in bed as Marlene Schibelsky, it might just about have been worthwhile.
‘Who is she, this object of desire?’ said Frau Diski.
‘Oh, I used to tutor her when she was about fifteen. But naturally she’s older now,’ he added hastily.
‘What’s her name?’
‘Adele.’
‘What does she look like?’
‘Ravishing long black hair like nobody has any more except peasants. Huge innocent eyes. Perfect pale skin. Musical laugh. So slender you just want to reach out and stroke her collarbone and her shoulderblades and her spine and her hips and her spine and all the rest.’ He wondered if it was possible to vomit with lust.
‘You needn’t say any more, Herr Loeser. Come this way.’ Frau Diski got up again and led him down the carpeted corridor towards the bedrooms.
‘But I haven’t chosen a girl yet. Have I?’ He realised he was staggering a bit.
‘There’s no need to bring them all out on parade as usual when your description is so evocative. You should be a writer.’
‘I mean, not that I really mind. Just as long as it’s not Sabine again. Not that there’s anything wrong with Sabine.’
‘Here you are, Herr Loeser.’ They stopped, and Frau Diski opened the door to the bedroom before them. Inside, a girl sat on the bed brushing her hair with her back to the doorway. She wore nothing but lacy white underwear, and in the gaslight her skin looked as soft as water, the vertebrae of her spine a row of pebbles half submerged in a stream. The room smelled of clean linen. For a dilated instant Loeser felt as if he were looking at something unreal behind glass, like a photograph in an old locket, but then Frau Diski said, ‘This is . . . Anneliese,’ and the girl turned and Loeser felt his heart leap into his mouth.
‘Frau Diski, I think you must have misunderstood me,’ he stammered. ‘Just now, I wasn’t trying to explain the sort of girl I wanted, I was only trying to explain what had happened to me tonight. Like you asked me to. I’m not – I don’t . . .’
‘I’ll leave the two of you alone,’ said Frau Diski with a smile. She gave Loeser a gentle push into the room and then closed the door, trapping him inside the locket.
‘Anneliese’, who could not have been more than fifteen years old, looked like Adele, but she did not look like Adele at fifteen, nor did she look like Adele at eighteen. Rather, she looked just as Adele would have looked at fifteen if she had already been beautiful, if she hadn’t been pudgy and half finished. She had the hair, the eyes, the skin, the bones, but she also had the youth – she was the old Adele he had once known so well, combined with the new Adele he had met only for a few minutes. The likeness was uncanny, but it was a likeness to somebody who had never existed, a loan from a parallel world.
He knew, though, that this was not a job that anyone should be doing at this girl’s age. Even his own atrophous moral faculties could tell him that. He tried not to look at her body because he knew he’d feel so guilty if he got an erection. Naturally he’d seen very youthful harlots on street corners before, but he wouldn’t have known that there were any to be found here in the cosy Zinnowitz Tearooms.
Loeser stared at the girl, and the girl smiled shyly back at Loeser. Cries of synthetic pleasure seeped very faintly through the wall to his left.
He couldn’t, of course. He couldn’t.
Could he?
2
BERLIN, 1933
When Loeser awoke he realised at once that a mistake had been made: he had been sent the wrong hangover. Somewhere in northern Rhodesia there was a bull elephant who had got drunk on fermented marula fruit, rampaged through a nearby village, and fallen asleep in a ditch, and was now pleasantly surprised to find itself greeting the day with only the mild headache that follows a couple of bottles of good red wine from the Fraunhofens’ cellar. Perhaps if Loeser got in touch with the relevant authorities he could get this unfortunate
‘Who is she, this object of desire?’ said Frau Diski.
‘Oh, I used to tutor her when she was about fifteen. But naturally she’s older now,’ he added hastily.
‘What’s her name?’
‘Adele.’
‘What does she look like?’
‘Ravishing long black hair like nobody has any more except peasants. Huge innocent eyes. Perfect pale skin. Musical laugh. So slender you just want to reach out and stroke her collarbone and her shoulderblades and her spine and her hips and her spine and all the rest.’ He wondered if it was possible to vomit with lust.
‘You needn’t say any more, Herr Loeser. Come this way.’ Frau Diski got up again and led him down the carpeted corridor towards the bedrooms.
‘But I haven’t chosen a girl yet. Have I?’ He realised he was staggering a bit.
‘There’s no need to bring them all out on parade as usual when your description is so evocative. You should be a writer.’
‘I mean, not that I really mind. Just as long as it’s not Sabine again. Not that there’s anything wrong with Sabine.’
‘Here you are, Herr Loeser.’ They stopped, and Frau Diski opened the door to the bedroom before them. Inside, a girl sat on the bed brushing her hair with her back to the doorway. She wore nothing but lacy white underwear, and in the gaslight her skin looked as soft as water, the vertebrae of her spine a row of pebbles half submerged in a stream. The room smelled of clean linen. For a dilated instant Loeser felt as if he were looking at something unreal behind glass, like a photograph in an old locket, but then Frau Diski said, ‘This is . . . Anneliese,’ and the girl turned and Loeser felt his heart leap into his mouth.
‘Frau Diski, I think you must have misunderstood me,’ he stammered. ‘Just now, I wasn’t trying to explain the sort of girl I wanted, I was only trying to explain what had happened to me tonight. Like you asked me to. I’m not – I don’t . . .’
‘I’ll leave the two of you alone,’ said Frau Diski with a smile. She gave Loeser a gentle push into the room and then closed the door, trapping him inside the locket.
‘Anneliese’, who could not have been more than fifteen years old, looked like Adele, but she did not look like Adele at fifteen, nor did she look like Adele at eighteen. Rather, she looked just as Adele would have looked at fifteen if she had already been beautiful, if she hadn’t been pudgy and half finished. She had the hair, the eyes, the skin, the bones, but she also had the youth – she was the old Adele he had once known so well, combined with the new Adele he had met only for a few minutes. The likeness was uncanny, but it was a likeness to somebody who had never existed, a loan from a parallel world.
He knew, though, that this was not a job that anyone should be doing at this girl’s age. Even his own atrophous moral faculties could tell him that. He tried not to look at her body because he knew he’d feel so guilty if he got an erection. Naturally he’d seen very youthful harlots on street corners before, but he wouldn’t have known that there were any to be found here in the cosy Zinnowitz Tearooms.
Loeser stared at the girl, and the girl smiled shyly back at Loeser. Cries of synthetic pleasure seeped very faintly through the wall to his left.
He couldn’t, of course. He couldn’t.
Could he?
2
BERLIN, 1933
When Loeser awoke he realised at once that a mistake had been made: he had been sent the wrong hangover. Somewhere in northern Rhodesia there was a bull elephant who had got drunk on fermented marula fruit, rampaged through a nearby village, and fallen asleep in a ditch, and was now pleasantly surprised to find itself greeting the day with only the mild headache that follows a couple of bottles of good red wine from the Fraunhofens’ cellar. Perhaps if Loeser got in touch with the relevant authorities he could get this unfortunate
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