‘Go straight to your room.’
‘Can I get a snack first?’
‘Oh, very well. But be quick about it.’
‘I’ll take it to my room.’
He trailed along. Maybe he was hoping I’d suggest a congenial chat over a cup of coffee. I didn’t. I piled a tray with bottles of beer, cheese, bread, and sausages. Max watched, eyes widening as the comestibles piled up, but he made no comment until I poured milk into a bowl and stooped to put in on the floor.
‘For the cat?’ he asked.
‘No, for the pixies.’
‘Perhaps it does not like milk,’ Max said seriously. ‘Marguerite will not touch it.’
‘Marguerite sounds like one damned spoiled cat.’
Max was offended. ‘Are you finished?’ he asked stiffly.
‘I guess so.’ I hefted the tray with the never-to-be-forgotten skill I had acquired one summer as a waitress at Joe’s Cafe and went out.
The wing in which our rooms were located was connected to the central block by a door from which a corridor led straight down the length of the wing, with doors on either side. Rudi had taken up a position by the connecting door. He stiffened to attention when his boss appeared, his gun at the ready. The velvet armchair in which he was sitting detracted slightly from the picture of military discipline, but one could hardly blame him for wanting to be comfortable if he was going to be there all night.
He looked yearningly at my loaded tray, and Max, who missed very little, said sharply, ‘You will take no food or drink from her.’
‘But of course not,’ Rudi said, as if the idea had never occurred to him.
I swayed on down the corridor. (Carrying a tray necessitates a certain rhythm of the hips. At least that was the custom at Joe’s.) John emerged from the bathroom, timing his exit with such precision that we met just outside the door.
‘Any time now,’ he said, out of the corner of his mouth. Max trotted up, ears pricked; John turned the twist of his mouth into a leer and gave me a long vertical inspection, from head to foot.
‘A little late-night supper
‘Not you,’ said Max indignantly. ‘Get into your room and do not leave it.’
‘But what if I have to get up during the night to – ’
Max shoved him into his room and slammed the door. ‘What a tedious person he is,’ he remarked. I could not but agree.
Since John was a master at double entendres of all varieties, I took his comments to indicate approval of the plan I had cleverly concocted. I could not be sure whether he had indicated Leif or Hans when he spelled out ‘distract,’ but by keeping the former in situ (to use an archaeological term), I could immobilize Hans at the same time. I assumed the latter was outside. The doors and windows were the only exits from the bedrooms, and Rudi was covering the doors.
‘Mr Hasseltine is in this room,’ Max said helpfully, indicating the door.
‘You are becoming a trifle tedious yourself, Max,’ I said. ‘Get lost, will you? Rudi is audience enough.’
Max removed himself. I kicked the door. After a minute Leif opened it. ‘You,’ he exclaimed.
‘Me,’ I agreed. ‘I thought you might be feeling a bit peckish.’
‘Peckish?’
‘Speak German. I understand it, you know.’
Smiling, he took the tray, ushered me inside, and kicked the door shut, in one movement. ‘What a pleasant idea. We may as well take what enjoyment we can from the situation.’
‘I hope you don’t think I’m being forward,’ I said. ‘To be truthful, I felt the need of companionship. I’m very nervous.’
‘Of course you are.’ He put the tray on a table and gallantly helped me into a chair. ‘But I’m sure we have nothing to worry about, Vicky. Max has taken a fancy to you – which is not surprising.’
This went on for a while – me expressing girlish timidity, Leif manfully reassuring me – while we drank beer and ate cheese. Gradually the light faded to a soft grey twilight, but the darkness I had hoped for did not come. The only encouraging note was the fact that Hans was indeed distracted. The curtains at the window fluttered in the breeze; every now and then a bundle of fingers shaped like sausages would catch at a blowing fold to keep it out of the line of vision.
When Leif set his empty bottle down with a decisive thump and wiped the crumbs off his lips, I knew the second stage of the entertainment – the part Hans was waiting for – was about to begin. Leif rose from his chair. With slow, deliberate strides he came to me and held out his hands. I gave him mine. He lifted me into his arms.
It may have been the change in language. People sound much more formal when they speak a tongue that is not their own unless they speak it fluently. They even act more formally, as if constrained by the necessity of thinking what word to use next. The hands that fondled me, the lips that explored mine might have belonged to a stranger, not the big ox who had mauled me in the park in Stockholm. I was decidedly short of breath and very, very cooperative when he picked me up, as easily as he might have lifted a child, and carried me towards the bed.
I am a declared feminist, but I have never believed that economic and political equality (which we’re a helluva long way from having, by the way) should have anything to do with the relations between the sexes – the romantic aspects, as Schmidt would have said. Like every other woman I cherish secret fantasies. My favourite is to be short. I dreamed of having a man hold me close, with my cheek resting on his chest, not his ear. Of feeling the steady, passionate beat of his heart, not his bristly beard. Of having his lips pressed against my hair, not the other way around.
Now I was living my fantasy, and I didn’t like it.
Also, I couldn’t concentrate on the matter at hand. I kept thinking of Gus, languishing in his dank, dirty prison; of John, prowling the grounds; of Hans, who was probably halfway in the room by now, the lousy Peeping Tom . . .
‘I can’t,’ I gasped, and rolled off the far side of the bed.
‘
‘Yes, right,’ I gabbled, tucking my blouse into my jeans. ‘I’m sorry, Leif, I’m really sorry. I can’t stand it, it’s too much. Max is probably going to shoot me tomorrow or the next day, and Hans is watching every move we make, and I – I’m just not in the mood, dammit.’
In case he harboured any doubts as to my sincerity, I burst into tears.
The flood quenched Leif’s ardour. Possibly the idea of providing a free peepshow for Hans didn’t appeal to him either. He was very nice. He patted me and told me to get a good night’s sleep. ‘I promise you, on my honour, that you will not be harmed,’ he said solemnly. ‘And when this is over – ’
‘Yes. Oh, yes Leif . . . No, Leif. Remember Hans.’
Somehow I made it back to my room, trying not to see Rudi’s knowing grin. My hands were shaking so badly it seemed to take forever to get out of my clothes and into my nightgown. I was disgusted with myself, but I couldn’t help it. The night air felt bitterly cold. Even after I had gotten into bed and pulled the covers up to my chin I couldn’t stop shivering.
I was reluctant to close the shutters, even though it was still exasperatingly light outside and Hans was on the prowl. I could hear the crunch of gravel under his feet as he walked up and down. I assumed – I hoped -John had managed to get out while Hans was playing voyeur. I wondered how he planned to get back in. Maybe he had counted on me to keep up the distraction. Too bad. There are limits.
I was still awake, twisting and turning, when I heard an outrageous burst of noise outside – a shrill caterwauling of animal rage, a deeper howl that sounded equally inhuman. Heavy footsteps pounded along the path. My curtains billowed and a dark form slid into the room and fell across my feet.
‘Scream,’ John said breathlessly. ‘It won’t take him long to – ’
‘You’re squashing my legs.’
‘Scream, damn it!’ He grabbed a handful of my nightie and tried to tear it. I defy Muhammad Ali to rend a wad of Dacron; it just stretches, interminably. John swore, I started to laugh – an insane, high-pitched giggle that
