I asked him, ‘How much do we get a night for this?’
‘We don’t, boss: it’s not a hotel. This is your room for whenever you’re visiting. It won’t be used when you’re not here.’
‘What about you?’
‘Don’t worry about me. I have a flat around the corner, with Irma.’
‘Did you win her in a game as well?’
He had that slightly uncomfortable look again.
‘No. She came round looking for someone, and we took a shine to each other. She says she knows you.’ I ran Irma through the memory bank, and came out not guilty. I was still shaking my head as I opened the door on another room. It was also furnished with loot, the same as mine. It looked a bit more lived-in though, with a skirt and stockings draped over the back of a small dressing-table chair. It was also furnished with a woman in the bed.
She peeked over the sheets – just her head mind you – as I looked in, yawned, smiled and said, ‘Hello, Joe. What time is it?’ She had tousled dark hair. I could smell last night’s perfume.
‘Nearly half past five after noon, and I’m not Joe, I’m Charlie.’
That seemed to register. She said, ‘Oh, hello, boss,’ stuck out a long pale arm and waved. Then she disappeared back under the covers again. It was a nice arm, and she had a nice smile, and I was happy we’d met, so it was all right with me. You know the song, don’t you? It came out just about then. I hope I smiled back. I said, ‘Wrong room. Sorry,’ and closed the door gently. Outside I asked Bozey the poser, ‘She called me boss.’
‘Yes, boss. She’s one of our workers here. I thought I mentioned the girls – there are four of them.’
‘Yes. And I thought that if I didn’t pay any attention to it, then maybe it would go away.’
‘That’s Reimey. She’s French – from Paris. She’s a nice kid.’
‘Is this a brothel now, Bozey?’
He looked uncomfortable again. That was interesting. ‘Only partly,’ he said.
‘Is it legal?’
‘Only partly.’
‘And you want me to explain to the Old Man that he now has a third share in a Berlin cat-house, and a nightclub. Christ, Bozey, what have you got us into?’
‘A lot of dosh, actually. I can afford to buy you out soon if you’re unhappy about it.’
It was one of those moments. I leaned my arm on the wall of the corridor, bent and rested my head against it, and began to laugh. And laugh.
Later I met Marthe again. I had slept in her place before the Berlin Airlift. The hug she gave me might have been more encouraging if her husband wasn’t pumping my hand up and down at the same time. There was a girl of ten or so dressed in school clothes standing shyly behind them. I pulled her forward.
‘Lottie?’
‘Yes, Uncle Charlie . . .’ I hugged her too.
‘You’ve grown so; shot up. It’s so good to see you all.’
Then I turned to her parents and asked them, ‘But what are you doing here?’
‘Marthe runs the kitchen,’ Bozey explained, ‘. . . and Otto runs the floor.’
‘Who runs upstairs?’
‘I do.’ At least he hadn’t ducked the issue. ‘Lottie comes round after school. Sometimes she helps the girls clean upstairs.’
‘Not any more. This isn’t a place for her. Find her a chair and table somewhere out of the way: she can do her homework in a corner, but that’s it.’ Nobody liked my change of tone. Lottie looked suddenly hurt; they probably needed the money. ‘Do you want to be my Berlin secretary, Lottie? You can keep a diary that tells everyone where I am . . .’ Then I put on a thoughtful face, and added, ‘But of course we’d have to put you on the pay roll then. Would that be OK?’ She nodded, so I told her, ‘Ask your dad first; get his permission.’ Later, if I had the chance, I’d tell the others what I thought about them letting a child that age work upstairs in a cat-house.
I needn’t have bothered with the thought. Marthe gave me a kiss and said, ‘You’re a hypocrite, Charlie Bassett.’ Heuchler was the word she actually used: at least my German was coming back.
‘How? Why?’
‘Because you would use a place like this yourself without a backward glance, but you don’t like my little Lottie in here . . .’
It was interesting that she’d formed that opinion of me, because I had never overnighted with a proper whore in my life. Not that I want you to think I’m coming all wings and halo on you: the truth was all my girlfriends so far had been like car accidents that I’d walked away from.
‘I’ll take your word for it, but if I’m the boss around here, then little Lottie doesn’t go upstairs, capisce?’
They’re all the bloody same, aren’t they? Marthe couldn’t resist the last word. ‘You’re in Germany, Charlie, not Italy. Stop showing off.’
I couldn’t work out why Bozey and Otto were grinning. Then I realized what I’d said: I’d said I’m the boss around here, which is what they’d all been waiting to bloody well hear.
I knew that I wasn’t going to hang around for long, and that I was unlikely to return for a year at least, so I did what you always do – I revisited old haunts to get them stuck in my head. I went to the Rattlesnake Bar first, the Klapperschlange. It had also been owned by my pal Tommo, a Yank who had died in an air crash in 1949. I hadn’t realized it when he was alive, but
