Two Brothers by Ben Elton Read Free Book Online Page B

figures from which a mould was cast and numerous plaster replicas made to be sold at markets. But he also had pretentions to greater things and sometimes worked in bronze and occasionally even marble, although such materials were of course not readily available.
    The white-clad figure watched in silence as Frieda walked the length of the room, her shoes clicking on the dusty bare floorboards. Past half-finished heroic figures and shy nymphs, round stepladders and sacks of plaster powder, over brushes and palettes, past trestle tables laden with knives, chisels, pencils and paper. Perhaps twenty metres in all with Karlsruhen’s eyes on her every step of the way before finally she arrived at the little screen in the corner, which Karlsruhen referred to as her dressing room.
    It made Frieda laugh inwardly that he insisted on this ludicrous ‘courtesy’. After all, there was no ‘dressing’ to be done, only undressing, which she did as quickly as possible because her hours only began once she stood naked and in position. It would have been simpler to strip off beside her podium. Frieda had pointed this out but Karlsruhen insisted that there was a proper way to do things and she must disrobe in ‘private’, as feminine modesty demanded. Recently Frieda had noticed that her screen had moved further and further away from her podium. Clearly Karlsruhen enjoyed watching her walk naked across the studio – more fun, no doubt, than leering at her in frozen immobility.
    ‘Good evening, Fräulein,’ Karlsruhen said. ‘What joy it is to see you, the sun has set but its light still shines in your smile.’
    ‘I’m not smiling today, Herr Karlsruhen. Have you heard? They shot Walther Rathenau.’ She had not really meant to bring it up, she always tried to avoid exchanging views with Karlsruhen on any subject, but it was better than engaging with the leaden and saccharine horror of his unwanted compliments.
    ‘Yes, I heard,’ Karlsruhen remarked dismissively. ‘But don’t think of it so much as losing a Foreign Minister as getting rid of a Jew!’
    And he laughed as if he had made an excellent joke.
    Frieda didn’t reply. She was used to casual anti-Semitism. It was generally assumed that she herself was not a Jew and so she heard it all the time. It was as common in Berlin as remarks about the weather. Nothing much was meant by it, and if she had spent her days confronting it she would have had no time for anything else.
    ‘I can’t claim credit for that line,’ Karlsruhen went on, ‘a friend phoned me with it. He heard it on the Tiergarten within moments of the assassination. People are so clever, aren’t they?’
    ‘Perhaps we should start,’ Frieda said.
    ‘Yes! At once, little one. Let us not dwell on Germany’s terrible present, but instead journey together to her mythical past! Although I fear that my poor talent cannot hope to match the beauty with which you grace my studio, and no cold clay nor bronze nor even marble could ever aspire to capture the warm and subtle tones of your exquisite soft, pale skin.’
    On another evening Frieda might have tried to force a smile at the man’s creepy compliments, if only to cover her nauseous embarrassment at them, but this time she remained stony-faced as she disappeared behind the disrobing curtain. There was something a little different in the atmosphere. Karlsruhen was more confident than usual, more full of himself. Clearly the schnapps had emboldened him. Frieda hoped he wouldn’t drink any more.
    She threw off her clothes as quickly as possible and emerged naked, feeling unaccustomedly embarrassed. She was used to Karlsruhen’s hungry gaze and normally almost indifferent to it, but this time as she felt his eyes explore her she felt suddenly revolted. She took her place on the little podium and assumed the pose on which they had been working over the previous session, perched delicately on a stool that Karlsruhen assured her would later be transformed into