I am already in bed. ‘Would you wish to be like Clara?’ I ask.
‘A whore? Of course not. But to have such power!’
I shake my head. ‘She has no power in reality. She pretends it, to serve her clients. She is paid to act that part. The fact that she enjoys it is probably why she is paid so well. But she—’
Alexandra crawls in beside me. ‘Ssh, Ricky. You are too serious. Can you see me as a Clara?’
I take her tenderly to me. She is almost immediately asleep, her face in the pillows. It is as if she lies just below the surface of freedom; head down in an unsecured coffin from which, if she merely turns her body once, she can immediately escape. I dim the lamp but do not extinguish it. The sky outside becomes grey. I intend to sleep at least until the evening. I dream of a dark femme fatale whom I cannot identify, mother and priestess, wicked and tender; she laughs at me and pulls thorny roses from her body; her laughter is gutteral and there is a thin, overbred dog at her side which whines, cringes and bares its teeth at me, barking whenever I try to approach her. Panting, I awaken. Dawn is yellow ivory barred with dusty gold. My body aches, my muscles are tense. I have no energy; my skull seems clamped. There are noises from outside. Momentarily I mistake them for the sounds of surf and wind. I hear a distinctive whistling, a boom. I hear voices from the open window. Taking up my dressing gown I walk on stiff legs to the balcony and stand there, supporting myself on the iron railing. The light is painful. There is smoke rising everywhere, as if from large fires. I look across the square where figures are running this way and that. Another terrible whistling, and before my eyes I see a Gothic spire crack and fall. My predictions were meaningless, comforting, without foundation; little tunes hummed to keep dark realities at bay, for Holzhammer is bombarding Mirenburg! I turn into the room. Alexandra continues to sleep. She has pushed away the covers. There is a smile on her face. I check the impulse to wake her and stumble back to bed to light a cigarette and lie looking up at the bed curtains, listening to the sounds of destruction. Then I am drawn again to the balcony. For most of the morning I remain there, still incredulous, as the enemy shells smash a Romanesque column or erode the delicate masonry of a modern apartment building. It is probable that I am not yet free of the cocaine because I begin to think the bombardment is bringing a new kind of beauty to the city, for the moment at least, perhaps also a dignity it has not previously possessed. Just as a woman in middle or late years will achieve grace and poise through vicissitude and pain making her more attractive than ever she could have been in the prime of her youth and looks, so Mirenburg seems now. I do not grieve for her. It seems relief must soon come in the form of a truce. It is not possible that, in all humanity, the besiegers could place upon their consciences the responsibility for the annihilation of so much nobility and optimism, those centuries of civilisation. And sure enough, at exactly mid-day, the guns become silent. Prince Badehoff-Krasny will not let his city be destroyed. The autumn light is washed with grey; clouds rise from the ruins like baffled souls. I return to bed and sleep, my own wounds forgotten. Old Papadakis brings more boiled fish. I am surprised because I can smell alcohol on his breath. ‘You were so proud of all your abstinences,’ I say. ‘You sought them out as if they were positive virtues; as if they gave you merit. You were so full of yourself. But you know what it is, too, don’t you, to be ruined by a woman?’ He sighs and puts the tray over my knees, below my writing case. ‘Eat if you want to. Haven’t you finished your story yet?’ We are both exiles. We have no other bond. ‘Are you afraid of it?’ I ask. ‘Look how much I’ve written!’ His dark eyes stare into a corner of the room. I remember when, relaxed, he used to seem like an eager boy. ‘Self-denial is not the same as self-discipline,’ I tell him. ‘You remain an infant. But you have lost your charm. She found out what you were, didn’t she? Widow-hunter!’ I believe I am making him angry. For the first time he looks me full in the eyes, as an equal. ‘All those dead painters! Vulture! Bring me a bottle of decent claret. Or have you drunk it all yourself? Why do you feel you should be rewarded? You have spent your life responding to others and you thought it would always pay. And now you have only me and you cannot bear to respond, can you? I am your nemesis.’
‘You are mad,’ he says, and leaves. I continue to laugh. I disdain his pieces offish. I continue to write. I am writing now. The ink is the colour of the Mediterranean, flowing from my silver Waterman. What have the Italians become? What does their Duce mean to me? And Germany is destroyed. What dreadful perversity led to this? Was it all prefigured? How could we have known better? Can God be so small-minded that he disapproves of a Lesbian salon? But it is not that which He set out to destroy. Oh, the pain of movement. Alexandra is whispering in my ear. ‘Ricky, I’m hungry.’ One dream washes into another. I smile at her. ‘I love you. I am your brother, your father, your husband.’ She kisses my cheek. ‘Yes. I’m hungry, Ricky. Do you feel rested? I feel wonderful.’
I begin to sit up. ‘Have you looked outside?’ It is nearly dark. ‘No,’ she says. ‘Why should I?’ I tell her to go to the balcony and tell me what she sees. She thinks it is a game. Frowning and smiling she obeys. ‘What’s happened? Oh, God! They have pulled down—’
‘They have shot down,’ I say. ‘Holzhammer’s seige is beginning in earnest.’ First she is frightened, and then she begins to show delight. ‘But Ricky, it means I’m completely free. People must have been killed, eh?’
I draw in a deep breath. I have never known any creature so unselfconsciously greedy. ‘What a wonderful animal you are. Don’t you want to try to get to Vienna? Or Paris?’
‘And leave Rosenstrasse? Is there anywhere else like it?’
‘Nothing quite like it.’
‘Then we’ll see what happens.’
That night we visit the brothel and before the new girl (an unremarkable creature called Claudia who submits to Alexandra’s rather clumsy imitations of Clara) arrives, Frau Schmetterling pays us a call. ‘Remember my offer,’ she says. ‘They are not interested in this corner of town.’
On our way home we are stopped by soldiers. I tell them who I am. Alexandra invents a name. The soldiers refuse to laugh at my jokes and insist on escorting us back to the hotel. The next morning I receive a visit from a policeman with orders for me to accompany him to his headquarters. He is perfectly polite. It is an examination to which all foreign nationals must submit. I tell Alexandra to wait for me in our rooms and if I do not return by evening to inform Frau Schmetterling. At Nurnbergplatz, however, I find an apologetic police captain who claims to have met my father and to be an admirer of the new Kaiser. ‘We have to be cautious of spies and saboteurs. But, of course, you are German.’ I ask if it will be possible to have a safe-conduct from the city. He promises to do his best, but is not very helpful. ‘My superiors,’ he says. ‘They cannot risk anyone reporting to the enemy. Have you been told about the curfew?’ No private citizens are allowed to be on the streets after nightfall without special permission. This threatens my routine. I hardly know what is happening. While we are talking, more shells begin to land within the city walls and now I am aware that the defenders are firing back. The policeman is despondent. ‘We are being attacked with our own guns. Holzhammer seized the train from Berlin. Those are Krupp cannon. Even more powerful than the ones you used against Paris. But I should not tell you this, sir. It is hard to become secretive, eh? We are not very experienced at such things in Mirenburg.’ I return, despondent, to The Liverpool. Alexandra is half-dressed, busy with her pots and brushes. ‘Oh, thank goodness,’ she says, without a great deal of interest. ‘I thought they had arrested you.’ She returns to her mirror. I find her amusing today, perhaps because I am relieved to be free. ‘The guns stopped at twelve,’ she says. ‘I thought so. Some ultimatum of Holzhammer’s. I believe, though the newspapers are vague. They are being censored.’ I put them down on the bed and remove my jacket. ‘Are you sure you want to go to Rosenstrasse tonight? There’s a curfew. We must leave before dusk and return after dawn. We could eat at the hotel and have an early night.’