City of Women by David R. Gillham Read Free Book Online Page B

felt false. Every morning, she left the flat with Kaspar, as he was off to his work at the bank. They traveled together as far as the Nollendorfplatz, at which point he would give her a pat on the arm and wish her a pleasant day. Her part-time job at the patent office was not as rewarding as she pretended, but it gave her an excuse to be absent from her mother-in-law’s flat in the afternoons when she was asked to work “extra hours” for the war effort. Who wasn’t working extra hours now, anyway? And when that excuse wore thin, there were always the films. A matinee with a friend from the office.
Renate Hochwilde is her name. She’s one of the other stenographers. Her husband’s just been called up
, Sigrid would explain.
I think she’s lonely.
Mother Schröder would frown at the idea of such excursions when there was plenty of cleaning to do, but then she frowned at everything. And Sigrid took over washing the supper dishes so that her mother-in-law could sit and listen to the wireless. Rosita Serrano’s cool, clear voice singing “La Paloma.”
She would scrub the skillet and think of the sound of Egon’s voice. The heat of his breath on her skin.
    On the opposite side of the mirror was the life that felt true. A rendezvous in front of the cinema. Then off to the cramped one-room flat, belonging to a “friend.” The stairs creaked forlornly on their way up, and the hall smelled of failing plumbing and hardship. This had become their routine. But when she asked him her question—
A friend? What kind of friend?—
the answer was None of Her Business: the name of a land so much more vast than the simple boundaries of a hardscrabble district in eastern Berlin. He still listened to her when she talked, but now she suspected he was simply using her talk to camouflage his silence.
    Outside, the air was frigid. Inside, they had generated their own heat. The windowpanes were smeared with condensation. From the knot of blankets she gazed at him as he lit his cigarette, dragged in the smoke, and then exhaled it sloppily. She liked to see him stand naked so casually. Kaspar was different. He never undressed in front of her. And after their business in bed was concluded, he redressed under the covers, before slumping over to his side and collapsing into sleep. Kaspar would never allow her to gape at his ass, standing by a window. He would never turn and show her his member, hanging at rest.
    “You look thoughtful,” he told her.
    “Just thinking about how far away you are from the bed.”
    He gave her an uneven smile that was more interior than exterior, and climbed back onto the mattress. Taking a drag from his cigarette, he blew smoke toward the ceiling.
    “I think a circumcised cock is an honest organ. It looks so naked. So unsheathed,” she told him, drowsing her hand over it. “It has nothing to hide. All men should have such an honest cock.” And then she said, “Funny, that word still feels so strange in my mouth.”
    “The word or the organ?”
    “Ha!” She laughed and slapped her hand against his arm. “If you’re worried, I’ll confess that I’ve come to love the taste of both.”
    And now he laughed, too, but she could tell that there was something secret behind his eyes. This was nothing new. She’d seen it many times, and had always been able to ignore it, but wondered now if there would come a moment when that would change. She leaned over and kissed him thickly on the mouth, and he kissed her back, holding his cigarette up in the air. Was it politeness? No ashes or embers dropped on your lover’s delicate flesh? Or perfunctory. Kissing her to the depth required before he could return to his smoking? These were the types of questions with which she battered herself, but only when they were together. Or when they were apart. Just another sample of the minutiae of their connection that would roll around like a marble for days in her brain. Moments before, his mouth had tasted of her. Had tasted