The Empire of the Senses (36 page)

Lev’s voice floated up from the dining room, his admonishing tone recognizable as he bantered with Vicki. Josephine put down her brush and examined her neck. Did she still look young? Turning her head to the side, she peeked at her profile. She leaned in closer, noticing a tiny row of broken blood vessels curling along the edges of her nostrils. But how could she possibly blame him, if he kept a mistress? They hadn’t made love in months, not since the dinner party at the Hoffenstaldts. A mistress might relieve her of such “wifely duties” or, at the very least, shoulder some of the burden. The thought made her smile, and yet she felt guilty finding such irony in her own circumstances. Lev had arrived home tonight freshly shaven, his hair slicked back and trimmed, proof he’d visited the barber, but where had he gone afterward?

The clink of a teaspoon against a china cup interrupted her thoughts, and she pictured Lev stirring milk into his coffee, the whiteness bleeding into the black. No, she said to herself, swiveling around on the stool to face the bed, it wasn’t that she didn’t like sex, but rather it was the frequency of his demands, his insatiability, that overwhelmed her. She preferred the prelude to sex, when she was still cozily encased in her robe, her head on his chest, his hand stroking the length of her thigh, before the impudent meshing of bodies. She worried that she had lost all elasticity, but after birthing two children, she knew this couldn’t possibly be true. Other times, it was more tolerable, even enjoyable, which led her to believe the pain was psychological. And so the extent of Herr K’s sexual advances had become gradually embellished to provide her some respite from the demands of the marriage bed. Whether or not Herr K actually did violate her remained an open question, but
his menacing presence was real, and she chose to interpret the past in a way that best served her in the present.

She started to take off her coral necklace when Lev strode into the room. Startled, she hadn’t heard him come up the stairs, and she stared at his reflection in the mirror, her hands frozen behind her neck.

He undid his bowtie. “Can I help you with that?”

She shook her head, unhooking the clasp. The coral beads slid off her neck.

20

At night in the city, Elsa was finally taking Vicki to Romanisches Café. As they sat in the back of a taxicab, the glimmering advertisements filtered through the trees, lending Elsa’s face an intimate glow that Vicki hoped illuminated her own face in the same way. As the cab turned onto Kurfürstendamm, the candelabras fastened to the tree branches swayed in the summer wind. They passed the tall glass windows of department stores and enclosed café terraces, the lit-up marquees of movie theaters and cabarets and restaurants interspersed with elongated apartment buildings. People strolled the wide boulevard, gazing up at the windows, their dark silhouettes dwarfed by the barrage of neon advertisements looming from above, as if the billboards were suspended in the night sky by invisible hooks.

The taxi driver grunted at the traffic. He had been rude from the start. Vicki almost said something until she noticed the gouge in his cheek and realized he was probably one of the war-wounded. He leaned on his horn, but this did nothing to move the long line of automobiles forward. Admiring Elsa’s lavender hat with its wide up-curling brim, Vicki wondered if she looked as smartly dressed. While Elsa’s hat was quite feminine, she wore tuxedo pants paired with a slim-fitting dinner jacket, and inside the slanted front pocket, she’d arranged a lavender pocket square, drawing the eye back up to her lavender hat. It was all quite a performance, Vicki thought, deciding that her black silk shift with the gold spangles was in no way daring enough. She’d gone to pains this afternoon, crimping her hair into rigid waves, which looked dated compared to Elsa’s slicked-back hair. Absently touching her earrings, the new ones from Wertheim’s, Vicki felt a small sense of relief that at least she had worn these. The driver sped
down Tauentzienstrasse, almost passing Romanisches Café before Elsa barked, “Stop!”

Little round tables peppered the main floor under a great vaulted ceiling whose soaring arches were affixed with hanging lanterns. The heady scent of expensive perfume, luxury-brand cigarettes, and sweat hung in the air, and a roaring cacophony of chatter competed with the jazz band playing in the far corner. Every now and then a trumpet or sax riff would cut through the talk, and the clear sound of music enticed people to pause a moment and listen. An imposing red-carpeted staircase led to an upstairs gallery where men played chess while women sat on their laps and smoked. Vicki had heard of this place from her father. He used to come here on Sunday afternoons with her mother, when everyone wanted to be seen eating cake and taking a stroll through the various rooms of the café. Lev sometimes referred to it as Café Grössenwahn, or Café Megalomania, or even Rachmonisches—from the Hebrew
rachmones
, which meant “mercy”—because so many Jews frequented this place. They congregated here as if it were their personal office, lingering at the same table, nursing the same cup of coffee for hours on end. Elsa explained that upstairs the café was divided into two distinct rooms: one for celebrities and one for aspirants, rooms known respectively as “the swimming pool” and “the kiddy pool.” “And I’ve sat in the swimming pool, believe it or not, with Egon Kisch’s circle.”

Sensing Vicki’s hesitation, Elsa said, “You know, the famous journalist. He founded the Association of Proletarian-Revolutionary Authors.”

“I know,” Vicki said, when in truth she’d never heard of Egon Kisch.

The garnet-colored lanterns, suffusing a dim reddish glow, muffled rather than created light, causing Vicki to squint across the room at a man in a white dinner jacket shaking hands with two well-dressed women. After a moment, she recognized it was Wolf von Trotta, Franz’s best friend.

She nudged Elsa. “There’s Wolf.” He had always flirted with her in an arrogant, merciless kind of way. And his ice-blue eyes seemed as if they belonged to a murderer.

“He’s such a cad,” Vicki added.

Elsa shrugged. “He looks ridiculous in that white dinner jacket.”

Wolf noticed Vicki from across the room and his lips curled into a smirk. Nervousness flooded her, but she shook it off. Strange, how he eternally made her feel like the little sister trailing behind, the younger one who didn’t know enough. She wondered if he was impressed to see her here, in such a sophisticated club, but he never appeared impressed by anything, or at least he had trained himself to maintain a cool, detached demeanor.

“Let’s get a drink,” Vicki said, thinking this would relax her, and Elsa flagged down a bar girl. All the girls working here looked the same, with the same slender, narrow hips, a sylph woman-child serving seductively colored cocktails, which made Vicki think of semiprecious gemstones—emeralds, sapphires, and amethysts distilled into liquid form, poured into glass bowls one had to cup with both hands. “I’ll try that,” Vicki said, gesturing to a waitress ferrying a fiery pink drink, the color of the sunset. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Wolf flirting with one of these bar girls, twirling an unlit cigarette between his fingers.

Elsa suggested they go upstairs to see Egon. Lightly, she fixed Vicki’s hair, smoothing it over to the side of her face. “That’s better.” Then she signaled to the bar girl, tilting her chin upward, a signal, Vicki gathered, indicating they were moving upstairs. Tonight, Elsa was in a sisterly mood, having forgotten the embrace in the Wannsee, when for a few seconds their limbs intertwined underwater, and for this Vicki felt relieved. Plus, she didn’t really believe Elsa was a lesbian, or a
garçonne
, as she called herself, even though she boasted about her attendance at the Ladies Club Erato, a lesbian social club, which met Monday afternoons at Zauberflöte. And even though a shiver went through her when Elsa applied a dab of perfume to the nape of Vicki’s neck, her cool fingertips resting there for a suspended moment, Vicki failed to extract Geza from her mind, even here, in a place he didn’t know existed, a place where she would never see him. What would he think if he saw her dressed in this black silk shift with Elsa’s arm around her waist as they ascended the stairs, laughing? Would he see her as frivolous, unworthy of his attentions? She guessed he was a Communist but not
one like Elsa, who happily drank champagne, cherished her silk stockings, and flirted with artists.

Chess tables lined the upper gallery, allowing the players to gaze over the balustrade and consider the people below as they contemplated their next move. The “swimming pool” room was also on the upper level, and from what Vicki could see, red damask padded the walls, and a cloud of smoke floated through the open archway leading into the exclusive section. Elsa strained her neck to check if Egon was in there, but from their vantage point, they only saw the hunched-over backs of men studying a sketch someone had just completed. A few bored women loitered in the archway, smoking. Elsa pointed out one of the women, known as Little Moth, infamous for ruining a renowned musician who was no longer seen at the café. Vicki wondered what it took to ruin a man. The musician must have been desperately in love with Little Moth, who from here looked like nothing special: slight features, an upturned nose, ash-blond hair, too much makeup. Elsa added, “These girls take trips to Biarritz and Cairo, popping up here in between their travels and their men.” As she said this, Vicki detected a hint of envy.

“It all sounds very decadent.”

“Hmmm,” Elsa replied, gazing at the smoke-filled room, searching for Egon. From one of the chess tables, a ginger-haired woman called out Elsa’s name. Dressed in tuxedo trousers and a button-down white shirt, she had gone to great pains to fit her plump body into gentleman’s attire. She stood behind a man with a full beard and round silver eyeglasses who hunched over the chessboard, staring at the empty squares.

Walking over to their table, Elsa whispered, “That’s Emanuel Lasker and his longtime girlfriend Lise Schuler. He’s a mathematician and the best chess player there is.” She paused. “I know Lise from the Erato.”

Vicki nodded, staring at Lise, who spoke frenetically about how Emanuel was preparing to play Thomas Grant from Chicago. “He always assumes this hooded dark stare when he plays, as if he’s preparing to eject himself over the chessboard and club his opponent. Absolutely chilling.”

He held up his hands, still concentrating on the chessboard. “Silence. I can’t think when you’re near. All this meaningless chatter.”

“You might as well get married the way you two carry on,” Elsa teased.

With that, Emanuel scooted back his chair and lit his pipe. “Why didn’t I marry her after all these years? That’s what everyone keeps asking, as if I’m letting this jewel of a woman slip through my fingers.”

Lise threw back her head and laughed with her mouth open. Red lipstick freckled her front teeth. “Tell them, darling, tell them what you always say.”

Emanuel shook his head, his long, gray face sagging. “I’ve known her for too long.” Then he turned to Vicki, his cool gaze sweeping over her. “She’s no longer on her good behavior.”

Again, Lise laughed hysterically. Emanuel puffed on his pipe. Elsa asked if they’d seen Egon, but Lise ignored her question, inquiring where they were going next, after Romanisches. She rattled off a list of places, bemoaning the fact that Herr Wanselow ran a club in his flat called Aleifa, and despite the club’s extremely liberal environment, especially in all matters sexual, he didn’t allow Jews. “But I prefer the Adlon bar myself,” she said, taking a sip of champagne and checking her makeup in a small octagonal compact. She powdered her nose, but this did not conceal the shadowy depressions under her eyes or how her mouth appeared predatory. Vicki felt repulsed, watching Lise apply powder, and when Lise noticed her staring, Vicki glanced away. Her head hurt from the pink drink made with gin, syrup, and chilled champagne. The conversation turned to Josephine Baker. Elsa gushed about her sex appeal, and then she smiled at Vicki, both of them recalling how they’d listened to her throaty voice on the rooftop only a few days ago, the day she cut off all her hair, which already seemed so far in the past. Because I’ve met him since then, Vicki thought, her life beforehand appearing in miniature, as if the roof of a dollhouse had been lifted off, revealing all the tiny chairs and beds and tables and grandfather clocks.

Lise asked, “Haven’t you heard about the incident at Vollmoeller’s flat?”

Vicki tried to focus on the conversation, but she didn’t care about what had happened at Vollmoeller’s flat.

Elsa scanned the upper gallery. “Vollmoeller’s mistress only wears men’s clothing.”

“She’s slim and beautiful,” Emanuel said, examining a chess piece.

“And Vollmoeller just conducted Wagner’s
Tristan and Isolde
at the Vienna State Opera.”

Emanuel sighed. “Yes, I know.”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Lise snapped, her cheeks flushed from champagne. “Anyway, at his flat the other night, Josephine Baker was sitting on the couch half-naked, in a pink muslin apron and nothing else, talking about American jazz. Then Vollmoeller’s mistress sauntered over and made herself comfortable on Baker’s lap, and they fed each other chocolates.”

Emanuel brought the wooden bishop to his lips. “The pink muslin looked divine on her.”

Lise touched Elsa’s slicked-back hair. “Smooth.”

She grinned. “Bakerfix.”

Lise continued to touch her hair, and then she let her hand fall casually onto Elsa’s shoulder until she had her arm around Elsa. Then she gave Vicki a long desirous gaze, at which point Vicki said she had to leave. Elsa nestled her cheek against Lise’s limp arm, as if it were the most natural of things, and told Vicki she shouldn’t leave, because this is what people did all night; they talked and drank and danced and talked some more until dawn. She lurched forward, cupping Vicki’s face with her warm hands. “You can’t go, V. The evening’s barely begun.”

Vicki gathered up her beaded purse and her hat, trying not to make a fuss of leaving. Emanuel eyed her stoically, and Lise yawned into her drink and then whispered something to Elsa, her sloppy red mouth close to Elsa’s perfect white ear. Despite Elsa’s protestations that she stay for another drink, Vicki said with a smile that she really must go and slipped through the crowded smoke-filled room.