‘You must guard against getting too sentimental, Rose my darling, at times like these. It’s not like you.’ I kiss her cheek She shakes her head and does her best to dismiss her mood. It occurs to me for a second that perhaps she is worried about her own fate. After all, Frau Schmetterling is Jewish, at least by birth. I return to the rooms. Alexandra is wearing a new negligee of chocolate-brown trimmed with cream lace and her little body, now marked with the fading reminders of a dozen violent nights, is pale in the afternoon light which enters through embroidered nets at the windows. Couch, floor and chairs are piled with new chemises and drawers, with white ostrich feathers, with an ermine-trimmed stole, like froth on a river, and she tugs at her curls, peering with ill temper into an oval mirror which hangs on the wall over a lacquered Chinese sideboard. ‘Another raid on Falfnersallee,’ I say with a smile. She pulls down an eyelid, looking for blood. ‘They’re almost giving things away, Ricky.’ She has bought a selection of new cosmetics, which she has scattered over the sideboard, and begins to try them out, asking me for my opinion of this lip-rouge and that powder. ‘You’ll destroy your skin,’ I say dispassionately. ‘You have youth and health, natural beauty;’ She makes a face. ‘You are certainly no lover of what is natural, my dear.’ I bridle. ‘Nonsense. But play at grown-up ladies, if that’s what pleases you. Did you buy a paper?’ She is distant. ‘I forgot.’ I am irritated. ‘It’s not a great deal to ask.’ I pick at feathers and linen, becoming even more angry when I think I shall have to ask Frau Schmetterling for more cash. I have given her a blank cheque, to cover our expenses. ‘You should have told Clara to remember,’ says Alexandra. ‘She’s always reliable. Anyway, what do you want a paper for? You told me there’s nothing in it now but lies.’ The negligee has fallen back to reveal her ribs. ‘You’re not eating properly,’ I say. ‘You’re getting too thin.’ She sets down a little pot with a rap. ‘Men want everything. A lady has to be thin in society and plump in bed. Yet you complain about the way I lace my stays!’
‘I’m concerned for your health. I feel some responsibility.’
‘You should not. It is none of your business.’
I want to put an end to this. I embrace her, fondling her shoulders and breasts, but she pulls away. ‘You treat me like a child! You spend all your time with other people. Are you fucking the whores while I’m out?’
‘You know I’m not. You enjoy Clara’s company. You told me so. You’re always off on expeditions.’
‘In a veil. Like a Turkish concubine! You don’t love me. You’re bored with me. You refuse to let me be myself. I’m not your daughter. I wanted to get away from that. You sound worse than my father sometimes.’
‘Then you should not behave like a little girl.’ Such banal exchanges are terrible. I hate listening to the words on my own lips. I have said nothing of this kind since I was eighteen. ‘All the interesting people are downstairs,’ she says. ‘You talk about them. I never see them. Princess Poliakoff, Count Belozerski, Rudolph Stefanik. You and Clara joke about them. I am left out of everything. Why do you want me? You could have a dozen whores and never notice I was missing.’
‘I love you,’ I say. ‘That’s the difference.’
She snorts. ‘You don’t know me.’
‘I’m beginning to think there is not very much to know. Perhaps you are entirely my invention.’
‘You bastard!’ It is the first time she has sworn at me. She repeats the oath, as if to herself. ‘You bastard.’ She begins to weep. I go to comfort her. She pulls away again. ‘What have you made me!’
‘Nothing which you were not already, or did not wish to be. I told you at the start: I am the instrument of your pleasure. I put myself at your disposal. And when I have warned you of excess you haven’t listened to me. Now you’re overtired and self-pitying. And you’re blaming me.’
Her weeping becomes more intense. ‘I don’t know any better. How can I know any better? I want so much to go to the party tonight. But you’re afraid I’ll embarrass you. And when I try to look grown-up you complain. You confuse me. You lie tome.’
‘How dare you pretend to be so naive,’ I say. ‘You have no right to demand honesty of me and argue with such patent ingenuity when you know full well what you mean and what you want. It is malice and resentment which motivates you and your methods amount to blackmail. I will not be insulted by you in this way. I will not be silent while you insult yourself. What is it that you want?’
But she refuses to be direct. The rhetoric continues between sobs. ‘You have destroyed any will I might have had. Any self-respect. You spend your time with Clara. You laugh at me behind my back.
‘Clara is your friend. You told me that you love her.’
‘She criticises constantly.’
‘Not to me.’
‘I know what she’s saying. You’re a fool if you don’t realise what she’s up to.’
I light myself a cigarette. ‘You are attempting to manufacture a crisis,’ I say, ‘and I will not be drawn. Tell me what you want.’
‘I want respect!’
‘Eventually,’ I continue, ‘it is very likely that you will wear me down sufficiently so that out of weariness or exasperation I will make you an offer and thus save you the responsibility of making your own decision. Or I will become remorseful and give you that which your conscience cannot demand. Well, I will have none of it. When you have made up your mind to speak to me directly I shall be pleased to continue this conversation.’ I sound ridiculously pompous in my own ears. She wants me to take her to the party. I am almost ready to do so, even though I know it would be unwise. But I want her to ask. Somehow I am carrying too much of the burden. I am at the door when she wails: ‘I want to go to the party!’
‘You know it would be too dangerous for us,’ I say.
‘I don’t know. I only know what you tell me. Are you frightened of their opinion?’
I am frightened, of course. I am frightened of the dream ending, of reality intruding. I leave the room. She has wounded me and I am full of self-pity. I am furious with her. I had thought things had reached a decent balance. But she is not content with promises of Paris and I can scarcely blame her, since there is no means of knowing when the siege will be over. But she has changed. I can sense that she has changed. What alterations have occurred in her strange, fantastic brain. I am as much at a loss for a satisfactory explanation as if I had attempted to analyse the perceptions and motives of a household pet. Like a pet she is able to take on the colour of any master; to respond to whatever desires that master displays. Yet she is not doing that now. Does that mean she is ready to find a new master? I feel I am somehow making a mistake; as if I have failed to understand the rules of the game. Perhaps I should not have been so direct with her. Perhaps I should have disguised my desires and remained more of a mystery to her. Or will I lose her anyway? To someone else who will represent liberty and escape to her? It seems increasingly important that we should leave Mirenburg. I will go to Police headquarters in the morning and try again to get passports for us. I have miscalculated. I blame the drugs, the atmosphere of the whorehouse. Sensuality has given way to a sort of erotomania. It could destroy everything. I must make an effort to impress her with my own common-sense. I must not weaken. Alice! I want what you were. My little girl! Have you no notion of all the emotions you have aroused in me? The tenderness, the willingness to sacrifice everything for you? You cannot know what I have given up already, what I am still prepared to give up. You are myself. And we are Mirenburg. I find that I am outside Clara’s room. I knock. She tells me to enter. She has Natalia, her dark friend, with her. They are drinking tea. ‘I am so sorry to disturb you.’ I make to go, but both wave me in. ‘Is the child sleeping?’ asks Clara. ‘No,’ I say, 'she decided to have a tantrum, so I’ve left her to cool down.’ Clara and Natalia both seem to approve of this decision. I fall into Clara’s couch, immediately relieved. ‘What am I to do with her?’