by Harper Bliss
“I believe I may have met her a few weeks ago at a freelance teachers’ conference.”
Of course, Ellen is a teacher as well, which, I’m beginning to think, might be the only reason I kissed her that time.
“Really?” Regardless of the fact that I don’t want to have this conversation with Ellen, I am extremely intrigued.
“A group of us hit some bars afterwards and I remember she quite fancied herself some shots of tequila.” Ellen smiles broadly at the memory.
I don’t know whether to like her less or more now that she’s divulged this bit of information. She had drinks with Giselle. It does make her more attractive-by-proxy. It also stirs an irrational bout of jealousy inside of me.
“She’s a party girl, that one,” Ellen continues and I’m confused.
Giselle has always struck me as anything but a raging night owl searching for cheap thrills after dark. She always seems so proper with her black-rimmed glasses and her endless array of purple-tinted scarves, so mature and above us mere mortal drunkards.
“Wouldn’t be surprised to see her at Berghain tonight,” Ellen concludes.
My pulse starts racing. I need to take a few sharp breaths to steady my heartbeat. Max winks at me and I don’t know where to look. What I do know is I’ll be roaming the club halls until I find her.
* * *
Queuing only takes half an hour—half an hour of anxiously keeping my eyes peeled for Giselle, who may not even show up. We walk into the grand concrete entrance hall and I’m floored again by its enormity. The ceilings are high and the lighting is red and dim. You’d expect people to be snobbish and aloof here, but they’re not. They’re just here to have a wild time.
We leave our coats in the cloak room and head for the Panorama Bar. It’s not that busy yet, but Ellen already squeezes her body against my back when I order drinks. She obviously has a very physical plan of attack tonight.
“I’m so in the mood,” Andreas says and drags his fingers through his unnaturally blond hair. He’s wearing a tight red t-shirt saying ‘Yours or mine?’ He takes long drags from his bottle of beer until it’s empty, plops it on the bar with a loud bang, and immediately orders another.
“Fuck pacing,” Max agrees and drains his bottle too.
“Might as well.” I peer into Ellen’s eyes while I slurp greedily from the beer. I have no idea what to do with myself and drinking appears to be the easiest solution. Soon we’ve bought a round each and have over a litre of beer swirling inside our stomachs.
“Let’s dance,” Ellen, visibly tipsy, squeaks. She staggers when we descend the stairs and I grab her arm in support. Her fingers instantly search for mine and we walk down hand in hand.
We reach the main dance floor, which is comfortably half-full. Around me naked torsos twirl and sweat, interspersed with a diverse blend of female bodies. Some wear high heels and dainty dresses, some tank tops like me, others hot pants and mini skirts. Most of them are probably straight but this is Berghain and anything can happen. That’s why it’s so popular. There’s a danger to the atmosphere, an unknown element injecting the air with unpredictable possibilities. I’ve never been to a club where something so intangible is the main attraction.
Andreas arrives with more beers and Ellen devours hers. If she continues at this pace she’ll be snoring beside me instead of showering me in my first night of Berlin passion. She has a funny way of dancing where she always bops just under the beat, as if she’s perfectly capable of moving to it but has no interest in complying like that. I curl my fingers around hers and push forward until we sway to the music together, pelvis to pelvis. A pleasant beer buzz muddles my brain and I’m about to lean in for the first kiss when I see her.
Giselle stands with her back against the wall, one heel lifted and pressing into the concrete. Her fingers are curved around a bottle of beer. She brings it to her mouth in quick intervals. She’s dressed in jeans and boots and one of her hippie scarves and she takes my breath away. I’m so tipsy I get emotional just by looking at her.
“Seen a ghost?” Ellen asks, a big smile plastered across her face. Doubt stiffens my limbs. I stand there for a second, torn between self-preservation and total foolishness. It’s not a choice really because in my head I’m already there.
“I’ll get us some more beers.”
I duck out from under Ellen’s embrace and head to the bar for a clearer view of Giselle. An oversized boat-neck top hangs on her frail frame as she looks out over the masses. My whole body throbs and I need to shake my head to snap out of it. My brain is too frazzled to come up with a plan of action so I just stand there a little while longer, gaping at my teacher and trying to catch my breath. I’d sacrifice a pinkie for a glimpse of her blue eyes, I think, just as she turns her head and finds me in the crowd. A slow smile sneaks around her lips and she acknowledges my presence with a tiny nod of the head. Then we lose eye-contact as she’s joined by three women carrying more bottles and my chances—if ever I had any—feel blown.
“Need a hand?” Max materialises in front of me, his naked chest covered in sweat.
“I saw Giselle,” I stammer. “Sorry for the wait.” I direct my attention to the bar staff and place our order, ignoring Max’ excited yelps.
“Ooh,” he goes. “Where is this goddess who’s made a puritan out of you?”
“Maybe I’ve always been one.”
He narrows his eyes to slits. “Remember York, darling? There wasn’t a woman in town you didn’t put the moves on.”
I met Max when he attended York University through a student exchange programme.
“That was ten years ago. I’d just come out and felt I needed to make the most of things.” I point my chin in the direction of the wall against which Giselle is huddled with her friends.
“Blue eyes, blond hair,” Max murmurs as he scans the room. “Okay, I get it. She’s smoking hot. But—”
I know what he’s going to say and I don’t want to hear it. I pay for the beers and shove two bottles in his hand and, before he has a chance to continue, silence him with a well-practiced menacing eye-roll. When we get back to the dance floor I try to avoid Ellen but it’s too late now. Her hands are all over me and she seems to have lost all sense of decorum.
“Would you mind taking me to the lounge?”
Her eyes are glazed over and her mouth droops down. I want to stay in the dance hall and try to catch glimpses of Giselle. I need to know how she dances, how her limbs respond to beats like this, but I have to go with Ellen. It’s only common decency.
While we make our way out I search the room frantically for another sign of Giselle, but she seems to have moved on. I coax Ellen towards the lounge area and find her a space on one of the sofas.
“Don’t move.” I’m slightly annoyed by the situation, but I do realise that if I hadn’t seen Giselle I’d probably be amused by Ellen’s goofy drunkenness. “I’ll get you some water.”
Ellen grabs my hand and mouths ‘thank you’ and it makes me feel like a jerk. When I return with two bottles of water my heart stops. I only see their backs but I’d recognise that ash blond head of hair anywhere. It’s wild and unruly and probably dyed and it makes my heart thump in my throat. I approach and hear them talk in quick German with lots of giggles in between.
“Here’s your water,” I say casually and then mentally kick myself for saying it in English.
“I thought that was you, Ada,” Giselle says, her eyes shining brightly in the dimly lit lounge. Her body is slanted back on the sofa and one of her long legs is crossed over the other. This picture could be perfect, if only Ellen didn’t have a starring role in it.
“You can speak German if you like.” I try to look cool while sipping from my water bottle. They both glance up at me, their faces drawn into an amused expression. Giselle sports a lopsided grin edging between mockery and, I swear, flirting. Or maybe I’m just reading it wrong, even though wishful thinking is not one of my hobbies. I’m more of a doom and gloom kind of person. “I’m su
re I’ll understand.”
“Don’t be silly.” Ellen shoots me a confused look and I wonder when the penny will drop. Or perhaps I’m the only one feeling the tension rise on our little corner island in the lounge.
“Do you come here often?” I ask Giselle, searching for the blue of her eyes and then steadying myself against the arm rest of the sofa to stop from metaphorically drowning in them.
“Maybe once a month. More often would take away from the magic.”
It’s the first time I hear a hint of an accent when she speaks and it sets my skin on fire.
“I’d better get back to my friends before I lose them. You know what this place is like.” Giselle pushes herself up and stands mere inches away from me. Because she’s wearing heels she towers over me a bit, sort of looking down on me, but her grin is anything but disdainful. “Hope to see you around,” she says and brushes past me.
I follow her with my eyes as she struts away, her long lilac scarf curling behind her. I crash down next to Ellen and sigh audibly before I have a chance to consider her feelings.
“Do you like her?” she asks and my cheeks flush instantly. “There was this vibe between you.”
I can’t look at her so stare straight ahead, to the spot where Giselle stood a minute ago. “She’s my teacher. You know how it is.”
“My students don’t tend to lose their nerve when I bump into them in a club.”
“You Germans are such cool cucumbers.”
Ellen bumps her elbow into my bicep. “And you Brits are the most passionate people on the planet.” She pats me on the knee. “At least now I know why I wasn’t getting anywhere with you.”
“What? No, no,” I start. “That’s not—”
“There’s no need to insult my intelligence as well.” She hoists herself out of the couch then shoots me a smirk. “Come on, we didn’t come here for a heart to heart. Let’s hit the dark room.”
It’s not a dark room as such, more like a maze with discreetly lit corners where heavy petting can easily morph into foreplay and more. Ellen doesn’t appear fazed at all by my reluctant confession, if anything she seems to possess a new energy now we’re approaching the naughty well of darkness. I shuffle behind her in silence and my eyes are drawn to the couples scattered along the grey walls. A heat starts tingling in my body and I wish I was cruising the maze with Giselle instead of Ellen.
“Check them out,” Ellen whispers and fixes her gaze on the next corner where a guy is going down on another guy. The deeper we go, the more daring the people become. The moans are louder and the atmosphere more intense.
“Lesbians at two o’clock,” Ellen says and I can’t stop watching them.
The only thing I see are tongues slipping in and out of mouths and hands roaming across breasts. It awakes something inside of me, something untouched for months. How easy would it be to grab Ellen’s hand and push her against the wall? Too easy, I conclude, and not right. Also, no matter how iconic, I don’t want my first time in Berlin to take place in the dark room in Berghain. I’m not the most romantic of souls, but I do have certain standards. I let the sensual vibe wash over me, until it all becomes a bit too melancholic—and something between my legs is pulsing for attention.
“I need to get out of here.” I tap Ellen on the shoulder and she barely notices, her gaze transfixed on the two women against the wall. “Maybe you should join them,” I joke.
“Maybe I should.” She turns around to face me. “As I won’t be getting any from you tonight.”
“I’m sorry—”
“I’m kidding, Ada. Come on, time to dance our asses off.”
We hurry out of the labyrinth, meandering through a thickening crowd of frisky people and find our way to the dance hall. Max and Andreas are going wild on the floor, twisting their head left and right, as if in unison, to the droning bass beats. Ellen and I join them and we shake and grind all night. Dawn is breaking when we exit the club and by the time I fall into my empty bed, my apartment is flooded with bright weekend light. I cover my eyes to block it out and sleep, exhausted and alone.
* * *
Next Friday after class, while I stuff my books deep into my bag with a small sigh of both reluctance and relief, Giselle suddenly puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Care for a drink?” she asks and I am dumbfounded.
“Sure,” I say quickly, before she can change her mind and withdraw the invitation. “Where’s your watering hole of choice around here?”
“I have a bottle of wine open upstairs. If you don’t mind…”
I have to stop my chin from dropping down. Maybe there is a god, I think. Or maybe some deity is playing a real mean trick on me. I follow Giselle upstairs. She lives and teaches in a gigantic pre-war building with no lift, just endless staircases and the sound of footsteps clattering on polished wood. Her apartment is on the third floor and is mainly beige with touches of bright blue and orange to liven the place up. I had expected more purple. I scan the living room for obvious signs of lesbianism, but once I draw a blank on all the stereotypes I let it go. I’ll find out soon enough.
“You’ve been studying, haven’t you?” she asks as she hands me a glass of Riesling.
It’s true. After shaking off my Berghain coma on Sunday afternoon, instead of settling on a terrace to watch people go by while listening to Max’ comments on their attire, I excavated my text books and drilled German words into my head. Knowing I was doing it for Giselle made the experience not entirely unpleasant.
“Is that why I get a glass of wine after class?”
“I expect you to respond positively to such an incentive.”
“Excellent teaching methods.”
She sits down next to me. Our arms balance on our knees and our glasses—and hands—nearly touch. We both stare ahead.
“If only I’d thought of that sooner.”
“That alcohol is the way to a Brit’s heart?” I regret it the instant I say it. It’s a silly lapse of the tongue. And I’ve only had two sips.
She leans backwards and treats me to a lazy smile. “As a teacher, I’d be more than happy with just your brain.”
“No,” I stammer, “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just an expression.” I fold my right leg under my thigh and sit back to get a better look at her.
“Sure.” She brings her glass to her mouth without taking her eyes off me. “Was that your girlfriend I saw you with?”
“Ellen?” I shake my head. “We’re just friends.”
“I saw you stumble out of the labyrinth together. You looked quite flushed.” She pauses. “As if you had a really good time in there.”
“We were just window shopping.” I draw my lips into a defiant smirk. “Do you ever go in?”
She doesn’t reply immediately, just looks at me and bats her eyelashes a few times. “I’m not that much of a watcher.”
She’s wearing faded jeans and a simple grey sweater, looking more lesbian than I do today. Her scarf has some blue tones in it, bringing out her eyes. Her stare melts my insides and I feel an inappropriate shortness of breath coming on. Part of me wants to escape from this uncomfortable situation, but I’m chained to my seat. She must know. There must be a reason why I’m here.
“Do you think you can write a story about it?” She breaks the silence I left between us. “In German, of course.”
“About Berghain?”
“The dark room.” She shuffles her body forward, making rustling noises in the couch. “What you saw and how it made you feel. You should be able to do that with what you’ve learnt so far.”
“What if I tell you now?” The wine is making me overzealous. “You can correct me as I go along.”
“I’d feel so naked without my red marker.” She moves closer until our knees touch. “But go on then.”
In broken German I tell her about the maze, about how the deeper we penetrated, the more audacious the actions we witnessed became. She doesn’t interrupt nor correct me, despite my many blatant
assaults on her language.
“And all the while,” I conclude my story, “I wished it was you in there with me.”
It’s Giselle’s turn to swallow hard now. Or maybe I’m just projecting as my own throat goes dry. I look away, suddenly gripped by a desire to study the bottom of my wine glass. In agonising silence I wait for her response. It comes in the form of her hand on the back of my neck and her lips grazing my ear.
“Top marks for honesty.”
My entire body starts throbbing, blood speeding through my veins. I take a deep calming breath that fails miserably and face her. Her eyes are so close, the clear blue of them slicing through me. Her lips are even closer as they touch mine for a split second I’ll never forget. She pulls back to take the glass from my hand and puts it on the table next to the sofa. Both our hands are free now but I don’t know what to do with mine. I don’t know if I’m allowed to touch my teacher the way I want to—yet. She cups my face in her hands and stares into my eyes.
“How long have you known?” I ask.
She kisses me again, her lips brushing against mine before they trace a path of featherlight pecks to my ear. “How long have you?”
“Known what?” With great difficulty I withdraw from her embrace to scan her face.
“That this teacher has been improperly lusting after her Friday afternoon pupil for months.”
“Are you kidding me?” I’m torn between laughing hysterically and crying over all the missed opportunities. I’m also baffled by my own glaring cluelessness.
“I’ve been the worst teacher ever. Disgracing myself and my profession by letting you off the hook every time you didn’t put in any work. Not scolding you for refusing to study. That’s not how it normally works.”
“It’s been a while since I was in school.”
“I noticed.”
“I’ll get straight A’s from now on, I swear.”
“Not too straight, I hope.”
The skin around Giselle’s eyes crinkles as she smiles and the blue shines through the narrow slits of her eyelids. My heart is about to burst out of my chest with pure joy. I grab her head and kiss her, this time with parted lips. Our tongues dart in and out of each other’s mouths and as the autumn sun starts setting outside Giselle’s window I can’t help but think this is the best Friday night feeling I’ve ever had.
