The Empire of the Senses

by Alexis Landau

  Franz mechanically stood up from the dinner table, averting his eyes. The boy is strange, Lev mused when Franz left the dining room, barely speaking. We have nothing in common—not music, not women, certainly not business. He said the other day he wanted to be a farmer, return to the soil. He worships that hermit Heidegger living in the Black Forest among the peasants, willfully provincial. But that is youth, confusing manual labor and living on the land for a certain purity of thought, an ideal that doesn’t exist. Absolutes exist only for children … that’s the problem—Franz is still a child.

  Lost in thought, Lev hadn’t realized that the table had been cleared, the lights dimmed, and he sat here alone. In the next room, he heard the radio on low, playing Vicki’s beloved jazz. She’d probably knelt down next to it, her head resting on a cushion, dreaming of an alternate existence. He had hoped she would linger with him at the table, and the night would grow late, late enough for him to enter his bedroom and find Josephine already asleep.

  When he went upstairs, Josephine was positioned at her vanity mirror, unhooking the coral necklace he’d given her some years back. He asked if she needed help, and she shook her head, the necklace sliding off her neck in one fell swoop. The clink of the coral beads against the crystal bowl, where she kept her less valuable jewelry, sounded like the start of an argument. Lev flopped down on his side of the bed, still wearing his shirt and tie and his lace-up oxfords. Josephine glanced with distaste at his shoes on the bedspread. Then she returned to examining her face in the mirror, tracing the faint lines around her eyes. The sound of a trumpet floated up the stairs. Mitzi growled from Franz’s room.

  Josephine sighed. “Franz seems out of sorts.”

  Lev pulled a cigarette from his case. “I wouldn’t pay attention to it. Only makes it worse.”

  She started brushing her long fine hair. “I’m not.”

  “That’s debatable.”

  She glared at him through the mirror. “Must we always have a debate?”

  Lev smiled sarcastically. “Yes.”

  “I’m tired, Lev.”

  He stared at her long fine hair, the only part of her that had retained her girlishness, but hair was, ironically, dead matter.

  She put down her brush and then picked it up again, scrutinizing the bristles. “When I called this afternoon—”

  “I was out.”

  “Frau Blutcher didn’t know where you’d gone. Is that how you instruct her to answer my calls?”

  Lev peeled off his shirt. The room was stuffy and the ceiling fan sputtered. “I went to see my mother.”

  Josephine stopped brushing her hair and swiveled around on the miniature velvet stool. The front of her dressing gown flashed a slice of white skin. Instinctively, she tightened her robe. “Is she well?”

  “No,” Lev said. “She wants to see her grandchildren. Specifically Vicki.”

  Josephine strode across the room to retrieve her ivory comb. Twirling her hair into what looked like a long twisted ribbon, she tucked it up into a bun and speared the comb into it. Her fingertips lightly touching the sides of her head, she said, “I don’t want Vicki exposed to the wrong elements.”

  Lev kicked off his shoes. His feet swelled in the heat. “She’s old and lonely. Think of your own mother.”

  Josephine flinched. “My mother wasn’t a Bolshevik.”

  “Your mother still sent the Kaiser a birthday card every year.”

  She suppressed a smile. For a moment, Lev thought they might not fight tonight. He stroked the hairs on his chest. It felt good to be touched, even by his own hand. Changing the subject, Lev said he’d heard that at Alfred Flechtheim’s last private party during Fasching, Anita Berber wasn’t allowed inside. She’d stood on the street yelling—everyone heard her all through the Tiergarten, but apparently she was fatally ill, having since gone south, to Baghdad of all places, to die of consumption.

  Josephine perched on the foot of the bed. “Such a shame.” She looked down at the satin bedspread, spreading her white hands over the smooth fabric. “I don’t like Alfred Flechtheim much. I don’t see why you still frequent his flat.”

  Lev sat up, no longer relaxed. “You don’t like Flechtheim because he’s a Jew.”

  She continued to concentrate on the bedspread. “I never said that.”

  “It’s why you don’t want Vicki to visit my mother, to know the Jewish side of the family.”

  She flashed him a nasty look. “You were with a woman this afternoon.”

  Lev crossed his arms over his chest. “Yes, it’s true. My mother is a woman.”

  “Not your mother.”

  “Have you forgotten I’m a Jew too?”

  She winced, as if she couldn’t stand the sound of the word. “Why such insistence on this topic?” She paused. “What I mean is, you aren’t exactly one of them, wearing those fur hats, speaking Yiddish, and praying in the corner.” Then she slumped onto her side, resting her head in the crook of her arm. “I’m tired, Lev. Worn out. Exhausted.”

  “Are the meetings for the German Association for the Protection of Mothers so strenuous?”

  Her lower lip trembled. For a moment, Lev felt sorry for her. The radio had been turned off, and the house was suddenly silent. He only heard the dog climbing the stairs, padding down the hall. He pulled at her robe, and she let it slip open. Shivering slightly, she glanced down at her bare shoulders. Lev’s hands slipped under her breasts, as if weighing their merit. “So I’m a respectable Jew.”

  “Well,” Josephine murmured, “yes.”

  They both laughed. A trace of hope dangled—Josephine’s bare torso, her petulant smile, the way her hair caught the dim light. She stretched out on the bed, her naked body within reach. Lev slid on top of her, enjoying the mutual heat of her breasts pressing into him. She tugged on his earlobe. He nipped her shoulder and then buried his face into her neck, inhaling the soft darkness.

  When he grew more decisive, wiggling out of his pants, pulling down her underwear, he felt her legs tense. He went ahead anyway. On top of her now, both of them naked, her thighs clamped around his waist. He could barely move forward or back. Her head turned to the side, her eyes shut. He didn’t know how to proceed. Touching her face, he whispered, “Josephine? I can’t move …”

  “Herr K,” she began weakly.

  He dropped his head onto her chest. Ever since she’d started analysis, at Lev’s prompting, this Herr K figure had emerged from the shadows of her girlhood with such force it seemed as if she still saw him at family dinners leering across the table, while her father looked on with the passive acknowledgment that his business partner fancied his fourteen-year-old daughter. She kept revisiting one episode in particular, which had occurred on a balcony overlooking a parade. Herr K had appeared out of the darkened living room and, closing the French double doors behind him, had tried to force himself on her. She’d described it to Lev in great detail: she felt the air empty from her chest, her nose rapidly filling with the strong tobacco he smoked. She’d tried to breathe through her mouth, but her throat closed like a fist clenching tighter and tighter. When she jerked her head to the side, she remembered seeing the slow-moving crowd below, the horse-drawn carriages, the brass band with their pageantry, the ladies twirling their parasols, children running. Her head grew light. A chilled sweat broke, soaking her underclothes. The parade dissolved into a blurry whiteness. The last thing she remembered was gripping Herr K’s lapels, afraid she would pitch over the balustrade, headfirst into the throng. Afterward, no one understood what was so terrible about igniting the interest of a good-looking thirty-year-old bachelor with a promising career. She should feel flattered, her mother had said, and they apologized to Herr K, explaining away Josephine’s rude behavior.

  Josephine stroked Lev’s hair, apologizing through her fingertips. Any chance was lost for tonight, as it had been for countless nights. Even before the emergence of Herr K, this cool reluctance, this inability of his wife’s to fully capitulate had persisted; onl
y now she attributed it to Herr K.

  Lev drifted into sleep, vaguely aware of someone clipping the hedge outside. He curled onto his side, yanking the bedspread over his ear, and prepared himself for dreams of Leah, dreams he always had after seeing his mother.

  16

  Berlin, Friday, June 10, 1927

  North of Alexanderplatz, early evening, deafening traffic. Franz walked briskly, turning it over and over—why Wolf had looked at him with such disdain. They’d been eating luncheon in the cafeteria, and Wolf was telling Franz about a youth group, the Wandervogel (Wandering Bird), that met in the countryside on weekends. “Swimming and hiking and fresh air. Only men. Physical training and that sort of thing.”

  Franz had squeezed Wolf’s arm and exclaimed, “Let’s go, Wolffchen!” Wolf recoiled, as if Franz carried some infectious disease. Wolf’s eyes—light blue with shards of a darker sea color—flickered for an instant before he wiped his mouth and threw down his napkin in a gesture that could only imply distaste. But everyone had nicknames in the fraternity—Oswald was Ossie, and Fritz, Fritzi—where did he misstep? The closeness they’d shared had unfolded so naturally over the spring term: fencing in the Tiergarten, swimming in the woods, the clear water submerging their light naked bodies. They shot water out of their mouths, propelling the limpid streams into each other’s faces. But such a friendship proved an intricate dance, and he had stumbled.

  He studied the second hand of his watch ticking. He ran his thumb along the smooth glass surface, chastising himself again for calling Wolf that silly name. He shouldn’t have! A cigarette seller bumped into his shoulder. “Cigarettes?” His sour breath bloomed into Franz’s face. Franz turned away muttering no thank you. Two women dressed as men strode by, bowler hats pulled down to their eyes. They walked arm in arm, cutting through the throngs of people. He trailed them, noticing the way they laughed and smiled at each other, as if they alone felt happy.

  A boy grabbed at his jacket.

  “Hey—what do you want? I don’t have any money.”

  The boy smiled sheepishly. He had a beautiful mouth, lips the color of raspberries. Long elegant limbs. Not so young in fact … close to fifteen.

  “Come on—I’ve got something to show you.”

  “Sure, but why make a point of it on the street?” Franz fingered the banknotes in his jacket pocket—all there.

  The boy shifted from one foot to the other, digging his hands deep into his front pockets. “Come on, don’t make this hard.”

  On an impulse, Franz ruffled the boy’s hair, an auburn brown, soft through his fingers. The boy looked up and a quiet smile passed between them. “Let’s go, then,” he said, gesturing for Franz to follow him.

  Last week, Wolf wrote a poem about his favorite whore. He described her legs, her ass, her breasts—Baudelaire’s my inspiration, he’d said. Franz didn’t know Baudelaire—probably some damn French poet. Then Wolf stopped his raving and asked Franz where he went for sex. Right in front of everyone. “You never have a girl, so?” He’d raised his golden eyebrows, his question so precise and mocking it cut right through Franz.

  The boy stopped in front of a looming apartment block on Breslauer Strasse. The well-lit building led into a pitch-dark courtyard. Franz followed the boy up three flights of creaking stairs until they reached a door illuminated by a paraffin lamp. The whole time Franz stared at the boy’s back, his legs, the way his light agile body easily climbed the stairs made his chest tingle with anticipation. As the boy unlocked the door, Franz stood close behind him and imagined grabbing him, sucking on his soft downy earlobe.

  The door opened into a dingy yellow kitchen that smelled of fried fish and chopped onions. Franz took in the surroundings; the open shelves for plates, the oilcloth covering the table, the cheap glass vase engraved with flowers, the magazine Die Dame flung onto the seat of the chair. A sharp disappointment overwhelmed him when a woman emerged from behind the curtain separating the kitchen from the bedroom. She wore a slip dress and a silk robe over it. A string of fake pearls. A look of acknowledgment passed between the woman and the boy before he disappeared behind the curtain.

  She sat down at the kitchen table and offered Franz a cigarette.

  He stood behind the chair, gripping its frame. “I don’t smoke.”

  She shrugged. “Suit yourself.” She was clearly the boy’s mother—the same auburn hair, freckles on the bridge of her nose, thin lips. Although he would have preferred the boy and was still recovering from feeling somewhat tricked, she wasn’t bad looking—a little heavy in the hips, but her hair had a pleasing copper sheen to it, her hands white and delicate, fingernails clean.

  She sighed and pulled the magazine from the chair. “Take a seat.”

  Franz sat down and folded his hands on the table. He heard a door open and close, and wondered if the boy had left.

  She offered him sugar cookies arranged neatly on a chipped plate. He took one, bit into it.

  She threw up her hands, her bracelets clanging together. “It’s been hard since my husband died. I used to hang around Frankfurter Allee, near the railroad station, but it’s easier with my son”—she hesitated—“lending a helping hand.” She took a long drag and laughed bitterly. “We look after each other, in a way.”

  “How did your husband die, if I may ask?”

  She pursed her lips. “Curiosity—that’s what hooks men. We barely get by these days.” She tapped the long column of gray ash into the ashtray. “So. What would you like?”

  Franz rubbed his forehead, considering the question. He didn’t know. He was still thinking about the boy, his long limbs, the way he’d smiled at him on the street with his open laughing face, hair in his eyes, that youthful dart around the corner as Franz followed closely behind, blood racing.

  She continued, “I did hairdressing before he died. Respectable work.” She sighed again, her freckled chest heaving. “You want to know how he died? He came back from the war in one piece. Two years later, crossing the street, a truck ran over him.”

  Behind her, the curtain rippled. Franz wondered if the boy stood on the other side, listening.

  Her bed had already been turned down in anticipation. She’d put garnet-colored lampshades on the lamps to give off the impression of warmth. She bent over to roll down her silk stockings. Her backside, large, white, and gleaming, sickened him. A great deal of slack skin. When she sat up, her cheeks were flushed. Is this, Franz thought, what Wolf rushes off to on Thursday afternoons? What he boasts of? A waste of human energy. A shame. How he desecrates himself.

  Franz told her to turn around. She nodded, and he gripped her fragile copper hair, some of the strands breaking off between his fingers. The back of her neck was thick and smelled of cigarettes. She grasped the brass bed frame, cried out a little, but she knew how to endure a certain amount of brutality. And yet, she probably didn’t expect this from him—he seemed like a polite boy from a good family, wanting to know what regiment her husband had served in during the war. Franz dug his fingernails into her back and gripped her arm tightly. She would bruise from this.

  Afterward, Franz threw a few crumpled bills onto the bedspread, which had been kicked down to the bottom of the bed. The woman lay on her side, her hand on her stomach. She watched him dress with dull gray eyes. He had exerted himself and it showed. He smoothed back his hair, wiped off his face with a towel he found lying by the freestanding sink. When he left the room, she tucked her chin into her chest and closed her eyes.

  The boy was waiting for Franz in the kitchen. He started to cajole him into handing over more money, but Franz shoved him off, banging the front door behind him. As he descended the stairs, he heard a teakettle boiling, emitting a high-pitched whine.

  “You’re late,” Marthe whispered, removing his linen blazer in the marble entry hall. His arms effortlessly slid out of the silk-lined sleeves. She folded it over, smoothing down the jacket with affection.

  Franz pinched her cheek. “Have they started?”

>   “Your mother insisted on waiting.”

  “What’s for dinner? Anything good?”

  “Oysters to start. Pea soup. Pike.”

  Franz wrinkled his nose. “Dessert?”

  Marthe smiled. “Raspberry tart with marzipan icing.”

  “Delicious,” Franz said, pinching her cheek again.

  “Franz, don’t,” she said, suppressing a laugh. He’d done that since he was little. But Josephine disapproved of such familiarity.

  “Is that you finally?” Josephine called from the dining room.

  He hesitated to answer.

  She appeared at the end of the hallway, a slim apparition in navy silk, the hemline hitting below her knee. She walked toward him, already inspecting. Between her forefinger and thumb, she held the corner of her linen napkin, as if she hadn’t the time to leave it on the table. “Where have you been?”

  “I’ll just wash up first, Mother.”

  “Leave him be,” Lev called from the dining room, followed by a cough.

  He started for the bathroom off the hallway.

  “Wait.” She touched his shoulder. “You’re winded.”

  “It was crowded getting home.”

  She gazed at him, her eyes wide and gleaming. “Why are you late?” She cupped his chin. “You smell of cabbage.”

  Franz gently removed her hand from his face. “The tram was full of stenographers. Rush hour.” He smiled. “Everyone coming home.”

  The dining room blazed with light; the crystal chandelier hanging over the table and the lit candles flickering over the china and the glittery hairpin fixed in Vicki’s dark hair made Franz squint. She’d cut off her hair yesterday—he thought it looked ugly. Vicki was talking about dancing; she was always talking about dancing. She wanted the radio on during dinner because that’s when Radio Berlin broadcast her favorite jazz bands, but Josephine refused, saying music shouldn’t be consumed as if standing at some lunch counter wolfing down a gherkin. It required patience, concentration. “That atonal noise you love—I wouldn’t even call it music.”