The Empire of the Senses (58 page)

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—the sound of her heels against the pavement reassured her that she was still here, in this moment, despite such rabid anticipation. She stopped and rearranged her wide-brimmed hat. She knew it was out of fashion, but the close-fitting hats provided no protection
from the sun, and lugging a parasol around had become an affectation reserved for the elderly. Heliotherapy, Josephine Baker’s glistening skin, Coco Chanel photographed on the French Riviera—tanned skin was all the rage, and she smiled, remembering how she had gone to great lengths to keep her complexion alabaster white. Once, she’d even used a lightening powder with lead. And now all she saw were young tan bodies, arms and faces and legs exposed and basking in the sun, soaking up the restorative rays, white teeth flashing, and laughing at someone like her, who still longed for a little bit of shade.

In front of his building, she lingered before the white roses spilling from the planters. She admired their purity—white flowers were absolutely the best. A ladybug tentatively crawled down a green stem. She ran her fingertips over the creamy petals. It was as if nature’s beauty magnified when she thought of him, of his gentle fingers running down the length of her spine, as if her spine was a chain of rosary beads that he so lovingly counted upon for reassurance, for evidence of God. But not in the mystical sense Father Balthazar spoke of Him. She pressed the buzzer, shuddering at how awful the last session had been. Father Balthazar had felt the need to share his visions of an approaching apocalypse with everyone. Most of his attendees were psychologically fragile, but this didn’t stop him. He described the snowcapped Alps of Austria drenched in blood, red rivers streaming down mountains, flooding towns and cities, oceans of blood. Whenever someone asked if he’d made contact with a relative from the other side, he waved a dismissive hand and then launched into yet another discussion of his Blue Book, a collection of his dreams, memories, and visions. The Blue Book apparently reflected the world’s psyche—the two were intertwined, he insisted. Therefore, he could more or less see the future, and it was covered in blood. When anyone from the group pressed him, he grew petulant and said he could not possibly elaborate. But he assumed the same ghostly pallor, the same mystical air as when he had spoken about Franz many months ago, and it left Josephine with a foreboding chill.

When she got to Dr. Dührkoop’s office, she was overheated, and having forgotten to eat lunch, she felt dizzy. She asked him to open the
other window behind his desk for cross ventilation, but the window was stuck from the recent rains. He made an offhanded gesture. “The only thing left to do is take off your blouse.”

She blushed and unbuttoned her blouse. To fill the silence—he always required her to begin the conversation, even now, at this stage in their relationship—she told him how she couldn’t help herself from mentioning his name to Lev. “I talk about you so often, he must be growing suspicious. But everything reminds me of you—the brand of tea we had yesterday was the same brand you drink, and I had to point out how the orchid in a shop window looked similar to the type you cultivate, and when we ran into some friends of ours, I complimented the man on his bowtie, thinking to myself that I would buy you one just like it. It was crimson, with little white polka dots.”

He smiled good-naturedly and told her to continue.

“And I just,” she said, sliding out of her silk blouse, “I just feel, when I say your name, I’m suddenly lifted out of that continuous wheel of domestic drudgery: supervising Marthe and ringing the plumbers because the tiles in the shower have come undone due to poor grouting, and now there’s a leak under the staircase, and reminding Lev to speak to Herr Levenski because he cut down our hedges, once again, for the sake of his beloved roses, which are bloodred and, frankly, quite overdone.”

She draped her blouse over the arm of the couch. Glancing down at her chest, she smiled appreciatively at her hardened nipples, which were making themselves known under the tight satin brassiere. “Lev barely protested when I said I couldn’t attend Vicki’s good-bye party this evening. As if he’s almost giving me permission to be with you.”

Dr. Dührkoop nodded. “As if his subconscious already knows.”

“That’s right,” she said.

“We all know much more than we think we know.” He went over to her and unclasped her brassiere, sliding it off her body. She drew her shoulder blades together and arched her back, a trick that made her breasts appear more pert. He balled up her bra and stuck it into his back pocket. Then he took a step away and said that he wanted to admire her from there, as if she were a Grecian goddess ascending from
the bath. “Having washed yourself, surrounded by fauns and lush vegetation, your fresh naked body only visible to me as you reach for your robes.” He spoke excitedly, pushing the coffee table up against the wall to make more space in front of the chaise, where she lounged, enjoying the gentle breeze blowing over her bare torso. Feeling languorous and desired, she said how refreshing it was that he didn’t always insist on mounting her, the way Lev did.

“Yes, well,” the doctor said, giving the coffee table one last push, “I suppose that has to do with the innate lustiness of the Semitic peoples. You can’t blame him, really.”

After they made love, which was somewhat swift and brutal—for the first time, the doctor insisted upon entering from behind while Josephine balanced on hands and knees in the middle of the rug, he announced he had a surprise for her.

“Surprise?” she asked, nestling her face into the crook of his arm. They now lay on the chaise again, and Josephine was trying to forget about the last ten minutes. She supposed in some ways all men were the same—they found such erotic pleasure in not having to look into a woman’s eyes during penetration, preferring a view of the buttocks, the back, the neck, as much more enticing than the open question on her face in that crucial moment. She sighed. “You’ve already surprised me quite a lot today.”

He patted her naked thigh. She followed the shadows playing on the far wall and mentioned again that she felt guilty for missing Vicki’s party this evening. “I suppose it’s about to start, judging from the light.”

“Hmmm,” he said, his eyes closed.

“But if I went, it would seem as if I were giving her my blessing.”

He murmured that she sounded exactly like her own mother when she ran off and married Lev.

“You’re right,” she said, twisting his nipple. “Maddeningly so.”

“Ouch,” he said, pulling her hand away.

Then she felt herself growing serious, and not knowing if she should say this next part, she said it anyway. “The truth is, I couldn’t wait until Friday to see you. I couldn’t wait the week out. It was too painful.”

His fingers roved through her hair, which was down and loose
around her shoulders. He pulled on it and tilted her head back a little. She continued, “When I’m not with you, I feel as if I’m lost, stranded on a barren island with these towering waves threatening to crash over me.”

He sprung up from the couch. “Don’t move.” He went over to his desk and riffled through the drawers. He was naked, sitting behind his desk, and she was naked, lying on the chaise. Watching him, Josephine wondered if he’d even heard what she just said, or if he was willfully ignoring her, finding such an admission of need distasteful, overbearing? Glancing down at her white legs against the velvet cushions, she suddenly felt overly exposed, as if her translucent skin betrayed her, revealing the bluish-purple spider veins in delicate tangles on the outer edges of her thighs, and that ugly yellow bruise, the size of a coin, on her shin from forcing open a drawer—it had slammed into her leg after having been closed for so long.

“Ah, found it!” he exclaimed, startling her. He held up the retrieved item—a record. Then he trotted over to the gramophone, glancing down at the record sleeve. Giddy, buoyant, she enjoyed watching him like this, as if he had momentarily returned to boyhood. She rolled onto her stomach and balanced her chin on the arm of the chaise. He adjusted the needle to the correct track and motioned for her to come. She walked over, the late afternoon sun flashing against her bare white skin, and she pressed her back against his chest. He molded his hands over her ribcage. “Close your eyes,” he whispered.

The rich, vibrating voices of Tristan and Isolde floated above them, singing their ghostly love duet:
O sink hernieder, Nacht der Liebe, gib Vergessen, dass ich lebe
. (Descend, oh Night of Love, grant oblivion that I may live.)

He whispered into her ear, “They’re in the forest at night, together at last.”

Her eyes flooded with tears, thinking how Tristan says the realm of daylight is false and unreal; the lovers will only be united in the long night of death.

The tenor’s and soprano’s voices swelled and bloomed, slipping and sliding over each other, rising and falling with each new declaration of

love, just as the doctor’s chest rose and fell against her back. She looked down at his young hands on her pale skin. He cupped her breasts and mumbled something into her neck. She knew he would want her for a little while, for as long as the night would last, allowing them to roam in the forest of their pleasure, but he would eventually cast her out and start a real life. It was why he had chosen to play her act 2, scene 2—an unconscious choice, of course, but even the doctor could not be entirely aware of the implications of his actions. None of us can, she thought.

44

Monday, June 11, 1928

Franz had awoken at first light, his chest pounding. He bolted upright, gripping his knees, his undershirt damp. It’s the way of war, he thought, his hands now shaking as he affixed his removable white collar, starched and pressed, in front of the mirror. He would leave in one hour. All day he had prepared. The switchblade was inside his left pocket underneath his vest. He patted his chest, the faint outline of the knife comforting. If he happened to miss with his pistol, he would use the blade while everyone was still disoriented by the gunshots. This is what Wolf advised. They had met last night, and Wolf had said, “I’ll be there, watching. The paramount thing is not to panic like the little woman you are.” He had gripped Franz’s shoulder, kneading it like dough, which left faint purple bruises. Franz noticed them this morning in the bath, and normally, he would’ve celebrated any evidence of Wolf on his body, but the bruises only indicated his weakness, the fragility of his skin. He picked up the handgun, which lay on his dresser, a Mauser C-96 9mm, used by Wolf’s father, who had killed many French with it. A better story than his father’s—he had returned with no gun, no uniform, no medals, dressed in tattered civilian clothes. He and his mother wondered what Lev had really done in that Russian town besides some translation and light desk work. “Fussy work” was what Franz called it. “An unwillingness to sacrifice oneself for the greater good” was what his mother had once said.

He sat down for a moment on the side of his bed. He stared at his knees—smooth, hairless. He could still back out. He started sweating at the thought of reversal, retreat. Wolf had already told their unit. Now,
everyone knew about it, so it had to happen. Lutz even came up to him a few days ago and solemnly shook his hand, complimenting Franz on his good work, and then added, “We are well aware of the sacrifices you’ve made.” Franz had said, “For Germany.” And Lutz said, “For Germany.” After this, it seemed there was a general air of reverence whenever Franz walked into a room. Men of higher rank nodded to him, and one of them invited him for lunch at his private club.

Franz picked up the gun, a recoil-operated, locked-breech, semiautomatic pistol. The safety was located at the left side of the hammer and locked the hammer when engaged. Its most recognizable feature was its nonremovable, fixed-box magazine, located ahead of the trigger guard, which could hold up to ten rounds. The other thing he liked about it was the beautifully shaped handle, lightweight and practical, and the wooden shoulder holster. He straightened his vest and slipped the Mauser into his inner chest pocket. Yes, it was slightly bulky, which was why he would wear a linen jacket over the vest. He parted his hair to the side and combed it down with some tonic. Leaning in closer to the mirror, he noticed a few hairs sprouting upward, refusing to stay down. He dipped the comb in more tonic and heard a knock on the door.

“Darling?”

“Yes, Mother.”

She tried the door handle. He froze before the mirror.

“I’m going out now.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“I feel terrible about missing Vicki’s party.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“But the meeting …” She paused.

He sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed down his pants.

“It’s for the Association of Christian Mothers, and I …”

“You must go now, Mother. Don’t be late.”

“All right,” she murmured.

Through his bedroom window, he watched her walking to the tram. She looked quite fetching lately, taking more care with herself. He admired her from a distance—her long white form, her wide-brimmed hat. He
smiled, thinking how unfashionable it was to wear such an antique hat, but it was admirable, how she clung to that bygone era. Today, women were strident and ugly, flashing their bare flesh, shimmying their shoulders and thighs underneath the thinnest of sheaths. Walking down the street, they offered the same grotesque thrill as a peep show. He paced the room, breathing deeply. In part, he was doing this for her. She didn’t deserve to flush with shame after services, when one of the church ladies asked about Vicki and she airily made up some lie about allergies or a toothache. How could she admit her only daughter was marrying an
Ostjude?
A disgrace. A sickening disgrace. He leaned out the open window, staring down at the red roses blooming with vigor. He projected a potent ball of spittle into the roses before slamming the window shut.

Walking to the tram, his pulse accelerated. He straightened his tie; this always calmed him. As long as he looked presentable, he felt capable, competent. The jacket worked well, hiding most of the bulk. He smoothed it down. Waiting for the streetlight to change, a man observed him, an old man in a worn-out suit. He tried to catch Franz’s eye. Then he barked, “I like your jacket!”