The Carnival Master

9.

Ansgar, so unused to the ballet of courtship, fumbled clumsily for the right words. Ekatherina, like a city guide helping out a tourist who had found himself on the wrong side of town, had had to help him with his halting and mumbled proposal that she should come with him to the Karneval procession in a few weeks’ time. Ekatherina made it easier for him by suggesting that they go out for an evening first; to a Ukrainian restaurant she knew.

Ansgar was no fool. He was, after all, at least fifteen years older than her and by no description a catch. And he knew that marriage to a German national would assure her permanent residency in the Federal Republic. However, he also believed that Ekatherina really did like him. But did she really know about his true nature? His secret desires?

The Rhine divides Cologne in more than the geographical sense. Since the very first settlements the river had represented first an ethnic and then a social and cultural border. The inhabitants of the left bank, of which Ansgar was one, had always thought of their side of the river as the true Cologne, as opposed to ‘over there’. The Ukrainian restaurant that Ekatherina had suggested was ‘over there’, in the Vingst area of the city. The food was authentically Ukrainian. Ansgar also guessed that a large proportion of the clientele, and probably the management, was authentically Ukrainian mafia. He noticed several huddles of large men in black Armani, the regulation uniform of Eastern European gangsterdom.

The menu was in both Cyrillic and German but Ansgar allowed himself to be led in his choice by Ekatherina. As far as Ansgar could see, the Ukrainians had as many styles of Borsch as Eskimos had words for snow. Added to this was pechyva, pampushky, halushky, varenyky, bitky meatballs and a whole range of desserts. Ekatherina recommended that they should start with goose-breast zakuska followed by a starter portion of hetman borsch, then pork ribs stewed in beet kvas with halushky dumplings.

‘You can’t get more Ukrainian than that,’ she enthused and Ansgar could see that she was genuinely proud to introduce him to her culture and cuisine. When the waiter came over to take their drinks order, Ekatherina engaged in a lively exchange in Ukrainian with him. The waiter smiled and nodded.

‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she said. ‘This is something you’ve got to try…’

The waiter returned with a chilled champagne-style bottle. He popped the cork and Ekatherina again took the lead and tasted it, nodding enthusiastically. After the waiter had filled his glass, Ansgar took a sip. His mouth filled with a fragrant effervescence.

‘This is beautiful,’ he said, and meant it. ‘Really beautiful.’

‘It’s Krimart,’ she said, gratified. ‘It’s from the Artyomovsk winery in the Donetsk region. It was founded by a German, you know. A Prussian. It was what Stalin and all the communist bosses liked to drink.’

Ansgar watched Ekatherina eat and talk. Naturally, she did most of the talking, her German charmingly accented, but most of all Ansgar watched her eat. During the meal, Ekatherina worked hard to coax out of Ansgar some of the details of his childhood, family, what had made him want to be a chef. Ansgar found himself wanting to be more conversational; easier, more interesting company. Most of all, he wished he could sit here in this Ukrainian restaurant with an attractive young woman and be someone else: someone with a normal life and normal urges.

Ekatherina didn’t seem to worry about Ansgar’s taciturnity. She talked at length about her childhood in Ukraine; about the astounding beauty of the land and the warmth of the people.

Ansgar listened and smiled. Ekatherina was dressed in what he guessed was her best outfit. It clearly wasn’t expensive but it showed an element of taste. The white blouse was open to the third button and when Ekatherina leaned forward Ansgar could see the full swell of her breasts, pale and smooth. He appreciated the effort she had made. But all through the meal he sought to keep from his mind those dark fantasies that he had formed around her.

They took a taxi from the restaurant. The food, Ansgar had to admit, had been interesting. It was always a strange, even difficult thing for Ansgar to enjoy a meal in another restaurant. To start with, he was never treated as an ordinary customer: he had a reputation and anyone who knew anything about Cologne’s food scene knew who he was. Ansgar had been sure he had heard his name amongst the babble of Ukrainian words exchanged between Ekatherina and the waiter. The other problem he had was the way he had to try to leave his professional self outside and simply enjoy the experience for its own sake. The truth was that Ansgar analysed every mouthful, judged flavour combinations, assessed layout on the plate. Ansgar was an artist, and he liked to compare the brushwork of others to see if there was anything he could learn from it. Many subtle nuances that had been added to some of his most highly regarded dishes had been inspired by a cruder expression in some second-class eatery.

But tonight, as he slid into the back seat of the taxi next to Ekatherina, he felt his belly too full. For Ansgar, food was about quality, about the experience, rather than the quantity. He felt the heat of Ekatherina’s body as she leant against him. Ansgar was also aware that he had had more to drink than usual. It made him nervous: he felt braver; more likely to act on his impulses. On that greatest of all impulses. He also sensed carelessness and ease in Ekatherina’s movements. It was a dangerous situation and he fought to keep those images from his mind. Images of a fantasy that now seemed possible, even if only remotely.

Ansgar had intended to drop Ekatherina at her apartment. He had declined her offer of a coffee, but she had leant across and kissed him, slipping her tongue into his mouth. It tasted of coffee mingled with the raspberry flavour of the malynivka liqueur they had drunk to end the meal.

He paid the taxi driver and followed Ekatherina into her apartment building.