it towards me.
‘They’re family rings. I wear them all the time, so that I don’t lose them. Even in the lab. If I need to, I wear gloves.’
It seemed amazing that he actually had a family of any kind. He indicated the signet ring with the obliterated crest and laughed.
‘There’s our coat of arms. As you can see, we’ve practically faded into obscurity.’
I peered at his hairless white fingers and the smooth bulk of his hands. Chain-smokers usually have yellowed fingers; Roehm’s hands were perfect, white.
‘You don’t smoke, do you?’ He offered me his cigarettes. I shook my head. ‘But that’s not because your mother won’t let you, is it?’ Roehm chuckled to himself. He was remembering something. Then he slid his arm through mine, as if we were two girls exchanging confidences. It was a very intimate gesture. I felt like a reluctant courtier, being drawn closer to the monarch and implicated in the royal conspiracies, much against my better judgement. But I did not pull away from him, nor did I resist.
‘Look,’ said Roehm.
We turned out of the murky back passages and found ourselves in Chinatown. The restaurants were hung with giant red lanterns trailing golden tassels and long comic dragons hanging from the pointed eaves, glimmering red and fierce in the night air. I stared into the bulging eyes and fine painted teeth of the nearest monster.
‘It’s a festival,’ said Roehm.
I drew closer to him and looked up. Above us, like great gleaming moons, the lanterns swarmed, tier upon tier, looming and swaying above the people who pressed past on the road. The smell of gunpowder rose from the pavements. I heard the sharp crack of fireworks let off by children, a sequence of small explosions, random, dangerous. But above the whiplash of firecrackers, the music was techno, a bizarre throbbing pulse, at odds with the lanterns and the soaring dragons.
‘We won’t eat here,’ said Roehm.
He had the art of creating a secure circle around him, as firm and clear as if he had drawn the macrocosm in chalk before him on the gleaming roadway. I felt as if I had acquired a particularly lethal bodyguard who was armed to the teeth beneath his black leather coat and loose suits. Roehm always wore loose clothes so that his exact size and shape remained imprecise. His outline was comfortable, rumpled. He could become larger if he wished; there was room inside his clothes. My arm felt like a twig against the great trunk of his sleeve. He consolidated his hold upon me.
‘Come,’ said Roehm.
I trotted along beside him, intimidated, bewitched. Suddenly he turned inside an almost invisible doorway, pushing back the leather curtain, and we found ourselves in a hushed French space with no music, smelling of herbs, wine and money. It was a familiar smell. This was where I had come with my mother over a year ago, after the big sales in the gallery in Germany. The head waiter wore evening dress. We were whisked into a corner surrounded by mirrors and art deco coils of green glass. I saw Roehm reflected into infinity, gradually decreasing in size. He took my jacket from my shoulders as if I were a woman, and placed me where he could watch the restaurant and I could only see him. On his way back from the coat stand he paused and peered into the tank, where beautiful speckled fish circulated sadly in a mass of maidenhair weed and pumped oxygen, waiting to be chosen by one of the customers. There were lobsters and giant crayfish waving their pincers and whiskers gently on the bottom. In one corner the crabs were piled one upon the other, like crashed tanks.
Roehm looked back at our table and smiled.
How can I describe his face? He was heavy rather than fat. His cheeks were oddly white, as if he never saw the sun. There were long black hairs in his nostrils, but his skin was smooth and strange, as if he never had to shave. His hair was grey and clipped very short. He smelt of cinnamon and cigarettes. I tried to fix his
‘They’re family rings. I wear them all the time, so that I don’t lose them. Even in the lab. If I need to, I wear gloves.’
It seemed amazing that he actually had a family of any kind. He indicated the signet ring with the obliterated crest and laughed.
‘There’s our coat of arms. As you can see, we’ve practically faded into obscurity.’
I peered at his hairless white fingers and the smooth bulk of his hands. Chain-smokers usually have yellowed fingers; Roehm’s hands were perfect, white.
‘You don’t smoke, do you?’ He offered me his cigarettes. I shook my head. ‘But that’s not because your mother won’t let you, is it?’ Roehm chuckled to himself. He was remembering something. Then he slid his arm through mine, as if we were two girls exchanging confidences. It was a very intimate gesture. I felt like a reluctant courtier, being drawn closer to the monarch and implicated in the royal conspiracies, much against my better judgement. But I did not pull away from him, nor did I resist.
‘Look,’ said Roehm.
We turned out of the murky back passages and found ourselves in Chinatown. The restaurants were hung with giant red lanterns trailing golden tassels and long comic dragons hanging from the pointed eaves, glimmering red and fierce in the night air. I stared into the bulging eyes and fine painted teeth of the nearest monster.
‘It’s a festival,’ said Roehm.
I drew closer to him and looked up. Above us, like great gleaming moons, the lanterns swarmed, tier upon tier, looming and swaying above the people who pressed past on the road. The smell of gunpowder rose from the pavements. I heard the sharp crack of fireworks let off by children, a sequence of small explosions, random, dangerous. But above the whiplash of firecrackers, the music was techno, a bizarre throbbing pulse, at odds with the lanterns and the soaring dragons.
‘We won’t eat here,’ said Roehm.
He had the art of creating a secure circle around him, as firm and clear as if he had drawn the macrocosm in chalk before him on the gleaming roadway. I felt as if I had acquired a particularly lethal bodyguard who was armed to the teeth beneath his black leather coat and loose suits. Roehm always wore loose clothes so that his exact size and shape remained imprecise. His outline was comfortable, rumpled. He could become larger if he wished; there was room inside his clothes. My arm felt like a twig against the great trunk of his sleeve. He consolidated his hold upon me.
‘Come,’ said Roehm.
I trotted along beside him, intimidated, bewitched. Suddenly he turned inside an almost invisible doorway, pushing back the leather curtain, and we found ourselves in a hushed French space with no music, smelling of herbs, wine and money. It was a familiar smell. This was where I had come with my mother over a year ago, after the big sales in the gallery in Germany. The head waiter wore evening dress. We were whisked into a corner surrounded by mirrors and art deco coils of green glass. I saw Roehm reflected into infinity, gradually decreasing in size. He took my jacket from my shoulders as if I were a woman, and placed me where he could watch the restaurant and I could only see him. On his way back from the coat stand he paused and peered into the tank, where beautiful speckled fish circulated sadly in a mass of maidenhair weed and pumped oxygen, waiting to be chosen by one of the customers. There were lobsters and giant crayfish waving their pincers and whiskers gently on the bottom. In one corner the crabs were piled one upon the other, like crashed tanks.
Roehm looked back at our table and smiled.
How can I describe his face? He was heavy rather than fat. His cheeks were oddly white, as if he never saw the sun. There were long black hairs in his nostrils, but his skin was smooth and strange, as if he never had to shave. His hair was grey and clipped very short. He smelt of cinnamon and cigarettes. I tried to fix his
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