The Good German

by Joseph Kanon

  “Remember the time—” he started.

  “Yes. I know what you’re thinking. I was so nervous.”

  “You liked it.”

  “You liked it.”

  “Yes, I did,” he said, looking at her, surprised to find himself aroused. Just remembering it.

  “I’m sure they saw.”

  “There’s no one here now,” he said, moving her against a tree, on impulse, kissing her.

  “Oh, Jake,” she said, a light scold, “not here,” but she let him kiss her again, opening her mouth, then suddenly felt him against her and gasped, breaking away. “No, I can’t.”

  “It’s all right. There’s no one—”

  “Not that,” she said, shaking her head, distressed. “Anybody touching there—”

  “I’m not anybody.”

  “I can’t help it.” She lowered her head. “It’s the same. Please.”

  He touched her face. “I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t know what it was like,” she said, still looking down.

  “It won’t be like that,” he said softly, but she broke away, leaving the tree.

  “Like a knife,” she said, choking a little. “Tearing—”

  “Stop.”

  “How can I stop? You don’t know. You think everything goes away. It doesn’t go away. I can still see his face. One touch there and I see his face. Is that what you want?”

  “No,” he said quietly. “I want you to see me.”

  Now she did stop, and she rushed over to him, putting her hand on his chest. “I do. It’s just—I can’t.”

  He nodded.

  “Oh, don’t look like that.”

  How did he look? A flush of shame and disappointment? The first bright day out of the sickroom, as murky now as the overcast sky.

  “It’s not important,” he said.

  “You don’t mean that.”

  He put his finger under her chin, lifting it. “I want to make love to you—there’s a difference. I’ll wait.”

  She leaned her face into his chest. “I’m sorry. I still—”

  “We’ll take it a little bit at a time.” A light kiss. “See?” He stopped and held her by the shoulders. “It won’t be like that.”

  “For you,” she said, stinging him, so that he drew away a little. Something new, a voice he hadn’t heard before. But who knew her better, every part of her?

  “A little bit at a time,” he said, kissing her again, easing her out of it.

  “And then what?” she said moodily.

  “A little more,” he said, but before he could kiss her the sky finally broke, a loud crackle and streak of light, and he smiled, laughing at the cue. “Then that. That’s what happens. See?”

  She looked at him. “How can you joke?”

  He stroked her face. “It’s supposed to be fun.” The first drops fell. “Come on, we don’t want you to get wet.”

  She looked down again, biting her lower lip. “What if it never happens.” She stopped and clutched at his shirt, ignoring the rain. “I’ll do it if you want to,” she said flatly. “Right here, like the other time. If you want.”

  “With your eyes closed.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t want to be somebody else’s face.”

  She looked away. “Now you’re angry. I thought you wanted—”

  “The way it used to be. Not like this.” He put his finger to her hair. “Anyway, I’m getting wet. There’s nothing like a cold shower to take your mind off things,” he said, trying to be light but watching her, still uneasy.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, head down.

  “No, don’t,” he said, wiping the rain off her cheek. “We have lots of time. All the time we want. Come on, you’re soaked.”

  She kept her head down, preoccupied, as he led her back to the road. The rain had picked up, drenching the jeep, and it cut into them when they started to drive. He left the open road for the woods, as if, crazily, the trees would shelter them, forgetting that the trails were dirt at this end of the park, full of ruts and puddles. He went faster when they hit the straight road heading east, worried now that the wet would chill her, make her sick again. She had crouched down behind the windshield, curled up against the rain, an excuse to withdraw into herself.

  The woods were dreary and somber, and he cursed himself for taking the shortcut, no drier and filled with shadows, like the rest of the day. What had he expected, sunlit meadows and a picnic rug wet with sex? Too soon. But what if it was always going to be too soon? When she had stood by the tree, shuddering, he’d felt he was back in the collapsing house, its joints creaking, too wounded to be propped up again. A gasp, just at a touch. It won’t be like that. How did he know? Only one of them had gone through it. And he had pushed, maybe ruined things, like some kid eager to get laid. Except he hadn’t planned anything, it had just happened, trying to get it back, one of those afternoons when everything had been good, when they both wanted it. Too soon.

  He stopped to take cover at the Avus underpass, army trucks roaring on the concrete trestle over their heads, but she was shivering, no warmer than out in the rain. Walls dripping, clammy. Better to make a run for it, change clothes, not huddle in the wet. But where? Wittenbergplatz was miles. At least get out of the woods. They passed Krumme Lanke, almost through now, and he saw the street leading to the Document Center. Maybe Bernie was there, snug in his cellar of index cards, but what good would he be? Jake looked over at her, alarmed. Still hunched and shivering, all the healing of the past week about to be undone. A hot bath. He remembered carrying pots to the tepid tub. Speeding now, past the press camp. Maybe Liz had something dry to wear. No civilians in the billets. But who would stop him, the old couple?

  He was lucky. There was no one at Gelferstrasse, the house so empty you could hear the clock. She hesitated at the door.

  “Is this where you live? It’s allowed?”

  “Say you’re my niece,” he said, pulling her in.

  Their wet shoes squeaked up the stairs, leaving prints.

  “In there,” he said, pointing to his door. “I’ll start a bath for you.”

  Water so hot it steamed. He opened the tap as far as it would go, then saw a jar of bath salts Liz had left on the shelf and poured some in. A little foam, the smell of lavender—maybe a present from tall Joe.

  She was standing inside the door, looking around, her dress dripping.

  “Your room, it’s so funny. Pink. Like a girl’s.”

  “It was. Here.” He handed her a towel. “Better get those off. The bath’s all yours.”

  He went over to his closet, stripping down and throwing the wet clothes in a pile. He pulled out a clean shirt and went over to the drawer for underwear. When he turned, he found her watching him and, suddenly shy, held up the shirt to cover himself.

  “You’re still dressed,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said, and he realized she was waiting for him to leave, modest again, afraid to reveal anything.

  “Okay, okay,” he said, grabbing his pants. “I’ll be downstairs. Take as long as you want—the heat’ll do you good.”

  “I’d forgotten,” she said, “what you looked like.”

  He glanced up at her, disconcerted, then picked up dry shoes and headed for the door. “That’ll give you something to think about in the tub. Come on, off,” he said, pointing to her dress. “Don’t worry, I won’t look. There’s a woman lives next door. She won’t mind if you borrow something.”

  “No, I have my new dress,” she said, unfolding it. “Only a little damp here.”

  “See, a bargain,” he said, closing the door.

  Downstairs, he put on his shoes, then sat staring out the window at the rain. A little bit at a time. And yet there they’d been, almost naked in a room, looking at each other. He could hear the water running, but more slowly now, keeping it hot while she soaked. Like strangers, as if they’d never been to bed. Lying there afterward, watching her at the
mirror. But that had been before.

  He got a drink from one of the labeled bottles in the dining room—Muller, who could certainly spare it—and brought it back to the window. The rain was falling straight, not even hitting the open sill, the kind of steady rain that could go on for hours, good for crops and staying indoors. There was a phonograph near the piano, and he went over and flipped through the stack of records. V Discs, the Nat Cole Trio, clearly somebody’s favorite. He took a record out of its sleeve and put it on. “Straighten Up and Fly Right.” Light and silly, American. He sat down with a cigarette and put his feet on the windowsill, brooding despite the music. The last thing he’d anticipated. So sure how it would be.

  When the song repeated itself, he frowned and got up to take it off. No water now, no sounds upstairs. She’d be drying herself, toweling her hair, pinning it back up. He heard a soft movement, like mice, and knew she must be crossing the hall. In his room. He took a handful of records and put them on in a stack so he wouldn’t hear anything else, no rustling, nothing to make his thoughts dart back and forth. Just a piano, bass, and guitar, and the steady rain. He put his feet back up on the sill. The old afternoons had never been long enough—a rush to get dressed, back into the city. Now the minutes stretched out with nowhere to go, as formless and lazy as the cigarette smoke curling up in the empty house.

  He didn’t hear her when she came in, just felt some change in the air behind the music, a smell of lavender. He turned his head and saw that she was standing still, waiting for him to see her. Making an entrance, tentative. He stood up, staring, his mind turning over. The bath had given her color, pink as his room, her old face. But there was more. The dress was a little big and she had belted it tightly, making it blouse over on top, a 1940 dress. She had combed out her hair to go with it, letting it fall down around her face in the old style. All arranged, like an invitation, everything he’d asked for. She smiled shyly, taking his silence for approval, and took a few steps toward him, then turned to the phonograph, a girl on a date looking for something to say.

  “What does it mean, ‘you’re the cream in my coffee’?” she said, looking at the record.

  “That they go together,” he said absently, still staring at her.

  “It’s a joke?” she said, making small talk.

  He nodded, hearing the lines now because she seemed to be listening. “Like that. ‘My Worcestershire, dear.’”

  “Worcestershire?” Stumbling over it in English.

  “A sauce.”

  She glanced over at him. “Do I look all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I borrowed the shoes.”

  And then nothing, just looking at him while the record changed, waiting. A slower song now, “I’ll String Along with You,” the kind they dreamed to at Ronny’s. She came over to him, swaying a little in the unfamiliar shoes, and put her hand on his shoulder.

  “Do you still know how? I think I forget.”

  He smiled and put his hand on her waist, beginning to move with her.

  They danced in a small circle, not close, letting the song lead. Through the thin material he could feel that she had nothing on underneath and it startled him, as if she were naked, past the fumbling hooks and snaps of getting undressed, all ready. He moved away slightly, still unsure of her, but she held him, her eyes on his, keeping him with her. No sound but the rain.

  “You didn’t have to do this,” he said, touching her hair.

  “I wanted to. You like it this way.”

  A smile, pleased with herself, still looking up at him, until finally he didn’t know what it meant, what had happened upstairs, except that questions would ruin it and they were moving together. Just dance, a little bit at a time. The record changed. She moved closer, warm against him, so that he could feel the swell of her down below, the faint scratch of her hair through the material, teasing him. He started to move back.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “I want to feel you.”

  But she had blinked, like the gasp at the tree, and when she put her head on his shoulder it was to close her eyes, willing herself against him.

  “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 kiss
ing 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.