“When I was young, I thought that I would like to get married someday,” she said. “But now, of course, I’m too old.”
“You are pretty old, all right — at least twenty-seven or twenty-eight,” he said, slicing at least a year from her age because he thought it might make her feel better.
“That is old for a European,” she said, and sighed — somewhat dramatically, Jackson thought. He also wondered if she had gone back to reading from her awful script again.
“My friend, Fräulein Scheel,” she said, and paused.
“What about her?”
“She is both very fortunate and very foolish, I think.”
“Why?”
“There is this very nice young American — but you know him, don’t you: Lieutenant Meyer?”
“We’ve met.”
“That’s right; of course. Well, she has allowed him to think that she will marry him, but she has no intention of doing so.”
“What’s the matter — doesn’t she care for Milwaukee?”
“She says he is far too callow a youth.”
She’s reading from the script again, Jackson decided. “Did she say callow?”
They had been speaking English, and Leah Oppenheimer blushed slightly as though embarrassed. “Is that not the correct word — callow? In German it is ungefiedert.”
“It’s the correct word all right. It’s just that Lieutenant Meyer didn’t seem all that ungefiedert to me.”
“Eva has always liked older men,” she said, turning almost confidential. “Even when we were young girls together, she was a terrible flirt. The Scheel family was quite well-to-do before the war, you know, and they had many visitors, and Eva was always flirting with the men, even the ones who were old enough to be her father. I think she misses it.”
“What? The men?”
“No, being well-to-do. I think that finding herself in reduced circumstances is very difficult for Eva.” Jackson by now was almost beginning to believe that there really was a script and that it had been written for her by a Victorian novelist. A lady novelist.
“Didn’t you do any flirting when you and Fräulein Scheel were younger?”
She seemed almost shocked by the suggestion. “Oh, no. I was far too shy.”
“What about later, when you were in Switzerland? There must have been some boys around.”
“But not many Jewish boys, Mr. Jackson. By then, I suppose, there were not too many Jewish boys around anyplace in Europe.”
That was a topic that Jackson had no desire to pursue, so instead he asked her to dance.
That idea also seemed to shock her. “I have not danced since school in Switzerland, and then it was only with other girls.”
“It’s like swimming or riding a bicycle. Once you learn, you never forget.” He wasn’t at all sure that this was true, but he felt that it was probably encouraging.
“I would be awkward.”
“I’m a strong leader.”
“Well,” she said hesitantly, “if you don’t think I—”
“You’ll do fine,” he said.
The string ensemble was playing “As Time Goes By” with a rather methodical Teutonic beat, and at first she was a little stiff. But then she gained confidence, and when she did she allowed herself to relax and move in closer. Jackson decided to find out how she would enjoy dancing cheek to cheek. When she made no move to draw away and even pressed in closer to him, he gave serious consideration for the first time to the possibility of taking her to bed. A little later, when her thigh began to move between his legs, he knew that he would.
She was, Jackson had discovered, remarkable in bed. He lay there in the twisted down comforter, spent and still panting slightly, waiting for his breathing to return to normal so that he could light a cigarette. While he waited, he reviewed the three-quarters of an hour of grappling, probing, tasting, touching, and other rather complicated acrobatics that had gone into their lovemaking.
Leah Oppenheimer sat up in the bed, bent over, and found his shirt on the floor where it had been hastily discarded in a puddle of clothing. She took cigarettes and matches from its pocket, lit one, and handed it to him. He noticed that her face and eyes seemed to be glowing.
“Thanks,” he said.
She watched him smoke for a moment and then said, “So that is lovemaking?”
“That’s it. I can’t think of anything we left out.”
“That was my first time. I’m very glad that it was with you.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Was I adequate?”
“You weren’t adequate, you were fantastic.”
“Really?” She seemed pleased.
“Really.”
“I was worried that... well, you understand.”
“Sure.”
“You know when I decided that I would do this if you asked me?”
“When?”
“In Mexico. In the hotel. While we were sitting there with my father. Couldn’t you tell?”
“No.”
“I thought you could. I thought I was very obvious. If my father’s eyes had been all right, I’m sure he would have been able to tell. At least, he would have suspected.”
“I couldn’t tell.”
“Was I too clumsy?”
“You weren’t clumsy at all. You were very... inventive.”
That also pleased her. “You’re sure? You’re not just saying so?”
“I’m sure. That thing you did with the ribbon.”
“You didn’t like it.”
“No, it was fine. Quite a sensation. Somebody once told me it was the specialty of a Mexican whorehouse he’d once spent a little time in.”
“Was I like a whore? I tried so hard to be.”
“You were fine. I just wondered how you happened to think it up — the ribbon thing.”
“Oh, that. Well, that came out of the books too. Was it interesting?”
“Extremely. What books?”
“In the villa in Switzerland. My father rented this villa from a man, and it had a library. There was one glass case that was kept locked. I found the key. The books were all written in English, but they had been written a long time ago — in the 1890’s, I think, because everybody went about in hansome cabs. They were mostly stories about what men and women do to each other. I read them aloud to myself sometimes because I thought it would be good for my English. Some of them were very exciting. Occasionally, when they would do something really interesting to each other, I would make a note about it in my diary.”
“For future reference.”
She nodded solemnly. “I thought if I were ever to get married, it would please my husband. Of course, we did not do all that I read about.”
“We didn’t?”
“No, there are many other things. Some of them, I think, are very strange. Do you like strange things?”
“Sometimes.”
“Do you want to do this with me again?”
“Very much.”
“I was not sure. You will be going to Bonn, of course — you and Mr. Ploscaru.”
“Tomorrow.”
She frowned — a puzzled, earnest sort of frown. “Do you think they have little whips in Bonn?”
“I have no idea,” Jackson said.
When he let himself into the big house near the zoo, Jackson could hear Ploscaru banging away at the piano as he sang “Deep Purple” in his rich, true baritone. Jackson went through the sliding doors into the large sitting room where the coal fire burned in the grate. The little parlormaid was standing near the piano. She tried to curtsy, but couldn’t very well because she had only her underwear on. Instead, she snatched up the rest of her clothing and ran wordlessly from the room, her face and much of the rest of her a deep crimson. The dwarf finished singing about sleepy garden walls and breathing names with sighs and grinned at Jackson.
“Let’s have a drink,” he said.