“And you, you,” Olga moaned at me, “come, laddy, come.”
And the other one's breath started to pant and cough, quicker and quicker till she collapsed with a painful whimpering, without any strength left, completely lifeless. Olga embraced her and caressed her and talked to her as if she were a little baby.
Curious, and even today I cannot fully understand this sort of behavior. At first I just looked as if the whole affair was none of my business, then I had to stifle a completely involuntary laughing fit, and finally I started to get sick. I was still sitting without moving in the creaky old club chair when the two girls regained their composure and started all over again to find their pleasure in each other. They kissed each other loudly and finally one turned around on top of the other and they worked each others private parts with their tongues. Without the girls noticing it, I took my clothing and went into the other room, dressed quietly, put a hundred-mark bill on the table and quietly opened the door, sneaking into the narrow corridor with its horrible pictures. The miserable waiter had been listening on the middle door to the groaning and moaning which again was reaching a fever pitch. He raised an eyebrow but presented me with the bill, which I quickly paid and a minute later was standing in the street, breathing freely.
I felt as if I could never touch another woman again and not only did I feel miserable at that moment but also for the next few hours and the entire next day.
I gave up my intentions to stay in Munich for any prolonged period of time. I decided to leave as soon as possible.
My few remaining days in Munich were spent mainly with avoiding beer halls and pubs. I found a small hotel where I put the finishing touches on my play. Occasionally I spent a few hours in an art gallery or I went to see a church. The day before my departure from Munich I had a little experience in Saint Peter's Church. I loved this monumental building and had already been in it three times. That particular day I longed to see it once more before I left Munich …
In passing the front door I had noticed a girl's head to my right, though I really did not pay too much attention. The thought of female company still did not give me any pleasure.
I went into the church and was soon completely under the spell of this fabulous monument. I did not know whether anyone else besides me dwelled in the House of the Lord, but about ten minutes after I had entered, the same girl was standing next to me and it was obvious that she was trying to attract my attention. It is possible that, absentmindedly, I looked at her longer than one normally looks at another person, though I swear that my gaze was quite unintentional. She asked, “Did you go up in the choir loft yet? There are stairs …”
I was flabbergasted. “If you want me to, I will show you the way … and if you're nice, I'll show you much more,” she added boldly, lifting her gray skirts so high that I could see her stockings. The look on my face must have registered utter surprise. “There is nothing to be afraid of upstairs … nobody ever gets up there, and if you don't feel safe, we can always lock the door. We can save ourselves the cost of a hotel room.”
She went up the stairs to the choir loft and lifted her skirt so high that I could see her thighs and her belly. “Well, come on, what are you waiting for!” she called impatiently. I don't know what came over me at that particular moment, but I walked over to her, quite calmly, and spat squarely between her legs on her belly, turned around and quietly walked out of the church, the whore whose “femininity” had been insulted belching the meanest gutter-words from the choir.
I told myself that I had had enough. I said, as long as you can't find anything decent, leave the people alone and don't mix with them. But I knew that my desire for female company had become quite overwhelming. I would have leaped with joy if I would have met Rita that particular evening and the thought of Marie … I thought quite often about her … made my knees buckle. That night I did not go back to my hotel, because I had become afraid to be alone with myself.
It must have been around two o'clock in the morning when I was in a well-known artist's cafe, sitting in a quiet corner and working on a small novel I intended to have published as soon as possible.
Then a waitress walked over to my table and asked if I was not the author so and so, and she named my name.
I turned as red as a beet* Author! I felt completely exposed. I was embarrassed, and thus I said, “No!”
If it is really true that one must lose all inhibitions before one can become a true artist … well, I'll probably never become a true artist.
Isn't it really only inhibition which prevents me from putting my name on this manuscript? I know many who would love to brag that they had written it. Perhaps they should be envied.
Soon the waitress walked over to my corner again, this time to announce that I must be mistaken, because indeed I was the gentleman in question. And she handed me a letter. A pale-pink envelope, addressed in pencil and the handwriting was without any particular character, difficult to decide whether written by a man or a woman.
The waitress noticed my reluctance. She obviously was a woman of experience. She said, “If you write plays, don't be stupid and take this letter. She can help you and she can harm you anyway she wants. And if you don't need the theater then you can always tell her to go and get ….” She suddenly started to laugh without finishing her beautiful sentence, saying, “Oh, well, that's what she likes best anyway!”
I had not yet been hardened enough in the art of making blunt remarks not to be slightly upset. I knew that I had correctly guessed the essence of the expression, though I could not believe that such a thing was possible in Munich.
Finally I convinced myself that there may be something which I did not know about and which bore investigating (I was still young then, and considered myself fully matured in sexual matters, though in reality I had not experienced a thing). I opened the letter. Yes, there was something new! The letter was signed by a very famous actress of that time and it read,
“My dear, beautiful Sir:
I know you. Anton (and here followed the name of a famous journalist), who knows everybody, has assured me that you are an author. He even thinks you have talent and that old pig usually can never find a good word for anybody. But I've known your name for a long time because your father was one of my best friends when I was still an actress in your hometown. As a matter of fact, remembering your father right now has made me so hot and bothered that I would love to tear the clothes off your back right here and now. From where I am sitting I have an excellent view of your nice and muscular behind. Oh boy, I wish I could bury my face between its nice cheeks and bury my tongue way up your little bunghole. Why don't you come over to our table, I bet you have never experienced a thing like that. You don't have to do anything, I will do it all. Come directly over to my table and afterward we will go to my home for the experience of your life.”
I read the letter three times.
She had signed that letter with her full name!
I remembered the name, though today I can no longer recall it, as one of the most famous actresses and, once upon a time, the treasure of my hometown. And she had written a letter like this? She once was one of my father's best friends? I must admit that I had become somewhat curious. At least I had to see the woman. I arose, and at the same time a raucous female voice from the other side of the cafe penetrated the whole room. I saw a large and stately lady walk toward me, her expensive clothes slightly disheveled and her reddish countenance betrayed the fact that she was not entirely sober. “I thought I'd pick you up myself so that I don't have to send that damned waitress over here again.”