‘Oh, I would love so much to go down there,’ says Alexandra. ‘Wouldn’t it be possible, Ricky?’
‘Too dangerous. And I doubt if Princess Poliakoff would be deceived, even if we smeared some burnt cork on your face and lent you a pair of my trousers.’ I move in the bed. The touch of the soft linen on my body, the effect of the cocaine, are superb. We are all three so happy that my former fears, my caution, my common-sense seem banal to me. ‘But what can anyone say?’ she asks. ‘Oh, there are ways of saying things. But I’ll put my mind to the problem. Let’s get dressed while we can.’ Slowly I lower my feet to the carpet and stand on trembling legs. Clara brings my clothes to me. We laugh as the material makes us wince. ‘We’ve overdone it. Tomorrow we must definitely rest. I thought I was going to die tonight.’
‘Me, too,’ says my Alex. ‘But what a beautiful death. You have taught me so much, Clara. Thank you.’ She is far more enthusiastic about Clara than she was about Therese. I cannot fathom her tastes or her motives. There is a knock. Frau Schmetterling is apologetic. ‘I’m glad I haven’t interrupted you. I thought you’d be leaving. I wanted to speak to you, Ricky.’ Alexandra is alarmed, like a schoolgirl caught smoking. ‘Good evening, my dear.’ I have never known Frau Schmetterling to visit one of the rooms before. She is stately as ever, in black and white, but seems agitated. ‘Would you excuse me while I have a word with your gentleman? Ricky?’ We move out into the passage. ‘This is not the best time,’ she says, ‘but I have decided to go to bed early. It has been too busy for a weekday. We were not really prepared. Poor Mister can hardly stand up. Ulric has threatened to leave. It is the War. The threat of death is a great encourager of lust. I thought I’d invite you to stay here, in one of the private suites, if you would feel better. I am keeping it aside for you. Until the business with Holzhammer is over. I have heard rumours. Well, as you’d expect. No truce has been reached and Holzhammer… He means to win, I gather, at any price. The city could suffer. You know how fond I am of you. Your hotel is so near the centre. Here, we are more secluded. Well?’ Her dark, maternal eyes are earnest.
I am moved by her concern. ‘You have always been so kind,’ I say, touching her arm. ‘I’m comfortable enough at the Liverpool, at least for the moment. There is also the young lady to consider.’
‘If you could promise me there would be no scandal I’d willingly extend the invitation. The Prince intends to defend—Oh, Ricky—Simply reassure me.’ She seems doubtful, reluctant to have Alexandra as a guest. Her little fat face is full of worry.
‘There would be no scandal, I promise.’ But I am lying, of course. If Alexandra’s parents were to find out where their daughter was it would be the end of Frau Schmetterling’s business in Mirenburg. For that reason I am firm in declining her offer. ‘What danger can there be to civilians, even if Holzhammer marches in tomorrow? Mirenburg is not Paris. There is no Commune here!’
‘The Prince means to resist,’ she says again.
‘Then Germany will come to help him and Holzhammer will be trounced once and for all.’
‘The guns,’ she murmurs. ‘They say; Holzhammer will not bombard Mirenburg. He would arouse the hatred of the civilised world.’
Frau Schmetterling is unconvinced.
‘I’m a little exhausted,’ I tell her gently. ‘I desire very much, madame, to get to bed.’
‘Of course.’ She squeezes my hand. ‘But you must remember, Ricky, that I am your friend.’ She waddles away down the passage, then pauses. ‘I care for your well-being, my dear.’ She waves her plump arms as if to dismiss her own sentiments. She lets out a matronly chuckle. ‘Good night, Ricky.’
Our carriage is loud in the expectant streets; Alexandra wants to know the substance of my conversation with the madam. I tell her. ‘But it would be so convenient,’ she says. ‘Why didn’t you accept?’ My instincts are against it. I can hardly explain my feelings to myself and I am already tiring. My nerves are bad, my body no longer sings. I desperately want the comfort of the Liverpool’s sheets. Alexandra is still euphoric. She kisses and hugs me. I am her master, she says, her beautiful man, the most wonderful lover in the world. Horses race by with soldiers on their backs. I see lamps moving, hear the occasional voice and I wonder how much of the tension I sense is external, how much comes from within. I am thinking of Princess Poliakoff. Several years before, in Venice, I attended one of her parties at which, she told me, I was to be the guest of honour. She had brought in some peasants from her country estate: young men and women whom, I believe, worked for her. ‘Here,’ she had said, ‘are your pupils. They know all about you and are willing to be educated by you.’ Those strange, fresh faces, so wholesome and natural in tone and colour, yet so fundamentally degenerate, looked towards me eagerly as if I were Satan Himself, a Magister of Corruption to whom they could offer their souls as my apprentices. The responsibility was completely beyond me. I told Princess Poliakoff such games bored me. I fled the house. I am aware of my own limitations and, to some degree at least, my own motives. I live as I do because I have no need to work and no great talent for art; therefore my explorations are usually in the realm of human experience, specifically sexual experience, though I understand the dangers of self-involvement in this as in any other activity. Those peasants had been creatures for whom sexuality had become an escape rather than an adventure. They had made no choice at all; they were dependent upon the Princess for their bread. They had no faith in themselves, no belief in their rights as individuals to strengthen and maintain their own wills and to accept any consequences of their own actions. And in this they are dangerous. In this, I would go so far to say, they were evil. And I believe Princess Poliakoff evil, I think. Yet, surely, I am now doing something which I refused to do then, in Venice. Have I no morality left to me, after all? Alexandra clings to me, kisses me with soft, little girl kisses. It is all I can do at this moment not to shudder.
We tug off our clothes as soon as we are in our bedroom. She laughs and kisses my wounds. She looks at herself in the mirror at her bruises and welts, as if she surveys a new gown. ‘Oh, Clara is marvellous. Such presence! Don’t you think so, Ricky?’