“Let’s take off that cute little jacket,” says Cora. Because each of us ought to have a hand in the taming of the beast, her eyes turn now to me. With trembling hands, I pull on the coarse fabric of the sleeve. It’s no easy task, relieving a struggling man of his jacket. If he would just play along, I think, it’d be so much easier. I can tell from Cora’s expression that it takes all of her strength to hold him down. He’s fighting to escape like a wounded tiger, and his eyes are filled with hate.
“Now the tie,” says Cora, calm as a surgeon asking a nurse for a scalpel. I bend over him obediently and we gaze straight into each other’s eyes. I have his necktie in one hand as if I’m about to strangle him.
What do I know about people? Nothing. There are a few, like my father, about whom I’ve been forced to think deeply. But I can see the fear in this man’s huge blue irises, darting this way and that like frightened fish in the deep blue sea. I think his fear runs even deeper than his hatred, which itself helps to keep him from drowning. An inappropriate wave of pity washes over me and confuses me. I quickly untie his tie.
“Well,” asks Cora, in a tone that says she no longer anticipates any response, “what do you say, boy?”
He says nothing. He just lies there, absolutely still. Is he plotting some unexpected move?
We watch him, waiting. And then his body tenses, and he swivels his head and spits right in Cora’s face.
Cora smiles, and wipes away the spittle with her purple sleeve. “Shirt,” she says.
My father has the exact same cufflinks. I fumble them loose. When I have the first sleeve halfway free, the conductor makes a sudden wrenching motion and the fabric rips, like a rabbit ripping its own skin as it struggles to release itself from a hunter’s trap. His chest is pale, his chest hair thin and blond.
I lean back.
“Pants.” Cora seems impatient. “We’ll show him he’s just an ordinary little boy, nothing special.”
“Take away a man’s uniform,” says Trix, “and there’s not much left.”
Uniforms. They’re so, so German. Marching around in perfectly synchronized columns, black leather boots stamping the ground, each with one hand angled skyward in a salute, chanting their battle hymns — I’ve seen it in so many films, read it in so many books, heard it from so many survivors who saw it in the flesh. What are wedoing? I think. It’s too late to stop, though — we’ve unleashed something that is stronger than ourselves.
As I undo his belt, I can see Ruud in the dim light of the furniture store, standing by the side of the bed, undoing his belt with self-assured movements, and I’m spread out on the soft bed filled with surprise and disgust at my blind obedience. It puzzles me: why do I keep on doing things I don’t want to do?
It’s not easy for Lien and Trix to get his glossy black shoes off him, but they manage. I almost have to rip off a leg to remove his trousers. Just like a boxer waits for his opponent to drop his guard so he can attack, the conductor picks his moment and lets fly with a well-aimed kick. Trix goes sprawling and clutches her face in both hands.
“You’re going to regret this,” he gasps.
Why her, I think. Why Trix — hasn’t she taken enough punishment already? But his bare foot hasn’t really done much damage, and she recovers quickly. Without any further interruption, I unpants him.
And that seems to break him. His upper body lies limp in Cora’s lap. They could pose for a deposition from the cross, with Cora as the grieving Mary and the conductor as the martyred Christ, except for the light-blue boxers he wears instead of a loincloth.
If I ever get married, I think, I’m going to buy boxers just like those for my husband.
Now what? Is there really any doubt? We exchange questioning glances across the conductor’s body.
“Let’s finish it,” says Trix. She shakes back her mane of hair from her eyes.
“Go ahead.” She nods at me.
I stand beside him. I’ve never seen anyone brought down so low.
He looks like we’re about to toss him out the window or, worse, as if he’d prefer that fate to the one we have planned for him.
What is it we want? Is it revenge, to completely debase him? Or do we simply need a new kind of excitement to get us out of our daily rut?
I can’t move. If only I was a mechanical toy with a key in my back, so they could wind me up and I could do what was expected of me. Three pairs of eyes urge me on, one pair begs for leniency. Is this now the touchstone of our friendship? Do I have to prove myself worthy of being “one of the girls”?
“I’ll do it,” says Trix.
She sits up. Ashamed and relieved, I move out of the way. Let her take over, it’s better that way, I can see it in the seductive smile that flickers across her lips.
In one last burst of anger, he roars, “Stay away from me! Goddammit, leave me alone!”
Then, reduced to desperation, he assumes a fetal position on the ground. I can feel his leg muscles straining. Trix resolutely grabs his boxers with both hands and pulls them down to his ankles.
He turns away, his humiliation complete. A shaft of sunlight breaks through the mist and illuminates the compartment, enveloping the conductor’s body in a warm glow.
We are silent, and the rattle of the train’s wheels over the rails seems to swell.
Cora, a peaceful matron, examines his naked body thoughtfully. All thoughts of vengeance seem to have left her. Her hold on his arms loosens, and he hangs against her like the prodigal son returned to his mother’s lap.
Lien strokes his leg absently, scrunching up her nose to reseat her glasses, an unconscious tic we’ve seen many times before.
Trix’s usually bored expression is gone, replaced by one of lively interest. She blushes with excitement, her nostrils flare, and her eyes gleam. I’ve never seen her so beautiful. She holds the light-blue boxers in her hand like a religious icon.
The sun is warm on my back. I feel the tension drain out of me, the way it feels after a heavy storm has passed. I wouldn’t mind if the train kept on forever.
As majestic as an ancient priestess, Trix leans over and kisses his chest. He shivers, the leg in my hand jumps as if it has a mind of its own. Slowly, carefully, Trix’s lips trace their way from his chest to his stomach, her long blond hair accompanying their descent. From his belly, she describes an arc along his hip to his thigh, tickling the fine hairs which catch the sunlight.
No one says a word. It is as if we are witnessing some secret ritual — and, wonder of wonders, his body reacts to her touch and salutes her. As if in a trance, Trix runs her lips along his thigh. A groan escapes him, accompanied by a violent shaking of his chest and shoulders, and the mood that has swept us all away is broken.
Trix sits up, and her lust gives way to astonishment as she sees him sobbing in Cora’s lap, trying to hide his face in the folds of her purple dress. Cora, the all-forgiving and understanding mother, strokes his hair tenderly. Dismayed by the effect of her caresses, Trix plucks nervously at the boxers she still clutches in her hand.
The train begins to slow.
I only know what’s been happening in our compartment. Of all the yawning and coughing, the silent glances and gossipy exchanges, the irritations and dreams in the rest of the train, I can only guess. In principle, the conductor is the only person aboard who remains completely neutral, as he makes his rounds from car to car.