The Bullet Trick (22 page)

When the twins looked at each other they saw themselves, but I found no difficulty telling them apart. The secret lay not only in the direction of their tats but in the tiny Greek letters, one alpha, the other omega, clumsy home-done jobs, inked into their wrists, telling the world the first and last out of the womb.

I watched as Archard nimbly climbed his brother’s torso, and then did a handstand on his image’s upturned palms, gently disconnecting his right hand, each acrobat slowly moving his free arm until it was at right-angles to his body. They held the pose and my neighbours clapped ecstatically. It was a good effect. I glanced at my watch just as Sylvie slid in beside me smelling clean and citrus.

'Those are two strong boys.'

'You know who to ask if you can’t get the lid off a pickle jar.'

'Ah, they wouldn’t be my first choice.'

'No?'

'No, definitely make the reserve list though.'

I was about to ask who would be at the top of the list when all chance of talking was drowned by cheers from the next table as the twins took their final bow. The ninja prop shifters jogged on in their wake, bearing a huge plastic sheet. They spread it across the stage, ran off and returned with a full-size bathtub and half a dozen buckets of water. A trapeze was lowered above the bath, then the next turn came on and I worked out the answer for myself.

Kolja’s naked chest shone with oil; he stalked across the stage, pecs puffed out, shoulders thrown back, spine straight all the way down to the swell of his muscular buttocks. The bulge on the other side of his white leggings looked unnaturally large. I whispered to Sylvie, 'I see he’s packed his sandwiches.'

But she ignored me, concentrating on the vision of Kolja circling like a young Nureyev about to wow the Bolshoi. He stopped, rubbed some chalk theatrically into his palms, casting a superior glance at us mortals below, sneering slightly, as if he didn’t even deign to pity us, though I knew the lights rendered everything beyond the stage invisible.

The trapeze looked impossibly high but Kolja sprang effortlessly into the air and grabbed it with both hands, hoisting himself steadily upwards until his chest was level with the bar, he hung there for a moment, letting us admire his silhouette, then swung his legs into the dark, tipping himself slowly up and over into a leisurely 360 degree turn that made his muscles swell. The men at the table next to us sat without touching their drinks, nodding in appreciation as Kolja threw himself into a faster loop and then another, spinning round and through the trapeze, switching hands, making his slim hips follow through, his white leggings shining against the black backdrop of the stage, his speed increasing until he no longer looked like a man, just a twirling birling blur in the centre of the stage.

I nudged Sylvie, thinking she’d be amused by the body culturalists’ captivated stares. But she put her hand on my arm, staying my elbow. I turned to look at her and saw her lips parted, her tongue pressing against her teeth. I downed the dregs of my beer and signalled for another.

Up on stage the trapeze was descending with Kolja astride it now, he sat motionless for an instant above the bath, then somewhere a needle hit shellac and a slow number started up.

In the heat of the night
Seems like a cold sweat
Creeping cross my brow, oh yes
In the heat of the night

The stage lights switched to a cool midnight blue, Kolja swung to and fro, clutching the supporting rope, making his muscles swell in the deep indigo, then he fell suddenly backwards into a turn that made my stomach slide and Sylvie give a quick short gasp.

I’m a feelin’ motherless somehow
Stars with evil eyes stare from the sky
In the heat of the night

Kolja caught the bar of the trapeze, holding his body rigid above the tub, ignoring but somehow basking in the audience applause. Then he swung himself into the water, all the time holding tight onto the U of the trapeze, drenching his legs, torso, chest, emerging dripping, his costume clinging. The men at the next table went wild and Sylvie joined in their applause.

Ain’t a woman yet been born
Knows how to make the morning come
So hard to keep control
When I could sell my soul for just a little light
In the heat of the night

Kolja continued, oblivious to the audience. He swung himself up and over, submerging then resurfacing, sparkling with droplets as if it were all for his own amusement.

In the heat of the night
I’ve got trouble wall to wall
Oh yes I have
I repeat in the night
Must be an ending to it all

Then finally he slipped from his swing and into the tub, sinking his head beneath the water, releasing himself from the audience’s gaze. He broke the surface and lay looking up towards the heavens and into the beyond like a man with serious troubles on his mind. The music carried on.

Oh Lord, it won’t be long
Yes, just you be strong
And it’ll be all right
In the heat of the night

The last bar crackled to its close, the scene sank into dark. Then just as quick the stage lights came up, Kolja tumbled from the tub and stood, arms outspread, water cascading from him onto the plastic sheeting, warming himself in the audience’s ovation. I turned to look around the room and saw Ulla standing below the glow of the exit sign. For an instant our eyes met, then she turned away.

Maybe it was the music or maybe it was the beers hastening my descent from the euphoria of my own applause, but suddenly, watching Kolja take his bow, I felt a swift sharp stab of melancholy.

I caught Sylvie’s eye, she laughed, still clapping, and leaned across to me.

'Now that’s what our act needs, a bit of sex appeal.'

I wondered at the ‘our’, but when the floorboards began to vibrate with the force of the audience’s stamping feet, I realised she could have a point.

Dix was wearing an expensive charcoal-grey suit that could have been Armani, Versace or fucking Chanel for all I knew. It made him look like the younger, richer brother of the stubbly unwashed man I’d last seen slumped in a torn chair in Sylvie’s flat. He raised his beer and saluted me.

'To your new partnership.'

His smile was amused. For some reason it annoyed me.

Sylvie filled her glass with white wine from a deceptively dainty jug and said, 'To our new partnership!' Half draining the large glass, then refilling it.

I chimed ‘New partnership’, putting my stein to my lips and taking a long hard pull, remembering that three had never been my favourite number.

This was Sylvie’s and my fourth bar, Dix’s first. He was sober, but had the air of a man in the mood to indulge others’ foolishnesses. He signalled for more drinks though his own was still fresh. I hid behind my glass, smiling between each swallow, counselling myself not to turn into Tartan Willy on the rampage.

Sylvie was no longer the anxious supplicant who’d lain beneath my hands earlier in the evening. Her hair shone glossy and smooth around a face powdered to pale ivory, only her red lipstick recalled the bright stain that had coated her body. Sylvie’s stylised makeup was at odds with the plain black satin dress she’d changed into. It was a good combination, something like a whore on a murder charge. She took another inch out of her glass and asked, 'Successful evening?'

Dix smiled, keeping his own counsel. I didn’t bother to ask what had required a suit and sobriety until 2 a.m.

The two of us had left our previous bar about thirty minutes before, Sylvie urging me to hurry up or we’d miss the show. I necked the last of my beer, Sylvie linked her arm through mine and we reeled into the street, silly with sudden air, drink and new friendship. Sylvie’s straight spine seemed to straighten mine and we walked fast and tall like a soldier boy and his bride on their wedding day.

I recognised the club from the matchbooks Sylvie had substituted for a stake on our first night. The sign shone from above the doorway in sharp pink neon, Ein Enchanted Nachtreview, and the same festive lady lounged in the same triangular cocktail glass, spilling electric pink bubbles into the air from her careless toast.

Perhaps I wouldn’t have noticed Sylvie’s pace slowing as the Nachtreview came into view if our arms hadn’t been entwined, but though her conversation still sparkled as bright as the neon, I could feel her growing alert, her attention shifting from my orbit towards the door of the club. I matched my pace to hers, until her steps faltered, then stopped.

'Wait a second. I just want to see who’s on guard duty.'

She peered into the gloom. The bouncer moved into the lee of the doorway, cupping his hand around his cigarette, squinting against the lamplight.

'Perfect.' She slipped her arm from mine and started to walk briskly across the road. 'Come on.'

At first I thought she’d misjudged things. The bouncer stood barring the entrance, arms locked behind his back, expression like a breeze block, impervious to the cute way Sylvie’s smile flashed on and off, as she spieled out a patter peppered with one of the few German words I knew —
bitte
.

I tried to look sober, wondering what I was doing in a country where I didn’t even know the licensing laws.

'D’you spracken ze English?'

'It’s OK, William, Sebastian and I are old friends.' Sylvie dropped her voice soft and low. 'Bitte, Sebastian.'

I reached into my pocket, folded forty euros in the cushion of my hand then put my arm round my new assistant’s waist and palmed the notes to her old friend. He looked at me uncertainly then opened the door, shaking his head more in sorrow than in anger. Sylvie touched his arm as she passed and he muttered something that sounded like a warning. But entering the club had revived Sylvie’s reckless mood. She laughed and reached back towards the doorman, kissing him on the cheek. I waited for Sebastian to change his mind, but he laughed too, wiping away her lipstick and reissuing the warning, his sternness lost in the moment. I nodded my thanks and he gave me a quick appraising glance as he moved back into the shadows, a mix of sympathy and contempt. The kind of look you give a dupe.

I’d been in larger sitting-rooms, but whoever designed the club hadn’t allowed size to contain their style. The ceiling and walls were rose-gold peeling away to red below, and the curved coral-quartz bar shone with more champagne than a Soho clip joint. At the far end of the room was a small stage where a long-legged girl in a sailor suit that would have sent Lord Nelson spinning was sitting demurely on a bentwood chair, singing about how her mama thought she was living in a convent.

Sylvie took a table near the stage and I slid in beside her, making sure I could monitor the sailorgirl’s act for professional reasons. I glanced back to the entrance where the bouncer still lingered, following our progress through the glass as if unsure of whether he had done the right thing.

'What was that about?'

Sylvie shook her head dismissively.

'Nothing.' She looked around. 'What do you think a person has to do to get a drink in this place?'

Up on stage the sailorgirl was walking round the chair. Now that she was on her feet I could see just how short her skirt was. I wondered if she realised she’d forgotten to put her knickers on. Sylvie followed my gaze.

'She’s a classically trained ballerina.'

'I suspected that.'

Sylvie raised her eyebrows then peeled her lips back into a dazzling smile as the prospect of more alcohol approached.

The waitress’s uniform was deep pink edging sweet pink, it hugged her form, dipping and swooping around a wolf-whistle of a body. I gave her my stage show grin and she smiled back, taking all those clichés about Botticelli angels, wrapping them up and tying a bow on them. Then she clocked Sylvie and her expression glazed to strictly business. The waitress kept her eyes lowered as she took our order, then returned to slide our drinks onto the table without a smile.