiling and displays brightly-decorated plates of outstanding quality from every country in Europe; her collection. What it represents to her nobody knows but she is unquestionably in love with it. She will allow no-one else to handle it or even polish the carved surfaces of the wooden shelves. Shrewd in all other matters, she is easily flattered through her china and the taste she displays in it. She sits in a peasant rocking-chair to one side of the dresser so that she can observe both the long, clean table and her collection. Her servants, such as the simple-minded Trudi (whom Frau Schmetterling personally dresses), make tea, coffee and chocolate for the women as they come and go. Very occasionally Frau Schmetterling will entertain two or three of her special girls here for dinner. Through the barred windows of the kitchen is her garden which she cares for almost as jealously as her china, though she allows ‘Mister’ to do some of the work. ‘Mister’ is the enfeebled, grey-haired gentleman with the face of a boy whom she will sometimes describe as her ‘protector’. He lives at the top of the house and dotes on her, showing temper only if he feels she has been threatened or insulted. He is in charge of Elvira, the madam’s little daughter (who goes to the Lutheran school in nearby Kasernestrasse) when she visits the brothel on Sunday afternoons. Elvira is ten, a demure, dark-eyed creature, and has no idea of the madam’s business. If asked, she would say that it had something to do with ladies sewing things, for on Sundays the girls usually gather in the big kitchen after lunch to do their mending. She is, as any child would be, very popular with her mother’s charges. ‘Mister’ must go every day to the house where Elvira is boarded and check that she is properly cared for and has everything she needs. In the brothel he supervises the cleanliness of the rooms; he frequently goes shopping for the girls; he makes sure that fresh flowers are permanently in evidence, that the paint of the shutters and doors is impeccable; that Frau Schmetterling’s black chow dogs are walked and fed twice a day. These dogs are not popular with every customer, most of whom have at some time tried to pet and show a friendly interest in them. They seem surly beasts and have been known to nip the odd client. I have always fed them with pate and little pieces of liver and have consequently I believe won their friendship. Frau Schmetterling will often remark to me how much Pouf-Pouf and Mimi love their gentlemen and will add that she judges people very much by how the dogs take to them. This anthropomorphic fiction surrounding pets is a common one of course with many women and it is within their power quite unconsciously to give signals to their animals as to whether they like or dislike a particular person. Therefore I have never really known if I have become popular entirely by means of bribery or whether, for uncertain reasons of her own, Frau Schmetterling finds me attractive. I think I was an early customer of this particular establishment. My father sent me here as a boy to be instructed, so I am often ‘her’ Ricky and she shows a mother’s interest in my career. She possesses signed copies of my little books and seems quite proud of them. Frau Schmetterling is Jewish. Nobody knows her real name. She is well-educated. She is fastidious in her habits, always wearing simple but beautifully-cut old-fashioned dresses trimmed with lace, and she treats ‘Mister’ with affectionate formality, a queen to her consort. Their mutual respect for each other is touching. Because of her tendency to plumpness, her comfortable homeliness, it is difficult to guess her age, but I believe she must be close to fifty. She speaks several languages very well, and her native tongue seems to be a Russian dialect, suggesting that she was born in Byelorussia or perhaps Poland, ‘my girls,’ she says, ‘are ladies. I expect them to behave accordingly and to be properly treated. In private with a client they may choose to be whatever they and the client wish them to be but at all other times they must behave with tact and ‘scretion.’ The girls, whether on duty or off, are perfectly costumed. Clients are expected to wear evening dress. I myself am clothed as carefully as if I were attending a formal dinner at the Embassy. Alexandra has on rose silk and a deep green cape. I open the blue door for her and follow her in. Our first impression is of subtle perfume, dark polished wood, mirrors and rust-coloured drapery. The room is lit by a single ornamental lamp. From another part of the brothel comes the faint sound of barking. Everywhere is luxury. Everything is soft or heavy or dark and the young woman who waits on the coverlet of the four-poster seems small and delicate in contrast. She is apparently relaxed and rather delighted by the adventure. ‘M’sieu.’ She rises and walks up to Alexandra, kissing her prettily on both cheeks. ‘Are you French?’ I ask. I go from habit to the sideboard and pour absinthe for all three of us. The lady shrugs as if to say that it is for me to decide her nationality. ‘What’s your name, mademoiselle?’

‘It is Therese’. She has a Berlin accent. Her attention is on Alexandra. ‘You are very pretty. And young.’

‘This is Alexandra.’

Therese is about twenty, with straight black hair drawn back from her oval face. She has light blue eyes. Her skin is pink and her hands are long. In her white undergarments, which are trimmed with peach-coloured lace, her figure is fuller than Alexandra’s and tends to puppy-fat. She has a large nose, prominent red lips, and a self-contained way of holding herself. She has small pointed breasts. I stipulated the colouring of the girl and the size of her breasts in my note to Frau Schmetterling. In this familiar ambience I become relaxed and my mood seems to be transmitting itself to Alexandra, who remains, however, a trifle ill-at-ease and begins to move around the room looking at pictures and ornaments. Therese hides her amusement. All three shadows are thrown onto the large autumnal flowers of the wall-paper. Alexandra is a little taller than Therese. Old Papadakis is scowling at me. ‘What is it?’ I ask him. ‘You should let me fetch the doctor,’ he says. ‘You are not in your right mind. You are weak. You should rest. You are overtaxing yourself.’ Is he trying to persuade me to dependency upon him? He cannot be genuinely concerned. I do not employ him for that. ‘Go to the village,’ I tell him. ‘Get me something with cocaine in it.’ He mutters in Greek. ‘The doctor will give me morphine,’ I say. ‘It will dull my brain. I need my wits. Can’t you see I’m doing something worthwhile again?’ I hold up the pages. ‘These are my memoirs. You are mentioned in them. You should be pleased.’ He comes forward as if to see what I have written. I close the cover. ‘Not yet. They will be published when I am dead. Perhaps when you are dead, too.’ Therese says to Alexandra: ‘Is this the first time you have been here?’

‘Yes,’ says Alexandra. ‘And you? How long have you worked here?’

‘Two years this Christmas,’ says Therese. ‘I was an artists’ model in Prague, for paintings as well as photographs. Will this be your first time?’

‘With a lady?’ says Alexandra. The rose silk hisses. ‘No. In a brothel, yes.’

‘And your first time with both a lady and a gentleman,’ I remind her gently.

‘Yes.’

An encouraging smile from Therese. ‘You will like it. It is my favourite thing. You mustn’t be afraid.’

‘I’m not afraid,’ said Alexandra removing her cape. She stares hard at Therese. ‘I am looking forward to it. The surroundings are new to me, that’s all.’ She keeps her distance from Therese, who makes a kind-hearted effort to be pleasant to her. In the past it was Alexandra who took the initiative with her schoolfriends. ‘What are you receiving for your services?’ she asks suddenly. Therese is surprised, answering mildly. ‘M’sieu has confirmed the usual arrangements with Frau Schmetterling, I think.’

‘Therese is on a fixed weekly income,’ I say. ‘It is one of the benefits Frau Schmetterling offers to those who want to work here. It is a form of security. Part of the money is paid directly, art is kept in a savings account.’

‘You’re looked after well, then,’ says Alexandra. ‘Safer than Carriage, even.’

‘Far safer,’ says Therese. She continues to assume that Alexandra is shy. ‘Your dress is lovely. Levantine silk, isn’t it?’

‘Thank you.’ Suddenly Alexandra puts down her glass and crosses to Therese, embracing her and kissing her full on the mouth. Therese is a little taken aback. Alexandra grins. ‘You’re lovely, too. You’re exactly my type, did you know? Did Ricky ask for you specially?’ Therese begins to relax, as if she now has a notion of what is expected of her. She makes no further attempts to put Alexandra at her ease. ‘I’m glad I appeal to you.’ There is a touch of irony, a swift glance towards me, but I refuse a part. ‘I’ve always longed to meet a real whore,’ murmurs Alexandra, stroking Therese’s hair. She puts an arm around the girl’s shoulders and leads her to the sideboard. ‘Pour us another drink, Ricky. I want you to make love to Therese first.’ Her tone implores but her stance commands. ‘I’ll wait here.’ She indicates a gilded chair padded with brown velvet. She has the manner of a determined little girl setting out the rules of a dolls’ game. Not for the first time I find this aspect of her character faintly disconcerting. She seems almost prim. As I finish my drink Therese begins to remove her chemise, her pantaloons, her cherry-coloured stockings. I feel some trepidation, not for the action I am about to take but for the spirit in which I shall commit myself to the performance. Alexandra has discovered a closet. I remove my jacket and hand it to her. I remove my waistcoat, my tie and my shirt. All are neatly stowed by Alexandra. I lower my trousers and these she folds. I take off my socks, my underpants. Alexandra steps back from me and I turn towards the bed. Therese is also naked, with her hair loosened and her head propped against the pillows. She has become professional; her pink body waits for me. Her lips are slightly parted, her eyes hooded. There is no apparent difference between her artful desire and Alexandra’s blind passion. If I was not aware that Therese was a whore I would believe that she yearned for me alone. Her youthful skin might never have known a man’s touch. Do all women slide so indiscriminately into lust? How are they taught such things? I kiss Therese’s cheeks, her neck. She moans. I kiss her soft shoulders, her breasts, her stomach. She shudders. Her calf presses against my penis. I kiss her face again. Her tongue is hot on my neck, her hand finds my penis and testicles and fondles them. I hear silk behind me, but I do not turn. I press my fingers into Therese’s cunt. It is already wet. I push her legs apart and she draws me into her. Her body is more generous than Alexandra’s, but Therese cannot reproduce that thrilling urgency, that desperation of movement which removes us entirely from the world of ordinary perception. Several years ago, at the Villa D’Este, or rather in the little ravine which runs below it and where there is an older garden, some ancient Emperor’s villa, I came upon a very respectable young couple walking there under the trees amongst the toppled columns and broken marble and was certain that I recognised the modestly dressed wife as a whore I had once visited regularly. Then she had been an unreal creature. Now she was a perfectly ordinary bourgeoise. The transformation was considerable. I lifted my hat and introduced myself, saying that I thought we were acquainted. I was in no doubt that it was she. The couple had given some ordinary Roman name and she had politely denied knowing me. But I had confirmed her identity for myself. She was the same nameless child I had fucked at least a score of times at the brothel in Rosenstrasse. I had paid, moreover, a great deal of money for the privilege. Then she had never spoken and it was said by some that she was dumb. Frau Schmetterling had prized her above her other girls at that time; she had referred to this wonderful beauty as her ‘niece’ and had offered her only to customers for whom she had a special affection. Whenever one went to her room it would always be the same. The draperies would be of darker than usual material and the only light would come from a large candle in a glass funnel, creating all kinds of peculiar, agitated shadows. The nymph would lie upon grey velvet, immobile and passive. About her waist, on a chain as a necklace might be worn, would be hung a massive insect, at least four inches long, about two inches thick, with a wing-span of five inches. The insect’s body was carved out of morbid green obsidian, and its wings gave the impression of transparency, being made of crystal and silver. Imbedded as markings on its head and carapace were various murky gems: agates, carnelians and discoloured pearls. This splendid, sickly fly would rest upon her swarthy flesh as if about to dine. From her throat would be suspended a chain of heavy gold, a series of linked scarabs, Egyptianate and massive, reaching to a point just short of centre between her small, rouged breasts. One of her soft arms would be bare, but the other would have on it a gold and amethyst bracelet forming two intertwined serpents, and on her left ankle would be a solid bangle of gold, set with a single large ruby, matched by a similar ring on her fourth toe. She had a variety of small rings on her thumbs and fingers, and the hardness of the gold accentuated the delicacy and fragility of her youth.

As an old friend of Frau Schmetterling I had been allowed to enjoy that child on a number of occasions but I believe my chief delight in her came not from her body, which was delicious, but from a particular quality of mind she possessed: she seemed half-mad. Just as with Alexandra, for whom I have of course far more responsibility, the child had been consumed by a subtle urgency, an almost inhuman sexuality, which had in it a peculiar and perhaps unwholesome intelligence. It was as if she had come into the world with her intellect and her appetites fully-formed, with a pagan greed for a conscious and specific form of sensual experience which never waned and was yet never completely satisfied; a mind which was unsleepingly aware of itself, its surroundings, of those souls who came into its sphere. She had feasted upon me during the course of a season and I had been powerless for every second I had spent in her company; as drained and as miserable when I departed from her as I was enriched and inspired when with her. She had possessed virtually no reality for me. I had never attempted to converse with her. I had come and gone in silence, almost in secret. The business had taken on the atmosphere of a shameful liaison. By the end of that season I had become exhausted and my morale was in ruins. Yet that same insect-child who had so sapped my vitality was now an ordinary young woman walking with her husband at Tivoli on a Sunday afternoon. Had she been in any way responsible, then, for my condition? Or had I been entirely a victim of my own dreams? So I wonder as I move my body in and out of Therese, forcing myself not to become afraid of the girl who sits a few feet away from me drinking her absinthe and watching me with eyes which neither reflect nor absorb the light: blank eyes, lost entirely in a universe of private fantasy. Yet will she always be like this? Was she like it before? Momentarily the terror grows in me. I began as her seducer and now I feel that I am her pawn, performing sexually for her entertainment. How does she see it? The same? She says she wished only to please me. I have beaten her. I have raised bruises and welts on her body, with rods, with shoes, with straps; I have played the cruel master and she the slave; I have practised all kinds of humiliations upon her with her consent. She has been at times wholly in my power. And yet I feel that I am now in hers, willing to renounce all ordinary happiness, ordinary pleasure, spontaneous lust, in order to please her, while she continues to pretend herself my victim. It is a child’s game. I know it is a child’s game. I tell myself that I should know better, yet the child in me, the child I thought vanished but whom I had merely silenced, is yelling for satisfaction again. Therese thrusts back at me with skilled strength; my orgasm when it comes is thin and quickly dissipates. Alexandra kneels beside us on the bed, still fully clothed. She strokes my rump with hesitant fingers. Perhaps it is her inexperience which binds me to her, why I am so willing to help her discover novelty after novelty so that she will forever be encountering something which is fresh to her. Will I continue to love her when all sexual experience is familiar to her? And what are her motives in this? hat does she really want from me, save companionship in her adventure? She says that she loves me, but she is too young for the words to have any substance. She is fascinated by my reputation, which like most reputations of the sort is greatly exaggerated: I have probably been rejected by as many women as I have conquered and for every one who has believed me an inspired lover I have had others whom I have failed to satisfy. The needs of the body are actually as subtle as the needs of the personality. She is kissing Therese even as she strokes me. The feel of her dress on my skin is delightful. She touches Therese’s nipples, again with that same sweet hesitation. She lies across my back, slowly moving her groin against me. Therese strokes her wrist. Their perfume almost drugs me. I am passive between them as their passion increases. Alexandra lets Therese begin to unbutton her dress. Eventually both naked bodies press on mine and gradually grow more confident with each other. A breast brushes my shoulder; a knee leans on my thigh. Lying face down in the bed I find it almost impossible to tell which little body is which. The sensation is wonderful as their ardour grows; the moans and grunts become sighs and gasps; they touch, they stroke, they scratch, wonderfully oblivious of me as anything more than a body. I slip my hand down to my cock and begin to masturbate as their movements grow more urgent. Papadakis says: ‘You haven’t enough light in here.’ He pulls back the curtains. There is a glimpse of distant blue, the sea. I can hear it quite clearly today and it does not irritate me. The sun seems mild and warm. ‘What’s today?’ I ask him. ‘The first of May,’ he says. ‘You might be able to go outside soon.’ I become suspicious of him, protective of my manuscript. I put it under the pillow when I sleep. He must not see it, at least until it is finished. ‘It reminds me of Nicosia this morning,’ he says. Then he scowls. ‘That bastard of a father.’ He will often sink into these private references. ‘And I felt such a fool in the hat.’ I become impatient with him again. ‘You are disturbing me,’ I say. ‘I am not interested in your childhood. Bring me some tea in half-an-hour.’ I am making more of an effort to be polite to him. Perhaps I have misjudged him. He seems to be showing some respect for me at the moment. But I cannot afford to allow him too much of my time now or he could go on about his frustrations and his achievements all day. He claims to have academic degrees, but becomes vague when asked where they were obtained. He also boasts, sometimes, of the famous painters and writers he has known and it is true that he once acted as a go-between for some artists I knew in London. That was how he eventually came to work for me. I do not deny his usefulness, but it is a bad idea to let him begin talking. I know he resents it when I silence him. I know that he sees my work as some sort of rival, although he originally claimed that he wished to support me in my efforts. That was before I became ill. He is abstracted today, still staring out of the window, whistling some popular tune under his breath. It sounds like I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles. ‘Let me finish this,’ I say, ‘and I will earn enough money to send you home to Nicosia.’ He is surprised. ‘Why should I want to go there? I was thinking of Venice.’ I tell him to play some Chopin on the phonograph in the next room. ‘And don’t let the record wind down as you usually do.’ I remember when he was more agreeable, when he thought my title meant something and that I had more money.

Deciding to leave Alexandra and Therese in each other’s company for a while, since this will benefit me, I believe, in the long term, I dress myself and go downstairs into the public salon. There are a few gentlemen here, chatting in quiet voices, and one or two of Frau Schmetterling’s girls, looking like any young ladies one might meet at a provincial ball. Frau Schmetterling, as usual, has retired to her kitchen. The whores are acting as hostesses. I ask for a glass of champagne and take a seat near the far window, casually watching a card game between two upright middle-aged gentlemen and two women whom I know as Inez and Clara. Inez claims to be Spanish (though she speaks German without an accent) and dresses accordingly. Clara wears a costume suggesting that she is an English countrywoman. Her speciality is with the crop and the tawse. The men are probably rich professional people. Both have grey beards and one wears a monocle while the other has pince-nez. All four are absorbed in their bridge at present. I make an effort to read the evening newspaper, but in spirit I am still upstairs with Alexandra and Therese. I have decided that I will dine here. Frau Schmetterling always provides an excellent light supper for those who require it. My earlier concern has vanished for the time being. I enjoy a cigar. The salon is furnished comfortably, in restrained good taste, reminiscent of the better class of Parisian hotel. Next to it is a billiard room and I am about to rise to go into it when the double doors of the salon open and the Princess Poliakoff comes in on the arm of a nervous young man whom I assume to be her latest gigolo. I get to my feet and bow. She recognises me and seems relieved to see me. I kiss her hand. She is as usual wearing a mannish black costume with a ruffle of lace at her breast. Her thin face is bright with severe paint and by the size of her pupils I would say she is drugged. She draws her young man forward. ‘Ricky, this is my eldest son, Dimitri. We are on tour, to finish his education.’ I shake hands with Dimitri. He has a pleasant, awkward smile. ‘We shall be leaving for Trieste tomorrow,’ she says. ‘I am so glad you are here. You are just the man Dimitri should talk to.’ I am amused. ‘Why so, my dear Princess?’ I ask. ‘It is obvious, surely! You are a man of the world.’ She speaks sardonically and yet it is a compliment. ‘I am at your service, m’sieu,’ I say to her son, and bow again. We are speaking French. The Princess Poliakoff is a notorious Lesbian. She has for some time had the reputation of frequenting the Rat Mort and La Souris in Montmartre where she gathered about her a group of female admirers, chiefly actresses and opera singers, who would vie subtly with one another to be her choice of the evening. I am glad to see her, for she is a familiar face, but I have no great liking for her. Her beauty is of that neurasthenic, slender kind; her skin seems almost transparent and the rouge only heightens its pallor. She has a long, thin nose and large, wide lips, high cheek bones, exceptionally large, languid hands, and she wears nothing but black or, in winter months sometimes, a tawny wolfskin cap, cloak and gloves. She is rumoured to have had affairs with half the famous female stage-performers and painters in Paris and I heard that when she appeared in public with Louise Abbema at L’Opera, embracing and kissing, her father upon receiving the news at his Russian estate shot himself and has never properly recovered from the head wound which left him with only one ear and one eye. She is now about forty. She still retains that look of boredom which to many makes her so fascinating and apparently remote. It was her boredom, she claims, which led her to experiment with almost every vice and it was vice, she says, which led her ineffably back to boredom. To which, she usually adds, she is now completely reconciled. ‘You must explain the secret of your success with women, Ricky,’ she says. ‘There is no secret, Dimitri,’ I tell her son. ‘All one needs is a relish for sexual pleasure and a certain amount of time to dedicate to its pursuit. After a year or two one becomes known as a rake and women’s curiosity does the rest.’ Princess Poliakoff laughs. ‘You are such a terrible cynic, Ricky. What would your eminent brother think of you?’ I shrug. ‘The von Beks have one black sheep in every other generation,’ I say. ‘It is a tradition. My brother is content because he believes that family customs should be firmly maintained. I have an agreeable nature and the assigned role happens to suit me very well.’ Princess Poliakoff lights a small cheroot for herself. ‘And what are you doing here now? I had heard that you have taken up with schoolgirls. Or was it schoolboys?’ I am a little alarmed at this. It means that very soon my liaison with Alexandra will be discovered. ‘Negroes,’ I tell her, hoping to divert her from the truth. ‘What?’ she says, ‘Really?’ She can be extremely gullible. ‘They are wonderful,’ I tell her. ‘I should have thought that in Paris… She sighs. ‘It is their size. I am absolutely terrified, dear Ricky, of large organs.’ The girl comes with a tray of champagne. I hand them each a glass. Her son is smiling like a puppet at a fair. ‘They are not always monstrous,’ I say. ‘And this schoolboy?’ she continues relentlessly. ‘He is black, then?’

‘As your hat,’ I say in English. ‘He is the son of a king in Africa. Being educated here.’ She chuckles, willingly believing me. ‘You must pass him on to me when you are finished with him.’ Princess Poliakoff has always characterised me as a hard-hearted rogue who uses people as she does. She makes no allowances for my Achilles heel, my sentimentality, and I see no reason in admitting to her that I am not what she would wish me to be. ‘It’s a bargain,’ I say. I look at the ormolu clock over the fireplace. ‘I shall see you later, I hope, at dinner. I must get back to my little negro.’ Again her hand is kissed, her son’s shaken. He is blushing deeply. I wink at him and return up the stairs, deciding that we shall have to dine in our room. Knowing what a gossip Princess Poliakoff is I hope that her talk of me will create a useful smokescreen. I am somewhat surprised at how cunning I have become since I began my affair with Alexandra. I pass the two bridge-playing gentlemen as they emerge from the toilet. ‘This raising of an army hasn’t perturbed him much,’ one says. ‘But I gather he found the desertion of about half the garrison something of a shock. They say he’s at his hunting lodge now, with those mechanical models of his. The business will be bloodless if it comes off at all. Holzhammer isn’t a bad sort. And he’ll keep taxes down.’ The significance of the conversation escapes me. I reach the blue door and knock before I enter. Therese and Alexandra lie in each others’ arms, smiling and giggling. Both look thoroughly dissolute, with their hair wet and scratch-marks on their bodies. ‘And how have you enjoyed yourselves?’ I chuckle, glad that they are happy and that Alexandra is no longer in her original mood.

Papadakis brings me a cup of tea. ‘And will you eat something now?’ he asks. ‘Perhaps some Camembert,’ I tell him. ‘And something blue and soft. Something tasty. What have we?’ He strokes at his beard with his finger and thumb. ‘There’s a little Cambozola. You used to enjoy that.’ I nod at him. ‘Excellent. And a glass of red wine.’ He purses his lips. ‘Wine? It will kill you!’ I put down my pen. ‘I am better now. Can’t you see that? Some red wine.’ He shakes his head. He is becoming surly again. ‘Not according to the doctor. But I will bring it if you want it.’ He leaves. Alexandra, Therese and I dine off smoked salmon and cold duck in our room. The two girls manufacture secrets and I pretend to be intrigued, to please them. Later we shall make love again, playing games with considerable zest and good humour. Then, at about three in the morning, Alexandra and I will order a cab and leave the brothel, promising to see Therese the next evening.

Papadakis takes the limousine to town. He likes, I know, to pretend that it is his because it gives him stature with the local peasants. Papadakis says he understands peasants and how they think. He hates them, he says. But his information about them is useful to me and gives me a greater knowledge of his attitudes. He is supposed to get me some patent medicine containing a stimulant but he will quite likely forget; most of the time he thinks only of himself, living in a dream of an unsatisfactory past and an unattainable future. Sometimes across his face comes the enthusiastic expression of a boy, a memory of his former charm. Pyat, the famous confidence trickster, had a similar appearance when I met him at Cassis with Stavisky in the mid-twenties. I have told him it is his duty to care for me when I am ill. He will sometimes reply it is the doctor’s job. He was hired, after all, to be my secretary. The fact was I took pity on him. I offered him his last chance and he accepted it. Now he wriggles to be free, but there is nowhere for him to go. And he brings me my soup and fish and he changes my linen when the old woman is too drunk to do it. The pain has come back in my groin. Is Alexandra a mirror? Is the ugliness I believe I detect in her simply a reflection of my own? Since I was sixteen women have told me that I must change. I have always said to them that I am too old to change. If they do not like me as I am then they have the right to find someone they prefer. But I think I am changing for Alexandra and that is perhaps why I am occasionally frightened. I tell everyone that I am in love with feminine beauty in all its aspects. The fact is I become bored in the company of women who have no sexual presence, no matter how intelligent they may be. I think I dislike such women because their condition indicates their own fear of themselves and consequently of the world around them. I have known many women who express the same impatience with non-sexual men. Sexuality is the key to personality. She undresses. She removes the rose silk frock, the delicate chemise; she rolls down her stockings and puts them carefully on the back of the chair. She has a habit of slipping her garters over her wrist while she removes the rest of her underwear, then, holding them in her right hand, she will go into the bathroom and set them on the ledge in front of the mirror. If they are a pair she particularly cares for she will give them a little parting kiss. I say it is too late to bathe, we should go to sleep at once, but she insists. While she is in the bath I fall asleep. I awake briefly at dawn. My blood has quickened. I begin to anticipate what we shall do together later. I turn, thinking she is still bathing, but she is fast asleep with her back to me, the sheets pulled tightly about her as if she fears something. Can she fear me? Will she come to resent me? Asleep, with her face in repose, she sometimes resembles a baby. At other times, when she is snoring and her mouth is open she reminds me of a dead rodent. I wonder if that is really all she is when she is not responding to me: a tiny unimportant predator. But when she wakes her eyes destroy my prejudice. Did her eyes always possess that strange, heated glaze? I remember how she had seemed so innocent when we first met. The prospect of making love to a virgin had driven all caution away within a few minutes. Then, I think, the expression had been there, but hidden. She had only glanced at me directly once and her eyes had told me of her desire for me. Is she a natural predator? She says she loves me, but that is meaningless. She loves what she thinks I must be, what she thinks I possess, and she lusts after my cock. She is doubtless surprised, also, that she can achieve control over others through her sexuality. Unless she is an unusual female she will continue to use her sex as her only certain means to power. She will have no notion of any other way to get what she will want for herself. Even if other ways are described to her she will not quite understand what is said, for her chief experience will have been of sexual control coupled, perhaps, with certain practical services given to the one who desires her. Her will to power, which she has in common with everyone, if satisfied only through sex could ultimately leave her empty of feeling and therefore could destroy any ordinary capacity to know desire, causing her to pass from lover to lover in a perpetual cycle of lust to dissatisfaction. As I fall back to sleep I wonder if I have created a whore. More likely, I think with grim amusement, a monster which will turn on me and take my soul. I do not believe I possess the character of a natural whore-master. I am not strong enough to control her. And this is the knowledge which sometimes excites me and brings flagging senses back to peak again. These are the thoughts of my infrequent solitude. When she is awake I scarcely think at all but remain perpetually fascinated, perpetually on guard, like the tamer with his tigress. We breakfast late in the sitting room. She pours coffee for us both. The light is pale, slanting into our windows from misty skies. The air is cooler today. She sits in her maroon dressing gown, wonderfully composed, seeming thoroughly rested. She makes no reference to the previous night’s adventure. Indeed, she seems healthier, younger, more cheerful, than she has seemed for some while. I compliment her on her good humour and her freshness as I light a cigarette. ‘I have never felt more alive in all my days!’ she says. ‘My body is waking up. It never stops now. It wakes and wakes and wakes.’ Her smile is spontaneous and beautiful. She says: ‘Are you looking forward to this evening?’ I am surprised. ‘Yes.’ I expected her to have doubts. She sits back in her chair in a posture of contentment. She looks towards the window. ‘Isn’t it wonderful outside?’ I smoke my cigarette and stare carefully at her. Her courage, I believe, is the courage of ignorance. But whatever its nature it transmits itself to me. ‘You enjoyed Therese?’ I ask.

‘Well enough,’ she says. ‘I have had better. Younger and without any experience. I think I should like a different girl after this evening. There are things Therese told me. Girls with special skills, apparently.’ I nod: ‘Oh, yes.’ She takes my hand and kisses it. ‘Could any woman possess a finer teacher? I want to experience everything you have experienced. I want us to be together when we discover new things.’ I love the softness of her lips on my wrist, the way her slender body curves in the gown. ‘There could be experiences you will not enjoy,’ I tell her. ‘Of course,’ she says, ‘but then I will know what they are.’ I laugh. ‘You are too fond of the novels of Huysmanns and de Goncourt. The critics are right about them. They have a pernicious influence!’ I am, in my fashion, expressing my hesitation. This is the moment when I could call a halt to the adventure. But of course my curiosity overwhelms me. I acquiesce. She becomes suddenly active and begins to clothe herself. We take a drive in the afternoon, she in her cream frock trimmed with broderie anglaise and a hat with a thick veil, I in my tweeds. I shade my face with a wide-brimmed hat. After a little while I begin to notice that the tempo of Mirenburg is subtly different. There are many more soldiers in the streets today. Carriages hurry past us on their way to the station. An unusual number of people are leaving the city. I tell our driver to stop in Falfnersallee and send him to buy a paper from one of the kiosks. He says: ‘It is the war, your honour. The Civil War. Hadn’t you heard?’ Alexandra looks with some impatience at the newspaper as if at a passing rival. Count Holzhammer has half the country on his side, including a good proportion of the Army. He has issued a proclamation demanding the abdication of Prince Badehoff-Krasny and the dissolution of Parliament. He argues that the new Armaments Bill will ruin Waldenstein. He claims the Prince has deliberately set himself against the will of the majority of the people and that he is in the power of a handful of alien industrialists. Count Holzhammer is financed with Austrian money, of course, and his ranks are swelled by Bulgarian cavalry and artillery loaned by Austria but calling themselves Volunteers. The newspaper wonders if the Germans will now send aid to the Prince. So far there has been no response from Berlin. Count Holzhammer has his headquarters in an armoured train. His forces have won a battle at Brondstein. The loyalists have regrouped near Mirenburg. Count Holzhammer awaits a response to his demands. His train is some seventy miles down the line, at Slitzcern. The paper believes the Prince will refuse the Count’s demands. Mirenburg has never been taken by siege, says the editorial, in all its long history. During the Thirty Years War she successfully withstood five separate attacks. She remains impregnable. Count Holzhammer must know this and is therefore almost certainly bluffing. There is a likelihood that the Prince will order Parliament to scrap the Armaments Bill and make one or two concessions to the great landowners who are giving Holzhammer their backing. I shrug and hand the paper to Alexandra. The whole business has a comic opera aspect to it and I cannot take it seriously. It is a storm in a tea-cup, I tell her. A full-scale Civil War is in nobody’s interest; the matter is bound to be settled by negotiation. I express some admiration for Count Holzhammer’s audacity and remark on the cunning of the Austrians, who doubtless hope their support of Holzhammer will increase their influence over Waldenstein. But Alexandra is concerned about the effects of the business on her own plans. ‘It could mean my parents will return,’ she says. ‘Or will send for me.’ I give the problem swift consideration and arrive at a solution. ‘Then go home now. Tell your housekeeper you are leaving Mirenburg with friends who fear for your safety. Give her an address in Brussels—anything will do—then send an appropriate telegram to Rome. In that way we can benefit from this situation.’ She is impressed by my cunning and agrees to do as I say. The carriage leaves me at my usual corner opposite the Radota Bridge. The water is like silver in the early afternoon light. I sit at one of the outside tables and order anis and a sandwich while I wait for Alexandra to do as I have instructed. Troops come and go across the bridge. They seem in fine form. The officers wave batons and swords, pointing this way and that. They have a decisive, self-important manner which I find amusing. They are so wonderfully pompous, like eunuchs who have overnight been blessed with testicles. Alexandra seems to take no time at all, even though she returns with two or three new trunks. ‘I am going with her full approval,’ she says with a smile. ‘She thinks it is for the best!’ We drive to the hotel. The manager, an anxious beaver, approaches me, seeing the new luggage being taken up by the porters. He would be obliged if I could tell him if I intend to leave the hotel in the morning. I shake my head. ‘I have every intention of staying for some time.’ He is relieved. Apparently most of his residents will have departed by tomorrow. ‘They are running special trains to Danzig,’ he explains. He has the distracted look of a man who fears ruin. ‘Surely they are being overcautious,’ I say. ‘Even if the Count takes control it will scarcely effect your guests. They are all foreigners. This squabble will be resolved in a few days and everything will be back to normal.’ His estimation, he agrees, is much the same as mine. ‘But there is a panic. Half our business people are leaving for Berlin and Paris. The Stock Market is chaotic. Exchange rates are fluctuating. Such things bother them, you know. Many visitors are returning to their firms. And Count Holzhammer is very direct about his hatred of industrialists, particularly the Jews and the Germans. They have a right to be nervous, I think. I suggest they will all come creeping back within a week. ‘What can they do to Mirenburg? Who would threaten her beauty with cannon-shells? It is impossible.’ The manager laughs. He seems relieved by my reassurance. I order a pot of tea and some pastries to be sent to our rooms. We take the lift to the third floor.

We dress ourselves carefully. Alexandra wears her flowing red evening gown and has over it a full cape of dark brown velvet. The streets are almost deserted as we make our way in a cab to Rosenstrasse. Here and there are groups of silent soldiers, standing guard over nothing. Groups of urchins run about pretending to shoot at one another. There are unexpected echoes to make the twilight eery. The brothel, when we arrive, seems like a haven of normality. We are received by Trudi but do not see Frau Schmetterling. Therese awaits us behind the blue door and we again enjoy, with increasing assurance and relish, our pleasures of the previous night. As we rest, Therese is more talkative. She speaks enthusiastically of Frau Schmetterling and the establishment. She expresses her affections, her jealousies, her dislike of certain other girls. Alexandra has assumed the role of her confidante, greedy for every bit of information. We smoke a little opium. Therese repeats a great deal of what I have already told Alexandra, about the special rooms, the preferences of some clients (who according to the brothel’s protocol she cannot name) and the predilections of the girls, the attitudes they have to their work, their clients, themselves. Growing bored with this I take Alexandra almost by force, deliberately humiliating her in front of Therese, then I make Therese kneel and accept my cock, wet with Alexandra’s juices, in her mouth while Alexandra licks my anus. I come in a convulsion of release that has little actual pleasure in it, forcing Therese to swallow my semen. Alexandra stops her activities but I order her to continue, telling Therese to fetch one of her ivory dildoes from the drawer. Then I hand the dildo to Alexandra. Together they take turns buggering me while I sob in pain and helpless terror until I am so weak they can turn me any way they please, teasing me, making me shudder. Therese lies with her vagina rubbing against my face while her lips nip at my cock, bringing it to life again. Alexandra joins her, fondling my balls and then squeezing them hard to inflict greater agony. They are taking their revenge on me. Slowly they bring me to the point of orgasm and then, with deliberate cruelty, they begin to kiss one another, ignoring me completely. I put my hand to my cock. Alexandra sees my movement from the corner of her eye and forces my hand back while she pushes herself against Therese’s thigh. I do not possess the strength to take either of them and yet my frustration continues to build. Again I am turned over. Again the dildo is rammed into my anus and left there. Therese rests her head on my buttocks while Alexandra sits over her, leaning her hands on my back and scratching at my flesh, letting Therese lick her clitoris until she achieves an orgasm which makes her scream and rip at my skin. My body begins to vibrate and it is as if the shock of Alexandra’s orgasm has transmitted itself to Therese and myself. We are all shaking, almost as if we experience petit mal. I turn and tug weakly at Therese’s hair, drawing her up towards me. Still shaking I enter her and we tremble together, making virtually no movement, letting our bodies shake us to orgasm. This time Therese comes first, her vulva contracting and distending rapidly and I am yelling, feeling Alexandra’s hand slapping again and again at my bottom, at Therese’s thighs, as she laughs in high-pitched harmony with our noises. I become suddenly blank. I have passed out for a few seconds. When I awake Therese and Alexandra are lying one on each side of me, cuddled in my arms like two tranquil puppies.

‘Tell us a story,’ says Alexandra. She is by no means the first woman to make this demand of me. I can think of nothing but sexuality so I begin to tell them of the beggar girl I met in Naples three years ago. It remains one of my strangest experiences. I had been walking alone by the sea just before nightfall when one deep shade of blue merges with the other; over the water I had been able to detect the lights of Capri and Ischia and had come to this area of the front in the hope of meeting an attractive whore since my mistress of the moment had elected to spend an evening with her husband. The air was filled with the music of hurdy-gurdies and accordions coming from the little cafés where the working classes enjoyed themselves at supper. The few whores I encountered were not pretty—Neopolitan women of that sort are generally too plump and lewd for my taste—and I began to long for Clichy or Montmartre. Pimps approached me and were waved away with my stick. The air, I remember, was very humid. I was conscious of the sweat on my back, wondering if it would begin to show through the linen of my jacket. The music kept me cheerful enough and I was preparing to go home unsatisfied when a black-haired little thing with ringlets falling over her oval face appeared before me, deliberately blocking my path. She was slender, in ragged pinafore and petticoats and probably no more than fourteen. Her expression was singularly attractive, that mixture of innocence and defiance. Her boyish stance and figure were very much to my preference and although I could scarcely understand a single word of her voluble patois I humoured her, smiling. This seemed to make her lose her temper. She gesticulated, this little Carmen of the waterfront, rubbing her fingers together in that universal sign for money and pointing over her shoulder with her thumb. ‘Do you wish me to go home with you?’ I enquired in my polite Roman Italian. This question was unexpected and caused her to frown. Realising I was a foreigner she spoke more clearly. ‘I need money,’ she said. ‘You are rich. I want a few lire, that’s all. Are you French?’ I told her I was German and this seemed to disappoint her. ‘You do not have the look of a German.’ She began to turn away but I stopped her, putting my hand on her shoulder. The feel of her tensing muscles under my grasp increased my desire for her. She was lovely. ‘Why do you want money?’ I asked her. ‘It is for my father,’ she replied. ‘Is he ill?’ I said, willing to show sympathy. She became angrier. ‘Of course he is ill. He has been ill for years. He fought with Garibaldi. He was one of the conquerors of Naples and was wounded by the Austrians. He has lived on the charity of others ever since. He has educated me. He has supported me. And now he is too ill even to beg.’ I was not entirely convinced by her story, even if I did not doubt her sincerity. ‘So you beg for him now?’ She had rounded on me. ‘I ask for Christian help, that is all.’

I smiled at this. It was a phrase often heard in Naples. ‘I am willing to give it,’ I told her. ‘But what will you or your father give me? You see I am not a believer in charity. Giving it or receiving it reduces human dignity. Look at you now. You are angry because you are forced to ask a stranger for help. You resent me and would resent me if I gave or if I refused. This in itself, I will admit, makes you an unusual beggar-girl. However, if your father has something to sell, I’ll be pleased to consider a bargain.’

She frowned. ‘We have nothing.’ I shook my head. ‘On the contrary. You possess one of the most wonderful treasures in the world.’ She pouted, but I had engaged her attention. ‘You sound like a priest,’ she said. ‘I assure you,’ I told her, ‘that I am no priest. I have no interest at all in your soul. It is yours and should remain yours. The treasure to which I refer has yet to be discovered by you. It has to be brought out into the light and then it has to be polished before you will believe how beautiful and valuable it is.’ I caressed her dirty neck and she did not draw away. Her curiosity held her. I believe she guessed my meaning but wished her suspicion to be confirmed. If I confirmed it at once I would probably lose her. It was up to me to maintain her interest a little longer. ‘If you take me to your father I will explain what I mean,’ I said. Again she was surprised. ‘My father? He is a good man. Few are as saintly. He has taught me virtue, signer.’ I offered her my arm, bowing to her. ‘I am sure that he has. What father would not? You are a lovely young woman. It is easy to see you are of a different class to most. Was your mother a refined woman?’ The girl nodded. ‘She was. She owned land. She gave up everything to support Garibaldi and my father. She was a Sicilian. From a very old family.’

‘Just as I thought,’ I said. ‘Well, let me escort you to your home.’ She consented, of course, because she had little to fear. She took me into a warren of alleys where children, dogs, women and old people seemed in perpetual conflict, and down the steps of a cellar from which came the faint smell of urine. She pushed open the door. Everything was damp and the mould gave off such a pervasive stench that it almost took on the character of perfume; it excited me. She lit a little oil-lamp, nothing but a floating wick, which made flickering shadows and revealed the sleeping face of a man who in health must have been a giant. I was surprised by the face. It had far more character than I might have expected. I could see that my attempt to buy his daughter from him would not be as easy as I had thought. He opened clear blue eyes and looked at me as if he had seen an old friend. An expression of irony crossed his face. ‘Signor,’ he said. ‘I am glad to see you.’ He spoke with easy familiarity and it was plain this was not his normal tone with strangers, for his daughter looked from one to the other and said: ‘Are you acquainted?’ Her father lay amongst rags. It was impossible to tell what was his body and what its coverings. He shook his head. ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘But I hoped it would be this way. You are a gentleman, signer?’ There was considerable meaning to the question. ‘I hope that I am,’ I said. ‘And you are wealthy?’ I inclined my head. ‘I am modestly well-to-do. But, of course, I am carrying virtually nothing on my person.’ He nodded. ‘I can see that you are also no fool.’ He knew exactly my reason for being there. ‘Well, have you come to offer my Gina the chance to appear on the stage? Or is it to be service in a fine house? Or do you wish to take her away to educate her, signer?’ Gina was still too surprised by all this to speak. She went to the far side of the cellar and sat down on a mattress, her elbows on her knees, her face in her hands, watching us. I smiled at him. ‘None of those things,’ I said. ‘I think it would be insulting to you if I pretended to any but the real feelings which brought me here. I have indicated as much to your daughter. You know what I wish to buy. But I will promise you this. If you sell, I will leave you both with something of increased value, and your daughter will still be yours. I will not take her away.’ Gina heard this. ‘I would not go!’ she said. ‘She would not,’ said her father, ‘unless I insisted upon it. I have some power left, do you see?’ I acknowledged this. ‘You have considerable power, signer.’ I felt almost humbled by his dignity. ‘And I am willing to negotiate, as I believe, now, you are.’

He sighed. ‘I think so. I think so. You seem a man of the world. You have no disease?’ I shook my head. ‘None.’ He sucked in his lower lip then once more offered me that direct, blue stare. ‘The price will be high and there will be conditions.’ And so we began negotiations for the virginity of his daughter while she listened without resentment, having absolute trust in her father, who proved to be one of the most honest and realistic men it had ever been my pleasure to meet. A price was agreed and it was, as he said, high, but he understood the rarity and value of what he sold and was relieved that Gina was not to give herself away out of infatuation, which could have ruined her and consequently left him without support. His other condition was harder to agree to. She had to be enjoyed here, in the cellar, and he must be present to ensure, as he put it, that no harm came to her. ‘Moreover, signor,’ he admitted, ‘I am denied most pleasures so it would hearten me to be able to live through what you both experience.’ My desire for the girl was so positive that I found myself at last giving in to what he asked. It was agreed I should return the next morning with the money and I said I would arrange for fresh bedding. I did not intend to take possession of my purchase in such utter filth. He told me he could make the cellar into a fairy palace if I chose since everything else I brought would add to his comfort and become an asset. And the price was for a twenty-four hour period. If I wished to stay longer, I must renegotiate the bargain. I accepted this, also. We both asked Gina if she was prepared to enter into this contract and she said she owed everything to her father and she would do whatever he thought best. The old man cared for her very deeply, I could tell, and by this means he was able to maintain his protection and ensure that both of them benefitted from his daughter’s defloration without unduly disquieting consequences. I returned the next day with some new lamps, furnishings, in fact a whole van-load of comforts, which were efficiently installed by the two carters I had employed.

Her father’s body, seen in good light, was swollen and bloated, although his face and hands were not at all fleshy. He allowed rags to be removed and cushions, carpets and mattresses to be brought in. With the aid of the carters he was transferred from the old to the new without difficulty and sat amongst his luxuries like a Buddha. Both he and his daughter had washed themselves and were wearing clean rags. I had brought her several simple dresses which she thanked me for and hung on a hook in an alcove, making no attempt to wear them. The beggar directed the carters to replace the pile of straw with the mattress in the opposite corner while Gina spread one of the new sheets on it, together with the long bolster I had also brought with me. The smell of mould remained, but since this was pleasant to me I was not disturbed by it. My lust was building with every improvement to the appearance of the cellar and at one point the beggar reached out to pat my leg, murmuring: ‘Patience.’ A peculiar conspiracy had grown amongst the three of us. The carters sensed it and were disturbed. I was anxious they should leave and paid them off rapidly. They made a bewildered departure, the door was closed, and we were alone. ‘You may begin as soon as you like,’ said Gina’s father. She poured him some of the milk I had brought. He accepted it gracefully. ‘And my cheese, I think,’ he told her. ‘The cheese I could not eat last night.’ She fetched it for him and put it in his other hand. She had begun to blush. He recognised her confusion and took her little face in his finger and thumb. ‘This gentleman can be trusted,’ he said. ‘You could not wish for a better initiation, my love. It will be exquisite, I am sure.’ He waved her towards me. I now stood beside the mattress, coatless, ready to embrace her. She brought her slight, delicate body up to mine. I kissed her head, stroking her neck, slowly beginning to undress her. I was unusually gentle. There are some women, no matter how physically strong they are in actuality, who one is always convinced will break if handled too roughly. They are often the fiercest lovers, but it can be an effort to forget that sense of their fragility and give oneself up completely to one’s passion. And so I took her and she was as delicious as I had expected. She, under my caresses, completely forgot the presence of her father and at times I was hardly aware of it. She had her back to him, but frequently I could observe him. To my great satisfaction I was able to bring her to orgasm by means of my mouth and hands before I had completely entered her. It is not always possible to do this at such an early stage with a virgin. But she had natural generosity and lust and I have always found that the more generous the spirit of the woman, the more easily she can attain the fullest sexual delight. My chief memory of this encounter, however, is of her father. I can still see the tolerant wisdom in the eyes of that unnaturally bloated veteran republican as he sat amongst his cushions, a piece of mouldy cheese in one strong fist, a wooden bowl of milk in the other, almost gracefully regal in his relaxed and unselfconscious posture, drawing my attention away from the blank, ecstatic face of the girl, even as my body performed its ‘unctions and satisfied its lust. He watched without curiosity, without pleasure, almost without interest. He was benign. It was as if God Himself blessed our passion.

As I came he raised his head and sniffed, smiling. The scent of our fluids was an ovation. He took a sip of milk and sniffed again, nodding, approving, perhaps recalling a memory of love. I fell to her side, still regarding him. He saluted me with his piece of cheese and spoke a few sultry words in his own dialect. His daughter, as if noticing him for the first time, turned her head towards me and beamed. Our mutual joy was so intense we all three found ourselves laughing aloud, the sound completely drowning the noise of perpetual contention from those Neopolitan alleys. With Gina’s father’s consent I returned to their cellar every day for something over a week, paying for every visit. My enjoyment of the girl was not at all marred by the presence of the old man; we made love for his benefit as well as our own. When the time came for me to leave Naples I gave him an address through which he might contact me if Gina became pregnant. ‘She is our daughter and our mistress,’ he said to me as we shook hands. ‘She now knows what it is possible to have from a man. And she knows that she need not feel guilty in seeking that out. Thus I ensure myself of her company while quieting my own fears for her future. On the money you have paid us I will be able to support us for at least a year. Thank you, signer. We’ll remember you with gratitude and affection. And we shall pray for you.’ Gina kissed me gravely, like a wife saying farewell to a husband leaving for work. I have not seen or heard from either of them since. Therese says: ‘It is good for a young person to be instructed by an older one, whether it be a man or woman. But the parting can be a great tragedy. Your Gina cried for you, I think, when you had gone.’ I am not sure. ‘She had her father, don’t forget,’ I say. I leave them to sleep and dress myself to go downstairs as I did yesterday. Rudolph Stefanik, the Czech aviator, is in the salon. He has dark untidy hair and a look of distracted boredom. His evening clothes seem to restrain his massive body which threatens to burst through them. His beard bristles as he speaks. At least half the men and women in the salon have gathered around him to listen to his balloon adventures, but it is plain he is as impatient with them as he is with his own anecdotes. He looks from girl to girl. He has come to Frau Schmetterling’s for a purpose and does not really care to be diverted from it. I hear him say: ‘So they caught their daughter sucking at my cock in the gondola. I had no choice but to fling her out and cut the tethering lines. Another two seconds and they would have set fire to the canopy.’ And I hear an old Mirenburger bore interrupt with what he supposes is wit: ‘You have flown the world in the service of Venus. But what now? Will you fly in the service of Mars? Will you help the Prince against Count Holzhammer?’ Rudolph Stefanik looks over his questioner’s head. ‘One makes love in silk, and makes war in iron. My balloon is silk and hemp and wicker.’

‘What a beautiful combination.’ Clara, the Englishwoman, puts long nails on the dark cloth of his arm. She is tall and thin. Her figure and her face have those fine brittle bones one associates with red setters. I have decided that she has no character. Few whores have; or rather they assume so many characters it is impossible to tell if one is real and the others false. In this they are like all mediocre actresses. A great whore, like a great stage performer, has the brains and the sense of survival always to present one face to the world when off-duty. Clara looks to me for approval. I am prepared to smile. It costs me her attention, for she immediately detaches herself from Stefanik. Her perfume seems acrid. ‘Do you know the Count?’ she asks. ‘I have not had the pleasure.’ I am dragged towards him and introduced. It appears to me that we exchange nothing but sympathetic and knowing looks, and bows. ‘You arrived recently, I gather,’ say I. ‘Yesterday, I think,’ he says. ‘Poor timing,’ say I. ‘So it would seem,’ he says.

And you will leave in your balloon?

He shakes his head. The truth is that he cannot afford to fall, as a Czech nationalist, into Austrian hands. ‘Not with those trigger-happy Bulgarians all over the place. They’ll shoot at me. There isn’t a soldier in the world who doesn’t automatically shoot at any balloon. I have stored it and shall leave it stored until this stupidity is over. It cannot be more than a week.’

‘Less,’ say I. ‘Nobody has anything to gain.’

‘Oh, let us hope so.’ It is little demure Renee. ‘My father was at Metz. He told me how wretched the citizens had become when at last the army entered the city.’

‘Count Holzhammer is not a brute,’ says Clara.

‘He is a gentleman. He and the Prince must soon come to a civilised agreement,’ says the plump banker Schummel, all insouciant confidence and avuncular good humour. ‘My dear von Bek. How is your illustrious brother?’ We chat about Wolfgang for a few minutes, about Bismarck, but already I become impatient to return to Alex and Therese. The salon contains that blend of cigar-smoke and rosewater I find delicious, a blend of characteristically masculine and feminine scents. The perfection of the candelabrum, cold fire and crystal, the depth of the Persian carpet and the elegance of the company have revived in me that euphoria I was losing. Schummel stands with his back to the rose-marble fireplace. His balding white head is reflected in the mirror, together with the large central chandelier. Renee holds her folded fan at her side and listens while he speaks about his recent visit to Algiers where he stayed at the Grand Hotel St George, Mustapha-Superieur. The manager, a Swiss named Oesch-Muller, is such a splendid, helpful fellow. Do I know him? I agree with his opinion of the manager, though I can hardly remember him. I prefer Kirsch’s Hotel, near the English Club. Renee seems very attractive tonight. She wears pale blue and gold. Her auburn hair is allowed to fall on one side in three thick ringlets to her naked shoulder. She, too, has memories of Algiers, where her mother worked as a housekeeper for a German trader. Schummel is delighted. ‘Aha, admit it! You were a white slave in a harem. But you escaped!’

‘True,’ says Renee. ‘Life in a brothel is so much more comfortable!’

‘Well, at least you have the choice of how to spend your later years,’ says Schummel. I feel almost jealous as he offers her his arm and moves away. I decide I will have a word with Frau Schmetterling and perhaps book Renee for another night. ‘And you have so many friends,’ he adds, ‘you never need get bored as you would with one master.’

I glance at myself in the mirror. I am handsome. My moustache is perfect, my figure exquisite and my evening clothes are a wonderful fit. I have deep, dark eyes and glossy hair. My bearing is elegant without being in any way arrogant. It is no surprise to me Alex should find me so attractive. I look at my mouth. The lips are red and have a kind of refined sensuality. I am a catch for any woman. Does Alex have hopes of marrying me, I wonder. I cannot think how it would be possible, at present. It would be foolish of me to consider it. She is too young. And I do not believe she really loves me. As I return to the group around Count Stefanik I have a sudden frisson of fear. I refuse to admit I love her. Yet there is already pain, even at the thought of her desertion.

The talk is still of the war and Count Stefanik grows visibly restless. I have the notion that soon his buttons will begin to pop off his waistcoat. ‘Four of the new Krupp cannon could destroy Mirenburg in a day,’ says Stefanik, almost with vindictive relish towards those who are keeping him away from his pleasures. We look about for a military man who will confirm or deny this. There are none present. Frau Schmetterling discourages even generals from Rosenstrasse. She says they spoil the atmosphere, that their talk is coarse and too much about death. But Herr Langenscheidt, the Deputy, believes he can speak for the Army. After all, his son is a captain—a loyalist, thank God—and Herr Langenscheidt supplies the livestock and provisions to the garrison. ‘Holzhammer has no German artillery,’ he says. ‘He has inferior Austrian and French guns.’

‘Nonetheless,’ says Clara, attaching herself again to me and scratching delicately at my wrist with her thumbnail, ‘it should not stop you ascending, Count.’

Stefanik is dismissive.

‘A white flag would do it,’ says Langenscheidt, his little body all a-quiver. ‘Wave a white flag!’ Schummel argues that for Count Stefanik to rise above the walls of Mirenburg brandishing a white flag might mislead Holzhammer into believing the entire city had surrendered and that would not be sporting. Indeed, it could be exceptionally embarrasing to everyone.

The aviator sighs. ‘My balloon stays where it is.’ He signals to Lotte and Hyacinta, both beautiful natural blondes, and with the briefest of acknowledgements to the rest of the company, departs upstairs with them. I take a glass of red Graves from the buffet which tonight has been placed near the window. As always the windows are thickly curtained in red velvet glowing like a fresh rose. I smell patchouli, and woodsmoke from the fire, the cheeses and cold fowl on the table, and I am now completely relaxed, no longer so eager to return to my two girls. Clara comes to eat another peach. ‘It’s my third. Aren’t I greedy? They’re all the way from Africa, I believe.’ I wonder why she is pursuing me. I have no desire, tonight, to enjoy her special talents. She fixes me with a compulsive eye. Or perhaps it is Alex she desires, having heard about her from Therese. ‘I so enjoy Count Stefanik,’ she says, ‘don’t you? He is absolutely committed to the idea of powered flight. He calls it heavier than air? What does that mean?’

‘Such machines are notional, and probably not possible. It means to fly like a bird, which is heavier than air, not like a dirigible, which contains lighter than air gas.’

‘What?’ she exclaims with a laugh designed to please and flatter me. ‘Are we all to be angels?’

‘Some of us are already so blessed,’ I say with reluctant and unconvincing gallantry, looking up eagerly as the doors open and a woman enters. It is Princess Poliakoff, but now she no longer has her son with her. I cannot leave, for she has seen me and will be suspicious if I repeat my ploy of the previous evening. I smile at her and go to greet her.

I do not recognise her thin female companion. ‘Sent on,’ she says of the boy, to Vienna. I couldn’t risk an encounter

Holzhammer. He holds such awfully long grudges. Do you know Rickhardt von Bek, Diana? Lady Cromach.’ We are introduced. Lady Diana Cromach is a writer, a correspondent for several English and French journals. A Lesbian, she lives in Paris. ‘What brings you to Mirenburg, Lady Cromach?’ I enquire in English. ‘I am a professional vulture,’ she says. ‘The whiff of blood and gunpowder, you know. The war.’ Everyone seems to be babbling tonight. The salon is fuller than usual. Someone has placed a record on the cabinet phonograph in the corner. It plays a sentimental German song. All at once the place has the atmosphere of a provincial wedding-breakfast. Lady Cromach wears her dark curls close to her head, a circlet of pearls. She has an oval face, a rounded chin, grey-green eyes, a strong nose and a slightly down-turned but full mouth, very flexible for an Englishwoman. Her family estates are in Ireland. She is almost as tall as me and has an excellent, if slight, figure in an ivory gown trimmed with very light brown lace. Her voice is soft. Every statement seems full of implicit irony, no matter how banal it sounds on the surface. Has she learned to modify an otherwise mundane personality by cultivating this mannerism or is she really as clever as the Princess now insists? ‘Have you read her articles for the Graphic or La Vie Francaise? So perceptive! She is a seeress. You are a Cassandra, my dear.’ The Princess is plainly intoxicated with her friend. In her black costume she contrasts so emphatically that I smile and tell them I feel I am addressing a pair of chess queens. This pleases the Princess who laughs coarsely. ‘But we play a game without kings, dear Ricky.’ At this, Lady Cromach smiles and looks down at her fan. I find the Englishwoman, with her boyish shoulders and gestures, extremely attractive and give her more of my attention than I Wieve she desires. I am at my most charming, but she is not charmed, though she seems pleased to acknowledge the effort I am making and so is, I believe, flattered at least. Princess Poliakoff notices and almost growls at me. ‘Where is your little nigger tonight, Ricky?’

‘Resting,’ I reply. Lady Cromach displays more curiosity than before and it is my turn to smile a little. Doubtless she has heard an elaborate story from the Princess but only now believes it. Such apparently unconscious confirmations give substance to the most outrageous lies. I feel satisfied on a number of levels and my spirits lift considerably. I have excited Lady Cromach’s imagination; I have become interesting to her. I offer them both my cigarette case but Lady Cromach does not smoke and Princess Poliakoff prefers her little cheroots. She is quick to introduce her Diana to a safer acquaintance and once again I find I am with Clara, whom I now believe is either a little drunk or has made use of the box of cocaine for which she is well-known. She has never shown such interest in me before and I cannot understand why she is attracted to me tonight. She has an eye for vulnerability. Can I seem vulnerable to her, when I am so full of confidence? The phonograph is playing a Strauss waltz. ‘It is like a Friday or a Saturday,’ remarks Clara. ‘Not like a Wednesday at all.’ She is pleased, but I am beginning to feel slightly irritated and claustrophobic. All the same Clara’s pursuit has its effect. I have no intention, however, of returning to Alexandra with the marks of a birch on my behind; not yet. ‘You are looking so beautiful tonight, Ricky,’ says Clara. ‘You have only to ask Frau Schmetterling and I could join you a little later.’ I laugh. ‘You are after my—’ I hesitate. She makes a movement of triumphant withdrawal and our eyes meet even as she straightens her back. ‘We shall have to see,’ I say. ‘But I think it could be arranged.’ We all seem to be playing the same game tonight. And Clara grins, biting her lower lip, and winks. She is off into the press. I am alone. My first impulse is to leave quietly but before I know it I have crossed the carpet to where Princess Poliakoff and Lady Cromach, arm in arm, are amusing themselves at the expense of a red-faced dodderer who has mistaken them for whores. ‘I do hope we shall meet again, I tell them. I kiss their hands. Princess Poliakoff is a little cold, but I am under the impression that Lady Cromach has almost imperceptibly squeezed my fingers. To the strains of the waltz I make a lighthearted departure and spring up the stairs to our room. I find with disappointment that my little girls are asleep. Alexandra has her mouth open and is snoring. She looks, as she often does, like a replete rat, and I turn my attention first to her youthful flesh, then to Therese who, in sleep, seems slightly puzzled, just a trifle worried by something, and yet her lips are innocently curved in a smile. Alexandra opens alarmed, accusatory eyes, then composes her features in a way I have only seen on a much older woman. ‘I wish I could join you down there,’ she says. ‘You’ve enjoyed yourself, haven’t you?’ Her voice is low and loving. ‘I was missing you.’ I lean down to embrace her. Therese grunts and stirs but does not wake up. ‘I think we should go,’ I say. ‘Are you satisfied.’

‘With Therese?’ She frowns. ‘Oh, yes. We’ll come again tomorrow, shall we? For a different lady?’ I am indulgent. ‘You don’t think we should rest, be by ourselves, at least until Friday or Saturday?’ She is displeased. ‘But it is getting so exciting. Are you bored already?’ I shake my head. ‘Not bored. Merely patient.’

She puts her feet to the floor and looks at herself in the mirror. ‘What’s wrong?’ I reassure her and, of course, within moments am promising her that we shall return tomorrow, that I will speak to Frau Schmetterling before we leave. I would do anything to preserve this dream and will avoid, if I can, any hint of conflict between us. ‘You are a wonderful, wonderful friend.’ Naked, she raises herself to put her arms around my neck. ‘I adore you. I love you so much, Ricky.’ I kiss her violently on the mouth and then pull away from her, attempting gaiety. ‘Get dressed. We must slip into the night.’ Sadness and distress have invaded me so swiftly that I am angry, as if faced with a physical enemy. Much as I control myself she notices. When she is ready for the street she says quietly. ‘Have I upset you?’ I deny it, of course. ‘Not at all. I met an old buffoon downstairs who insisted on boring me about the war. He all but ruined my evening.’ She becomes tactful. ‘Perhaps you’re tired of our adventure? Perhaps we should rest tomorrow, after all.’ But I am by now fierce in my insistence that we continue. ‘You’re certain you want to?’ she says. ‘Of course,’ I reply. The anger fades. She appears to be mollified. I, in turn, become astonished at how easily she can be reassured. But she is a child. It is experience which encourages us to pursue our suspicions; that and the memory of past pain. She has not known pain. Only boredom. In a woman of my own age I should sense an echo, some form of sympathy. But with Alexandra there is no sympathy. And I continue to conspire in her ignorance because it is the child I love. If she were to become a woman I should lose interest in her in a matter of weeks at the most. We persist in a conspiracy in which I alone am guilty, for I know what I am denying her. I refuse my own reason. I refuse to consider any sense of consequence. She is what I want. I will not have her change. And yet I have no real power in the matter. I can only pray the moments will last as long as possible for it will be Alexandra, in the end, who will make the decision either to stop dreaming or, more likely, substitute one dream for another. I look carefully at Papadakis’s sallow, bearded face. At the deep hollows under his morbid eyes whose melancholy is emphasised by the spectacles he affects. Even the grey streaks in his beard have an unhealthy look, as if a saprophytic plant invades it. He turns away from my stare to pick at something with a quiet, fussy movement. I have made him self-conscious. I enjoy my moment. ‘You should take more exercise,’ I say. He grunts and shifts towards the shadows: a need to hide. His shoulders seem to become more stooped than usual. I am driving him into the darkness where he feels safest. ‘Have you been looking for the evidence again?’ I ask. ‘I have told you, the photographs are not in the house.’ He pushes back the heavy green curtain which covers the door of my bedroom. He disappears behind it. I pause to refill my pen. Alexandra is petulant. Her full lips turn downward and she pulls a hand through wet hair. Her skin seems to have lost its lustre this afternoon. Her shoulders and her breasts in particular have a lifeless look: a wax statue. ‘You are eating too much custard,’ I call after Papadakis. ‘Too much bread and jam!’ Alexandra pulls herself together, evidently displeased with her own mood.

I hand her a glass of champagne. She accepts it; she is placatory—‘Could we find some opium? My nerves. Or some cocaine?’ I shrug. ‘Are you afraid? Do you want to go home?’ I am still sluggish and am not properly awake. She shakes her head. ‘Of course not. But with all this news, not knowing who is doing what or where my parents are and so on—Well, it’s not surprising I’m a little agitated. Could you get some opium?’ She begins to dry her hair, staring hard at her face in the mirror of the dressing table. ‘I’m sure it’s possible,’ I tell her. ‘But is it wise?’

She pouts, glares at me in that gesture I have come to recognise as her substitute for direct anger. ‘Is any of this wise?’ And then turns as if to say What have you made of me? I am in no mood for accusations. ‘Are you suggesting—?’ But of course she has suggested nothing in words. ‘You are only what you were before we met. I am merely the instrument of your desire. I have told you that from the beginning. You can return to your parents’ home if you wish and we’ll say goodbye as friends.’ I know that she will not go. I have countered her attempt at manipulation. ‘I love you, Alexandra,’ I say. She begins to cry. ‘You have overtaxed yourself. Lie down for half-an-hour. Tonight I’ll see if there is any opium to be had. When you’ve rested we’ll go shopping. Some new clothes.’ She cheers immediately. She has almost no sense of the future. She lives only for immediate, meaningless victories. She chooses not to rest but to get dressed so we shall not find the shops closed. I put on my dark brown suit with the buff waistcoat and kid boots and gloves, the cream cravat, a pearl pin. I am pleased with the effect. Today I think I look younger than she, but her paintbox and her powder soon adjusts the balance. She wears pale green silk with darker green lace ruffles, a matching hat with pheasant feathers. Her boots and gloves are also of the dark green. I pick up my stick, she her reticule, and we are off on our expedition. Carriages are lined up outside the hotel, eager for business. I am uncomfortable with the situation, for we, almost the only guests left, are more conspicious than usual. I wonder about changing hotels, but once we are in the carriage and she has lowered her veil I dismiss my anxieties. On the way to the fashionable arcades of Falfnersallee we note the increased number of soldiers. Some of the shops have their shutters up. Here and there workers are moving sandbags against walls. I smile. ‘They are taking this all very seriously, eh?’ She smiles mindlessly at me for she is already thinking of the dress she will buy. The ladies of Falfnersallee are delighted to see us. We have all their attention as we move from shop to shop. She orders dresses, underclothes, a tea-gown, an umbrella, a Japanese kimono, all of which I must approve and pay for. Trade is slow at present, I am told. For my own satisfaction I take her to a jeweller’s and there buy a Lalique brooch for her, green and white wisteria which looks perfect on her dress. She kisses it, kisses me and she is my happy schoolgirl again. We return via the quays and stop the carriage to watch two swans bobbing on the choppy waters. The misty light of the evening softens their outlines and they seem to merge with the silver river and vanish. The poplars in the dusk of Falfnersallee are black as Indian ink on a grey wash and rooks are calling from them like bored boys on a Sunday; noisy but unenthusiastic. Otherwise the great avenue is eery, virtually deserted. ‘Has everyone abandoned the city?’ I say. ‘Have we the whole of Mirenburg to ourselves?’ We embrace. In our rooms, with the gas lit, we inspect her parcels, her new hats, her brooch, a gold chain, a silver bracelet, her shoes. She spreads them all over the bed. She has the air of a soldier, triumphant from a looting expedition. She bites her lip and grins. She might have stolen all this. Unexpectedly I realise I could be preparing her for someone else, someone for whom she will make every sacrifice she will not make for me. It is not that I frighten her, though she says I do, it is that I do not frighten her enough, for real, committed love must always have a little fear in it or it would hardly be so precious. It is I who am afraid. I hate myself for my mysterious cowardice. I cannot identify its source. I continue to smile like a fool. I am more intelligent, more powerful, more experienced, even more humane than she: yet I am helpless. I grin like a clown as she parades her booty. My cheque-book is almost exhausted. I must go to my bank and get a new one tomorrow. I can always telegraph for more funds if necessary. I have not yet overstepped the mark with my family, I am certain, although of course they would not support me if they received any word of this escapade. I begin to doubt the wisdom of asking for Clara, as I did last night. There is still time to telephone to Frau Schmetterling. Alone, I would enjoy Clara’s attentions, would happily give myself up to her, but now I am afraid Alexandra will think less of me. Even as I smile at her I become determined to make a show of strength tonight.

Just before we enter Rosenstrasse I pause in the darkness, certain I can hear distant gunfire. ‘They must be fighting quite close,’ I say. She shakes her head, impatient with me, eager to reach the house. ‘It’s just the river. Loading a boat or something.’ It is definitely gunfire. We mount the steps. There is a pretty French song coming from the salon. As usual, we go straight to the room to which Trudi directs us. It is a little larger than the other two, with rather less furniture in it: some potted palms and two vases of gladioli which I know Clara favours. ‘Beautiful colours,’ says Alexandra. Her maroon linen rustles. ‘Not one stem is the same.’ Although she has accepted my rules for the evening her hand shakes as she reaches for a flower. I take off my jacket and throw myself into the big armchair. I feel exhausted, but I am controlling myself well. She is far too self-involved at present to notice any subtleties of mood in me. ‘I prefer this room,’ she says. ‘The other one was vulgar.’ I light a cigarette. ‘I enjoy vulgarity. And surely these are the premises for discarding good taste occasionally.’ Someone taps on the door. ‘Our mistress has arrived. Open it for her.’ With a deliberate gesture of submission she obeys. Clara stands there, all in grey, with a silver choker about her throat. To this is pinned a small, blood-red rose. ‘Thank you Alexandra. You are as lovely as I was told.’ She kisses my child on the forehead and closes the door herself. ‘Well, another crowded evening downstairs. So hot!’ She opens her fan and waves it once or twice under her face.

There is a suggestion of mockery in the composed smile she offers me. ‘Sit down, Alexandra.’ She indicates a straight-backed chair. Alexandra hesitates. Clara frowns. Alexandra sits. She is beginning to join in the spirit of this game. ‘First we shall have some cocaine,’ says Clara. ‘Do you know how to take cocaine, Alexandra?’ The child shakes her head. ‘I will show you how to prepare it for sniffing. For my part, I prefer the syringe.’ She touches her own cheek, laughing at herself. ‘Like Sherlock Holmes.’ From a drawer she takes a square box covered in black velvet. ‘Do you know the stories, Alexandra?’ She expects no reply and receives none. Alexandra is fascinated. Clara opens the box and takes a bottle of clear liquid from it. Beside this, on the marble of the chest’s top, she lays a silver syringe. ‘That is for me. But for you two, the crystals.’ Out comes a tiny cut-throat razor with a mother-of-pearl handle, a small green-glass jar with a black screw-top, a hand-mirror in a silver frame. Clara works like a surgeon with these instruments. Every placement is precise. Without turning she says: ‘I think you can remove your clothes now, Alexandra.’ I avoid looking at either of them until Alexandra has actually begun to undress. Clara’s rituals are often different and this one, of course, is completely unfamiliar. ‘You may keep the necklace and bracelets,’ says Clara. ‘Fold your clothes neatly. I hate untidiness. Then come over here.’ With deep concentration she shows Alexandra how much cocaine to take from the jar on the little spoon, how to chop it this way and that with the razor until it is as fine as it can be, measuring it into four lines of near-identical length and width on the glass of the mirror. ‘You will prepare the next one,’ she says. She fills her syringe and takes a little piece of cotton-wool which she has saturated in disinfectant, laying the syringe’s needle on it. ‘Now both of you may undress me,’ she says. ‘You may behave as you like during this part of the evening.’ Therese had worn only a chemise and drawers, but Clara is all buckles and pins and combs. We set upon her, Alexandra and I, like hungry peasants at a chicken, picking and pulling, until our mouths can fasten on breasts, stomach, thighs. And all the while Clara is a statue, hardly moving, maintaining dignity and equilibrium at every tug and pressure, as if she challenges us to move her. Then Alex is kneeling and licking at her sex. ‘That is enough,’ says Clara. ‘Get undressed Ricky.’ I do as she commands. Now we are all naked save that Clara keeps her necklet with the rose and Alexandra retains her jewellery. Clara dabs at her upper arm with more cotton-wool, then very slowly applies the syringe. When she has finished she takes two thin silver tubes from her box. ‘One measure in each nostril,’ she tells us. ‘You first, Ricky.’ I lean over the mirror and sniff up first one line, then, changing hands, the second. Alexandra imitates me and is surprised, I can tell, that she feels no immediate sensation. Clara gives a little gasp and looks towards her bottle with the affection one normally reserves for a loved one or an especially fine wine. My head is suddenly all delicious tingling sensitivity, a feeling which spreads through every nerve of my body and seems to excite blood and flesh to new, exquisite life. ‘Oh!’ Alexandra is receiving the same effect. I envy her this first experience, as I am sure does Clara. ‘Oh! Oh, Clara!’ She looks with gratitude towards the whore who continues to smile that same knowing smile. Then Clara orders me to my chair, Alexandra to the bed. With cold concentration she begins to explore the girl’s body, scratching here, stabbing with a nail there, discovering her most sensitive parts. She takes a hatpin from the table and deliberately slides it down Alexandra’s left-side, drawing spots of blood, so Alexandra moans and gives vent to a strange, thin wail. She tries to move, to embrace Clara, but Clara will not allow it. She repeats the operation on the girl’s right side, from shoulder to waist, over the buttock, down the thigh, the calf, to the foot. She leans to lick the blood, rolling it on her tongue like a connoisseur. I now lie beside Alexandra on the bed and receive two fiery lines to match hers. Then Clara begins to scratch, to slap, to whip with a thin cane until we are both writhing for her, moaning for her and I am certain I shall die if all this delicious agony is prolonged another second. Alexandra’s voice is hoarse with those thin sounds she has almost continuously made. Clara is grunting. She turns us on our backs and repeats the process until almost every inch of our flesh is tender with bruises and tiny cuts. Then Alexandra lies with her face pressed to my genitals while Clara produces a china dildo shaped like a penis and, using a minimum of cream, thrusts it into Alexandra’s small behind. There is now naked pleasure on Clara’s face. With cruel delight she rams the dildo in and out while I hold Alex’s head against my groin, glorying in the hot gasping breath on my cock. Alex’s nails dig deep into my thighs. The movements of the struggling skull excite me and I begin to roll in unison with Clara’s relentless thrusts. I find Alex’s lips and try to enter them, but Clara pushes the girl aside and, leaving the dildo where it is, squats astride me to move herself to a banshee’s orgasm. She yells. Alex is astonished, but I know Clara of old and begin to shout with her, reproducing all but the act of spending before, with hardly any hesitation, I turn Alexandra onto her front, remove the dildo and replace it with my cock, buggering and buggering while Clara slaps at my arse like a jockey on the winning stretch. My orgasm is monumental, horrifying, draining. Clara takes my place and the dildo is used again, this time in Alex’s cunt, brutally, until with arms spread wide, with legs spread wide, she begins to shake like an epileptic, her hoarse screams rising to a shuddering crescendo until it seems to me she is going to vomit. Then it is over. A full five minutes later Alexandra begins to weep. Her sobs are deep-throated and, like her orgasm, move her entire body. Clara leans back on her pillows and smokes a cigarette with an expression of complete satisfaction. I am still unable to move. My vision is blurred, perhaps through the effects of cocaine. I can smell nothing but sex. My skin is still flaming; my groin aches. There is no question of visiting the salon tonight. Lulled by Alexandra’s sobs, I fall asleep. When I awake my body feels white hot and my mind is overwhelmed by such appalling desolation I can think only of death. When I eventually turn my head it is to see Alexandra’s bruised and bleeding body bending over the chest as she prepares more cocaine. I am ready to weep with hatred and jealously at her ability to recover so rapidly. I retreat into sleep. I am soon awaked by the soft touch of Alexandra’s hand; it is a tender gesture, a gesture of love. My mood changes to one of easy happiness almost at once. ‘There is more cocaine for us,’ she murmurs. ‘Come, my darling. See if you can sit up.’ Clara wears a white lace negligee. ‘You men have no stamina,’ she says affectionately. ‘The drug will revive you, Ricky. What a beautiful couple you are.’ She has the air of a woman proud of her prizewinning dogs. ‘I have some ointment for you to put on.’ I lift my head to sniff up the cocaine and almost immediately feel improvement. Alexandra begins to rub the ointment into my skin from top to bottom. When she has finished I tend to her. A certain perspective returns. Clara is in no hurry to leave and just now I have no great desire to be alone with Alexandra. We smoke cigarettes and discuss the charms of other lovers we have known. Clara is rather more willing to gossip than Therese. We drink some good claret and eat tiny pieces of cheese. Clara wants to know about Lady Cromach, but I can only repeat what I have heard. ‘She seems to like you,’ she says. ‘Who is this?’ asks Alexandra, not really jealous. ‘They have a room here,’ says Clara. ‘She and the Princess. But they do not seem interested, as yet, in any of the girls.’

‘Oh, I would love so much to go down there,’ says Alexandra. ‘Wouldn’t it be possible, Ricky?’

‘Too dangerous. And I doubt if Princess Poliakoff would be deceived, even if we smeared some burnt cork on your face and lent you a pair of my trousers.’ I move in the bed. The touch of the soft linen on my body, the effect of the cocaine, are superb. We are all three so happy that my former fears, my caution, my common-sense seem banal to me. ‘But what can anyone say?’ she asks. ‘Oh, there are ways of saying things. But I’ll put my mind to the problem. Let’s get dressed while we can.’ Slowly I lower my feet to the carpet and stand on trembling legs. Clara brings my clothes to me. We laugh as the material makes us wince. ‘We’ve overdone it. Tomorrow we must definitely rest. I thought I was going to die tonight.’

‘Me, too,’ says my Alex. ‘But what a beautiful death. You have taught me so much, Clara. Thank you.’ She is far more enthusiastic about Clara than she was about Therese. I cannot fathom her tastes or her motives. There is a knock. Frau Schmetterling is apologetic. ‘I’m glad I haven’t interrupted you. I thought you’d be leaving. I wanted to speak to you, Ricky.’ Alexandra is alarmed, like a schoolgirl caught smoking. ‘Good evening, my dear.’ I have never known Frau Schmetterling to visit one of the rooms before. She is stately as ever, in black and white, but seems agitated. ‘Would you excuse me while I have a word with your gentleman? Ricky?’ We move out into the passage. ‘This is not the best time,’ she says, ‘but I have decided to go to bed early. It has been too busy for a weekday. We were not really prepared. Poor Mister can hardly stand up. Ulric has threatened to leave. It is the War. The threat of death is a great encourager of lust. I thought I’d invite you to stay here, in one of the private suites, if you would feel better. I am keeping it aside for you. Until the business with Holzhammer is over. I have heard rumours. Well, as you’d expect. No truce has been reached and Holzhammer… He means to win, I gather, at any price. The city could suffer. You know how fond I am of you. Your hotel is so near the centre. Here, we are more secluded. Well?’ Her dark, maternal eyes are earnest.

I am moved by her concern. ‘You have always been so kind,’ I say, touching her arm. ‘I’m comfortable enough at the Liverpool, at least for the moment. There is also the young lady to consider.’

‘If you could promise me there would be no scandal I’d willingly extend the invitation. The Prince intends to defend—Oh, Ricky—Simply reassure me.’ She seems doubtful, reluctant to have Alexandra as a guest. Her little fat face is full of worry.

‘There would be no scandal, I promise.’ But I am lying, of course. If Alexandra’s parents were to find out where their daughter was it would be the end of Frau Schmetterling’s business in Mirenburg. For that reason I am firm in declining her offer. ‘What danger can there be to civilians, even if Holzhammer marches in tomorrow? Mirenburg is not Paris. There is no Commune here!’

‘The Prince means to resist,’ she says again.

‘Then Germany will come to help him and Holzhammer will be trounced once and for all.’

‘The guns,’ she murmurs. ‘They say; Holzhammer will not bombard Mirenburg. He would arouse the hatred of the civilised world.’

Frau Schmetterling is unconvinced.

‘I’m a little exhausted,’ I tell her gently. ‘I desire very much, madame, to get to bed.’

‘Of course.’ She squeezes my hand. ‘But you must remember, Ricky, that I am your friend.’ She waddles away down the passage, then pauses. ‘I care for your well-being, my dear.’ She waves her plump arms as if to dismiss her own sentiments. She lets out a matronly chuckle. ‘Good night, Ricky.’

Our carriage is loud in the expectant streets; Alexandra wants to know the substance of my conversation with the madam. I tell her. ‘But it would be so convenient,’ she says. ‘Why didn’t you accept?’ My instincts are against it. I can hardly explain my feelings to myself and I am already tiring. My nerves are bad, my body no longer sings. I desperately want the comfort of the Liverpool’s sheets. Alexandra is still euphoric. She kisses and hugs me. I am her master, she says, her beautiful man, the most wonderful lover in the world. Horses race by with soldiers on their backs. I see lamps moving, hear the occasional voice and I wonder how much of the tension I sense is external, how much comes from within. I am thinking of Princess Poliakoff. Several years before, in Venice, I attended one of her parties at which, she told me, I was to be the guest of honour. She had brought in some peasants from her country estate: young men and women whom, I believe, worked for her. ‘Here,’ she had said, ‘are your pupils. They know all about you and are willing to be educated by you.’ Those strange, fresh faces, so wholesome and natural in tone and colour, yet so fundamentally degenerate, looked towards me eagerly as if I were Satan Himself, a Magister of Corruption to whom they could offer their souls as my apprentices. The responsibility was completely beyond me. I told Princess Poliakoff such games bored me. I fled the house. I am aware of my own limitations and, to some degree at least, my own motives. I live as I do because I have no need to work and no great talent for art; therefore my explorations are usually in the realm of human experience, specifically sexual experience, though I understand the dangers of self-involvement in this as in any other activity. Those peasants had been creatures for whom sexuality had become an escape rather than an adventure. They had made no choice at all; they were dependent upon the Princess for their bread. They had no faith in themselves, no belief in their rights as individuals to strengthen and maintain their own wills and to accept any consequences of their own actions. And in this they are dangerous. In this, I would go so far to say, they were evil. And I believe Princess Poliakoff evil, I think. Yet, surely, I am now doing something which I refused to do then, in Venice. Have I no morality left to me, after all? Alexandra clings to me, kisses me with soft, little girl kisses. It is all I can do at this moment not to shudder.

We tug off our clothes as soon as we are in our bedroom. She laughs and kisses my wounds. She looks at herself in the mirror at her bruises and welts, as if she surveys a new gown. ‘Oh, Clara is marvellous. Such presence! Don’t you think so, Ricky?’

I am already in bed. ‘Would you wish to be like Clara?’ I ask.

‘A whore? Of course not. But to have such power!’

I shake my head. ‘She has no power in reality. She pretends it, to serve her clients. She is paid to act that part. The fact that she enjoys it is probably why she is paid so well. But she—’

Alexandra crawls in beside me. ‘Ssh, Ricky. You are too serious. Can you see me as a Clara?’

I take her tenderly to me. She is almost immediately asleep, her face in the pillows. It is as if she lies just below the surface of freedom; head down in an unsecured coffin from which, if she merely turns her body once, she can immediately escape. I dim the lamp but do not extinguish it. The sky outside becomes grey. I intend to sleep at least until the evening. I dream of a dark femme fatale whom I cannot identify, mother and priestess, wicked and tender; she laughs at me and pulls thorny roses from her body; her laughter is gutteral and there is a thin, overbred dog at her side which whines, cringes and bares its teeth at me, barking whenever I try to approach her. Panting, I awaken. Dawn is yellow ivory barred with dusty gold. My body aches, my muscles are tense. I have no energy; my skull seems clamped. There are noises from outside. Momentarily I mistake them for the sounds of surf and wind. I hear a distinctive whistling, a boom. I hear voices from the open window. Taking up my dressing gown I walk on stiff legs to the balcony and stand there, supporting myself on the iron railing. The light is painful. There is smoke rising everywhere, as if from large fires. I look across the square where figures are running this way and that. Another terrible whistling, and before my eyes I see a Gothic spire crack and fall. My predictions were meaningless, comforting, without foundation; little tunes hummed to keep dark realities at bay, for Holzhammer is bombarding Mirenburg! I turn into the room. Alexandra continues to sleep. She has pushed away the covers. There is a smile on her face. I check the impulse to wake her and stumble back to bed to light a cigarette and lie looking up at the bed curtains, listening to the sounds of destruction. Then I am drawn again to the balcony. For most of the morning I remain there, still incredulous, as the enemy shells smash a Romanesque column or erode the delicate masonry of a modern apartment building. It is probable that I am not yet free of the cocaine because I begin to think the bombardment is bringing a new kind of beauty to the city, for the moment at least, perhaps also a dignity it has not previously possessed. Just as a woman in middle or late years will achieve grace and poise through vicissitude and pain making her more attractive than ever she could have been in the prime of her youth and looks, so Mirenburg seems now. I do not grieve for her. It seems relief must soon come in the form of a truce. It is not possible that, in all humanity, the besiegers could place upon their consciences the responsibility for the annihilation of so much nobility and optimism, those centuries of civilisation. And sure enough, at exactly mid-day, the guns become silent. Prince Badehoff-Krasny will not let his city be destroyed. The autumn light is washed with grey; clouds rise from the ruins like baffled souls. I return to bed and sleep, my own wounds forgotten. Old Papadakis brings more boiled fish. I am surprised because I can smell alcohol on his breath. ‘You were so proud of all your abstinences,’ I say. ‘You sought them out as if they were positive virtues; as if they gave you merit. You were so full of yourself. But you know what it is, too, don’t you, to be ruined by a woman?’ He sighs and puts the tray over my knees, below my writing case. ‘Eat if you want to. Haven’t you finished your story yet?’ We are both exiles. We have no other bond. ‘Are you afraid of it?’ I ask. ‘Look how much I’ve written!’ His dark eyes stare into a corner of the room. I remember when, relaxed, he used to seem like an eager boy. ‘Self-denial is not the same as self-discipline,’ I tell him. ‘You remain an infant. But you have lost your charm. She found out what you were, didn’t she? Widow-hunter!’ I believe I am making him angry. For the first time he looks me full in the eyes, as an equal. ‘All those dead painters! Vulture! Bring me a bottle of decent claret. Or have you drunk it all yourself? Why do you feel you should be rewarded? You have spent your life responding to others and you thought it would always pay. And now you have only me and you cannot bear to respond, can you? I am your nemesis.’

‘You are mad,’ he says, and leaves. I continue to laugh. I disdain his pieces offish. I continue to write. I am writing now. The ink is the colour of the Mediterranean, flowing from my silver Waterman. What have the Italians become? What does their Duce mean to me? And Germany is destroyed. What dreadful perversity led to this? Was it all prefigured? How could we have known better? Can God be so small-minded that he disapproves of a Lesbian salon? But it is not that which He set out to destroy. Oh, the pain of movement. Alexandra is whispering in my ear. ‘Ricky, I’m hungry.’ One dream washes into another. I smile at her. ‘I love you. I am your brother, your father, your husband.’ She kisses my cheek. ‘Yes. I’m hungry, Ricky. Do you feel rested? I feel wonderful.’

I begin to sit up. ‘Have you looked outside?’ It is nearly dark. ‘No,’ she says. ‘Why should I?’ I tell her to go to the balcony and tell me what she sees. She thinks it is a game. Frowning and smiling she obeys. ‘What’s happened? Oh, God! They have pulled down—’

‘They have shot down,’ I say. ‘Holzhammer’s seige is beginning in earnest.’ First she is frightened, and then she begins to show delight. ‘But Ricky, it means I’m completely free. People must have been killed, eh?’

I draw in a deep breath. I have never known any creature so unselfconsciously greedy. ‘What a wonderful animal you are. Don’t you want to try to get to Vienna? Or Paris?’

‘And leave Rosenstrasse? Is there anywhere else like it?’

‘Nothing quite like it.’

‘Then we’ll see what happens.’

That night we visit the brothel and before the new girl (an unremarkable creature called Claudia who submits to Alexandra’s rather clumsy imitations of Clara) arrives, Frau Schmetterling pays us a call. ‘Remember my offer,’ she says. ‘They are not interested in this corner of town.’

On our way home we are stopped by soldiers. I tell them who I am. Alexandra invents a name. The soldiers refuse to laugh at my jokes and insist on escorting us back to the hotel. The next morning I receive a visit from a policeman with orders for me to accompany him to his headquarters. He is perfectly polite. It is an examination to which all foreign nationals must submit. I tell Alexandra to wait for me in our rooms and if I do not return by evening to inform Frau Schmetterling. At Nurnbergplatz, however, I find an apologetic police captain who claims to have met my father and to be an admirer of the new Kaiser. ‘We have to be cautious of spies and saboteurs. But, of course, you are German.’ I ask if it will be possible to have a safe-conduct from the city. He promises to do his best, but is not very helpful. ‘My superiors,’ he says. ‘They cannot risk anyone reporting to the enemy. Have you been told about the curfew?’ No private citizens are allowed to be on the streets after nightfall without special permission. This threatens my routine. I hardly know what is happening. While we are talking, more shells begin to land within the city walls and now I am aware that the defenders are firing back. The policeman is despondent. ‘We are being attacked with our own guns. Holzhammer seized the train from Berlin. Those are Krupp cannon. Even more powerful than the ones you used against Paris. But I should not tell you this, sir. It is hard to become secretive, eh? We are not very experienced at such things in Mirenburg.’ I return, despondent, to The Liverpool. Alexandra is half-dressed, busy with her pots and brushes. ‘Oh, thank goodness,’ she says, without a great deal of interest. ‘I thought they had arrested you.’ She returns to her mirror. I find her amusing today, perhaps because I am relieved to be free. ‘The guns stopped at twelve,’ she says. ‘I thought so. Some ultimatum of Holzhammer’s. I believe, though the newspapers are vague. They are being censored.’ I put them down on the bed and remove my jacket. ‘Are you sure you want to go to Rosenstrasse tonight? There’s a curfew. We must leave before dusk and return after dawn. We could eat at the hotel and have an early night.’

‘But it’s Friday,’ she says. ‘Clara promised to bring that friend. You needn’t do anything. Just watch. I know you’re tired. Don’t you want some more cocaine?’

I am incapable of complaint. ‘Then we must be ready to leave by six. Did you have lunch?’

‘I wasn’t hungry. You could order something now.’

I go into the sitting room and ring the bell. I tell the waiter to bring some cold ham and a selection of cheeses and pates, some bread, a bottle of hock. I retrieve the papers from the bed and return to the sitting room. The idea that I am trapped in this city makes me uneasy. I hope that my bank will not be affected, have forgotten to get a new book of cheques. The papers say there is every expectation that the food-rationing system will preserve supplies of basic commodities for the duration of the War. A well-informed source has assured a correspondent that Germany is bound to send troops soon. There is no reference to Holzhammer’s capture of the Krupp cannon. A sortie by Bulgarians has been successfully driven back at the Cesny Gate, to the south. Various regiments are deployed about the first line of defences beyond the walls. All the loyalist soldiers are in good spirits. Morale amongst Holzhammer’s ‘rag-tag’ of mercenaries, misguided peasants and treacherous rebels, is said to be already very low and the world has received the news of the cannonade with horror. Comparisons are made to the Siege of Paris, to Metz and elsewhere, but in all cases those cities were, we are told, far less well-prepared. ‘Her name is Lotte,’ says Alexandra, her cosmetics in place. She smiles at me and comes to nibble on a piece of cheese. ‘The one Clara says had to leave Paris in a hurry. Why was that?’

I decide to take a bath. As I undress I tell Alexandra what I know of Lotte. She used to specialise in a bizarre tableau known as The Temptation, Crucifixion and Resurrection of the Female Christ, in which she would resist any temptations invented by her customers, be tried, punished and then tied to a large wooden cross, whereupon she would be revived by the attentions of the clients. This tableau had been famous in Berlin and Lotte had been the most sought after ‘specialist’ in Germany. She had transferred herself to Paris and continued with her presentation there until pressure from the Church, which owned her house, caused her to seek the protection of Frau Schmetterling who accepted her on condition that the tableau no longer be performed. Frau Schmetterling, although Jewish in origin, is a pious woman. The last time I had talked to Lotte she told me she planned to return to Berlin eventually and start up in business again; but she would not skimp. You had to spend money to earn money. She prided herself on the elaborate details of her show. She was saving every pfennig in order to make a rapid return from ‘the wilderness’. She was an actress, she had told me, at heart. Alexandra listens. ‘She sounds an interesting woman. You know Clara has invited us to her own room tonight. She seems to like you very much. And me.’

It is perfectly true that Clara is attracted to both of us and this puzzles me; to some extent it alarms me, also. Refreshed, I dress in my evening clothes. Alexandra is wearing a pink dress trimmed with red. She looks unusually beautiful. Our cab takes us through streets full of gun-carriages and supply-wagons; workmen labour amongst the half-destroyed shells of houses and shops, shifting beams and rubble. Alexandra hardly notices as she chatters to me, until we have turned into Sangerstrasse and she gasps. ‘Oh, my God! The Mirov Palace!’ The seventeenth-century building has received a direct hit which has caved in part of the roof and left a huge gap in its upper floors, and yet the trees surrounding it remain as tranquil as ever, the ornamental gardens as orderly. I expect her to be frightened, but she is not. I suspect she has still failed to understand the reality of what is happening. She is half-grinning as she stares around, wide-eyed, at the destruction. ‘Oh, my God!’ And I realise that for her it is merely another dream come to life. Perhaps that explains her peculiar attitudes: she perceives all this experience as merely a more intense form of dreaming. Something in her still expects to wake up and find everything ordinary again. That is why she is so heedless of consequence. Yet surely I am dreaming, too. A scarlet motor-car goes past. In it, looking rather self-conscious, are four high-ranking officers in tall helmets and a great deal of gold braid. Alexandra giggles. ‘Each one could be Franz-Josef himself. Are they in the right army, do you think?’

I insist that she wear her heavy veil as we pay off the carriage and enter the peace of Rosenstrasse. Starlings are swarming overhead in the hazy October sky and the beeches are beginning to shed their leaves. ‘The air smells so good,’ she says, hugging my arm. ‘I am very happy, Ricky.’ She compliments me for her state of mind. At the door, Tru takes my hat, stick and gloves, my top-coat, but Alex remains dressed until we reach Clara’s quarters, two large rooms near the top of the house, overlooking the lawn and fruit-trees of the garden. I have never visited Clara’s private rooms before. The hangings, cushions and upholstery are predominantly dark blue, black and gold, and the perfume seems to come chiefly from the large, yellow lilies which fill vases on either side of a mahogany desk. There are books in this room, and a small piano, showing that Clara has, after all, some taste for culture, for the pieces on the music-stand are by Mozart and Schubert and the books are either German translations of Fielding, Scott and Thackeray, or works by Goethe and Schiller. Clara claims to be English, but she has nothing in English on her shelves. There is a modern novel or two by von Roberts, some French novels of the cheaper sort, as well as Zola’s Nana (which all the whores of my acquaintance read with jeering fascination, more interested in his originals and how they correspond with the fictitious characters than the story or the moral), a number of histories and biographies, some books of travel. Clara comes in from the bedroom. She is wearing a black and white riding costume. ‘I am so pleased you could come,’ she says. She kisses first Alexandra and then me. ‘Lotte will be with us in a little while.’ I remark on her good taste. ‘I’m easily bored,’ she says. ‘Only substantial music and books seem to please me these days.’ I indicate the bookcase. ‘Yet you have nothing in English… She smiles. ‘I prefer German and French. After all, it is years since I was in London.’ She resists my interest in her story, cocking her head and smiling into my face. She is so pale. I would think her consumptive if I did not know otherwise. As she chats about her favourite novels and composers she begins to undress a passive Alexandra. She leads my girl into the bedroom and I follow, leafing through a volume of Le Sage and remarking on the quality of the engravings. Alexandra is spread on the dark yellow bed, face down. Clara tells me that the book had been a gift from a novelist who had travelled all the way from Brussels to be with her. She applies cream to Alexandra’s anus and crosses casually to a chest of drawers to take out her china dildo. ‘Do you care for Le Sage?’

‘I had the usual enthusiasm for him once,’ I say. ‘Like Moliere, he can seem like a revelation when one is young.’ She smiles in accord, parting Alexandra’s cheeks and pushing the dildo in hard. Alexandra groans. ‘Cocaine,’ she says. ‘Not yet,’ says Clara. ‘You can have some later. This is my little pleasure, before Lotte arrives. And I think Ricky needs arousing tonight. You look tired, Ricky.’ I let her know I had not planned to join in much. ‘To tell you the truth the only use I have for a bed is to sleep in one. But I might feel better later.’ Clara removes the dildo, wipes it and replaces it neatly in its drawer. This exercise, then, has been for me. Alexandra does not move but I can tell from the set of her shoulders that she is petulant, though not as yet prepared to demand anything of Clara. ‘Stay there, ma cherie,’ says Clara. We both go back into the other room. Clara hands me a book. It is by Flaubert, his Salammbo. I admit that it has always defeated me. Clara is pleased. ‘I am glad to hear it. My friend from Brussels recommended it. I have started it so many times and have perhaps managed a hundred pages at best. I am not much interested in the exotic aspects of history. So many of these modern painters leave me cold. Moreau, for instance.’ I cannot agree with her. ‘My moods change. Sometimes I like the smell of incense and the feel of heavy gold. It can be soothing to the senses. You are more of an epicurean than I, Clara.’ I give her back the Flaubert and she replaces it precisely. ‘Are Princess Poliakoff and Lady Diana still in residence?’ She nods. ‘They have hardly left their rooms, either. I think it must be the beginning of an affair, or one which was interrupted. I don’t know. Certainly the Princess is infatuated. As for Lady Cromach, I am not sure. She seems anxious to please the Princess but not from what I would call any driving enthusiasm. She is perhaps too intelligent. Are you attracted to her?’ I shake my head. ‘Not attracted, but I think she is interesting. She is a type of Lesbian I have not really encountered before. Very self-assured, eh? Yet, oh, let’s say less narcissistic than the general run of those one associates with Princess Poliakoff.’ Clara sits down on a Liberty chair and lights a cigarette. ‘I know what you mean. That woman goes about her business and takes exactly what she wants from people. Yet she has none of Poliakoff’s greediness. Would you like me to send for Lotte yet?’ I shake my head. ‘I’ve been ravenous all day. I can’t stop eating. Let me leave you here with Alexandra. She loves you and might like to be alone with you for a while. I’ll go down to the salon for half-an-hour or so.’ Clara seems concerned. ‘If you would like some of the drug now…?’ I shake my head. ‘Perhaps later. Really, I am quite content. Tell Alexandra some of your stories. Or let her sleep. I’ll come back shortly.’ As I descend the staircase I realise that I am curious about the progress of the War and am hoping that I shall learn something more than what has been reported. Newspapers are particularly untrustworthy at this time. The salon is half-empty. There are many more women here than men. Some of the girls have not even bothered to give themselves the special ‘poise’ which Madame demands. They are still relaxed. The casual way in which their legs are positioned hints not at any particular carelessness of temperament; they unconsciously assume the habitual attitudes of their calling, as a soldier will stand at ease even in civilian dress, or an off-duty coal-heaver will rest one side of his body in favour of the other. But they are beginning to become ‘ladies’. Caroline Vacarescu is here, agitated, speaking urgently to an old dandy in a French-cut coat who spreads his hands and shakes his head. ‘But why arrest him? What has he done?’ She sees me and appeals to me. ‘Ricky. Tell Herr Schmesser that the Count is a man of honour.’ I raise my eyebrows. ‘Mueller?’ Herr Schmesser shrugs. ‘He was caught red-handed with the documents destined for Holzhammer. My dear lady, if you had been with him, you too would now be under arrest. Think yourself lucky.’

‘They will shoot him, Ricky,’ she says. I am sympathetic. She is about to lose a powerful protector and is in no position to find another quickly. I cannot pity Mueller. Indeed I feel only satisfaction he has at last been caught. ‘Caroline,’ I say. ‘If I can help you, I shall. I am not entirely certain at present how much money I have. But I shall do everything in my power to save you from embarrassment.’ I have always liked her. ‘Mueller is to be shot,’ she says, as if we have not absorbed the enormity and then, realising we are unmoved, rushes from the room, presumably to seek help elsewhere. Herr Schmesser looks at me. ‘If she goes out after curfew, she, too, will be arrested. But not,’ he adds with a small smile, ‘shot. You know of Mueller’s activities?’

‘I can assume he was spying.’

‘And you can be sure that Fraulein Vacarescu was helping him. Together with Budenya-Graetz, who discovered an opportunity to reinstate himself, of course, and is probably already in Vienna with every detail of our defences. It is a disgusting business. The treachery, my dear sir! I cannot tell you how much there has been. My faith in human nature has been ruined in the space of a few days. And this bombardment! Can Holzhammer justify it? His own countrymen. His own city!’ He sighs and lifts a glass of champagne to his lips. ‘I am very sad.’ I pat him on the arm. ‘You will cheer up here. After all, there are no disappointments at Frau Schmetterling’s, eh?’ He nods seriously: ‘I hope you are right.’ I make a good meal of the buffet. The evening begins. The salon fills. The girls become elegant and alert to the conversation of their guests. The phonograph plays a waltz and everything is as normal. At length, I return to Clara’s. Alexandra has by now had some cocaine. Lotte, a plump dimpled blonde, all thighs and bust, is using the dildo on herself while they watch her. I take off most of my clothes and, wearing a dressing gown supplied by Clara, sink down into a chair and become part of the audience. Alexandra will later play the part which Clara played earlier, but somehow without Clara’s delicate assurance, and I will continue to watch until I am aroused enough to couple naturally and cheerfully with Clara for a few minutes before falling soundly asleep until morning. At about ten o’clock, after a good breakfast in Clara’s rooms, we return through the chilly October sunshine to the Liverpool. The shells are directed more towards the East of the city this morning and our journey seems safe enough until the cab turns the corner into the square and we see that the building next to The Liverpool has sustained a good deal of superficial damage. I look towards our apartment. Servants are nailing boards across shattered windows. We hurry upstairs. There is glass everywhere in the room. The manager is there. He is deeply apologetic and tells us that we can move to ‘safer’ rooms at the back of the hotel. Without a word to him or to Alexandra I go downstairs and telephone Frau Schmetterling. She has one of the few private telephones in Mirenburg. ‘I would like to take you up on your offer,’ I tell her, ‘if it is still possible.’

‘Of course,’ she says. Til have the rooms prepared at once. When will you arrive.’

‘Probably in an hour or two.’

She hesitates. Her voice becomes faint as the line fades. ‘You are bringing your friend?’

‘I am afraid that I have no choice.’

‘I will see you at lunch-time,’ she says.

While Alexandra sees to the packing, I make enquiries after Caroline Vacarescu. She has not returned to the hotel, says the manager. I pay my bill with one of his blank cheques. He continues to apologise so much I feel sorry for him and am able to smile cheerfully enough. ‘Please don’t worry. I will be back here, I am sure, within a couple of weeks.’ I do not inform him of my destination. Alexandra and I are about to disappear. If we should be discovered, when the War is over I can always make her father an offer. I can marry her and save the scandal. But for some reason I do not tell Alexandra of my plan as, with boxes and trunks in three cabs, we flee the ruined Liverpool to the sanctuary of Rosenstrasse.