Leave Your Sleep

by R. B. Russell

  ‘Would you like to see it?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course I would, but I’d understand if you’d rather not show me.’

  Was I after the approval, the admiration even, of a complete stranger? I don’t believe that I would have done such an audacious thing if I didn’t feel that I could trust the man. And for some reason I did trust him, although I could not explain him.

  ‘Look away,’ I said, and he nodded and walked over to the window and stared out of it.

  I very carefully took off my shirt, and then undid my trousers, lowering them along with the short length of the dress hoping that the tiny metal plates would not get hooked or snagged on the material. Luckily they all fell back into place. Then I allowed the trousers to drop to my feet and I stepped out of them.

  I ran my hands carefully over my waist and hips, getting ready to face the man, and to give him permission to turn around.

  I looked up, but he was already staring at me in appreciation. I should have rebuked him, but such admiration is so rare that it would have been wrong to spoil it.

  ‘You look wonderful,’ he said, and for the first time I took the compliment and believed it. ‘The dress is a work of art. It’s as though it was made for you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, looking down at my feet in what I hoped was a demure fashion. Not that the dress made me look demure. I had no idea what other people might think I looked like, but I felt very special.

  He walked over slowly and when close enough he put his hand out towards the centre of my chest as though about to scrutinise the way the dress had been made. At the last second, though, his hand hovered but did not touch it.

  ‘How does it feel?’ he asked. ‘I mean, it’s metal.’

  ‘Surprisingly good.’

  ‘You’re not wearing…’ He had started to ask if I had anything on underneath the dress, but he stopped himself.

  As he made no further move I took his hand and carefully put his palm flat against my waist. The thrill of it went right through me so that I believed that I might almost faint. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t say anything. All that I could do was appreciate the sheer physical pleasure of his hand on me.

  And that was when the first of the tiny metal plates came free, tumbling gently down onto the carpet like a delicate, shiny petal. It almost seemed to float, not fall, and then it lay there, still, and I stared at it without understanding the implication of what had happened. And then this tiny fragment of the dress was joined by another piece, and, inevitably, by yet another. It was as though the lightest breeze had started to persuade the petals to fall from a flower in a late summer garden. I looked to see where they were coming from.

  The dress was very slowly, almost unnoticeably, falling apart under his hand. He was moving around to my side and when his other hand cupped my breast the pleasure was almost unendurable. I had a decision to make. The dress was disintegrating at his soft touch, compliantly, of its own volition.

  With absolute clarity I knew that I should either tear myself away that instant and escape, or stay and watch the dress come to pieces.

  A Woman of the Party

  Birgit made the mistake of sitting down and closing her eyes for a few moments. She knew she shouldn’t have done it because when she opened them again and tried to stand the room reeled around her. She had to make a grab for the doorframe to steady herself but nobody seemed to have noticed; those in the kitchen were talking loudly over the thudding music to which everyone in the darkened living room was dancing. The party was a success, and a few moments later somebody again shouted in her ear, asking why it had taken her over a year to arrange a housewarming?

  She gave the answer that she had honed during the evening, about the paperwork and permissions, about the renovation and the redesign of the large nineteenth-century house. Not for the first time she was complimented on her luck, her vision and her good taste.

  Once again she saw the large red wine stain on her expensive imported carpet and the rip in the curtains. But the damage did not upset her as it would normally have done; her guests were happy and so was she. She looked around for her husband, Manfred, but could not immediately see him.

  ‘He’s out in the garden,’ shouted Yelena, as though divining her thoughts. ‘He was talking about the Party with my husband the last time that I saw him. By the way, that punch is strong!’

  Birgit agreed, thanked Yelena, and pushed her way through to the back door. She used the press of bodies to keep herself upright, leaning on shoulders and smiling her apologies. Through the door the blast of cold air was a shock but failed to sober her up. It stung her face and bare arms but it felt superficial, even when she breathed in and it invaded her lungs. She had known that the punch was potent because Manfred had made it with two bottles of vodka. She had later seen Gunter empty a whole bottle of Goldkrone into it, and God knows who else had thought it amusing to increase the alcohol content. She had drunk nothing for the first two hours, but once she succumbed she lost count of the glasses she had consumed. Too many, that was all she was sure of.

  The sky was clear but intensely dark. She could not make out any stars because of the light pouring from the windows. Birgit noticed that her sister was inside with a man the hostess did not know; he had her pressed up against the glass in the full-length doors, obviously unaware that they could be seen from outside. Birgit tactfully looked away and peered around at the handful of people talking out on the patio. She identified Yelena’s husband, Willy, but not Manfred.

  ‘Gone back inside,’ Willy said. ‘Excellent party!’

  And so she returned to the house. The kitchen immediately seemed too hot and airless.

  ‘Shut the door!’ she heard somebody shout as she stood half in, half out. She did as she had been asked and plunged through her guests into the living room. It took a few moments, but now she saw him, dancing with Silke. Dancing! He must have been drinking heavily, Birgit decided, for he never usually danced. At least he wasn’t with Christa.

  She wondered, would it have been right to make a scene if he was? Would she have had the nerve, in front of their friends? Perhaps the drink would have given her the courage to scream at him and Christa. After all, somebody has to have a row, she thought, at any respectable party. And it would make it all the more memorable if it was the hostess who instigated it.

  She followed the wall around to the far door, steadying herself, feeling worse than ever after being outside in the cold air. Looking into the hall she saw Yelena talking to Tina. It had been Yelena who had alerted Birgit to the apparent intimacy between Manfred and Christa. Birgit had been looking out for the obvious signs that they were having an affair but she had discovered nothing herself. How would he have had the opportunity, she asked herself? He was always so busy with Party work. What had made Yelena so suspicious?

  The record came to an end and there were shouted requests. She looked back over her shoulder and watched Manfred take control of the stereo. He put on a new record but placed the needle on it so that it was already several seconds into the song. And she noticed that he had not put the last record back in its sleeve. These things would normally have bothered her, but somebody had taken her by the waist to dance and she didn’t have time to think. It was Jurgen, and, really, she was very happy to dance with him. Did that make her a hypocrite? She thought that perhaps it did; she rather liked Jurgen and his hands on her hips would have excited her more if her senses hadn’t been so clouded.

  ‘I’m sorry Jurgen,’ she shouted into his ear as the volume built around them. ‘I’ve drunk too much and I’m in danger of falling over.’

  ‘I’ll hold on to you,’ he shouted back.

  They danced, and as she turned and saw Manfred he grinned at her and waved.

  ‘Just about everybody’s here,’ Jurgen said into her ear. ‘It’s a good turn out.’

  ‘I’m really pleased,’ she admitted, enjoying how close he was. ‘I don’t think any of our friends are missing.’

&n
bsp; ‘Apart from Yevgeniy and Fabiana.’

  ‘Well, they can be excused, seeing as they’re down in Zittau at the moment.’

  ‘Oh, and Christa hasn’t turned up.’

  ‘Really?’ she said, genuinely surprised. Christa was the one woman she was meant to be keeping an eye open for; she wanted to make sure that the slut kept away from Manfred. Well, she was happy that the woman wasn’t there.

  ‘It might’ve been a little awkward for her,’ she said.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Well, I think that just about all of us here tonight are couples. And her being on her own…’

  ‘It might be she’s feeling a little fragile, what with being pregnant.’

  Birgit stopped dancing, which wrong-footed her partner and he nearly fell over.

  ‘Who’s the father?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ he said, regaining his composure. ‘I don’t know if Renate even knows. You could ask your sister.’

  They resumed dancing, and Birgit stared over at Manfred as he had a shouted conversation with Wolfgang, into which Silke was trying to interject. Wolfgang was getting a little boisterous but Manfred was taking it with good humour.

  ‘You’re going to have to renovate the house for a second time after this party,’ Jurgen suggested.

  ‘What?’ she asked, not having listened to him.

  ‘You’re going to have a hell of a job cleaning up tomorrow morning!’

  ‘I know, and I don’t think I’ll be in much of a mood for it,’ she forced a smile. She suddenly wanted to kiss him, there and then, and to hell with it, but she told herself to be sensible. She always was bloody sensible, she thought angrily. Why shouldn’t she do as she pleased? But good sense prevailed. Everyone would have been angry with her; not just Manfred. Jurgen would have pushed her away, she knew, and then she’d have to explain to his wife, Renate, and all the others.

  ‘Oh God,’ she said out loud and pulled away from Jurgen.

  ‘Feeling unwell?’ he shouted, and she nodded. She used him for support as she walked past him and through another couple to get to the door.

  Yelena and Tina were still talking in the hall and she walked over to them.

  ‘Did you hear that Christa’s pregnant?’ she asked.

  ‘Tina was just telling me,’ Yelena admitted.

  ‘She’s keeping the father a secret,’ the other woman said. ‘Any guesses?’

  ‘No,’ said Birgit promptly and pushed through them. She started to climb the stairs, pulling herself up by the banisters as her legs didn’t feel too strong. ‘I need the bathroom,’ she excused herself. She had seen the look that Yelena had given her. ‘Oh, say it isn’t so,’ Birgit said, knowing that nobody would hear her over the noise.

  On the landing she took a deep breath and walked to the bathroom door which, when she tried it, she found to be locked. It wasn’t really a problem as she didn’t want to use the room as anything other than a refuge. She turned and walked into the darkened bedroom adjacent to it where the single bed was piled high with coats.

  ‘The guest bedroom,’ she said to herself, laughing a little at the thought that she was talking to herself. She repeated the words, accenting ‘guest’ to suggest to her audience that the word was not quite the correct one. Since Manfred had first shown her around the house, telling her that it could be theirs, she had thought of it as the nursery.

  She stood there unmoving, looking down at the pile of coats, while the floor thumped underneath her with the bass notes of the music. Laughter and shouted conversation came up to her from different parts of her house. She thought again of Manfred and Christa, and her certainty that the woman was pregnant with his child reared up at her like an all too probable monster. She looked around the room and despaired that it would ever be a nursery where she would look after her own baby. Everyone had said what vision she had in renovating the house, but none had seen this room as she envisaged it. The bright, pastel colours were those she thought that a child might like, and where there was the bed she hoped there might soon be a cradle. In her anger she threw herself down on the pile of coats, sobbing.

  After perhaps a minute she controlled herself. The noise continued as before, but then she heard somebody calling her name. It was Manfred, shouting for her up the stairs. She didn’t want to see him, and as there was nowhere obvious to hide in the room she slipped down onto the floor and then burrowed in between the coats and the bed, forcing her way under the weight of them all.

  And then she felt very stupid. If he were to discover her there how would she explain herself? She looked out from under the far edge of the coats, towards the wall and in the darkness something in front of her moved; something close. Her eyes were slowly adjusting to the dim light that came in through the door, up from the hall and over the pile of coats.

  She flinched; there was someone there. In the space between the bed and the wall she saw a face a few inches from hers. It was the face of a child.

  Birgit immediately backed out from under the coats and stood up, straightening her clothes. The child was still there, looking interested in what Birgit was doing. The little girl had to be about five, the woman decided.

  ‘Hello,’ she said carefully, wondering what the child was doing there. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Katia,’ the girl replied. ‘And you are Birgit.’

  ‘That’s right,’ she said, smiling reassuringly, wondering who she was trying to comfort, herself or the child. ‘Have we met before?’

  The little girl frowned, and then looked behind Birgit, who turned. It was not Manfred at the bedroom door but Christa.

  ‘Katia,’ the newcomer admonished the child. ‘What are you doing up here?’

  ‘Talking to Birgit.’

  ‘Birgit who, sweetie?’ Christa asked, and the child pointed.

  ‘Christa?’ asked Birgit, but Christa blatantly ignored her. ‘Christa!’ she almost shouted as the woman walked forward, took the child’s hand and led her from the room. Finally she shouted but was ignored.

  What the hell was Christa doing bringing a child to the party? Whose child was it?

  Birgit strode out of the room and immediately bumped into Jurgen. She apologised and tried to go around him but he had a hold of her shoulder.

  ‘I will come and see you tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I will bring a man who can get that stain out of your new carpet.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Please forgive me; I’ll be back in a minute. I need to speak to Christa.’

  She reached the head of the stairs and could see Christa and the little girl, Katia, going down hand in hand. Manfred was at the bottom, calling up to her. Birgit attempted to follow them, expecting to take the stairs two at a time but as soon as she had started she knew that it was a mistake. She had misjudged her very first step and the next didn’t seem to happen as everything wheeled around her. She tried to grab the banister but missed it and she flailed around with her arms for a moment without being able to hold on to anything. Then she felt a blow to the side of her head and there was what seemed to be an intense flash of light.

  ‘Are you sure you are all right?’ asked Jurgen.

  Birgit closed her eyes tight and shook her head to clear it. She was sitting on one of the hard chairs in the kitchen with a cup of coffee in her hand. She released it in horror, wondering how she had got there. It was daylight and the house was empty of guests. The cup smashed and the brown liquid was released over the linoleum.

  ‘You’re not all right, are you,’ he answered himself, getting up and walking towards her.

  ‘No. I think I’ve lost my memory.’

  ‘I told Willy you weren’t all right last night. I said you should go to a hospital, but he’s the doctor.’

  ‘I fell down the stairs.’

  ‘That’s right. You knocked yourself out.’

  ‘I’d drunk too much.’

  ‘We all had. But you seemed all right afterwards. You said first thing this morning that it
had cleared your head, but you’d forgotten I said I’d be bringing Carl with me.’

  ‘Who’s Carl?’

  ‘Now I am worried about you. Carl’s my friend who’s cleaning your horribly expensive carpet.’

  ‘The wine stain?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘That’s who I can hear in the living room?’

  Jurgen nodded, stopped, and then shook his head: ‘You really are not right, are you? I came to talk about some important matters, but perhaps I should wait until you are well.’

  ‘Do you mind?’ she asked, and got up from her chair, walking around the coffee on the floor. She went to the door and saw that there was a small man in her living room with a device like a very complicated vacuum cleaner. He looked up at her arrival:

  ‘As good as new,’ he beamed. ‘In fact, almost too good.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘Can I take you to a doctor?’ Jurgen asked. He was now standing at her shoulder. She put her hand up to her temple and felt a very tender spot.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I feel okay now.’

  ‘But I’m worried about you. Look, take it easy, go to bed. Tell that husband of yours to keep an eye on you.’

  She agreed that she would, and eventually she was able to show Jurgen and his colleague out of the house. When she had closed the door after them and looked back around her she realised that she couldn’t possibly go to bed; not yet. The place was in a terrible state after the party. It would take all day to get it straight, but at least the wine stain was gone. The first thing she had to do was tidy up the cup of coffee she had just dropped.

  A week later Jurgen appeared at her door just after Manfred had left for work. He offered to drive her to the park where he said that he wanted to talk with her. When she suggested he come inside instead he declined and said that he would explain all, if only she would go with him. Birgit insisted that she had too much housework to do but Jurgen was firm; there were reasons for going to the park. Annoyed, she took off her housecoat, put on a mackintosh and allowed herself to follow him down the path to the big black car.