Tours of the Black Clock

75

1941. BARBAROSSA’S CALLED OFF. When Holtz tells me, I can see he thinks it’s a good thing for Germany but maybe not so good for him. There’s relief and wrath in Berlin, eye to eye across the political barricades; Holtz runs low, crossfire flashing above his head. Fifteen years the client’s dreamed of making Russia German; now cronies despair at his wandering nights. I’ve saved Russia, I laugh to you, I’ve saved the world. You squeeze me in your palm, fondle me. “What a very good boy you are then,” you answer. We celebrate. Your legs shine like your eyes. Guys hack tubercular on the stairs outside, there are sounds in the woodwork and the sink pipes rumble like the streets. Russian whispers rise to a wail from the Danube. “Is he here?” you ask, and when I look, sure enough, he is. I guess I never believed he’d come. I know you said it all along; I guess you were right. Do you want him? You look up at him; he rustles in the corner, shrinking away into the dark: “He’s rather a puny one, isn’t he?” Yes. I’ve seen him before: he isn’t much. “Is he as big as you?” Of course not, I laugh. What a question. I push myself into you; he holds the corner of the wall so hard I can see the blood fall from his fingers. Geli, Geli. “Oh my God, my God, my God, my God,” you’re nearly screaming it. To me, though; not him.