Entwined (42 page)

"Come on, make up, give me a hug."

He let her embrace him, her beads clanking against his head. He could hear the rattle of her chest, the hideous breathing he had lain next to for fifteen years. She settled back on the cushions and said she'd start calling the clubs, she'd soon trace her.

"Who is she? I mean what's so important about her?"

Magda dialed, and waited. "She stole from me, Eric. I was like a mother to that girl, and she pretended she didn't know me. Well—she's going to know who I am."

Eric eased off his tie, removed his Gucci loafers. They were encrusted with mud around the edges. Magda made call after call, club after club, getting angrier as she described Vebekka in minute detail, down to the cape with the sable trim. She kept on saying it was urgent, she had to find her.

Eric took off his socks, his feet were cold. He was so intent on inspecting his feet he didn't even observe anything strange; he only looked up because the room was so quiet. She sat well back in her chair, her head almost touching her bosom, a cigarette still burning in her fat hand.

"Magda?…Magda?"

Eric walked around the desk, peering at her. The poodle suddenly started pawing at her leg, wanting attention. Eric took the cigarette from her fingers, stubbed it out. He called her name again, then felt her pulse. He withdrew his hand, and gave her body a small push—she slowly sagged to one side, and her arm slid from the desk and hung limply over her chair.

He gave a small, dry laugh like a hiccup, and quickly covered his mouth. He shooed the dog away and it scuttled beneath the desk. He was about to rush out of the office when he remembered he was in his bare feet.

As he slipped his feet into his loafers, he had another good look at Magda, and giggled. It was his club, all his now, and he wanted to hug himself.

The phone rang. He hesitated, deciding whether or not to answer, and in the end he snatched it up. It was the barman at the Vagabond Club returning Magda's call. The woman she wanted to know about had just walked in. "It doesn't matter, Magda's dead," said Eric. He heard the shocked voice asking how and when, and he beamed, but kept his voice to a hushed whisper. "I have to go, I have to get the police."

"Jesus Christ, what happened?"

"Heart attack, I think…"

"My God, when?"

"Oh, about five minutes ago."

"Oh shit, will you be closing the club?"

"No…no I don't think so, she wouldn't have wanted that. Nothin'll change, just that I'll be running the show from now on…so, if you'll excuse me…"

Eric carefully replaced the receiver, looked at the peroxided head of his wife. He couldn't see her face, he was glad about that. He whistled to the dog, and grabbed it by the scruff of its neck. "Your life, sweetface, hangs on a thread. You had better be very, very nice to me." Eric didn't even notice the carving knife on Magda's desk as he walked out of the office.

Vebekka eased her way to the bar, the third she had come to. The champagne had dulled her senses, she was confused and disoriented, and she wanted something—anything—to wake her. The rain had begun again, a downpour. Her hair was wet, her cape soaked, but she pushed her way through the customers, calling to the barman.

Vebekka felt a man brush up against her. He smiled apologetically and then signaled to the barman, snapping his fingers impatiently. His heavy gold bracelet and thick ring shone, and his cheap suit and white polyester shirt gleamed in the fluorescent light.

"Is it raining again?" he asked, smiling, his teeth as white as his shirt. She could see speckles of dandruff on his shoulders, and she giggled.

"I don't speak German, I'm American—or French."

He spoke in pidgin English, leaning his elbow casually on the bar. He asked her if she would like a drink and she nodded, asking for champagne. He hesitated, and moved closer.

"It's very expensive here."

She looked at him with a half smile, and asked for a cigarette. He patted his pockets; she leaned against him and slipping her hand into his pant pocket, she withdrew a cigarette pack and giggled. Confident, he slipped his arm around her shoulders, and then as the barman came over he asked for champagne.

She drank the entire glass in one go, and banged it onto the bar.

"Let's sit down."

She shrugged and wandered off. Taking her by the hand he guided her to a booth, she tossed her cape onto the seat.

"What's your name?"

"Vebekka."

She drank another glass, again gulping it down as if it were water. He moved closer to her; his hand began to feel along her thigh.

She suddenly felt sick, and pushed his hand away, mumbling that she needed to go to the bathroom. He touched her thighs and behind as she eased past him. She stumbled, and he caught her.

"Maybe you need help…"

They headed toward the door marked
TOILETTEN
, and by this time he had one arm around her, the other feeling under her sweater. The door led into a small corridor, ladies' and men's toilets on either side.

Vebekka staggered into the ladies' room. She vomited into the bowl and as the room began to spin, her legs collapsed under her. She swore, pushing herself up against the wall. She began to pant, trying not to be sick again. The cubicle door opened, she hadn't bothered to lock it.

"You okay?"

"I have to go…can you call me a taxi?"

He closed the door behind him and locked it. "Sure…in a few minutes."

She didn't even attempt to stop him from pulling down her panties and heaving up her sweater, she just leaned against him. He undid his fly, and pulled her hands down to his penis. Her head lolled against him, and he dragged her panties further down, ramming her against the wall. She half laughed, she felt like she was on a train, her back rocking against the wall. She kept on half laughing as he rammed himself inside her…it was over, and she laughed louder. He buttoned up his fly, listened in case anyone had come in, and then unlocked the door.

"You call that a fuck? When's the next train through here?" She laughed loudly, and then slowly slid down the wall, her underwear around her ankles. The tiles felt nice and cool, she inched down, rested her cheek on the cold tiles.

She was hauled to her feet semiconscious; the man literally had to drag her out. He dumped her in the corridor and went back into the club. He crossed to the bar, told the barman there was a drunken woman lying outside the toilets, went back to the booth, snatched his champagne bottle and made his way out.

The barman had crooked his finger to the bouncer hovering at the main club entrance.

Vebekka was thrown out of the club and fell into the gutter. She staggered up and stumbled away. She managed to pull her pants up, but she had lost her cape and her sweater was half off. She walked in the pouring rain. She stopped and looked up, opening her mouth to catch the water…she felt almost happy.

Three skinheads passed, and began pushing and shoving her until she slid down against a wall. She put up her hands in a pitiful attempt to protect herself, but one kept kicking her, calling her a filthy whore. Finally they left.

Vebekka sat hunched for a while, and then slowly stood, supporting herself against the wall; she was violently sick again.

♦ ♦ ♦

The baron slammed the taxi door shut. Helen instructed the driver to go to the next club: So far they had been to four, each one more tawdry than the last. They sat in silence. Suddenly, Helen leaned forward and asked the driver to stop. Helen shouted: "I see her!"

She was the first out, catching Vebekka in her arms before she fell again. The baron took off his coat and wrapped it around her. "Put her in the back!" he commanded.

Vebekka rested her head against Helen's shoulder.

"Dear God, look at her face. Have you got a handkerchief, Louis? She's bleeding."

He handed her one. "Aren't we all…here!"

Helen gently dabbed the cut on Vebekka's forehead.

"She's been drinking!"

"Clearly!"

They arrived back at the Grand Hotel, Louis and Helen holding, almost carrying Vebekka between them. The manager rushed forward, but the baron brushed him aside.

"My wife fell. She is all right, just call the elevator please."

The bellboy stared; the woman was so drunk she could hardly stand. He eased open the grid and stepped back. The baron scooped Vebekka up in his arms and Helen hurriedly opened the doors to their suite. Louis dumped Vebekka on her bed. She moaned, and turned her face into the pillow.

Helen knocked on Hilda's door. She would be only a moment, she needed to put on her clothes.

"It doesn't matter, Hilda, just put on a robe. It's the baroness, she…she's had a little accident!"

Helen rejoined the baron, who stood staring down at his wife. "Look at her, take a good look Helen…so much for your damned doctor."

He was so furious that he had to walk out. Helen followed him, closing the door behind her.

"Hilda's bathing her, her stomach's bruised, as if she's been kicked. Louis? Did you hear what I said?"

He stood with his back to her, his hands clenched at his sides. "She stinks like a whore…"

Helen poured a drink and asked if he wanted one, but he shook his head.

She sighed. "I blame myself. The moment we knew she had left the hotel we should have gone out and searched, we wasted time…"

He whirled around. "Have you any idea how many times, how many nights I've had to go looking for her? Searching every seedy run-down club, every red light district…She's been found in alleys, in back rooms, she's been fucked for the price of a drink, and tonight was probably no different. You smelled her, she stinks of sex and booze and vomit—she sickens me, disgusts me, she's been picking up men…"

"You don't know that!"

He looked at Helen as if she were an idiot. "I don't? She has played these games for years,
for years
!

"I don't think she knows what she is doing. Are you asking me to believe she likes what she has been doing? Likes to be beaten up, kicked?"

He snapped. "That's what she goes out for, Helen,
she wants to be treated like a whore, she likes it—she is a whore!"

"Don't shout at me, Louis, I am right here, okay? And no woman likes to be treated like a whore, that is a ridiculous statement! Women who work the streets don't necessarily like what they are doing."

"Oh, please, Helen, don't…don't give me your psychoanalytical theories, I don't want them tonight, I don't want them—period."

"It is not a theory, it's a fact: No woman likes to be beaten, but if you beat her long enough, you will…"

He gripped her tightly. "I have never beaten, struck, or hurt her, I have had reason to, God knows I have had reason, you don't understand…"

"I am trying to."

The scream made them both freeze. Helen ran to the bedroom as Hilda came running out. Her face was stricken.

"It is happening again…please…"

Vebekka was rigid, her hands in fists, her teeth clamped together. The colors were flashing across her mind, terrible, bright colors, reds, greens…they kept on coming, blinding her, she felt as if her brain were going to explode.

Helen tried to talk to her, but the pain was so intense Vebekka didn't know she was there, all she wanted was for the pain in her head to stop. Louis went to the other side of the bed, leaned over his wife, and she rose up. Her scream was low, her hands were like claws as she hit out, clawing at the pain.

Louis backed away, his hand to his cheek. She had scratched his face, drawn blood. Helen ran to the door, shouting that she would call Dr. Franks. Vebekka was thrashing in the bed.

Hilda, terrified, hung back by the door, shaking. Helen called Franks, who said he would be there within half an hour. Helen slipped her arm around Hilda and whispered that she should go back to her room. Hilda clutched her hand. "She bit me, she bit my hand!"

Helen forced Hilda to show her her hand, and was shocked—the teeth marks were clear, deep red bruises were already forming.

"Dear God…run cold water over it, Hilda, and I'll get you a bandage."

Louis stood a few feet from the bed, searching his pockets for his handkerchief, then remembered he had given it to Vebekka in the taxi. He drew out a tissue from a box on the dressing table and dabbed his face. He stared at Helen's reflection in the mirror.

"Franks will have to take her into his clinic. I'm through, Helen, this is it."

Helen nodded. "Yes…yes, I think so too. I'll pack her things, maybe if I call him back now I can catch him before he leaves. Maybe he will be able to make arrangements tonight."

♦ ♦ ♦

The first number had made even Schmidt stand and applaud. Ruda was in perfect form—she was brilliant. She had been flushed with excitement as Grimaldi helped her change. Ringling's scout's in, did you know, Luis?"

He told her he did. "You got them on their feet, it was the cartwheel, you should have seen Zapashny's face, he was open-mouthed—I could feel his envy!"

She began to freshen her makeup. "Zapashny? What's he doing here?"

Luis laughed. "Getting jealous! I've heard Gunther Gebel-Williams is retiring, they must be looking for someone to replace him at Ringling."

She turned in a panic. "Oh God, he's not here to replace me, is he?"

"Don't be silly, you'll see them coming here in droves to get to Ringling's man—get him to see their acts, bribe him, you know the scene."

Ruda brushed her hair, her hands shaking. Luis held out her black shirt, but she pushed it aside, pulling up her tight black jodhpurs. She stamped into the gleaming, polished boots, then she held out her arms as he eased the shirt over her head, careful not to mess her hair. She buttoned the collar. "God, I'm so nervous…this is supposed to be a dress rehearsal!"

"Everyone else is nervous, too, you can bet on it. You look wonderful! Now—make them get on their feet for the next number. You pull it off and we'll be in New York, I guarantee it!"

Ruda checked her appearance, tightened the wide black leather belt. She breathed in deeply, forcing herself to relax. All in black, her hair drawn away from her face, her eyes thick with black eyeliner, she looked like a cat herself, her strong lithe body taut with nerves.