The Good German (24 page)

“Lena, you don’t—”

“Just hold me.”

They danced through the song, not hearing it, their feet moving by themselves, an excuse for being close, and the music worked, he felt her let go, an easy leaning into him. A little bit more. But she surprised him again, pressing tighter to feel him there and putting her arms around his back, her mouth to his ear.

“Let’s go upstairs,” she whispered.

“You’re sure?”

She didn’t answer, just led him slowly across the room so that their going seemed another part of the dance, rhythmic and dreamy, one leg after another up the stairs. Now it was he who was tentative, not sure what to do, following her, watching her stop halfway up to take off the shoes, a slow, erotic gesture, undressing for him, bending gracefully to pick them up, then the bare feet, pale white, as if they were the most intimate thing about her. He followed the rest of the way, watching her skirt brush against her legs, and then they were in his room, the music went away, distant, and he could hear himself breathing. He stood waiting, still at a loss, while she let the shoes fall and turned to him and opened the top button of his shirt, then the next, movements as deliberate as steps. She opened the shirt, smoothing her hands across his chest, making his skin tense at the surprise of it, then went back to the buttons, down, almost to the last, when she stopped and leaned her head against his bare skin, resting there.

“Help me,” she said.

He put his hand to her neck, moving the hair aside and stroking it gently until she tipped her head back to look up at him again, nodding for him to go on. He undid her belt, hearing it drop to the floor, then slowly began pulling the dress up, gathering it until she raised her arms, trancelike, and it was over her head and off, then somewhere on the floor, and she was naked. Both hands now along her neck as he kissed the top of her head, rubbing his face in her hair. He moved his hands down her back, resting at the bottom, then walked her to the bed, sitting her down on the pink spread.

He started to undo his belt buckle, but she reached up and did it for him, the shirt falling away, then pulled the zipper and put her hands on his hips, pushing pants and underwear down at the same time until he sprang free and she was looking at him. She touched his penis, moving her hand over it slowly, making it familiar, and he stood rigidly, his eyes closed, trying not to feel her. Finally he took her hand away and dropped to the bed, moving next to her so that they were facing each other, his hand on her hip as they kissed.

Slowly, a little bit at a time. He began stroking her softly, every piece of skin familiar, the curve of her back, the hollow just before her hip, the underside of her breast, brushing it with the back of his hand until it rose with her breathing, trying to imagine her feeling it, to do it for her. Everything familiar. Except the pleasure, the feeling itself, always new, different every time, like the sky, too immediate to hold in memory. You remembered skin, the shape of a curve, but the rest disappeared and you spent your whole life coming back to it, again and again, only to find it was never the same, each time a surprise. So private no one else could ever feel it. He tried to hold himself back, emptying his mind, but she pressed up against him and there it was again, insistent. But not now; a little at a time, the grateful luxury of simply touching her. All this time and he hadn’t remembered anything, just the outline, just enough to want it again.

“Lena,” he said, a whisper, “are you sure?” but she covered his mouth, an open kiss, willing them quiet, and he wondered where she was, not lost in the feeling with him but somewhere inside her head, maybe in the past, where they no longer needed to go.

He moved his hand down to her thigh, trying to reach her. The soft inside, the most vulnerable place in the world, gently, light enough to coax her back. When he ran his finger along her bush, trying to open the lips, he could feel she was still dry, still closed away, for all the kissing and rubbing against him. Not ready. A little more. He put his finger in his mouth, wetting it, then placed it over her clitoris, just resting it, until he heard her intake of breath, a connection, and began moving it lightly in a circle, the merest graze, moistening it, circling wider and moving smoothly now, getting slick with her own wet. Her pelvis moved against him, as if she were trying to close her legs, but instead they went slack, opening to his finger. “Oh,” she said, an involuntary sigh, as he slipped it farther down, still rubbing lightly back and forth until it was wet enough, then farther, parting the lips, slipping finally inside her, feeling the heat as she closed around him. He paused to let her catch her breath, but she put her hand over his, forcing him to keep moving it, and his finger continued in a steady back and forth, lingering near the top to circle the nub, then down, the lips spreading wider until she was open and wet everywhere, riding his finger. She turned to open her mouth to him again, as wet as below, reaching behind his head to lock him to her as her hips kept moving. When she broke away, gasping for air, shaking a little, it was to take hold of his penis. “With you,” she said, drawing it to her, the head jumping when it touched the slick open skin.

Slowly. He covered her, resting above her on his arms, and she guided him in. He could feel the walls give way and forced himself to stop, letting it slide in slowly, a little at a time, so that it felt she were doing it, pulling him in deeper. When their bodies met, all the way in, she put her arms around him, holding his head down next to hers, and they lay still for a moment, listening to each other breathe. Then a slight movement, so small it seemed impossible it could cause the feeling that went through him, and he was determined now to make it last, not give in to it, because he wanted her with him. Slowly, like a dancer practicing steps, not going faster even when he heard her in his ear, her breath almost a pant. A long stroke in and out, as slow as a tease, then the short, steady movements inside again, one after another, so far in they seemed joined and suddenly he felt her rippling around him, not waiting anymore, and there was a gasp in his ear so that he knew she was coming, grabbing his back. He held still for a moment to make sure, her head turned away as her insides clutched him, an unmistakable spasm.

She turned her head back to kiss him, her breathing still ragged, opening her eyes. I see you. And when they kissed he started moving again, still slowly, because now there was no urgency, they were there, and he felt they would never have to stop if he didn’t go faster and they’d never have to let the feeling go. More. His face was in her hands now as she kissed him, his body still suspended over her, and he realized that she was moving faster, hurrying him, even wetter. “It’s all right,” she said, “it’s all right,” almost a sob, but smiling, freeing him to pleasure himself. Except that it was already everything he wanted, the intimacy, both of them there, and he kept moving the same way, not even aware anymore that his prick was filled with blood to bursting. Just keep moving. No end. He felt her hands on his buttocks, clasping him, pushing him in deeper because she was still moving too, something he hadn’t expected, rocking, and now he had to hold out because he heard little cries, could feel her wrapped around him, the feeling no longer individual, spreading over them both, so that when she came again, a series of shudders, it spurted out of him too and he saw that what he thought he wanted before wasn’t everything after all, this was everything, even as it went away.

He wasn’t aware of falling down next to her, his arm still around her, not even of his penis slipping out, only of her shoulders shaking beside him.

“Don’t cry,” he said, touching her.

“I’m not crying. I don’t know what it is. Nerves.”

“Nerves.”

“It’s so long—”

He ran his hand over her shoulder, feeling the shaking begin to subside. “I love you. You know that?”

She nodded, wiping her eyes. “I don’t know why. I do such terrible things. How can you love a person who does terrible things?”

Babbling. He continued stroking her shoulder.

“It must be your jokes,” he said softly.

“My jokes. You say I never make jokes.”

“Then I don’t know why.”

She smiled a little, then sniffed. “Is there a handkerchief?”

“In my pants.”

He watched her get up, languid, walk over to the pile of clothes, and take out his handkerchief and gently blow her nose, her body still flushed with patches of red, love marks. She stood for a minute, letting him look at her, then held up the pants.

“Do you want a cigarette? You always used to like a cigarette.”

“I left them downstairs. Never mind. Come here.”

She curled up next to him, her head on his chest.

“You didn’t notice the curtains were open.”

“No, I didn’t notice,” she said and even now made no move to cover up or try to draw the spread around her.

“Why did you—”

“When I saw you before,” she said easily. “So white. Like a boy.”

“A boy.”

“My lover,” she said, putting her hand on his chest. “I thought, I know him. I know him. He’s my lover.”

“Yes.”

“Maybe I can feel that again.” She turned her head to look at him. “How I was with you.”

The words went through him, a flush of well-being so complete that all he ever wanted to do was lie there, holding her and listening to the rain.

“It used to frighten me,” she said. “How it made me feel. I thought it was wrong to feel that way. I wanted to have a normal life. Be a good woman. I was raised for that.”

“No,” he said, stroking her, “for this.”

“And now it’s all gone anyway, that life. It doesn’t matter anymore.” She put her head back, lying quietly, looking across his chest at the room. “What’s going to happen?” she said.

“We’ll go to America.”

“Germans are so popular there?” I he war s over.

“I don’t think for us. Even here, the
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Americans look at you— What do they think we did?”

“Never mind them. Somewhere else, then, where nobody knows who we are. Africa,” he said, playing.

“Africa. What would you do there?”

“This. All day long. If it’s hot, we’ll close the shutters.”

“We can do this anywhere.”

“That’s the idea,” he said, pulling her up and kissing her.

She hung over him, her hair falling around his face. “Somewhere new,” she said.

“That’s right.” He ran his hand over her buttocks. “No more terrible things.”

Her face clouded and she turned away, facing the wall. “There’s no place like that.”

“Yes, there is.” He kissed her shoulder. “You’ll forget.”

“I can’t,” she said, then turned back to face him. “I killed him. Do you know what that means? I can’t forget the blood. It was everywhere, in my hair—”

“Ssh,” he said, then put his hand up to stroke her head. “It’s not there anymore. It’s gone.”

“But to kill somebody—”

“You had to.”

“No. It was finished. I couldn’t stop him from that. Then I killed him anyway. With his gun, while he was still on me. Killed him. And I didn’t have to. You think I’m the same person.” She lowered her head. “I wanted to be. Pretending to look like before. But it’s not before.”

“No, it’s now. Lena, listen to me. He raped you. He might have killed you. We all had to do terrible things in the war.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

“What things?”

He took her face between his hands and looked straight at her. “I forget.”

“How can you forget?”

“Because I found you again. I forget the rest.”

She looked away. “You mean you want me to.”

“You will. We’re going to be happy. Isn’t that what you want?”

She smiled a little.

“We’ll start here.” He turned her face and began kissing it, the cheek, then the lips, drawing a map of their place. “We’ve already started. You forget everything when you make love. That’s why they invented it.”

Finally they drifted off, not quite asleep but hazy, like the vapor that hung outside after the rain. They were still lying there, holding each other, when he heard a door close, footsteps next door, the world coming back.

“We should get dressed,” she said.

“No, wait a little,” he said, his arm around her.

“I have to wash,” she said, but she didn’t move either, content to lie there, still drifting, until they heard the quick knock on the door. “Oh,” she said, flipping the end of the spread up to cover them, only halfway there when Liz opened the door and stopped in surprise, eyes wide with embarrassment.

“Oh, sorry,” she said, a gulp, ducking away and closing the door behind her.

“My god,” Lena said, swinging out of bed, grabbing clothes and holding them up in a bunch. “You don’t lock the door?”

He looked at her from the bed, grinning.

“How can you laugh?”

“Look at you, covering yourself. Come here.”

“Like a farce,” she said, ignoring him. “What will she think?”

“What do you care?”

“It’s not nice,” she said, then, hearing herself, began to smile too. “I’m a respectable woman.” You were.

She put her hand to her mouth to cover her smile, a girlish gesture, then tossed his pants over to the bed and started wriggling into her dress.

“What will you say to her?”

“Tell her to knock longer next time,” he said, up now and putting on his pants.

“It happens so often, is that it?”

“No,” he said, coming over and kissing her. “Just this once.”

“Get dressed,” she said, but smiling. She turned to the mirror. “Oh, look at me. My hair’s a mess. Is there a comb?”

“In the drawer.” He nodded at the frilly vanity. He buttoned his shirt and started tying his shoes, watching her at the mirror, the same absorbed concentration. She opened a drawer, searching. “On the right,” he said.

“You shouldn’t leave your money around,” she said. “It’s not safe.”

“What money?”

She held up Tully’s hundred-mark note. “And no lock either. Anyone could—”

He went over to the dressing table. “Oh, that. It’s not money. It’s evidence,” he said easily, the word as far from his thoughts as Tully or anything else.