'Escape from what?' It's your turn to question her, and this is more comfortable. Being interrogated by a woman is stressful.
'I can't escape, I can't escape from fate, I can't escape from this sort of feeling…' She takes a big mouthful of scotch and tosses back her head.
'What feeling?' You go to push back her hair so you can see her eyes, but she brushes it away herself.
'Women, a woman feels… you wouldn't understand.' She laughs softly again.
It seems probable that this is what is causing her pain, and, looking searchingly at her, you ask, 'How old were you at the time?'
'At the time,' she pauses, then says, 'I was thirteen.'
The waiter is standing behind the counter with his head down, probably preparing the bill.
'That's too young,' you say. Your throat feels tight, and you gulp down a big mouthful of scotch. 'Go on!'
'I don't want to talk about it, I don't want to talk about myself.'
'Margarethe, if you want mutual understanding, not just a sexual relationship, then it isn't just a matter of what you want. We should be able to talk about anything,' you protest.
She is silent for a while, then says, 'It was early winter, a dull day… Venice is not always sunny, and there were not many tourists on the streets.' Her voice seems to be coming from far away. 'From the window, a window that was very low, I could see the sea and the gray sky. Usually, when I sat on the windowsill, I could see the dome of the church…'
She looks out the window at the mass of lights above the pitch-black sea.
'And the dome of the church?' you say, prompting her.
'No, I could only see the gray sky.' She continues, 'It was below the window, on the stone floor of his studio that he, that artist, raped me. There was a radiator in the room, but the stone was very cold.'
You shudder.
'Do you find this upsetting?' Her gray-blue eyes watch you intently from behind her glass, yet she also seems to be staring at the transparent scotch.
'No,' you say. But you want to know if she was to some extent fond of the man before and after this.
'At the time I didn't understand anything, I didn't know what he was doing to my body, my eyes were wide open and staring at the gray sky. I only remember that the stone floor was very cold. It wasn't until two years later, when I discovered changes in my body and I'd become a woman, that I understood. So I hated my body.'
'But did you go again, did you continue to go to his studio? During those two years?' you ask.
'I can't remember very clearly. At first, I was frightened and couldn't remember anything that had happened during those two years. I only knew that he had used me, and I was frightened all the time, frightened others would find out. He kept asking me to his studio, and I didn't dare tell my mother, because she wasn't well. At the time, we were very poor, my parents had separated and my father had gone back to Germany, and I didn't want to stay at home. At first I went with another girl my age to watch him paint. He said he would teach us to paint, starting off with sketches…'
'Go on.' You wait for her to go on, and watch her turning the glass in her hands. The scotch she has been sipping leaves streaks on the inside of the glass.
'Don't look at me like that, I'm not going to tell you everything, and I want to make that quite clear. I don't know, and I can't explain why I went again…'
'Didn't he say he wanted to teach you to paint?' you say, reminding her.
'No. He said he wanted to paint me, he said my curves were gentle. At the time, I was tall and slender, still growing and just starting to fill out. He always got me to comply, he said my body was very beautiful. My breasts were not like they are now. He really wanted to paint me, that's all.'
'So, you agreed to it?' You test her, wanting to find out what had happened.
'No-'
'I'm asking whether you agreed to be his model, not about what happened after he raped you,' you explain.
'No, I didn't agree, but each time he would take off my clothes…'
'Was this before or after?'
You want to know if she had agreed to model for him before that. That is, had she presented herself naked to him.
'It was like that for two years!' she says decisively, then drinks a mouthful of scotch.
'Like what?' You want to get a better idea.
'What do you mean by 'like what'? Rape is rape, what else is there to it? Surely you know that.'
'I've never experienced it.'
You have a drink and try hard to think about something else.
'For two whole years,' she frowns, turns the glass in her hand, 'he raped me!'
That is, she had not resisted. You can't stop yourself from asking, 'Then how did it end?'
'I ran into that other girl at his studio. To begin with, I used to go to his studio with her. We had known one another for a long time, and often saw one another. But after the first time he raped me in his studio, I didn't see her again. One day, I had put on my clothes and was about to go out when that girl turned up. I came face to face with her in the passageway by the landing. She tried to avoid me, but her eyes fell upon me and looked me up and down. Then, without a greeting or a good-bye, she turned to leave. I called her name, but she walked faster and, with a toss of the head, was going down the stairs. I turned, saw him standing awkwardly by the door of the studio, and immediately understood!'
'Understood what?' you ask.
'That he was also raping her,' she says. 'For two years he had been raping me and also her!'
'She, the girl,' you say, 'maybe she accepted and wanted it, maybe she was jealous of you-'
'No, of course it's impossible for you to understand that look! I'm talking about the way that girl looked me over. I hated myself, not just that girl. It was only through her eyes that I was able to see myself, and I hated him and also my body that had prematurely become a woman's.'
Left speechless, you light a cigarette. Outside the big window, the city lights illuminate the night sky, and the gray-white nebula seems to be speeding. The lights in the front section of the lounge have been turned off, only the lights over your table in the rear section are still on.
'Should we leave?' you ask, glancing at the bit of scotch left in her glass.
She drains her glass and smiles at you; you can tell she is a bit tipsy. You raise your glass and empty it, saying that it is to wish her well on her journey.
Back in the room, removing the clasp and loosening her hair, she says, 'Do you still want to fuck me?'
You don't quite know how to reply and, somewhat in a daze, sit by the table in the round-backed chair.
'If you really want to…' she murmurs as the corners of her mouth turn down. She takes off her clothes in silence, her bra, her black panty hose and underpants, then lies there on her back staring at you. Her face has a drunken and yet childish look. You don't make a move, you would not be able to fuck her, and somehow you pity her. You must force yourself to be mean, as you coldly question her further.
'Did he ever give you money?'
'Who are you talking about?'
'The artist, weren't you his model?'
'The first few times, but I didn't take it.'
'And later?'
'Do you want to know everything?' There is a bitter edge to her voice.
'Of course,' you say.
'You know too much already,' she says weakly. 'I have to keep a bit to myself… Since my mother died I have never returned to Venice.'
You have no idea how much of what she has told you is true, or how much she hasn't told you. You say that she is a very intelligent woman, to console and soothe her.
'What's the use of being intelligent?'
She is weaving a net to snare you. What she wants is love, and what you want is freedom. You have paid too high a price for the small freedom of controlling your own freedom, but it is really hard for you to leave her. She
