by Strauss, Lee
Their guests hadn’t left until the early morning hours, long after Katja had returned from her gig. Times like that she really wished she had her own place. As it was she had to wait for space to open up on the sofa, and eventually she nodded off even though some strange guy stubbornly refused to leave his spot at the other end.
It was noon before anyone started waking up. Katja had a horrible kink in her neck and a growing headache. Outside the church bells rang, which didn’t really help.
Irma sauntered into the room. Her short, black hair stood up in all directions, and dark puffy circles marred the skin under her eyes. She poured a cup of coffee and sipped it like it would save her life. She drank half of it before noticing Katja sitting there.
“Oh, hey. I heard you rocked the house last night.” She slid into a chair opposite Katja.
“Yeah, it was fun,” Katja said. She’d replayed her performance and the small crowd’s response in her head a million times. The thrill of having her talent recognized still energized her. “Herr Leduc offered me a night of my own.”
Irma arched a dark eyebrow. “Really?”
It annoyed her that Irma didn’t even try to hide her surprise, like she didn’t think Kaja had it in her.
“Yeah, really.”
Irma harrumphed and took another sip.
“I have the rent,” Katja announced. She moved confidently to the living room, rested on the sofa and heaved her duffle bag onto her lap. She dug through her things, lifting rumpled shirts and dirty jeans, scraping her nails along the bottom, fingers searching. Her heart sped up. Where was her wallet? She knew she’d put it in here last night when she got home. Icy apprehension filled her chest. She dumped the contents of her bag on the sofa.
No wallet. No, no no!
“It’s gone,” she muttered. A prickly dread washed over her and her joints felt weak. “Someone stole my wallet.”
“Are you sure?”
Katja frantically sorted through everything again. “Yes, it’s gone.”
“That sucks,” Irma said. “But you got that gig coming up at the Blue Note, right?”
“That’s not until next month.” Katja’s eyes grew glassy and she swallowed the lump in her throat. She felt so violated. So disempowered. Now she couldn’t pay her portion of the rent. “What am I going to do?”
Irma cocked a brow. “There are other ways to make good money in one night.”
Katja frowned. “How?”
Irma tilted her head. “You are very naïve, aren’t you? I’m not one to give out easy compliments, but you do have great legs. Get rid of that granny dress and show them off.”
Katja stood in one of the cutaways on the old bridge over the River Elbe that joined the Altstadt with the Neustadt, the old city with the new.
She shivered despite her winter jacket and the scarf wrapped around her neck and strummed her guitar with fingerless gloves. The limestone dome of the Frauenkirche—the Church of our Lady—peaked out over the city’s ancient, baroque skyline. Like all the buildings in the historic center, it had been completely demolished during the Second World War. The entire city was rebuilt to look much like it had before it was destroyed. In essence, the old town was now the new one, and the new town the old one.
It was majestic and awe-inspiring to look upon.
Most days.
Katja’s guitar case lay open at her feet. She’d thrown in the few cents she’d found under the sofa cushions, hoping to lure other donations.
The cold wind kept people hunched over and moving at a fast pace across the bridge, most with chins tucked down and hands shoved into deep pockets. No one took the time to stop and listen, much less drop money in her case.
Go home.
No! That would mean admitting failure. It would prove that Horst was right about her. She was nothing but a thankless leach.
He was no better. A low-class scumbag. Why should she care what he thought?
Besides, it wasn’t like her mother had thrown her out. She probably wouldn’t even notice if Katja quietly moved back in. She could go back to university, get a diploma or a degree, something that would land her a real job.
But going back would mean she gave up on her dreams, that she’d be trapped in a lower middle-class life in Berlin. Horst would definitely mock her—and worse. Bile burned up the back of her throat at the thought of him touching her again. No, she couldn’t go back.
She was talented and she knew it. It was just a matter of time. She couldn’t give up.
Katja closed her eyes and started another song. She heard the clank of coins falling into her case. She looked up to see the old woman who’d dropped the money and thanked her with a quick nod.
By mid-afternoon her fingers were frozen stiff and she had to go to the bathroom. A glance at the coinage told her that she hadn’t made near enough to cover the rent. She sighed heavily and packed up. The ten-minute walk back to her flat felt much, much longer.
Katja stared at the two tiers of fabric she’d ripped off her gypsy skirt lying on the floor like blood that had seeped from her own body. She breathed into her hands, forcing her lungs to expand and deflate at a proper rate, willing her heart to slow.
She didn’t want to do this, but she didn’t have a choice. It was too cold to sleep outside and even if she survived one night, there was always the next and the next. Spring weather was late coming to Saxony this year.
It wasn’t like she didn’t know what to expect. She had her first boyfriend at sixteen. Niklas Reinhardt. She’d crushed on him for a whole year prior to the outdoor party where he finally noticed her. They hooked up that night, and he’d clung to her for the next two years. He’d told her that everyone was doing it and it was expected that a girlfriend give it up for her guy. He was drunk the first time they did it, and it had hurt, but it wasn’t completely awful.
She didn’t know why she stayed with him as long as she did. He was good looking in a geeky, teenage-boy way, but she never loved him. He worked well as a buffer to keep all the other hormonal boys away, though. Dealing with one was enough trouble.
Irma lent her a pair of black high-heel shoes and offered advice. “You’ll be freezing but you can’t act like it. If you have to wear that jacket, at least leave it open. Mess your hair up and wear this.” She handed Katja a tube of bright red lipstick.
Katja applied it with a trembling hand, feeling flustered as her roommate watched her put it on.
Once outside, Katja wasn’t sure where to go.
She thought staying in Neustadt was her best bet. During the day, the town was family friendly, with mothers and fathers pushing baby carriages and holding small hands. Alongside the families, the elderly strolled slowly, and the punks walked their dogs and carried boom boxes. Every wall was either tagged or papered with posters announcing the latest band or event. The bohemian, grunge atmosphere of Neustadt called to artists and inspired unique shopping venues that attracted tourists from all over the world.
At night, it was a perpetual party place. Music blared from the clubs and bars. People roamed freely with open drinks, seemingly unaffected by the cold. There was laughing and shouting and stumbling over the cobblestones. The graffiti artists came out along with the pot smokers. It was a fun, happy place, where young and old partied together.
You could sell drugs, and you could sell sex.
Katja stood on a corner, propped a hand on her hip and presented a long leg covered with sheer, black hosiery. What was left of her red gypsy skirt ended snugly, high on her thigh. She resisted giving into full-on shivering, and pasted a big, phony smile on her face.
She could do this.
No, she couldn’t. It was irresponsible and it was dangerous.
Her confidence faltered and she bit down on her lip ring to keep from bursting into an ugly cry.
Oh, God, what was she doing?
If she went back to Berlin…
Maybe she would call. It was a throwaway phone, the only kind she could afford and she was d
own to her last three minutes. If she called, it would be the last time. She was too cold to think it through and pressed the number on quick dial. She held the phone to her ear with frozen fingers and almost hung up, but a young voice answered after the third ring.
“Sibylle Bergmann,”
“Hi, Sibylle. It’s Katja.”
“Where are you?” Katja caught the tremble in her sister’s voice. “When are you coming home?”
“I don’t know. Is everything all right?”
When her sister didn’t answer, Katja grew nervous. Her minutes were running out. “Is Mama there, Sibylle?”
Katjia heard static and assumed her sister was fetching her mother. Hurry. But then she heard the one voice that made her blood curdle.
“Get your tight rear-end back here, brat!”
Katja disconnected the call and let out a low howl. A quick check on her time allotment showed eighteen seconds left. Not even worth keeping. She chucked the phone into the nearest trash bin.
Fine. This was her reality. She would deal with it. Whatever happened to her tonight could be no worse than if she went back and faced her step-father. And he wouldn’t bother paying.
She took short, quick breaths to regain her composure, and then unzipped her jacket with stiff, red fingers. She forced another smile and turned to face the driver of a silver car that had slowed to a stop at the curb.
She tilted her hips and presented her legs, raking her long hair with frozen fingers.
The window rolled down and a man in a shirt and tie peered out.
“It’s cold. Get in.”
Katja hesitated for a moment before opening the glossy, silver door and sliding into the passenger seat. It was a nice car. Really nice. An Audi. Katja wasn’t a car connoisseur but she new Audis were expensive. It even smelled expensive. It had smooth, grey leather seats and an impressive digital console with all the bells and whistles. And it was warm. Heat even radiated from the seat underneath her, and that was all she could focus on for the first few minutes. She blew on her fingers.
She could feel the guy’s eyes pouring over her. She glanced back, working to keep her expression friendly. She was surprised by his youthfulness. She’d expected to end up with someone much older, but this guy seemed close to her age. He wasn’t bad-looking either. She could’ve done far worse. He had dark, curly hair that was cropped short, a slight shadow of a beard on his chin and jaw and deep-set, dark eyes. Under a black wool pea jacket he wore a dress shirt with a tie loosened around the collar and the top button undone.
His eyes were wide and glassy, and Katja thought maybe he was on something. He gripped the steering wheel tightly with both hands. He looked more freaked out than she was, and she wondered if maybe this was the first time he’d picked up a girl for pay.
“I’m Katja,” she said, hoping to calm him. “What’s your name?”
He swallowed and pulled out into traffic, staring hard at the road in front of him. “I’m Micah.” He had a slight accent.
“Are you American?”
He glanced at her. “Half. My mother’s American. My father is German.”
“What part of America is she from?” Katja had never been outside of Germany and was fascinated by American culture. Especially the music scene. She dreamed of going to Nashville someday.
He mumbled, “New York,” like he really wasn’t interested in talking to her about it. Of course, he wasn’t. He thought she was a prostitute. She stared out the window and doodled on the condensation caused by her warm breath.
“Where are we going?” Katja finally asked. She assumed they were headed to a hotel room. Oh, no. Maybe she was supposed to have arranged a spot?
Micah spoke softly. “To my place.”
Katja’s heart skipped. Was it safe to go to a “client’s” personal home? Was this guy some kind of serial killer? She just wanted to make rent, not end up in tomorrow’s news.
Micah must’ve sensed her reluctance. “It’s just… more comfortable there.”
She heard herself say, “Yeah, sure. That’s fine,” but her flesh prickled with apprehension. What was this guy going to do to her? Tie her up? Beat her? She’d heard stories.
She gulped and stared blankly at the fogged-up window. This was a terrible mistake. But would jumping out of a moving car be any less dangerous?
Her eyes darted back to the driver. He didn’t look like a killer, not that she knew what a killer looked like. The guy seemed to relax a little now that it was decided where they were going. Katja studied his profile. Though his jaw was tight and tense, he had nice eyes.
He couldn’t be dangerous. She was just letting her imagination get away from her. And judging by the guy’s car and clothes, he obviously could afford to pay her.
Katja’s neck flushed at the thought of what she was about to do. Irma told her it wasn’t so bad. Just close your eyes and think of something else, something pleasant. It’d be over before she knew it. Guys wanted what they wanted in a hurry.
Katja knew this to be true by unfortunate experience. It was part of the injustice in the world, a world especially cruel toward women. She wasn’t the first to have to sell her body to survive and she wouldn’t be the last.
She would close her eyes tightly and escape to somewhere else, far away in her mind. She’d think about her guitar and the latest song she was working on. She would imagine playing on a large stage under colorful lights in front of a paying crowd, a huge one that cheered for her when she finished performing. She’d have enough money for whatever she wanted. She would live in a nice, warm, cozy place. A safe place. She’d be respected and valued. She would never be hungry.
It would be okay.
His apartment was a lot nicer than hers. He had matching furniture and a large flat-screen TV.
Katja stood in the middle of the living room unsure about what to do next. She removed her jacket and propped a hand on her hip, trying to look like a sexy vixen instead of the scared little girl she really was. She caught Micah’s eye and removed her scarf slowly, staring at him with what she hoped were provocative eyes.
Instead of responding to her signals, Micah walked to the window that overlooked the river, shoved his hands in his pockets and stared out with his back to her. Why had he even bothered to stop for her anyway? He could easily have hired someone classier.
The silence was thick and awkward, and Katja thought maybe she should bolt. The door was right there, unlocked. Get away before any craziness started.
Micah turned slowly to face her. “Are you hungry?”
Katja blinked. Yeah, starving, but she wasn’t here to eat. She forced a smile. “Maybe we should get started.”
The corners of Micah’s mouth twitched. “I’d rather not… on an empty stomach.”
Fine. “Okay, sure. Let’s eat.”
Micah motioned for her to take a seat at the table, and he proceeded to make a warm meal. Katja didn’t know what to think. She sat straight-backed with her hands on her lap. Micah removed dishes from cupboards and drawers and food from the refrigerator. Soon the large, open apartment filled with the aroma of schnitzel and fried potatoes.
Her stomach growled.
Micah glanced at her a few times as he worked, but didn’t comment.
“Can I set the table?” she asked. He pointed to a cupboard and she found the plates and glasses inside. She removed two of each and placed them on the table across from each other. She noticed the cutlery drawer from when Micah had removed a spoon, and took out forks and knives for each of them.
He dished out the meal, along with a salad that was already prepared in the fridge and opened a bottle of sparkling water. She smiled as he filled her glass, secretly wishing it was something stronger than water. She could really use a drink right about now.
Katja almost felt like she was dining at a restaurant. The only thing missing was a candle. “Smells great,” she said.
He offered her a hint of a grin. “Guten Appetit.”
Once she
started eating, she found it hard to slow down. It had been forever since she’d eaten a meal like this. Micah watched her with a stone face, concern flashing in his eyes.
She smiled and made a joke of it. “My cooking is crap.”
His expression didn’t change and he remained silent. This guy is a piece of work, she thought. Zero personality.
She finished her meal, and then remembered why she was there. Suddenly, she wished she hadn’t eaten so much or so fast. She felt ill.
The silence was driving her crazy. Couldn’t he at least turn on the TV or the stereo?
“So, what do you do, Micah?” she asked. Micah’s eyes remained flat, and she wondered if she’d crossed a line by asking another personal question.
He finally answered, “I work at a bank.”
Katja nodded as if that explained everything.
“How about you?” he countered. “When you’re not doing… this?”
Katja sat back, unsure what she should divulge, if anything. She nibbled her lip ring. He answered her question. It was only fair that she answer his.
“I’m a musician.” She feigned a laugh. “The pay’s not that great.”
Micah rose and carried his dirty dishes to the sink, rinsed them and loaded the dishwasher. Katja stood to help, placing her own dishes into the sink. The move caused her to stand close to his side, and she felt him stiffen.
If she knew what she was doing, she’d know how to make him relax. She’d also know how to get him to hand over the money. She honestly didn’t know how to do either.
“I’ve never done this before,” she admitted.
Micah stepped back, his eyes scanning her from head to toe. He surprised her by saying, “I’m glad.”
He disappeared from the room, leaving her standing stunned in the middle of the kitchen. She didn’t know what to do next, so she finished loading the dishwasher.
