The last bar crackled to its close, the scene sank into dark. Then just as quick the stage lights came up, Kolja tumbled from the tub and stood, arms outspread, water cascading from him onto the plastic sheeting, warming himself in the audience’s ovation. I turned to look around the room and saw Ulla standing below the glow of the exit sign. For an instant our eyes met, then she turned away.
Maybe it was the music or maybe it was the beers hastening my descent from the euphoria of my own applause, but suddenly, watching Kolja take his bow, I felt a swift sharp stab of melancholy.
I caught Sylvie’s eye, she laughed, still clapping, and leaned across to me.
'Now that’s what our act needs, a bit of sex appeal.'
I wondered at the ‘our’, but when the floorboards began to vibrate with the force of the audience’s stamping feet, I realised she could have a point.
Dix was wearing an expensive charcoal-grey suit that could have been Armani, Versace or fucking Chanel for all I knew. It made him look like the younger, richer brother of the stubbly unwashed man I’d last seen slumped in a torn chair in Sylvie’s flat. He raised his beer and saluted me.
'To your new partnership.'
His smile was amused. For some reason it annoyed me.
Sylvie filled her glass with white wine from a deceptively dainty jug and said, 'To our new partnership!' Half draining the large glass, then refilling it.
I chimed ‘New partnership’, putting my stein to my lips and taking a long hard pull, remembering that three had never been my favourite number.
This was Sylvie’s and my fourth bar, Dix’s first. He was sober, but had the air of a man in the mood to indulge others’ foolishnesses. He signalled for more drinks though his own was still fresh. I hid behind my glass, smiling between each swallow, counselling myself not to turn into Tartan Willy on the rampage.
Sylvie was no longer the anxious supplicant who’d lain beneath my hands earlier in the evening. Her hair shone glossy and smooth around a face powdered to pale ivory, only her red lipstick recalled the bright stain that had coated her body. Sylvie’s stylised makeup was at odds with the plain black satin dress she’d changed into. It was a good combination, something like a whore on a murder charge. She took another inch out of her glass and asked, 'Successful evening?'
Dix smiled, keeping his own counsel. I didn’t bother to ask what had required a suit and sobriety until 2 a.m.
The two of us had left our previous bar about thirty minutes before, Sylvie urging me to hurry up or we’d miss the show. I necked the last of my beer, Sylvie linked her arm through mine and we reeled into the street, silly with sudden air, drink and new friendship. Sylvie’s straight spine seemed to straighten mine and we walked fast and tall like a soldier boy and his bride on their wedding day.
I recognised the club from the matchbooks Sylvie had substituted for a stake on our first night. The sign shone from above the doorway in sharp pink neon, Ein Enchanted Nachtreview, and the same festive lady lounged in the same triangular cocktail glass, spilling electric pink bubbles into the air from her careless toast.
Perhaps I wouldn’t have noticed Sylvie’s pace slowing as the Nachtreview came into view if our arms hadn’t been entwined, but though her conversation still sparkled as bright as the neon, I could feel her growing alert, her attention shifting from my orbit towards the door of the club. I matched my pace to hers, until her steps faltered, then stopped.
'Wait a second. I just want to see who’s on guard duty.'
She peered into the gloom. The bouncer moved into the lee of the doorway, cupping his hand around his cigarette, squinting against the lamplight.
'Perfect.' She slipped her arm from mine and started to walk briskly across the road.
'Come on.'
At first I thought she’d misjudged things. The bouncer stood barring the entrance, arms locked behind his back, expression like a breeze block, impervious to the cute way Sylvie’s smile flashed on and off, as she spieled out a patter peppered with one of the few German words I knew —
I tried to look sober, wondering what I was doing in a country where I didn’t even know the licensing laws.
'D’you spracken ze English?'
'It’s OK, William, Sebastian and I are old friends.' Sylvie dropped her voice soft and low. 'Bitte, Sebastian.'
I reached into my pocket, folded forty euros in the cushion of my hand then put my arm round my new assistant’s waist and palmed the notes to her old friend. He looked at me uncertainly then opened the door, shaking his head more in sorrow than in anger. Sylvie touched his arm as she passed and he muttered something that sounded like a warning. But entering the club had revived Sylvie’s reckless mood. She laughed and reached back towards the doorman, kissing him on the cheek. I waited for Sebastian to change his mind, but he laughed too, wiping away her lipstick and reissuing the warning, his sternness lost in the moment. I nodded my thanks and he gave me a quick appraising glance as he moved back into the shadows, a mix of sympathy and contempt. The kind of look you give a dupe.
I’d been in larger sitting-rooms, but whoever designed the club hadn’t allowed size to contain their style. The ceiling and walls were rose-gold peeling away to red below, and the curved coral-quartz bar shone with more champagne than a Soho clip joint. At the far end of the room was a small stage where a long-legged girl in a sailor suit that would have sent Lord Nelson spinning was sitting demurely on a bentwood chair, singing about how her mama thought she was living in a convent.
Sylvie took a table near the stage and I slid in beside her, making sure I could monitor the sailorgirl’s act for professional reasons. I glanced back to the entrance where the bouncer still lingered, following our progress through the glass as if unsure of whether he had done the right thing.
'What was that about?'
Sylvie shook her head dismissively.
