The Bullet Trick

'Sleep well?' I did a final shake over the pan and zipped myself away.

'Not so much sleep as pass out.' She patted her face dry with a grey-looking towel. 'How

’bout you?'

'The same.'

Sylvie hung the towel back up and did a quick shuffle, hopping from foot to foot.

I said, 'Cool dance.'

And she made a face.

'Very funny, you finished there?'

We swapped places and she seated herself, holding her long dressing-gown around her thighs. She had thick woolly socks on her feet, but I had the impression that other than that she was naked under her robe. A thin trickling filled the room. I did the gentlemanly thing and looked in the mirror. I needed a shave and my breath probably stank, but the night hadn’t left too much of a mark on my face. Thoughts of the show were still bothering me. I would have to get away soon. Somewhere on my own where I could start thinking how I might tailor my act to this new audience. Behind me Sylvie sighed.

'That’s better.'

I looked towards her then looked away quick, catching her blotting herself dry. My contact lenses eased away from my eyes, letting the world blur to the state where everything looked fine. I splashed my face with cold water.

'Dix has a razor and stuff if you want to use it.'

'I’ll be OK.' I held up my toilet bag. 'You forget I’ve got all my worldly possessions with me.'

'There’s a lot to be said for that.'

Sylvie put the toilet-lid down and sat on it, looking at me as I brushed my teeth.

'Yep.' I spat out the foam and rinsed my mouth. 'Just an old jakie, footloose and fancy-free.'

'A jakie?'

'A tramp, a hobo.'

'But you’ve got ties in the UK right? A house and kids and all that shit?'

'No house, no kids, not even a budgie; indeed no loved ones of any description.'

'No family?'

'Well there’s me old mum, but we don’t see much of each other.'

'Wow.'

I reached for the towel then remembered its greyness and dried my face on the hem of my shirt. Sylvie’s expression was blurred but I thought she was smiling.

'All done?'

'My normal regime includes a mudpack and a seaweed wrap but I suppose I’ll have to make an exception today.'

'Hungry?'

'Hank Marvin.'

'What?'

'Starving.'

She laughed and pushed me playfully from the room.

'Well here’s the deal. You let me get ready and I’ll let you take me out for breakfast.' She started to close the door behind me. 'You know, a girl needs a bit of privacy sometimes.'

Sylvie took me to a small Turkish café on the corner of her street. The aged proprietor smiled when he saw her and they exchanged greetings in a quick slick German while he settled us at a small pavement table. The old man shouted something through the door of the café and pretty soon a young waiter appeared with a tray carrying tiny cups and a tall curvy coffee pot. He handed me a menu printed in English. Sylvie snatched it away good-naturedly, ordering for both of us, saying something that made the waiter laugh then glance at me shyly before he went back inside to prepare our breakfast.

I massaged my temples above my right eyebrow, wondering why my hangovers always concentrated there. Perhaps it was some congenital weakness that would only be diagnosed after I suddenly dropped dead. I wondered if I’d die on-stage, collapsing in the middle of a trick, everyone thinking I’d done it for comic effect. Folk said it was the way Tommy Cooper would’ve wanted to go. I’d never met him but it seemed like a nightmare exit to me. The sound of embarrassed laughter and the audience whispering to each other that they couldn’t believe what an old ham you’d become.

We sat there, bundled against the cold. Sylvie poured, steam curled from the spout and the rich scent of thick sweet coffee began to lift my hangover. We both lit up, adding cigarette smoke and warm breath to the mix.

'You’ve got a good grasp of the lingo.'

'I went to school here.'

'Careful, Sphinx, you’re telling me things about yourself.'

She smiled.

'There’s no big mystery. It’s just, who needs the past? Dix says we should let go and he’s right. What’s the point in looking back? We live for now.'

'Where is Dix? Still in bed?'

'Why?'

'No reason. Nosiness. I wanted to say thanks.'

'I’ll tell him thanks for you.'

'Thanks for that.' We both laughed and I said, 'No, I mean it, thanks. I would’ve been walking the streets last night if it hadn’t been for you.'

'It was no problem.'

'Well, I owe you one.'

She put her elbows on the table and propped her sharp little chin against her fists.

'Wanna pay me back?'

I remembered for the first time that she’d been waiting for me for a reason. My voice was cautious.

'If I can.'

'Will you see if there’s any jobs going for dancers at your place?'

'Sure.'

The waiter brought out two sticky pastries and Sylvie dropped the subject, telling me instead about her Berlin, shops and cafés not listed in the guidebook, streets to search out and a couple to avoid. She talked quickly, taking distracted puffs at her cigarette between bites, laughing often and making me laugh in response. She spoke with her mouth full, somehow still managing to look good. The waiter came out to check whether we wanted anything else and Sylvie ordered a second round of coffees. The two of us lingered on at the pavement table though it should have been too cold to sit outside. We smoked more cigarettes and discussed the passers-by, people with places to go, each of us pretending to be shocked by the slanders the other concocted about perfect strangers.

Eventually the thoughts of that night’s show, which had been tugging at my mind since I woke that morning, became too uncomfortable to ignore. I stubbed out the last of my cigarette and pushed my empty coffee cup to one side.

'I’d best get going.'

'People to do, things to see?'

'A show to fix.'

She smiled.

'It wasn’t so bad.'

'Wasn’t so good either.'

'You’ll fix it. You just need to work out an angle.'

'I guess so.'

We swapped mobile numbers and I promised again to ring her if anything came up. It crossed my mind that I might phone her anyway, but then thoughts of Uncle Dix intruded.

Uncle Dix, where did people get off with these weird names? Styling himself like some Weimar pimp. I bet even now he was cursing the late night and getting ready for some second-rate lecturing job. No, I probably wouldn’t phone. I gave her a last wave then strode onto the street and hailed a taxi to take me to my hotel.

It was early in the afternoon when I stepped out and started to walk towards the theatre.

I’d been in the shower when the phone had rung. I’d assumed it was a wrong number, then when the ringing persisted thought it might be someone from Schall und Rauch. I’d answered half-draped in a towel, wondering why it was I seemed to be naked whenever the phone rang, though I was sure I was clothed most of my waking hours. I picked up the receiver, saying, 'Ja?' Assuming whoever it was would appreciate the effort.

'William? That you?' My agent evidently thought he should shout even louder when talking to someone abroad. 'What’s with the Ja? You gone native? You’ll be singing

‘Tomorrow Belongs to Me’ and sieg-heiling next.'

I started to rub myself dry.

'Times have changed Rich. They don’t go in for that anymore.'

'Once a Nazi always a Nazi. Anyway, where have you been?' He didn’t give me a chance to reply. 'Don’t you ever check your bloody messages?'

For the first time I noticed the red light flashing on the hotel-room phone. 'You could have rung my mobile.'

'I tried that. Dead, wasn’t it?'

'So where’s the fire?'