12

Käthe Hiller moved along the street with what she hoped was a confident, sanguine stride. Her oriental-style strawberry-red shoes clapped the stone street, as the gritty breeze of the city air gently grazed her skin. She tried to remember how long she had waited to see the night scenes of Berlin. She was ready now, primed by an appetite that had been brewing for years, a need for something bigger, stranger, more wild – a feeling that her parents could probably never understand.

It had been just two weeks since she and Thomas met for the first time on the roof terrace. She recalled the manner of her own introduction – and smiled to herself with embarrassment: ‘My name is Käthe Hiller,’ she had said. ‘I don’t much like the name, but in a world like this it’s the least of mankind’s worries!’ She held out a hand. ‘I shake hands when I meet somebody for the first time; next time we meet you can kiss me once on the cheek.’

She blushed at her own words, which sounded so naïve in retrospect. What impression she was trying to make, she had totally forgotten.

Secretly she checked herself to make sure she appeared how she intended. She wore a smart earthy-green woollen overcoat with a purple thistle brooch pinned on the lapel. Her skirt, a heather-green colour, came down just below the knee, and the new pair of red shoes, which had cost her a week’s worth of wages, fitted perfectly well.

The man she was meeting stood on a street corner with his hands lolling in his pockets. She saw him first. She liked that, the tiny advantage it gave her.

He turned and, all of a sudden, she was there. How finely dressed she was!

‘Hello,’ he said.

She smiled. ‘What a warm evening. I think it’s pretending to be summer.’

She drew her hair from her face, a gesture that reminded him of the instruction she had given on their first meeting. He took the chance to place a light-hearted kiss on her cheek.

‘It will be summer before you know it,’ he said, thinking on an alternative tack that when summer did arrive he would have to give up his raincoat. ‘Did you have any problems finding your way?’

‘Of course not. I took the train and then the tram.’

‘So shall we find somewhere for a drink?’

‘Yes, let’s do that. Oh, do you know the Romanische Café? I’ve heard that’s where all the writers and artists and actresses go. Will you take me there? We might bump into someone famous.’

‘Perhaps,’ Thomas said, not wholly keen on the myth that had gathered around the place. ‘Do you really want to go there?’

‘Don’t you want to? I’ve heard it’s the best hangout.’

Thomas was hesitant. In his opinion, the reputation of Romanishce Café far outweighed the reality. To him it was overpriced, oversubscribed and full of pretend characters. He hated feeling like a tourist in his own city.

‘Can I see where you live first? Is this the building?’ she asked, pointing.

He was happy with the change of subject and immediately forgot about his misgivings. ‘You want to see inside? Why not? It’s not much to look at mind you. Nothing in comparison to your roof terrace.’

As they went inside she told him a story about her neighbour’s dog and how its barking had kept her awake all through the night.

‘But,’ she explained, ‘just recently I was given a new radio set, and in the evening before bedtime, I always listen to some music. Whatever I can find on the dial. The other night I head the most marvellous performance of Schubert. One of his symphonies, I don’t know which. I enjoyed it so much I wasn’t ready to sleep, so I used the wretched dog as an excuse to stay up half the night and search for more music playing, though most of the time I was listening to crackle.’

‘So you like music?’

‘I like everything! Oh that reminds me – is there anywhere around here to dance? I adore to dance.’

‘There’s a place not far from here. I’ve never been there before, but we can try it out. That’s one thing about this city at night: if you want something, you can always find it.’

Together they climbed the stairs to the first floor. Just as they reached the top, Thomas spotted Herr Beenken slothfully descending from the floor above.

‘Quickly,’ he said. ‘Let’s get inside.’ He grabbed Käthe’s arm and pulled her to his room. But it was too late. The sniffling old man called out and the pair were trapped. Thomas introduced his companion.

‘Very charming too,’ Beenken said, sending a smile into the air. ‘My wife,’ he began, changing the subject immediately, ‘has a silly idea she wants to visit Africa. That barbarian place. I can’t think why. Can you explain it to me?’ Thomas knew he was lying – Beenken didn’t even have a wife. ‘Is there not enough to see in this historic country?’ Beenken asked.

Thomas began to pull on Käthe’s arm again, leading her off the landing. But Käthe was keen to stay and chat. ‘You should never underestimate the lure of the exotic,’ she said in the sort of cheerful tone Herr Beenken might approve of.

Indeed he did approve. His eyes widened as he steered his head in Käthe’s direction. ‘You are right, of course,’ he said, delighted by his new acquaintance. ‘You are certainly right, but still I won’t let her go. The real challenge is to find the exotic on one’s own doorstep.’

‘Yes, I agree. Is your wife here this evening?’ she asked.

‘Oh no,’ Beenken said confidently. ‘She is singing in the theatre tonight. She has a role in a new play up town. Can’t think of the name right now. But what a pretty woman she is. Only twenty years old! Lives on the second floor.’ He pointed a meaty finger up towards the vacant room on the second floor.

Käthe glanced at Thomas, a confused look in her eye.

‘We have to be going,’ Thomas said.

‘So soon? Well, yes, I suppose young love can’t wait…’ Beenken trailed off, only to start up again. ‘Thomas? Do you remember Fräulein Gerlach?’ Beenken suddenly took on a misty, romantic look. ‘I took her to Baden Baden once for a romantic weekend? She had a beard, which was bad luck for her. Do you remember that fascinating woman? Well, no, perhaps you don’t. The two of us were lovers for a few months. The autumn of eighteen ninety-nine… Hah! You’re surprised that I could love a woman with a beard, but my dear boy, she didn’t have a beard when I knew her. Oh no, that only came much later. After I’d broken her heart. And do you remember the girl with the huge chest, Fräulein Benn? Probably you don’t. That was years before you came to live with me. What a bosom it was! Shame I never got to see it in its full glory!’ The look in Beenken’s eyes glazed for a moment, and Thomas saw his little grey turtle-tongue poke out between his teeth and wiggle in the light. ‘They were marvellous women,’ the old man went on. ‘The sort of women one doesn’t encounter these days. You are not alive in good times boy. This country has seen better days. That is why you never have girls here, because all of the quality has gone from this country.’

‘Excuse me!’ Käthe interrupted.

‘Ah yes, ah yes. Still some beauty time can’t steal, of course.’

‘Time for us to go,’ Thomas said again.

‘You’re leaving. Yes, of course you are. But let me just say this to you Thomas: Don’t ask too much of your young friend here. Don’t be too forward. She is pretty, so she will get men swarming around her all of the time. If you want to make an impression, take my advice and don’t be too forward with her. That is my wisdom speaking.’

Thomas feigned an appreciative smile.

‘Are you listening to me? That is the smartest lesson I ever taught myself – how to love without expecting much in return. Then, my dear boy, life becomes extraordinarily rich. Falling in love is the pleasure that it should be enjoyed as many times as possible.’

Thomas stifled a growing frustration. ‘We’re leaving. Goodnight Herr Beenken.’

‘Aren’t I going to see where you live?’ Käthe protested.

‘Another time.’

‘Goodbye,’ she called to Beenken.

‘Goodbye my darling,’ he called back. Thomas winced.

The couple emerged back out onto the street, which seemed livelier now than earlier. They promenaded through the evening material, where people gathered and laughter bloomed, lamplit frivolity arriving from all directions. They found themselves caught up in numerous exchanges with strangers; people seemed drawn to the couple. Fleeting glances and happy chit-chat. A young French couple asked for directions to a hotel. A man with a patch over one eye asked for money or anything they could spare. Then, all of a sudden, a party of Jewish socialites came tumbling out of a side door and for a minute swept the couple along with them. They were so delighted to find two young and happy lovers that they invited the pair to stay with them and eat with them and drink with them through the evening. Such attention made the new couple feel overwhelmingly convivial.

‘Where is the dance hall? Is it near here?’ Käthe asked. Thomas led the way with a breezy stride. When they arrived outside a large, daunting looking building, they stopped to read the posters pasted on the wall: ‘A Traditional Russian Evening’ Thomas read out loud. The pair looked at each other, laughed for no good reason, and then went inside. What they found they would never forget.

The hall was large and loud. Whatever was going inside, it was already in full swing. At the front a small orchestra played, dominated by a booming drum that kept time to a chorus of violins and clarinets. The music was loosely played and some of the violinists stood up and swayed to the rhythm. From the ceiling streamers hung, forming a multi-coloured canopy that stretched above the entire dance floor like the sky at sunset. The marching beat of the music made everything tremor. In the middle of the hall, a crowd of happy revellers kicked their legs and stamped their feet to the beat of the percussion.

Thomas’ initial impression was that the whole thing was an orchestrated ball, an unruly mazurka, perhaps traditional to the people there. But on closer inspection he realised it was much too shambolic for that. It was more of a pretend custom, with the people making exaggerated movements and expressions, laughing at each other and generally mocking the whole occasion. After a while the music seemed to reach a climax, where all the people stamped their feet in chorus and the noise was deafening. Then, once the climax was overcome, a man who stood at the helm of the small orchestra, who wore some kind of official-looking red uniform and a seafaring-style hat, shouted out a phrase in what was presumably Russian. Then with a great gasping voice, waving his arms in circles, encouraged the band to start up again. The musicians obliged, only this time louder and faster and more absurd than before. At this, the people cheered and went back to their gruesome dancing, laughing and slapping each other on their backs. It was quite a sight, garrulous, aggressive and utterly silly all at once.

Thomas and Käthe looked at each other and began to laugh. Who were these people? Some clapped, some shouted and sang, some pointed and made fun. What a circus it was! Käthe put her hands over her ears and pulled a face. They decided they would not stay long. There was something frightening, almost disheartening in the spectacle. Instead, they went back out onto the street and giggled and made fun of the strange dancers inside.

Käthe couldn’t help grab Thomas’ hand. Together they made a dash down the street, laughing between them and almost tripping over in spontaneous euphoria.

She led him towards some people who had gathered up ahead, to what at first appeared to be a street performer with a crowd looking on. The performer wore a large overcoat and was holding onto a broomstick and was shouting energetically to the makeshift audience.

‘Come forward, ladies and gentlemen,’ he called. ‘I want to welcome you into my travelling circus, a cabinet of vulgarity. You will not believe your senses! Come see our closet of curiosities.’

‘What have you got?’ came a shout from the crowd.

‘My good man, we have a woman with three breasts!’ At this, the small crowd laughed. ‘But that is not all! We have the dwarfs – with hung ding-dongs! Oh yes, and we have the man who has defied all of science – he is pregnant! But there is more! We have real-life lesbians!’ Now the crowd exploded into exuberant shouting. Two young boys ran forward and pushed the circus man, knocking the broom out of his hand. Nobody knew what the broom was for. ‘Clear off! Get away!’ he shouted, then regaining himself, ‘Now, ladies and gentlemen. We have unmentionable delights. Just come inside my tent. You’ll see nothing less than the pickled brain of a prostitute!’ The crowd burst into shouting again. The performer was clearly nothing but a bawdy charlatan. There was no tent to speak of.

At this point, another passer-by began shouting back at the entertainer, accusing him of immoral ranting and stupidity. ‘Where is your circus, you fool? You are a drunken madman! Go home.’

‘My circus is through here,’ replied the speaker, pointing to a brick wall behind him.

‘There’s nothing there,’ replied the other man. ‘Why don’t you go back to the sewers? Leave this city.’

‘Sewers? Did you hear that ladies and gentlemen? He called me vermin! No sir, I am a magician. I am the bearer of fantastic gifts.’

‘You bring pollution! You are polluting this city.’

‘Nothing of the sort. I tantalise the senses. I bring the people what they have been looking for! This city is dying. Let’s not waste another moment crying over our worthless pearls.’

‘We don’t want your type here.’

‘I may be wicked, but I am fun. Come into my circus and see for yourself.’

‘Never!’

The two men squabbled for several minutes more until most of those who had gathered had moved on. Without an audience, the argument soon petered out. Even so, both men were obliged to have the last word.

‘Vermin!’

‘Showman!’

‘Beast!’

Thomas and Käthe hastily carried on along the street. ‘This is a very strange area of town,’ she reported excitedly.

‘This is the town I have grown used to,’ Thomas replied.

The pair stopped in at several cafés, all of which brimmed with customers, crowds of gentlemen gesturing, bartering and brokering, creating an excitable, vital atmosphere. Finally, the pair found a place to settle. The lamps on the tables flickered and the strange bohemian bar fell dark for a moment. It was a cosy den, with a low ceiling and intimate seating booths. As the room filled up, the air grew thick with cigarette smoke and rattling chatter and the clink and clunk of drinking glasses being toasted. Silver strangers in the deep folds of the city.

A merry satisfaction swept through Käthe as she soaked up the surroundings. She watched the clamour of Berlin’s night crowd unfurl and felt completely fulfilled by what she saw. To her, every individual was memorable. Not the village middle-classes that she was used to but a different hoard of people altogether, of artists and poets and probably some criminals too, all of them undoubtedly heroes of their own lives. Dressed up in pink and black and green, drinking rum and gin, reading each other’s palms, a claustrophobic menagerie of dark glamorous things with heavy eyes and sharp makeup. The men were thin and the women were full of angles, cheekbones and elbows. They had feathers in their hair and their dresses shimmered with a thousand sequins. People were laughing and arguing. Rumour came around that a famous actor was drinking there tonight. She couldn’t help glance about her for the chance of a sighting.

They sat in the corner of the bar, and for the first time all evening Thomas had Käthe all to himself. In the low yellow light that came from the lamp on the table, he saw her up close. The mayhem of the city was finally shut out.

From a distance she was striking to look at – a confident manner and a brave, modern sense of style. Up close, her youthful face and broad cheeks were beautiful in an unexpected way. Beneath her animated smile, her straight nose and shallow eyes, Thomas saw an altogether more delicate expression that dwelt so imperceptibly that he doubted his senses. The distraction of her high-fashion made this expression invisible from afar, but up close it was true and eloquent. It took him by surprise because he had generally thought of her as full of character, of boundless energy. But now he could not miss the finesse of melancholy she exuded, and that only endeared her to him all the more.

‘I’ve always wondered what happens to people when they come to live in a big city like this,’ Käthe said. ‘Do they all become more real, more intense, like poets, where every emotion is magnified to match the pace of life? Does your appetite for living grow like that?’ As she spoke, she realised she was sharing some of her more eager thoughts, and as she did, noted to herself that she must feel relaxed enough with Thomas to express them.

‘I don’t know what it feels like.’ he said laughing. ‘Perhaps I’ve been in Berlin too long.’

They spoke for a while about his life in the city, and then she took her turn to describe the circumstances that had brought her to Potsdam. ‘We have a large family,’ she said, ‘spread all over the country. I could probably find a member of my family to stay with in any city I chose.’

‘What about Berlin? Which member of your family lives here?’

‘My brother Arno. Somewhere! But he never stays still for moment. He likes the restlessness of it here. He told me that corruption is around every corner of Berlin. Communists plotting revolution – perhaps even here in this bar.’

Thomas felt a sudden disturbance at hearing Arno’s name. So far, he’d spent the evening in a type of amnesia about the events on the roof terrace. Now the fires of that night lit up again like curling flames against the walls of his mind. He had to ask her about Arno, yet he found himself balancing a wish to find out more against a desire to keep the night strictly between the two of them.

He trod carefully, cautious not to alarm. ‘Did you hear from your brother in the end?’

‘I wish he could see this place,’ she said, apparently not hearing his question. ‘He would adore it here. He is one of the keenest night-owls I know.’

‘So you’ve seen him?’ His tone was hopeful, but he suspected he knew the answer already.

‘No. I’ve invited him to stay with me plenty of times. But he has his heart set on Berlin.’

Her answer prompted a thought that had long been nagging at the back of his mind. If it was Arno who had approached him and Erich in the bar that night, then why did he ask for a place to sleep? Why not go straight to Käthe’s apartment? Why go out begging when he had a loving sister who lived in the same town?

Käthe’s next statement seemed to supply the answer.

‘Arno’s trouble is that he gets himself into difficult situations and then is too embarrassed to ask for help afterwards. It just seems to happen to him. I think that’s why he disappears for months on end.’

‘Do you worry about him?’

‘Sometimes. But I know he will appear, like magic, one day soon.’

Thomas sat back in his seat and hoped with all his will that she was right. ‘Where in Berlin does he live?’ he asked next, as a new thought came to him.

‘Arno? He lives in Hallesches Tor district, near the U-Bahn station. It’s a rough part of town, but he likes it there. I think it’s all he can afford.’

‘He has an apartment there?’

‘In a manner of speaking. He lives in a roof attic above a bar called Café Kaiser. Right in the pitch of the roof like a starving artist! And do you know what? He never takes his key with him because he thinks he’ll lose it.’

‘He leaves his apartment unlocked?’

‘No, he hides the key in an electricity box at the entrance. Frankly, that’s really all you need to know about my brother!’

Käthe laughed to herself.

‘And his glasses,’ – she started up again – ‘remember we found them on the patio? Well, I worked out how they could have got there.’

‘How?’

‘My aunt must have left them. I will ask her next time I see her, but it had to be her. Arno probably visited her, forgot his glasses, then she brought them to me. That’s the only explanation I can think of.’

‘I’d like to meet Arno one day,’ he said clumsily.

‘Of course. You will soon, I’m sure. Now when are you going to answer my question?’

‘What question?’

‘What happened to you when you came to Berlin? Did you change?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Try harder then!’ She gave him a playful shove.

‘Nothing happened to me.’

‘Nothing? But something must have happened. Didn’t you feel different? Awoken?’

Thomas thought for a moment, feeling oddly agitated by the question. He was not satisfied with the discussion about Arno, and now he wasn’t satisfied to move on from it. ‘I thought about changing my name,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Then I thought about becoming an illegal gambler.’

‘I beg your pardon. You’re joking aren’t you?’

‘An illegal gambler, or a boxer, or maybe a tattoo artist.’

‘Now I know you’re joking.’

‘The truth is that really nothing happened to me.’

‘So you really have nothing to tell me? I thought you were going to give me an insight into real life.’

‘You don’t need me to tell you. What have you been waiting for? I was exploring every night when I first arrived.’

‘I’ve joined a weekend gymnastics club.’

‘Is that all? What about in the evenings? I love to walk the streets, especially in the evenings.’

Käthe smiled. ‘I’ve been waiting for someone to walk with me.’

‘There’s no need to wait.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. You could be out every night if you wanted. This place never stops.’

‘Is that so? But there are differences between men and women. Didn’t you know that?’ She arranged her hands on her lap in a mock show of obedience. ‘Well? Didn’t you know that a woman must wait for a man to take her? It really wasn’t my choice, but I’ve been waiting since I first arrived.’

Suddenly Thomas felt embarrassed. That was not the way he understood Berlin. ‘You haven’t seen much of the city then?’

‘Not much. Now, there’s a task for you. Won’t you show me around?’

‘Yes, I suppose I’d like that.’

‘You know I’ve hardly been anywhere. Is it true that women dress up as men and men dress up as women? Where are these places? Can we go there tonight?’

‘Where have you heard all these things?’

‘In newspapers. In magazines. Haven’t you seen these strange things that go on? It must burn your eyes to see them. What about tonight? Tonight has already been one of the oddest I’ve ever known.’

‘No, it is not so strange once you see through the rumours.’

‘Do you know what they write about this city?’

‘I’ve read things. But I read it as a mistake.’

‘A mistake? I should tell my mother that. She is so upset that I am living here now. She thinks I will be corrupted – or worse.’

‘That’s one of the triumphs of this place. It has managed to convince everyone else that terrible things happen here.’

‘Is it all a myth then? Is it a myth that some nightclubs have been closed down because the shows they put on are scandalous?’ Käthe’s eyes widened as she leaned forward more. ‘Is it a myth that artists and top-hatted businessmen and murderers all play cards around the same table?’

Thomas laughed.

‘Criminals and saints! The sinners and the divine!’ – Käthe was animated.

‘The truth is, nobody really knows which stories are true and which are made up. But I know what I think.’

‘Oh.’ Käthe fell quiet, staring forward, somewhat disappointed. Thomas watched her eyes as they passed over the bar and the people gathered there. Then the gravest of thoughts passed through him, like a wind passing through a house, closing doors and startling the inhabitants. Within an instant he looked on Käthe with the utmost dread as he tried to subdue thoughts of her brother tumbling over the railings. This terrible impasse, a pause in an otherwise happy string of emotions, placed him in a difficult contortion, of contented admiration and extreme dissatisfaction.

Why would he make light of Berlin? Was he indifferent to the city? – far from it. He loved Berlin, and he was frightened of Berlin too. He could talk for hours about Berlin; but under Käthe’s spotlight, he was convinced it was best to say nothing.

He stood up for a moment, seized by a rush of blood. He found himself telling her they had to leave right away. He grabbed her hand and led her out of the bar without giving any sort of explanation. She was confused for a moment, but then, under the mistaken impression that she was being led somewhere exciting, succumbed to the spontaneity without protest.

He led her across two or three streets in haste, and then when a tram rolled up beside them he decided they would take it. Yet it wasn’t long before his manner betrayed his real frame of mind. Once seated, he was quiet and sullen, and Käthe soon recognised that she had stopped enjoying herself.

Minutes went by. Her tiredness – and the glasses of gin she’d drunk in the bar – suddenly started to catch up with her. She began to fall asleep, her head rocking and swaying towards Thomas’ shoulder. They had not spoken a word since leaving the bar. The tram shuddered forwards in the direction of the Potsdamer Platz, grinding and rattling in all its parts. As Käthe turned her body around, yawning, she aligned her legs next to his and let her head tip onto his upper arm where it came to a rest.

He felt her warm and moist breath rise to his face. He noticed threads of her hair clinging to the sleeve of his raincoat. She was an accomplished sleeper and gave the impression of being able to sleep anywhere. He could never do that in public. The prospect was too dangerous by half. But Käthe was able to, even in these surroundings, even in these circumstances, and he was envious of that. The tram was all battered wood and corroded metal finishing. It felt cramped and cold that evening; a buzzing lamp overhead was trapped behind its metal casing, rattling like a fly inside a bottle.

For a moment Käthe half-woke and looked up, her watery eyes replete with disappointment and tiredness. She put her head back on Thomas’ arm, fell asleep quickly, and all he could wish for was to fall asleep too.

The firm weight of her head on his coat sleeve caused him to think of her presence in the more conceptual terms of mass and burden. Their lives had come together, and now, almost immediately, like planets and stars, they had begun to exert a force over one another. How it had happened so quickly he could hardly explain. Two weeks ago they were strangers, and now this! A cosmology was establishing, that was true. System and regularity, attraction and momentum. How remarkable life was!

For now, even though she was apparently asleep, Käthe reached over and took hold of Thomas’ hand and clutched it from above, sinking her fingers into the gaps between his. He thought: the hands of lovers meet like this. Her smart young mind, her smart gymnast’s body. Yes, as she slept, he was able to say that he did like her very much, and that, yes, he would like to be her lover and her friend. He enjoyed her probing questions, her optimism and excitement, her energetic spirit. He would like to welcome her into the city, to place his palm around her and keep her close. And how easy it would be for him to do that, to kiss her lips and seal the arrangement for just a minute. But he felt foolish. Why had he corrupted the evening with his odd brand of behaviour? Why was he unable to contain his irrational mind when in her company?

He unthreaded his hand from hers and she began to wake. He watched her eyes open and grow in the light, the electric glare reflected in her fine green irises. She turned her face upwards and looked at him, her expression still drifting in the tides of sleep.

‘Are you ok?’ he asked her gently.

She allowed a smile onto her face. ‘I’m fine.’

‘You seemed to sleep peacefully. Did you dream?’

‘I can’t remember. If I did, they’ve disappeared.’ She let her gaze meet the landscape outside. ‘Is this still Berlin?’

‘Of course. We’re just going around in circles.’

‘Has the train to Potsdam gone?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Then take me to the station please. I think I would like to go home now.’