“Think how she’ll look,” he said to Jake. “For summer, light. Here, feel.”
“How much?”
“No, Jake, I don’t want it. Look how old, from before the war.”
But that’s what had caught his eye, the kind of dress she used to wear.
“You have cigarettes?” the man said eagerly.
Jake held it up against her. Cinched waist, blouse top; the way she had always looked.
“It’s nice,” he said. “You could use something.”
“No, really,” she said, flustered, as if she were being dressed in public, where everyone could see. She looked around, expecting MPs with whistles. “Put it away.”
“It’ll look pretty on you.”
He took out a fresh pack of cigarettes. What had Hannelore said was the going rate? But just then MPs did appear, British soldiers with white sticks, beginning to scatter the crowd like chickens. The German snatched the pack, flinging the dress at Jake. “A thousand thanks,” he said, hurrying. “A bargain-you won’t regret it.” He began to run toward the arch, his overcoat flapping.
“Oh, such foolishness. Anyway, it’s too much. A whole pack.”
“That’s all right. I feel rich.” He looked at her. “I haven’t bought you anything in a long time.”
She began folding the dress. “Look, it’s wrinkled.”
“It’ll steam out. You’ll look nice.” He put his hand up to her hair. “With your hair down.”
She looked up at him. “I don’t wear it that way anymore.”
“Maybe once. A few pins,” he said, taking one out.
She brushed his hand away. “Oh you, you’re impossible. Nobody wears it that way anymore.”
Back in the jeep, they drove through Charlottenburg, down more long avenues of ruins, dust hanging in the heavy air, until finally they could see trees at the edge of the Grunewald and beyond them the water, where the river widened to make the lakes. It was cooler, but not much, the sun blocked by clouds now, turning the water to slate, the air still thick with listless heat. At the old yacht club, Union Jacks hung from flagpoles, not even stirred by a breeze. They could see two boats on the water, becalmed, their sails as motionless as two white dabs in a painting. But at least the city was behind them, nothing now but the broad water and, across it, suburban houses in Gatow poking through the trees. They took the road rimming the water, ignoring the charred patches in the forest and smelling pines, the clean air of before.
“The boats should come in, it’s going to storm. My god, it’s hot.” She patted her face with a handkerchief.
“Let’s put our feet in.”
But the little stretch of beach, deserted, was littered with bottles and pieces of artillery shells that had washed up on shore, a bathtub ring of debris, so they crossed the road to the woods. The air was sticky but peaceful, no hikers shouting out to each other, no clomping horses on the riding trails. Alone in a way they’d never been before, hiding from the Sunday crowds. Once they’d made love here behind some bushes, the sound of trotting horses just a few yards away, the threat of being discovered as exciting as flesh. Getting away with something.
“Remember the time—” he started.
“Yes. I know what you’re thinking. I was so nervous.”
“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
