Little angel, there could be no finer moment than this! We’ve arrived. We’re here. Martha stretched out on the bed and reached one arm towards Helene. Berlin, she said softly, as if her voice were dying of happiness, drowning in it. We’re in Berlin now.
Don’t say such things. Helene took a step towards the trunk, found her brushes in its side pocket and let down her hair.
The poison is sweet, little angel. Don’t look at me as if I were a damned soul. So I’m going to die some day — what about it? I suppose one’s allowed to live a little first? Martha chuckled in a way that, just for a moment, reminded Helene of their mother, left behind at home in her deranged state of mind.
Lying on her back, Martha kicked off her shoes — she had obviously undone their long laces already — undid the buttons of her dress and, as if it were perfectly natural, placed one hand on her bare breast. Her skin was white, thin and delicate, so delicate that Helene could see the veins shimmering underneath it.
Helene combed her hair. She sat down at the washstand and poured some water into the basin from the silver jug, she picked up the fragrant soap, smelling of southern lavender, and washed. Now and then Martha sighed.
Will you sing me a song, little angel?
What shall I sing? Helene’s voice had dried up. In spite of her long afternoon nap in the train, she felt tired, and could not find in herself the joy and happiness that she had expected to feel on arriving in Berlin, that she had in fact felt on the station.
Do you love me, dear heart, my golden girl?
Helene turned to Martha. Martha had difficulty concentrating her eyes on Helene; they kept sliding away from her and they looked as if the pupils filled them entirely.
Martha, do you need help? Helene looked at her sister, wondering if she was always like this just afterwards.
Martha hummed a tune that sounded very odd to Helene’s ears, winding its way between F sharp major and B flat minor. I wonder if Aunt Fanny has a piano?
You haven’t played for ages.
It’s not too late. Martha giggled in that strange way again and smacked her lips slightly, as if she were having difficulty in suppressing her giggles. She retched. Next moment Martha sat up, reached for one of the little red glasses standing on the glass-fronted cupboard and spat into it.
Very elegant, a little spittoon like this. Our fine aunt thinks of everything.
Martha, what is all this? Helene gathered up her hair, twisted it to the sides of her head and pinned it up. We have to be out there in half an hour’s time. Will you be able to manage that? Can you pull yourself together?
Why so worried, little angel? Haven’t I managed everything so far? Everything.
Perhaps I’d better open the window.
Everything, little angel, what choice did I have but to manage everything? But now we’re here, my golden girl.
Why do you call me your golden girl? That’s what Father used to call me. Helene wanted to wrinkle her brow in a frown, but the dip between her forehead and her strikingly small nose was so shallow that only a few fine lines formed above her nose.
I know, I know. And did the pet name die with him, little angel?
Helene handed Martha a glass of water. Drink this. I hope that’ll disperse the mists.
Tut, tut, tut, mists, dear heart. Martha shook her head. This is spring’s awakening, little angel.
Please get dressed. I’ll help you. And before Martha could turn down Helene’s offer she was buttoning up her sister’s dress.
And I thought you wanted to kiss me, dear heart. You didn’t answer my question. Do you remember what I asked?
Helene was kneeling in front of Martha now to help her get her shoes on. Martha dropped back on the bed and whispered: Dear heart, dear heart, you will answer me.
When Helene had tied her sister’s laces, she tugged at her arm to make her sit up. Martha’s long torso was heavy and swayed. She sank back once more.
Oh, my poor foot, it’s too light to stay on this floor, please hold it. Martha saw Helene stretch both legs out stiffly in front of her so that they reached over the edge of the bed. At the same time she breathed deeply and raised her shoulders.
Can you stand up?
Easy, couldn’t be easier. Martha stood up, leaning on Helene’s arm, and raised her head. She was only a little taller than Helene now. Her words came out sharply and distinctly, with a hiss on every ‘s’, although the intervals between the words were noticeably long. Perhaps Martha thought she had to speak like that to sound clear and sober.
Someone knocked at the door.
Yes? Helene opened it, and the housemaid Otta took a small step aside and bobbed a curtsy. Her cap was perched on her hair, looking as white and starched as if she had made no effort at all this evening.
Can I help the young ladies?
Thank you very much, we’ll be all right. Helene plucked a hair off Martha’s dress. How did you speak to housemaids in Berlin, she wondered?
You’ll hear the gong for dinner in a minute. If you would like to come and sit down?
By all means, said Martha with dignity, and she walked past the housemaid with her head held high and into the long corridor. You could hardly see her swaying.
There were place cards at the dinner table. As soon as the party was seated a gentleman at the head of the table rose to his feet. He wore a ring on every finger, each more magnificent than the last. Bonsoir, mes amis, copains et copines, cousin et cousine. He raised his glass courteously to the company. His oily, combed-back hair rested on the collar of his shirt, his white face looked as if he were wearing make-up. He laughed out loud and now began speaking German with a French accent. It is an honour for me to wish my dear cousine… ah, why don’t we throw the lies overboard today and devote ourselves to other vices? Let me say it’s a joy to me to wish my young lover here good health and a long life. To Fanny, to our dear friend!
Astonished, Helene looked around. Could he have meant their Fanny, Aunt Fanny? How could the speaker call her his young lover when she might be in her mid-forties and he wasn’t yet thirty? Fanny thanked him; her black eyes smiled under heavy lashes. Stars sparkled in her hair. She placed her hand on her long neck, and it looked as if she were caressing herself here at the dinner table in front of her guests. There was a net over her short dark hair that must be sprinkled with diamonds. Or perhaps they were just imitation gemstones, but she wore them like diamonds. The ladies and gentlemen raised their glasses and cried enchanté, and à votre santé, ma chère, and à mon amie to Aunt Fanny.
Martha was sitting very upright on the opposite side of the table, her eyes shining as she talked to her neighbours, laughing her clear laughter again and again, and letting them pour more champagne into her glass. Helene kept an eye on her; she intended to take care of her sister. Martha hardly touched the delicious food, now and then she put her fork into her vol-au-vent and later she kept blowing on her soufflé as if it were too hot. There was a grating, crackling noise from a large brass-coloured funnel, a voice croaked in song: In fifty years we’ll all be gone. When the party moved from the table to sit on chaises longues, Martha gratefully took the arm of the man who had been sitting beside her at dinner listening to her chatter. Once Helene thought that Martha was crying. But as soon as she had made her way across the salon to her sister Martha was laughing, dabbing tears of delight from her face with the handkerchief that she had tied round her arm earlier. In the course of the evening Martha accepted cigarettes and smoked them through a holder that Helene had never seen in her sister’s hands before. Later Fanny’s lover, whose name was Bernard pronounced in the French way, had a pipe lit. Nothing less than opium could be offered in tribute to her, he opined. Her friends clapped.