The Girl Behind The Curtain (Hidden Women) (11 page)

She was too much for him. He couldn’t hold it in. He bellowed as his orgasm was ripped from his shaking body. Sarah looked down on him in triumph. She ran her finger down his cheek, then she got up from the bed and was gone. He called out for her to come back. His words echoed in the silence. Then . . .

‘One more try?’

Who had said that? If it wasn’t Silvio then perhaps it had been Sarah. Yes. It was a woman’s voice.

Marco finally got out of bed. He washed without looking in the mirror and shaved in the same way. He no longer cut himself accidentally; he knew his scar tissue very well. But this time, when he had finished shaving he found his hands drifting back to his face, feeling his damaged skin with the tenderness of a lover. Was this what it would feel like if Sarah touched his face?

‘One more try,’ he said to himself.

He dressed and went to his office, opened up his computer and began to write.

Chapter 13

Berlin, last September

Katherine Hazleton’s diary kept me up until the early hours. When I went up to my bedroom after supper with Herr Schmidt, it was about ten o’clock. When I next looked at the clock, it was two in the morning. I had read as far as May. Katherine – Kitty as I had come to think of her, just as her friends did – had escaped the monstrous finishing school at last, sneaking out in the middle of the night to catch a train to meet her lover in Berlin. Her cross-eyed room-mate Miranda kept watch while Kitty shinned her way down a drainpipe. All the girls at the school came to their windows to silently cheer Kitty on her way.

As I closed the diary, Kitty had just arrived in Berlin. She had found herself a room at the Hotel Adlon and sent word to Cord Von Cord that he should meet her there. I had the feeling it would not go well but I also had the feeling that it wouldn’t matter if it didn’t. Kitty Hazleton was clearly a girl of some spirit. As I walked past the Adlon the following morning, I imagined Kitty holed up inside, waiting for her dashing German lover to arrive and relieve her of the heavy burden of her virginity.

When Anna Fischer came for her English lesson, I told her about Kitty’s adventures.

‘My sister stayed at the Adlon once,’ she told me. ‘She was also with an unsuitable boy.’

As I arrived home from a day in the library, I tapped on Herr Schmidt’s door in passing.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘For giving me those diaries. I’m halfway through the first one. It’s really rather funny, don’t you think?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Herr Schmidt, somewhat abruptly. ‘I haven’t read it.’

‘Really?’

‘I don’t read English as well as I speak it and the handwriting is quite untidy.’

‘I suppose it is,’ I said. It was a good job Herr Schmidt had never tried to decipher a page of my own writing, which was legendarily bad.

‘Do you think you can find the owner?’ he asked.

‘Well, her name is on the outside of the letters in the box. It’s not very common. Hazleton. I’m sure I’ll track her down. You can find most people on the Internet these days.’

‘Good,’ he said.

I almost pointed out to him that Kitty would probably be dead by now. Though not necessarily; plenty of people lived to a hundred. Perhaps he already had.

‘If you’d like me to translate the diary for you, I’d be very happy. My German isn’t wonderful, as you know, but between us, we could get the gist. If you’d like to hear what Kitty got up to . . .’

‘There’s no need,’ he said. ‘I don’t need to know what the diaries say.’

‘But . . .’

He shook his head. ‘I’d just like to reunite her with her belongings.’ Herr Schmidt didn’t seem so keen to chat that evening. In fact, he looked a little tired. I bade him goodnight and made my way upstairs.

When I got to my study I discovered that the Internet was working again so I was able to get online and check my private email account. I’d been avoiding doing so at the office because I wasn’t sure whether such things were frowned upon. I scrolled through the usual spam. Bea in Venice had sent me a link to a funny video of a kitten. My mother had sent an email reminding me my sister’s birthday was coming up.

The last thing I was expecting was an email from him. It came in while I was replying to Bea.

Just seeing his name was still enough to make me feel as though I had reached the top of a roller-coaster and was plummeting down through a second of zero gravity, while all my internal organs raced to catch up. I stared at his name, bracing myself for the disappointment that would inevitably follow. Then, when I could wait no longer, I clicked the open button.

Dear Sarah,

I don’t know if you ever expected to hear from me again or if this email will be welcome. I am only sorry that I have to get in contact with you in this terribly impersonal way. I would far rather have written a letter. Putting pen to paper feels so much more intimate than this electronic method of communicating, but right now I don’t know where you are and I didn’t want to contact you via your old university friends.

So, forgive me for this and trust that while this may seem like a lazy way of reaching out, I have certainly not written to you quickly or lightly.

I think I owe you an apology. That afternoon in Venice, when you took me by surprise, I said some terrible things and not all of them were true. None of them, in fact. You have every right to decide to cut me out of your life, just as I asked you to, but if, by some chance, you were still willing to be in contact with me, I would consider myself to be a very lucky man.

With fondest wishes,

Marco.

I couldn’t believe what I was reading. He wanted to be back in touch with me.

I didn’t know how to respond. In so many ways, this was the email I had been waiting for, yet now that it had arrived, it suddenly seemed too little, too late. It was bloodless and formal. So very Marco. And it was a very easy, lazy way to test the waters. I had put everything on the line when I flew to Venice to confront him in person. He had typed a couple of paragraphs and pressed send. If it mattered so much to him to make a good impression on me, then surely he would have found a way to talk to Nick or Bea. He knew I was going to be in Germany; I had told him about it months ago. He might have called the university or sent a letter in its care.

It was not enough. It did not touch me half as much as it should have done. Something about the tone still suggested that an overreaction on my part had led to our estrangement. He said he ‘thought’ he owed me an apology. I found my eyes stinging as I thought about that last trip to Venice. I remembered the moment when he told me to go and I had to walk out past Silvio, feeling like a fool who had misinterpreted mere friendliness as love.

No. I’d had enough of humiliation.

I decided I would not reply. I went so far as to press delete so I could not even be tempted. Marco was no longer in my address book, I told myself. Oh, as though I didn’t know his email address by heart. But I had to stay strong. No more fantasies. I picked up Kitty’s diary again and forced myself to read on.

Chapter 14

Berlin,

Saturday 2nd July 1932

Dear Diary,

I hardly slept a wink after Otto kissed me. I lay on top of the scratchy blankets and remembered the moment again and again and again. When I put my fingers to my face, I could smell the scent of Otto’s hand on mine. He uses a delicious sandalwood soap. Today I’m going to buy a bar so I can sniff it when he’s not around.

Berlin,

Saturday 2nd July 1932

The very early hours!

Dear Diary,

I’ve just got back from work. I had the most wonderful evening.

‘You’re early,’ said Marlene, when I turned up. ‘And you don’t look in the least bit tired, which means he didn’t keep you up. What happened? Did he only want to walk you home so you could gossip? Did he tell you that he’s actually in love with Isadora?’

‘No!’ I protested. I was about to tell Marlene about the kiss when Otto walked in. Everything happened exactly as it does in all the best novels. My stomach actually flipped. I saw stars. He kissed Marlene ‘hello’ as is his custom. Then he did the same to me. But this was no ordinary kiss of greeting. His lips lingered on my cheek. I felt myself turn crimson.

‘I’ll walk you home again tonight,’ he said.

‘Yes, yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, please!’ I couldn’t wait for my shift to be over.

Nothing could spoil my mood. The boorish customers who would ordinarily have made me want to drop sauerkraut in their laps seemed sweet and kindly this evening. I had a smile for everyone. No wonder my tips went up.

When I had my break, I spent it at the side of the stage, watching Otto play the piano. I could watch him for days. He is so beautiful to me. I love everything about him. I love the shape of his head as he bends over the keys. I love his big hands and his strong fingers as they wring wonderful music out of the battered old piano that is never quite in tune. I love how serious his face looks when he’s giving the rest of the band their cues. Of course, my imagination is already in love with the bits of him I haven’t yet seen as well!

So, he walked me home again. This time, we didn’t wait until we were outside the Hotel Frankfort before we kissed. Instead we chose a far more romantic spot, just under the railway bridge. We kissed for ages. My lips are quite chapped and sore. We only stopped when the church bell sounded three and Otto said his mother would be worried that he hadn’t yet come home.

We hurried the rest of the way and outside the hotel is when he asked me.

‘I was wondering,’ he began.

‘Whatever it is, I’ll say yes,’ I interrupted him.

‘I was hoping you’d say that.’ He grinned.

‘Now you’d better tell me what you’re proposing.’

‘Tuesday is your night off, yes? I have asked Schluter if I may have a night off too. He has agreed. And since we both have a night off, I wonder whether I might take you to the Haus Vaterland?’

I clapped my hands together in joy. I have heard great things about the Haus Vaterland. It’s an enormous palace of entertainment on the Potsdamer Platz, bigger and more amazing than anything they have even in New York. I have been itching to see inside. Though I wonder how Otto can possibly afford it. Schluter is a kind man but he certainly doesn’t overpay us. Still, I decided that was a question that would have to go unanswered. Otto wants to take me out and he wants to take me somewhere wonderful. I feel I can be sure now that the kiss was not one of those spur-of-the-moment things that turned out to mean nothing very much. Otto really, really likes me.

Berlin,

Tuesday 5th July 1932

Our night at the Haus Vaterland was everything I had imagined and more. We had Schluter to thank for that; he knows several of the staff at the Haus. Some of them used to work at the Boom Boom. They all remember Schluter fondly and so they were more than happy to be of service when he asked if they could make sure our evening was special.

If the building looked amazing on the outside, it was like something from a dream once you stepped through the doors. The different floors were arranged according to theme. There was a Wild West bar with cowboys and Indians and a Bavarian beer garden with an artificial lake. But Schluter had made sure that Otto and I would experience the most spectacular show the Haus had to offer.

We made our way to the Rhine room. I had heard people talk about it, of course. It was the stuff of Berlin legend. But I was still so surprised when I walked in to see an actual river. A river! Almost as wide as the Rhine itself. On one side of it was a model of a ruined castle. There were even little boats!

A waiter, dressed in the traditional clothes of the region, showed us to our table on the riverbank.

‘My father would love this,’ I said. ‘He’s a keen fisherman.’

‘I don’t think there are any fish in there,’ said Otto. ‘But I wouldn’t be surprised.’

I wouldn’t have been surprised either. The attention to detail was astonishing. I was agog. I wondered how long it had taken them to recreate the Rhine in this corner of the city. Trees grew out of the floor. From time to time we heard cowbells. I was certain I even heard birds tweeting.

The only things that reminded us we weren’t actually on the banks of a real river were the beautifully laid tables and the elegantly dressed customers who sat at them. I was wearing my ‘one and only’. That is to say the ‘one and only’ serviceable evening dress I have since I left so much behind in Munich. For jewellery I only have my crucifix. I felt a little dowdy surrounded by Berlin’s most fashionable fräuleins, in their silks and their furs and their glittering diamonds.

Perhaps sensing I was feeling slightly provincial in the presence of so many exotically dressed women, Otto took my hand across the table and squeezed it tightly. ‘You are the most beautiful woman here tonight.’

And I knew that even if it wasn’t true, Otto believed it. That was enough for me. He was certainly the most handsome man. Oh his eyes. His eyes! I wish I could dive in and go for a swim in those deep sea-blues.