The Empire of the Senses (38 page)

The train halted for a moment, and they lurched forward, their shoulders brushing.

“Just forget about Bilko,” Franz said.

Wolf nodded morosely.

The train started up again. It pained him to ask, but he couldn’t help himself. “You were out late last night?”

“Carin wanted to see a play, but you know, I don’t go in for that. We went dancing instead.”

“Oh.” His voice sounded hollow, weak. He hated it.

“I saw Peter after.” Peter, the insipid Peter, whose face reminded Franz of a weasel.

“Really?”

Wolf shook his head. “The bastard was standing in his shorts and robe outside his apartment. Locked out. He had a girl over, but when she left, he walked her out and closed the door behind him without thinking. Utterly stupid. Luckily, there’s a cafeteria next to his building, so we sat and had coffee and rolls until the sun came up. Which is why I’m shattered this morning.” He stretched his arms overhead, lengthening his spine. “My neck.”

Franz automatically put his hand on the back of Wolf’s neck, and Wolf closed his eyes.

He bore his thumb and forefinger into the tendons, massaging Wolf there.

Wolf sighed, his eyes half-closed. “Too bad, no girls where we’re headed.”

“Mixed retreats are hedonistic. New Sunland with those outdoor ‘fuck huts.’ It’s not very serious there.”

Wolf opened his eyes, focusing his gaze on Franz. “You’re right. It’s not the same level of discipline.”

“We need discipline, to revive the
volkskörper
.”

He pinched Franz’s cheek. “The little studious pupil, you are.”

It hurt a little, where Wolf had pinched him. He wanted Wolf to do it again.

“I saw
Die Aufklärung
in your satchel.”

Franz tossed the orange peels into the passing pines. “It’s interesting, I guess.”

Wolf raised his eyebrows. “You guess?” He looked away, laughing to himself. “Too many drawings of naked men. For my personal taste.”

Franz felt his face flush. “It discusses how nudism is a form of regeneration for the Nordic race. Mostly text anyway.”

“Hmmm,” Wolf said, examining his nails. Perfectly filed and clipped, a pale-rose color underneath the nail. “Your sister was at Romanisches Café a few weeks ago.” Wolf paused. “She was with a bunch of Communists.”

Franz shrugged. Did Wolf expect him to act outraged? In truth, he didn’t care so much. They moved in entirely different social circles; Vicki’s bohemian friends were just as foreign to him as his fraternity brothers seemed to her.

Wolf smiled. “She’s really pretty.”

Franz made a face, trying to mask the jealousy he felt at this remark.

“We must make sure she doesn’t fall in with that set. It would be a real shame for such a pretty girl to go the wrong way.”

Franz said, “Vicki has a mind of her own. And she certainly doesn’t care what I think.”

Wolf glanced at the passing trees. “Just keeping an eye out.”

A long silence followed. To alleviate the awkwardness, Franz punched Wolf in the shoulder.

Acting offended, Wolf said, “What was that for?”

“Get ready for the gymnastic drills, the medicine balls.”

Wolf gripped Franz’s shoulder. “Feels a little soft. A little weak.”

He willed Wolf’s hand to stay in place, or perhaps for it to move downward.

Wolf patted him on the chest. “Pace yourself.” And then he gave him that brotherly smile, as if he knew best and needed to protect Franz. The train halted at their stop. They bounded into the harsh sunlight and headed for the woods.

The camp consisted of a grouping of old army barracks surrounded by a clearing where various physical drills took place. Beyond the barracks, low foothills rose into a crystalline sky. To get to Krumme Lanke, as Hans Surén explained upon their arrival, they had to walk past the barracks and take the footpath for three kilometers, until a sandy little shore appeared with lapping blue water. “The bracing cold of the water stimulates circulation—early morning and late afternoon are the times for swimming,” he said, opening the door to one of the barracks. His straight back and erect posture pointed to his former career as an officer in the German colony of Cameroon. Padding down the center aisle of the barracks, he walked naked before them without the slightest hint of self-consciousness. The soles of his feet were thick and calloused from going barefoot. His slicked-back hair revealed an attractive leonine face, strong jaw, and steely blue eyes. The way his bronzed skin gleamed, Franz thought, must have been attained with oil. He pictured him smearing the oil onto his chest, his arms, his thighs. Even the backs of his hands glimmered slightly with that bronzed sheen. “Choose a bed,” Surén said, gesturing to the immaculate row of bunk beds, each with its own footlocker, woolen blanket, white pillow. “But you won’t be spending much time indoors.” He then launched into the schedule. A five a.m. swim in the lake followed by breakfast of goat’s milk and muesli, after which a series of physical drills, otherwise known as “curative gymnastics,” based on the Swedish Movement Cure, would be carried out. “We don’t use machines here,” Surén stressed, “only one’s own weight aided by medicine balls and kettle bells to attain the purest line, without the manipulation of exterior instruments.” After completing the drills, one could choose between relaxing in a lime bath, sauna, or steam bath, complete with medical massage or colonic cleansing.
Another swim in the late afternoon followed by a vegetarian dinner and then a lecture around the campfire. “Clear?” Surén asked, standing squarely before them. They nodded.

“Undress and leave your things in the lockers at the base of the bed.”

When they hesitated, he asked them why it was so essential to go nude. “Why do you think?” He cocked his head to the side.

Wolf stared at him dumbly. Franz raised his hand. Surén gestured for him to speak.

“The sun carries curative powers so the most direct exposure to the greatest surface area of our skin creates the best results.”

Surén narrowed his eyes. “A sound explanation, but a bit scientific. What I’m getting at is”—he paused to stroke his genitals with a contemplative air—“this place isn’t for mere nature lovers and sun worshippers.” His hand now rested on his thigh. “No. It’s more than that. Much more. In the primeval forests of Germany, the Nordic solar rays once strengthened and healed our warrior nation. It was a time when the Teutons and the Cimbri spent the majority of summer daylight hours running naked and free, in top physical form as they hunted and killed and persevered in the wild, until Christian missionaries from the south clothed our ancestors’ bodies in shame.”

Wolf started to undress. Franz did the same. Surén watched them with nascent approval. He leaned against a bedpost, sighing. “And from there, it was only a matter of time until the devolution of man, into what we see now: the sickly, anemic, pale office worker hunched over his papers, who cannot run to save his life, round-shouldered and long-bearded, malevolent eyes peering out of sunken sockets.”

“Terrible,” Wolf murmured, fully naked. Franz tried not to stare at the gradations in his skin tone—tanned above his waistline and then a milky white where he usually wore clothing. Witnessing Wolf’s private whiteness caused the blood to rush to his groin, more so than the bloom of golden hair between his legs, his cock, the graceful dip in his lower back, his muscled ass. Franz shivered, pulling his eyes away. Noticing, Surén said, “Come. Let’s get into the sun.”

Walking behind Surén and Wolf, he felt himself harden, and he
tried to cover it with his hand. Surén directed Wolf to join the group practicing squats holding medicine balls above their heads. The men squinted into the sun, their arms straight and uplifted as they dipped their bodies lower and lower. “Your testicles should skim the dirt,” the group leader barked when someone didn’t bend his knees enough. “And you, over there,” Surén said, resting a hand on Franz’s back. He pointed to the pole-vaulting at the edge of the field. Franz nodded, cupping his groin.

Surén jerked Franz’s hand away. “Stand proudly before your virility.”

“Yes, sir.” Franz began walking toward his designated group when Surén yelled joyously, “Shame is your enemy.”

Franz nodded, praying his erection would die down by the time he reached the handful of men running with poles and flipping their bare, toned bodies through the air for a considerable distance. They landed on both legs, like triumphant cats. He felt as if his erect penis was the bow of a misguided boat, careening through a storm in which he’d surely drown. He tried to think of anything else besides Wolf, his mind racing for alternatives. The ugly woman on the train this morning, who kept trying to catch his eye, smiling knowingly whenever he happened to glance in her direction. Her low-cut blouse revealed a pale chest peppered with brown age spots, and her dyed reddish hair made her drawn face even more ghastly. She was the same type as the prostitute he’d visited a few weeks ago. Something sordid and poor about these women.

He looked down, relieved. Some of the men stretching and talking were quite erect, and yet they conversed with one another as if it were the most natural thing, as commonplace as sneezing or scratching your chin. The group leader, an older man wearing thick black glasses, handed him a bamboo pole. A few other men stretched their hamstrings, lying on their backs on the patchy grass, jerking their knees into their chests. The group leader, whose name was Paul Leiden, reminded Franz of his father, the way he held himself with tentativeness, his soft-spoken manner, the whisper of a mustache lining his upper lip. He showed Franz a few basics before he got started: this was where he must
put his top hand, called the grip, on the pole, and the grip would move farther down the pole incrementally as his skill improved. His other hand should be placed shoulder-width down from his top hand. Strong afternoon sun seeped into his face, and Franz inhaled deeply, allowing the clear air to fill his lungs. For an instant, he closed his eyes, listening to the birds flitting by, the rustle of the trees, the faint wind on his chest, the sound of men sweating and grunting. He could smell their bodies—linseed oil, dirt, salt. The heady scent coursed through him.

Paul’s firm hand encircled his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

Franz forced a smile. “Yes, thank you.”

Paul peered into his face. “The sun is quite strong here. Take care not to get dehydrated.”

He kept his hand on Franz’s shoulder.

“I will take care.”

“Good,” he said, his warm hand sliding off Franz’s shoulder. “And don’t worry, it gets easier. The first day can be a shock.”

“I’m not worried,” Franz said, taking the pole and running with it.

At the night lecture, Hans Surén stood before the bonfire, occasionally throwing wood chips into the flames, explaining how the German nation depended on the health of their bodies, because the next war was already upon their doorstep. He spoke of his experiences in the Great War as an officer in Cameroon, how weak and disillusioned his soldiers were because the world had not only robbed Germany of her deserved victory, but her pride and strength had also been crushed. Franz sat next to Wolf, their knees touching. They wore clothes at night given how the air grew sharp, but if Surén had insisted, they would all be squatting here naked around the fire, shivering away. Surén wore loose linen pants and a linen shirt. All in white, he looked as if he were a Greek god presiding over his disciples. Wolf whispered something into Peter’s ear, and Peter nodded in agreement.

Franz looked down at his sandals—they were required to wear these leather sandals provided by Surén for the weekend. His toes were long, ugly. He needed to trim his toenails. Perhaps Wolf had noticed this. Swallowing hard, he looked at Wolf again, hoping Wolf would drop him
a reassuring wink, a nod, a faint smile. But Wolf listened intently to Surén’s clear steady voice. “I urge you all to train during the week, after work, after study. Do not let your bodies languish, growing inactive and inert, which leads to impotence—not just physical impotence, but political and social impotence.”

The men nodded, the fire throwing light and shadow across their faces. Franz thought faces looked more dramatic in the firelight, more angular and appealing. He admired the structure of Wolf’s face: the straight ridge of his nose, his high cheekbones and arched eyebrows. He wanted to trace the pulsing tendons running down Wolf’s neck. His hand tingled with anticipation, just thinking it. Across the fire, he noticed Paul staring at him. Franz smiled, acknowledging him, but Paul continued to stare in a more searching way.

Franz turned his attention back to Surén, who now paused a moment, his face grave. He clenched and unclenched his fist. “You see, people will tell you what we do here is merely recreational, merely for pleasure seekers, but as you have witnessed today, this is not the case.”

Franz checked to see if Paul was still looking at him from across the fire and he was. His penetrating gaze made Franz nervous, slightly nauseated. The fire was dying down, the embers smoldering.

Surén shook his fist. “Sunlight! Nudity! Physical training! These are the paths to wholeness and health, as a people, as a
volk
. The Greeks and Romans, our forebears, understood this.”

Wolf scooted back and bumped into Franz’s knee. He turned around, irritated. When Franz started to apologize, Wolf hissed, “Quiet.”

A few men sitting nearby glanced in their direction. Peter chuckled to himself, his rounded shoulders rising up and down in the most maddening fashion.

Sensing that some men had begun to drift off, their eyes wandering away from his imposing figure, Surén grew more ardent in his speech. In the distance, an owl hooted. If he listened closely, Franz could hear the lake lapping against the sandy shore. Even Surén’s booming voice failed to distract him, consumed as he was by a gnawing sense of despondency. He’d hoped this weekend with Wolf would somehow revitalize their friendship and make Wolf favor him again, when it had
already only worsened things. Franz was a splinter in Wolf’s foot, an annoyance he wished to extract, a cur Wolf kicked from time to time.