I chimed ‘New partnership’, putting my stein to my lips and taking a long hard pull, remembering that three had never been my favourite number.
This was Sylvie’s and my fourth bar, Dix’s first. He was sober, but had the air of a man in the mood to indulge others’ foolishnesses. He signalled for more drinks though his own was still fresh. I hid behind my glass, smiling between each swallow, counselling myself not to turn into Tartan Willy on the rampage.
Sylvie was no longer the anxious supplicant who’d lain beneath my hands earlier in the evening. Her hair shone glossy and smooth around a face powdered to pale ivory, only her red lipstick recalled the bright stain that had coated her body. Sylvie’s stylised makeup was at odds with the plain black satin dress she’d changed into. It was a good combination, something like a whore on a murder charge. She took another inch out of her glass and asked, 'Successful evening?'
Dix smiled, keeping his own counsel. I didn’t bother to ask what had required a suit and sobriety until 2 a.m.
The two of us had left our previous bar about thirty minutes before, Sylvie urging me to hurry up or we’d miss the show. I necked the last of my beer, Sylvie linked her arm through mine and we reeled into the street, silly with sudden air, drink and new friendship. Sylvie’s straight spine seemed to straighten mine and we walked fast and tall like a soldier boy and his bride on their wedding day.
I recognised the club from the matchbooks Sylvie had substituted for a stake on our first night. The sign shone from above the doorway in sharp pink neon, Ein Enchanted Nachtreview, and the same festive lady lounged in the same triangular cocktail glass, spilling electric pink bubbles into the air from her careless toast.
Perhaps I wouldn’t have noticed Sylvie’s pace slowing as the Nachtreview came into view if our arms hadn’t been entwined, but though her conversation still sparkled as bright as the neon, I could feel her growing alert, her attention shifting from my orbit towards the door of the club. I matched my pace to hers, until her steps faltered, then stopped.
'Wait a second. I just want to see who’s on guard duty.'
She peered into the gloom. The bouncer moved into the lee of the doorway, cupping his hand around his cigarette, squinting against the lamplight.
'Perfect.' She slipped her arm from mine and started to walk briskly across the road.
'Come on.'
At first I thought she’d misjudged things. The bouncer stood barring the entrance, arms locked behind his back, expression like a breeze block, impervious to the cute way Sylvie’s smile flashed on and off, as she spieled out a patter peppered with one of the few German words I knew — bitte.
I tried to look sober, wondering what I was doing in a country where I didn’t even know the licensing laws.
'D’you spracken ze English?'
'It’s OK, William, Sebastian and I are old friends.' Sylvie dropped her voice soft and low. 'Bitte, Sebastian.'
I reached into my pocket, folded forty euros in the cushion of my hand then put my arm round my new assistant’s waist and palmed the notes to her old friend. He looked at me uncertainly then opened the door, shaking his head more in sorrow than in anger. Sylvie touched his arm as she passed and he muttered something that sounded like a warning. But entering the club had revived Sylvie’s reckless mood. She laughed and reached back towards the doorman, kissing him on the cheek. I waited for Sebastian to change his mind, but he laughed too, wiping away her lipstick and reissuing the warning, his sternness lost in the moment. I nodded my thanks and he gave me a quick appraising glance as he moved back into the shadows, a mix of sympathy and contempt. The kind of look you give a dupe.
I’d been in larger sitting-rooms, but whoever designed the club hadn’t allowed size to contain their style. The ceiling and walls were rose-gold peeling away to red below, and the curved coral-quartz bar shone with more champagne than a Soho clip joint. At the far end of the room was a small stage where a long-legged girl in a sailor suit that would have sent Lord Nelson spinning was sitting demurely on a bentwood chair, singing about how her mama thought she was living in a convent.
Sylvie took a table near the stage and I slid in beside her, making sure I could monitor the sailorgirl’s act for professional reasons. I glanced back to the entrance where the bouncer still lingered, following our progress through the glass as if unsure of whether he had done the right thing.
'What was that about?'
Sylvie shook her head dismissively.
'Nothing.' She looked around. 'What do you think a person has to do to get a drink in this place?'
Up on stage the sailorgirl was walking round the chair. Now that she was on her feet I could see just how short her skirt was. I wondered if she realised she’d forgotten to put her knickers on. Sylvie followed my gaze.
'She’s a classically trained ballerina.'
'I suspected that.'
Sylvie raised her eyebrows then peeled her lips back into a dazzling smile as the prospect of more alcohol approached.
The waitress’s uniform was deep pink edging sweet pink, it hugged her form, dipping and swooping around a wolf-whistle of a body. I gave her my stage show grin and she smiled back, taking all those clichés about Botticelli angels, wrapping them up and tying a bow on them. Then she clocked Sylvie and her expression glazed to strictly business. The waitress kept her eyes lowered as she took our order, then returned to slide our drinks onto the table without a smile.
I put my hand on the waitress’s arm and said ‘Dankeschön’, looking her in the eyes, making my tone soft and soothing.
She hesitated, glancing at Sylvie as if trying to decide whether she was worth a murder sentence, then murmured, 'Bitteschön’, and turned her back on us.
I lifted my lager and peered at the girl on stage through its liquid lens.
'Do you think I should check this for arsenic?'
Sylvie shot a look of venom towards the departing waitress.
'Why?'
'You don’t seem too popular around here.'
'Don’t worry, things have a way of rebounding on bitches like her.'
'Bad karma.'
'Something like that.'
Up on stage the naughty nautical shifted her rear making the pleats on her skirt bounce. The singer straddled the chair and I shifted my eyes from the shadows beneath her pelmet-lengthed skirt towards her face while she belted out the last verse of her song.
You can tell my papa, that’s all right,
'Cause he comes in here every night,
But don’t tell mama what you saw!
She tipped her sailor’s cap at the audience, smiled at the scattering of applause and left the stage, darting a quick look at our table.
Our waitress took her place; she’d changed into a stage costume and was smiling now, flanked by two equally jolly and equally busty girls. The trio were dressed identically in short shorts, low-slung halter-necks and cheekily angled bowler hats. They each dragged a chair on with them and started to go through a routine that must have been hell on the thighs. I had no illusions, Germans didn’t need to plunder their past for their own amusement, this was aimed at tourists hungry for a taste of Weimar decadence, but there was something about the way the flesh at the top of the girls’ legs trembled as they went through their steps that appealed to me.
The fascination seemed lost on Sylvie. She mooched a cigarette, and started talking loudly about the costumes she was designing for herself. Up on stage the trio were doing a syncopated wiggle while beside me Sylvie fought for my attention with descriptions of satin corsets and nipple tassels. Travel was certainly expanding my horizons. Sylvie’s voice rose a notch and I put my hand on hers. She smiled warmly at me, triumphant at wresting back my attention.
'What do you think?'
'I think you’ll get us thrown out.'
She shot me a hard look, then suddenly she was on her feet, waving towards the doorway, and that was when I saw Dix.