The Empire of the Senses

by Alexis Landau

  “I guess,” she said, stealing a glance at him.

  He frowned. “It’s much more difficult to wash white. I would think people are less likely to buy such a color. The moment you step outside, dirt jumps on it.”

  She smiled. “That’s probably why people like it. You would only wear it if you could afford to wash it often, as if all you did was lounge in drawing rooms, eating tea sandwiches.”

  He nodded, turning this over in his head. “I think it’s arrogant, to wear white.”

  Vicki shrugged.

  Passing a gourmet butcher, a hulking ham hung in the window. He wrinkled his nose, as if he could smell the pork through the plated glass.

  “I would personally choose never to wear white,” he added.

  “Never?”

  Next to the butcher, hydrangeas, carnations, tulips, and baby roses crowded a florist’s window. Vicki stopped in front of the elaborate display, pressing her palm against the cool glass. “What if you were getting married?”

  He looked down at his shoes. “I would wear a dark suit.”

  “But if you were a woman getting married, would you still refuse white on principle?” she teased.

  “I am not a woman,” he said curtly.

  They stood in front of the florist’s window, staring at the flowers, all of which looked artificially perfect. Vicki imagined that the dewdrops peppering the hydrangea leaves had been carefully dispensed with a syringe to suggest freshness.

  He turned away from the window. “Those flowers look strange, wrapped up in red foil. I prefer wildflowers, just growing in the fields.”

  “Are the ones in Russia much prettier?”

  “Of course.”

  Vicki thought he maintained quite strong opinions for an immigrant, disliking most of what he saw. And yet everyone else she knew always raved about everything, describing, for instance, the iced coffee at Hiller’s as divine, fabulous, utterly supreme.

  Their pace slowed to a more leisurely stroll. When she asked him where he was from, he flashed her a mysterious handsome smile. “You already know this, so why do you ask?”

  “But where in Russia?”

  He gazed at the church steeple rising up above the congested city. “Mitau. Just a little village, about fifty kilometers from Riga. It used to be part of Courland, then Poland, then Russia, and now Poland again. I’m sure it will change twenty times over.”

  “Mitau,” Vicki repeated, her face lighting up. “I know it.”

  He laughed. It was the first time she saw him laugh, the skin around his eyes crinkling up like the folds in a paper fan.

  “I really do,” she said, putting her hand on his arm. He stiffened and she felt the smooth shape of his musculature tensing under his thin coat. A warm flutter moved through her body, like a moth trapped inside her chest. “My father was stationed there during the war.”

  He glanced away uneasily. “Your father, is he from Berlin?”

  “I grew up just across the park. My name’s Vicki, by the way, short for Viktoria, but everyone calls me Vicki, or V.”

  “Vicki,” he repeated, staring at her. “I like your hair short, even though it was beautiful long.”

  She frowned. “How did you know my hair used to be long?”

  Heat traveled up his neck, blooming into his face. “I apologize—I only meant to say it must have been beautiful long. My German is still not as good as I would like.” He rubbed his forehead and glanced down at the pavement.

  She took his arm, and this time, he didn’t tense under his jacket. “Your German is quite good.”

  “Let’s keep walking. It’s so nice to walk,” he said.

  As if in silent competition, the store windows lit up one by one, anticipating the moment when the sun would set and their bright facades would illuminate the streets, causing people to stop and desire what they saw. The lit windows reminded Vicki she didn’t have all night to wander the streets. But she didn’t want to rush off, especially after her blunder—she hadn’t meant to make him feel self-conscious of his German, so she walked on a little longer, overly aware of the minutes ticking by on her watch. She tried not to glance down at her wrist, but a general sense of anxiety settled over her as she thought about her mother, who hated it when she ran late. And then she’d have to explain her lateness, and she couldn’t possibly mention walking with a strange man down Potsdamer Strasse, which was already out of the way from her usual route. To get home, she’d have to cut back up to Kurfürstenstrasse. An omnibus heading in the direction of Charlottenburg stopped at the corner. Vicki dove her hand into the side pocket of her purse, confirming she had the fare of ten pfennigs, plus another five to tip the conductor.

  She explained that she was already late, but it had been so enjoyable to walk with him, and maybe she would see him again at the reading room, but it was the weekend now, so she might not go until Monday, especially with the fine weather—but, oh, the bus was leaving any second, so unfortunately she’d have to say good-bye. The words tumbled from her mouth while he maintained a stony silence, which only caused her to grow more verbose. Finally, she stopped, out of breath, and said before hopping on the bus, “And after all that, I nearly forgot to ask your name!”

  He looked stunned, as if she had asked him something extremely disagreeable.

  As the bus pulled away from the curb, he shouted back, “Geza.”

  Her white-gloved hand fluttered in the early evening air. “Good-bye, Geza.”

  At dinner, his name lingered on her lips as she pushed bits of fish around her plate. She fought the urge to say his name, to mention how she’d met him at the library, even in a casual way, because then her father would surely ask too many questions and her mother would say she shouldn’t walk with strange men on public streets without a proper introduction. Her mother sat very straight, her shoulders pushed back, her long neck tilted forward as she carefully inserted little bites of white fish into her mouth. She wondered if her mother had ever felt this anticipatory excitement, wondering when she would meet him again, if he would come to the reading room on Monday morning or if he would wait a few days, purposefully building a sense of expectancy around their next encounter. Her mother, so cool and controlled, only cared about Franz, who now slumped in his chair, staring at his soup, which he hadn’t touched. Vicki smoothed down her hair, reminding herself of its shortness. Franz had barely noticed it yesterday, but when he did, he’d wrinkled up his nose in disgust and said now she looked even more unattractive than before.

  Now her mother was talking about the radio again, how insufficient it was in conveying the true timbre of a musical composition. She put down her fork, always the signal that she was preparing to say something important, or at least something she thought important. “Radio trains the ear to such unrefined tones, produced in such a slapdash manner, that the delicate gradations are entirely lost over the airwaves. The beautiful tones”—she paused, clearing her throat—“the beautiful tones have been abandoned, resulting in that continuous, irritating stream of undifferentiated sound. For example, how can anyone distinguish a viola from a double bass?”

  Lev listened with amusement—Vicki knew he’d trained his face to assume this expression whenever he disagreed with Josephine, which was often. Just the other day he’d exclaimed how amazing it was to hear the ringing of the church bells in Trier, the live reporting of a boxing match, including every bloody punch, or the deafening crush of horses galloping at full speed around the track, all within the comfort of his living room. He’d been talking to Marthe, trying to convince her that a plug-in phonograph was much handier than a hand-cranked gramophone.

  Franz stared at his water glass as if it held other worlds in it, as if he wasn’t even at the dinner table. Vicki tried to get his attention by making a face at him, but he ignored her. Lev leaned over his plate and said in a conspiratorial tone, “Remember the way Marie acted when we first explained the radio to her?”

  Josephine smiled with affection.

  �
��We told her that if someone played music in France or even America, you could hear it in Berlin.” Lev grinned. “And then Marie said?”

  Vicki rolled her eyes—how many times must they recount the same old stories?

  Josephine gestured for Lev to keep going.

  He took a sip of wine. “Marie said, ‘But how can the music possibly be so loud?’ ” Lev clapped his hands together, trying to illicit a laugh from Vicki and Franz. Vicki smiled at her father; she couldn’t help herself. His eyes danced mischievously. He poured himself more wine.

  Josephine added, “But then I told her, ‘No, Mother, the music is transformed into tiny mechanical waves and then travels through the air, sometimes over millions of kilometers, to where we are.’ And then Mother said how barbaric it sounded—well, I think she’s right in the end!” Josephine stroked her coral necklace, and Vicki wondered if she’d ever let her borrow it. Maybe. When Vicki came home that evening, out of breath and full of apologies for her lateness, Josephine had said, “The short hair—I think it might suit you after all.” And then miraculously, she’d smiled.

  Her mother continued to play with the coral beads, and Vicki, without even meaning to, pictured herself wearing the necklace the next time she met Geza. The bright pink stones would draw attention to her neck, his eyes resting on her clavicle and then moving down to her décolleté.

  Josephine focused on the crystal chandelier hanging, in teardrop tiers, from the ceiling. “Do you think Mother senses it when we talk about her?”

  Lev squeezed Josephine’s hand. Lately, she made these vague spiritualistic statements, and despite her questioning tone, her eyes would take on a hard gleam as if she truly believed her mother hovered over their dining room table, listening.

  Vicki asked if she could turn on the radio—she wanted to listen to Erno Rapee. Otherwise, it was tedious sitting here with Franz’s long face and her mother’s wistful sighing. She needed a place to put her pent-up energy. She wanted to dance wildly, to sweat, to feel her body move and twist and quake to the rhythm of jazz. Just then her father started reminiscing about the waltz, that bygone era before the war, and then he swooped her up in his arms, showing Vicki how to glide around the table in one smooth, controlled motion. Even though she disagreed with him, hearing herself shout, “No, it’s too boring!,” she loved it when he danced with her. He could always tell what she was thinking just by studying her face. She wondered, as he gazed into her eyes, if he could tell she’d met someone. “Relax your hands,” Lev instructed. “Let me lead.”

  Vicki sighed.

  “See? We’re floating.”

  Vicki laid her cheek on his shoulder, closing her eyes. Lev counted the time under his breath: One, two, three, one, two, three, with the emphasis on the first beat. He’d smoked a cigar before dinner. She could smell it on his shirt, and even though she detested cigar smoke, she didn’t mind the scent on him. It reminded her of all the times she would wander into her father’s study to find him steeped in a fog of bluish smoke as he leaned back into his desk chair, turning something over in his mind. When she asked him what he was thinking, he would press his fingertips together, as if holding an invisible orb, and say, “Business.” When she asked again, he would grin and say it didn’t concern her; it was just a problem he was trying to solve. If he thought about it long enough, he would solve it. “It will come to me. It will come,” he’d say, picking up his half-smoked cigar and puffing on it from time to time.

  As she slowly opened her eyes, Lev started cajoling her about growing too thin.

  “It’s the fashion!”

  He squeezed her arm. “The fashion? I think I feel your bone protruding, right here!”

  Josephine leaned over Franz, massaging his hunched shoulders, asking if he felt ill. Vicki knew he found it tiresome, this fussing, yet Franz handled his mother like an antique vase, couching his frustration in gentle phrases, keeping his voice level and low as if she might break from the slightest hint of annoyance on his part. It was probably why she loved him more, because he never yelled at her, always taking the time to explain even the most mundane details of his day, whereas Vicki had no patience for her mother’s questions. The minute Josephine asked her something, Vicki felt a red-hot irritation flash through her. Last week, Josephine innocently inquired if Vicki had any intention of mending the run in her stockings. Immediately, Vicki answered, “No, I don’t. And I don’t care.” “But it will get worse,” her mother had said, and this caused Vicki to ask her why everything must always get worse from her perspective. “If you leave them at the top of the stairs, I will mend them,” her mother replied, her voice trembling, as if Vicki had wounded her greatly.

  They stopped waltzing, and Vicki fell back into her chair. She sipped a spoonful of pea soup, but it had grown cold. Franz stood up abruptly, excusing himself. Josephine sprung up to follow, but Lev motioned for her to stay seated.

  Her face reddened. “What if he’s ill?”

  Lev massaged her hand. “He’s fine.”

  Marthe set down a marzipan cake, shaped like a dome and covered in pale green icing.

  Vicki rolled her eyes. “If I were dying, literally dying on my deathbed, you wouldn’t even notice.”

  Lev lowered his voice, pouring Josephine more wine even though she hadn’t touched her glass. “Darling, I don’t think that, in the future, you should ask about his girlfriends. He’s a private type, and I think it embarrasses him to talk about those matters in front of everyone.”

  “Do you think now I could listen to my radio program? Erno Rapee and his band are performing live and—”

  Lev nodded, but then he said, “Wait. Just wait one minute and have a coffee with your old father.” He grinned, and this performance of self-pity always amused Vicki. She took a large bite of marzipan cake, letting the icing melt on her tongue. He launched into one of his stories, which often ended in a question that purposefully invited debate. But she didn’t feel like debating tonight, and with Franz upstairs and her mother sitting here anxiously, the atmosphere felt strained. Lev soldiered on, recounting how he’d read that the last great Persian storyteller wandered through the Middle East, but no one cared to listen because everyone was inside, glued to the wireless for the latest news. “The old myths are dying out.” Lev’s eyes twinkled. “Capitalism has made everything into an object of mass consumption. We’re all driven by what we can buy next.”

  Vicki crossed her arms over her chest, vaguely wondering how he started off with an Arab storyteller and then arrived at economics. “You produce objects of consumption.”

  “Yes,” Lev said, folding his cloth napkin in half and then into thirds. “And the alternative?”

  Vicki felt a wave of indignation sweep over her. “There are alternatives, Papa.”

  “Would you like to live in a mietskaserne with your friend Elsa, sharing a communal bathroom?”

  “If everyone cooperated …”

  “I can tell you, it would be much worse.”

  Her ears burned and her head hurt a little. But her father would keep sparring in this light playful tone until he won the argument. Utterly exhausting. She slumped farther down in her chair.

  “Why do you think so many Russians are flooding Berlin every day? Why do you think Herr Levenski has moved in next door, when in Saint Petersburg he had a palatial estate ten times the size of this house? The Reds are killing their own people by the thousands. When I was in Mitau”—he paused for effect—“I saw the work of the Reds. Brutal. They killed without sense. At least you could reason with the czar’s army.”

  With the mention of Mitau, she thought of him again. Geza. His name tingled through her, a tight buzzing nervousness she’d felt all through dinner. Struck with the sudden urge to ask her father if he’d known Geza from Mitau by any off chance, she scolded herself for such a naive thought. Of course not. Why would her father know him? He barely spoke of the war as it was … and if she did ask, he would tease and cajole, relentlessly questioning her about this
Geza, how she knew him, if she fancied him, and Vicki wanted to keep Geza a secret. His lank blue-black hair that kept falling into his eyes, how closely he’d stood next to her, so close she could feel his breath, or the way he’d lightly taken her elbow at various points during their stroll—she didn’t want anyone to know how often she’d retraced these little moments, and each time, a renewed excitement washed over her at the mere thought of him.

  Her father continued, “It’s easy for you to support the cause, as you say, sitting here in a comfortable dining room with plenty of food on your plate, your belly full, knowing tomorrow you will wake up in a warm bed, and buy new earrings at Wertheim’s. Not a bad life, eh?”

  He waved a finger in the air, his lips curling into a smile. “You and your grandmother prefer to see the world through red-tinted glasses.”

  Vicki fiddled with her coffee spoon.

  “She asked after you today.” Lev reached over, stroked her cheek. “You look more and more like her.”

  After dinner, in the sitting room, she switched on the radio. Upstairs, she heard the muffled voices of her parents arguing. Running water echoed from the kitchen as Marthe rinsed out the last coffee cups. She heard Franz jerk open his window, followed by the creaking of his heavy boots walking across the floor planks. As long as she kept the dial low, she could listen in peace. She pulled a velvet pillow off the couch, and spreading out a blanket on the carpet, she sank down. Pulling her knees into her chest, she closed her eyes to the sound of a lonely saxophone reaching into the darkened room, followed by a low throaty voice full of sorrow and longing, full of all the things she felt.

  19

  Berlin, Friday, June 10, 1927

  On Friday mornings, Josephine went to Dr. Dührkoop, a psychoanalyst with a private practice on the top floor of an imposing stone town house on the southern border of the Tiergarten. She had been seeing him for the last four months at Lev’s insistence. At first, she resisted, arguing there wasn’t anything wrong with her, until Lev started chronicling her migraines, which had grown more severe after the death of her mother last fall, and her night terrors, which had also increased. Now, she looked forward to the sessions, where, for a full fifty minutes, once a week, she lay down on a soft chaise lounge and talked about herself—behavior that, in any other setting, she would deem utterly indulgent.