The Empire of the Senses by Alexis Landau Read Free Book Online Page B

smoke, which thickened as the night wore on, the arguing climbing to a pitch of hysteria in the crammed living room. The porcelain plates in the glass armoire vibrated as the noise level increased, his mother’s voice high and tight, a rising crescendo of accusation. She had held a longstanding hatred for what his father did, for his talent of twisting numbers so people paid less taxes. A Communist, an admirer of Trotsky and Rosa Luxemburg, she had even wanted to change her name from Marato Rosa, but his father forbid it. And then he stopped coming home for dinner.
    It took Lev and Hermann thirty minutes, wading through the wide flooded roads, mud splashing on their boots and pants, to reach the tavern. The moon shone brightly, revealing the scurrying of large rats alongside the road. The rats burrowed into the ditches created by past explosions, searching for food and cover. Hermann aimed at one, but it got away. The bullet ricocheted off a birch tree. They silently walked on. Lev saw another one in plain view. He could easily shoot it. He placed his hand on his pistol, the cool gunmetal welcome to his sweaty palm. The dark fur under the white moon gleamed, raised up and wet. Hermann didn’t notice, and Lev let the rat dissolve into the darkness. Silently slipping into the dense foliage, the rat reminded Lev of himself walking in the shadow of Hermann, who was by contrast much more forthright and direct. If he wanted to kill a rat, he did so, whereas Lev wavered and waited and developed an association with the vile animal, which prevented him from killing it. And Hermann advertised who he was, even if many men disliked him for such brashness. His voice was the last one they heard before they dropped off to sleep. His laughter trailed his own jokes. But Lev treaded carefully within his surroundings, first observing the various alliances and then calculating where he fit in, not revealing too much of himself lest someone dislike him. He was careful not to discuss his background, which he had buried long ago, just as these rats burrowed into the fetid soil, leaving behind only the thin line of their tails, until those too disappeared.
    Inside the tavern, people carried on as if they did not hear the thundering guns echoing from the front. Lev recognized the policeman from Dachau sitting on a woman’s lap, his arm slung over her flushed neck. In the corner, a man played the accordion accompanied by a boy, possibly his son, who sat with a violin positioned under his quivering chin. The policeman was drunk, his head lolling. He sat with three other soldiers, all of them with their shirts open, their pistols still in their holsters, their boots kicked up onto chairs in front of them. He saw Levthrough the dense smoke and gestured for him to come over. Hermann whispered into his ear, “He’s being sent to the front tomorrow.” His breath was stale from hunger.
    Three Rubenesque women approached, their skin glowing in the dim candlelight. They spoke with their eyes, velvety and dark. Lev felt the heat and pressure of their bodies, solicitous and warm. They spoke Russian, from what he could decipher, and pantomimed drinking, tilting their chins back, leading Hermann and Lev to an empty table near the blaring music. The women were burned from working outdoors, the strength of the sun evident on their high cheekbones, delicate creases fanning out at the sides of their eyes. Josephine’s preserved white face remained smooth and untouched by the elements. Lev preferred her when she woke in the morning, a disheveled and messier version of herself, before the perfection of the day crowned her. The women leaned forward, laughing strangely at a joke Hermann made. One of the women, with reddish hair braided into a thick plait, came up behind Lev, massaging his neck, her breath in his ear. She smelled of beets and hay, and when he glanced down, he noticed how her nails carried a line of dirt beneath them, the same dirt that corrugated