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 win-dowsill, 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 hanc 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,
