Leaving Berlin (22 page)

“Who cares what he says?” His hand on the back of her neck now.

“Maybe Sasha’s worse. I’ll miss you—so one last time before I go. As if it’s a love affair he has with me. Ha. Maybe I’ll say no. Just to see his face.” She lowered her head. “But then it’s trouble, so—”

“He’s leaving. All that’s over.”

She looked up. “Yes. Then all my troubles will be over. Until the next one. So there’s an opportunity for you. You can catch me between,” she said, trying to smile, then dropping her head forward, almost to his chest. “Alex,” she said, just his name. “You don’t think I’m like that?”

“
Shh.
How could I think that?” he said, kissing her, not thinking, falling into it. “I know you.”

“You used to say that,” she said, her breath on his neck. “Just like that. The same way.”

“Yes,” he said, kissing her.

“Tell me something more. Even if you don’t mean it.” Both of them kissing now, his head beginning to sway, like Ivan at the table, drunk with her. “I don’t care if you lie to me. I just want to hear you. Like before.”

“Irene,” he said into her ear.

“Look at us,” she said. “In the street.” She leaned up, kissing him. “It’s like before.”

“No,” he said, still in the kiss.

“Then let it be something different. I don’t care. I just want to feel—like myself. Be Irene again. The one you used to like. Come,” she said, taking his hand. “Now. We’re so close. Around the corner. But no noise,” she said, almost giggling, finger to her lips. “Frau Schmidt. Oh, but she’s gone. I forgot. Her sister in Halle. There’s no one to hear.” She stopped. “Alex. Say something. Say you love me. You used to say that. Even if you don’t—”

His head still swimming, the taste of her now in his mouth, their faces wet. “I’ve never loved anyone else.” The words making him feel bare, as if he had just taken off his clothes.

She looked at him, suddenly still. “Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s still true.” She reached up, brushing the hair back from his forehead. “We’ll be the same. I’ll be nice again.”

“Don’t be nice,” he said, kissing her neck, wanting her. “Be the way we used to be.”

They went up the stairs in the dark, afraid the timer switch would wake someone, feeling their way up the railing, then huddling at the door while she found the key, short of breath from the stairs, everything now just smell and touch, invisible. Inside she locked the door, then fell back on it as he kissed her, urgent, that familiar moment when he knew there was no stopping, turning back. She reached for the light switch, but he blocked her hand.

“Someone might see,” he whispered, his hands on her behind now, holding her, excited, the way he remembered, furtive, something stolen in the dark, muffled gasps people couldn’t hear below.

“I don’t care,” she said, more breath in his ear, helping him with her clothes, both in a rush now, hurrying. She moved him toward the bed, clothes dropping, then sat, unbuckling his belt, tugging at his pants, his rigid prick springing out. Kissing it, a lick, a courtesan giving pleasure, too quick almost, unbearable, so that he backed away,
then fell on her, pushing her down on the bed, his mouth on hers, opening it, tasting the inside of her.

“Don’t wait. Don’t wait.” Grasping him below and guiding him until he felt her, already slick, ready, and, excited by the wet, he pushed in and stopped, just feeling the warmth around him. She moved against him until all of him was in, as far as he could go, and he thought he would come then, before they’d even started, and pulled back, but then couldn’t stay, pushing forward again, giving in to it, faster, a rhythm that seemed beyond their control, his ears filled with the sound of creaking springs and his own blood. There had been times when they’d lingered, working up and down each other’s bodies, stretching out the afternoon, but now they were back in the dunes, tearing at each other while Erich walked down on the beach. Deep inside, what seemed like the end of her, then out, a mindless thrusting, hearing her panting, the sound like some hand pushing him, an almost violent rocking, feeling the pleasure beginning to work its way up through his body, racing through him, about to spill over. Too soon. But she was there before him, the panting now coming in gulps, little cries, and then an actual cry, loud in his head, squeezing him below in spasms, as if she were literally pulling the sperm out of him, the moist walls clutching him until it was finally there, splashing out, draining him, so that when he finally stopped, resting on her, he felt empty and full at the same time.

She reached up, cradling his face.

“I’m sorry. I was too—”

But she was shaking her head, still stroking him. “Alex,” she said.

He rolled off, lying next to her, and she turned, facing him, her hand on the side of his head. “Nobody ever wanted me the way you did.”

He said nothing, just breathing, slower now.

“You don’t know that until you’re with someone else.” She paused. “But then it’s too late.”

He lay still, wanting a cigarette but too lazy to get it. Another minute, quiet.

“What are you thinking?”

He smiled to himself. What women asked when you weren’t thinking about anything.

“I wish it were that summer,” he said, talking to the ceiling. “And I could put you in my pocket and take you away. Before anything happened. To any of us.”

“In your pocket,” she said. She looked down, tugging the skin on her hip. “If I could fit now. Not like then.”

“Yes, you are,” he said, turning.

“Liar.”

“You told me to lie,” he said, a smile.

“Well, for a joke. I knew you wouldn’t. You couldn’t. Not to me. I’d know.”

“Would you?” he said, no longer drowsy, suddenly uncomfortable. He got up and found his jacket, taking out the cigarettes.

“Of course. We know each other.”

She took the cigarette he offered.

“We used to,” he said, all the flushed well-being draining away. Her face soft, unaware. What he told himself he wasn’t going to do. Not this line.

“No, we do,” she said, sure. “Oh, white lies maybe. Things you don’t like to tell me.”

“Like what?”

“The wife who looks like me. She doesn’t really, does she?”

“No,” Alex said, the easier answer.

“No. I thought so. You see, I’d always know.”

He looked away, no longer able to play, then put out his cigarette and sat on the bed.

“Irene, listen to me. There’s something—”

“No, don’t tell me anything. Let’s not tell each other anything. Do you think I want to know?” She stopped. “Do you think I want to tell you about me?”

“You don’t know—”

She put her finger to his lips.

“You don’t have to explain anything. Your wife, any of it. Everything that happened to us—it happened somewhere else. Not here,” she said, touching the bed. She looked over at him. “Nobody ever wanted me so much.”

He looked back, the same falling sensation.

“It’s not about that.”

“What, then?”

Everything he couldn’t say.

“We can’t, that’s all. I’m sorry, I should have—”

“No, it was me,” she said. “I wanted it.” She raised her eyes. “We both did, didn’t we?”

He said nothing, at a loss.

“You remember that summer. We thought we had—all the time we wanted. And we didn’t. Only a little.” She moved toward him on the bed. “And then in the war, you know what I learned? I could die any day.” She opened her fingers, something invisible flying out of them. “Any day. So that’s the time we have. One day.” She sat up, her face close. “One day,” she said, kissing him.

Feeling her next to him, his skin alive again, warm.

“So tell me everything later.” The words curling up like ropes, wrapping around him, then folding over each other in knots.

This time it was slower, almost gentle, hands all over, touching what they hadn’t before, so that every part of them felt aroused, blood rushing to the skin, and then a release that went on and on, their bodies pulsing with it, lingering even after they fell back, away from each other, and began to drift.

After a few minutes her breathing changed, the slow, even sound of sleep, her hand still resting on his chest, and he covered her shoulder with the duvet, suddenly aware of the cold seeping through the cracks around the window. No one burned coal at night, burrowing instead under blankets in cold rooms. He lay there without moving, wide awake, watching the faint light from outside on the ceiling, dread moving over him like a cold draft. Everything Campbell had hoped, in her bed, listening. But for how much longer, the golden source back in Moscow, Irene no longer useful. Tell me everything later. But he couldn’t tell her anything, not even that he would leave too. One day. Unless he never got out. And then what? Afternoons in her bed, still lying. Coffee with Markus. His real life bleeding out, Peter a memory, no longer in his life, the best part of him. Irene moved onto her side, her back warm against him. No one ever wanted me the way you did. He couldn’t do this. Give Campbell something else.

He heard the footsteps one flight down, clumping, not worried about being heard. The click of the timer switch, a slit of hallway light under the door. Now on the landing, just outside. He waited for the knock, suddenly apprehensive, then heard the scratch of a key in the lock. Someone with a key. He jumped out of bed, grabbing his pants off the floor, just zipping up when the door swung open. Markovsky, outlined by the hall light behind him. Alex picked up a shirt. Now what? A series of Feydeau doors slamming? People darting in and out? But there was nowhere to go, the bedroom straight off the living room, the old hinterhof style, and now the overhead light was on, catching them like a flashbulb. Irene sat up, holding the duvet to cover herself.

“Sasha,” she said faintly.

Markovsky looked from one to the other. “It didn’t take you long, I see. Get up.”

“It’s not what you think,” she said, but he waved this away, not even interested.

“Get up.”

“What’s wrong?” she said, reaching for her robe.

He watched while she put it on and belted it. “What’s wrong. I knew what you were. But not a liar. Where is he?”

“What are you talking about? Coming here like this—” Trying to go on the offensive, parrying.

“Do you think I’m such a fool? Asking questions and all the time—” He turned to Alex. “And you? Did you know too?”

“What?”

“We captured one. With this type it usually takes a few hours. The interrogation. But no, this one right away. The truck. Lichtenberg. Names. Who else? Ah, von Bernuth? And they just take everything down and I’m standing there and what do I think? How you lied to me. To my face.”

“What are you talking about?” Irene said. “What von Bernuth?”

“Erich. Your brother, no? One of the little birds that flew out of the cage. But now we put him back. Where is he?”

“Erich? Erich’s in Russia. Dead, maybe, I don’t know. What birds? What are you talking about?” she said again, avoiding Alex’s eye, playing it out.

“No, not in Russia. In the Erzgebirge. But now not there either. So where? Here? Where I pay the rent?”

“The Erzgebirge,” Irene said, a gasp. “The mines?” She looked up. “You knew he was there? In that terrible place?”

“You think I know the people there? To me they’re mules, that’s all. Something to haul the stuff out.” Almost spitting it out.

“So you come to me?”

“He got to Berlin, we know that. Where else would he go? The big sister, ready to hide—”

“Sasha, I swear—”

“Where else?” he said, louder.

“Look for yourself,” she said, spreading her hand to take in the flat.

His gaze followed it, landing for a second on Alex, now buttoning his shirt. “And what do I find? Already at it. Old friends. What a slut. And to think I came here to protect you.”

“Protect me?”

“They hear von Bernuth, they don’t know it’s Gerhardt now. Not yet, anyway. But I know. So I think, get him out of there before they see she’s involved. No one has to know. Do you know what it means, helping such a person?”

“But he’s not here. I never saw him. I didn’t even know he was— I thought he was in Russia.”

She turned and picked up a cigarette, a pause between rounds. “Protect me,” she said, lighting it, her hand shaking a little. “Protect yourself, you mean. Your girlfriend, right under your nose. It doesn’t look so good for you, does it? Protect me.”

“Where is he?” He looked at Alex. “With you maybe? This is how she pays?” He nodded toward the bed. “To have you hide him? Once a day? How many times?”

“Bastard,” Irene said. “And what does that make you?”

He crossed over to her, grabbing her arm. “Where is he?”

“Take your hands off me. I don’t know. Anyway, how do you know it’s Erich? Because somebody says so? Maybe he’s lying.”

“He was in no condition to lie,” Markovsky said flatly.

For a minute, no one said anything.

“So it’s true? He’s in Berlin?” Irene said.

“You know he is.”

“And if I did know, I would tell you? Sasha, he’s my brother,” she said, her voice softer, tacking. “How can you send him to such a place? My brother.”

“I didn’t send him there.”

“But you’d send him back.”

“No one leaves. Until we say.”

“Oh, we. Who? You and God? It’s one man, that’s all.”

“If he can do it, so can others. It’s not possible, to allow it.”

“So he’s a slave?”

“He was a German soldier. And he pays for that.”

“For how long? The war’s over and we’re still paying. The new lords and masters,” she said, cocking her head toward him. “First the rapes. Animals. And now what? Drunks like Ivan. Pawing me at the table. Like peasants.”

Markovsky colored, then looked down, not rising to this. “That’s what they think, you know,” he said to Alex. “They lose the war. Everything. And they still know best. The great German
Volk
. All gentlemen. Not like us.”

“At least they could flush a toilet,” Irene said, her voice suddenly haughty, von Bernuth. “The Russians—a mystery to them. Where were they from? I don’t know. The back of beyond somewhere. You never got the chance to ask. Before they raped you. That they knew. Experts.”