Marlene (16 page)

“Don’t be shy.” The woman stood. She wore a dark suit and a white cravat, her hair slicked from her brow, so black it looked inky blue. “Come here. Don’t you want to know if I’ll let you take me from behind, Herr Monocle?”

In that moment, I did want to know, and before I could step away, she stepped before me—lithe as a knife, her hands flowing down the ribbed lapels of my tuxedo to pause, taunting, upon my breasts under the shirt.

“You’re new here, aren’t you?” Her breath smelled of smoke and mint. “I haven’t seen you before. Such charm . . . and such tits. You must have a drink with us.”

Her fingertips seemed to dissolve my clothes. I wanted to have a drink with her, and more. She intrigued me. The entire situation intrigued me. Women dressed like men, and men like women, acting out their fantasies. I found it deeply erotic. Audacious.

“I can’t,” I managed to say. “My friend . . . she’s waiting for me.”

“Friend?” The woman glanced to the booth where Camilla had disappeared. “You can’t possibly be friends with her. That cunt isn’t friends with anyone who can’t get her a part.”

“She is my friend.” I smiled. “Some other time, perhaps?”

The woman sighed. “Don’t wait long,
mein
Herr. And be careful of your so-called friend,” she added. “She’s poison.”

I moved on to the booth, feeling the woman’s gaze like a brand in my back. I heard Camilla’s rough laughter; she had found her coterie, and half-turned to me as she regaled a heavyset woman in a frock several sizes too small, a skeletal brunette who might have been lovely had she gained twenty pounds, and a husky dyed-blond youth in a sailor cap and leather vest laced over his bare chest. A mirror with lines of cocaine and a tiny spoon sat on the table.

The boy whispered to Camilla. Her laughter faded as she looked up at me. “Back so soon? I thought you’d found some amusement back there.”

I heard the bite in her tone. “Not yet.”

Camilla said to the others, “This is Marlene. It’s her first night here and—”

The boy clapped his hands. “A virgin. Hello, Marlene. I’m Hans. And I’m most definitely
not
a virgin, not since . . . well, I can’t remember since when.”

They didn’t mean it in the literal sense. I was a virgin to this place, to their underground lair. “Neither am I,” I replied, with a smile. “Or not for long, I’ve been told.”

As Hans wriggled closer to Camilla to make room in the booth, she interjected, “Unfortunately, virgin or not, Marlene does have a rather impossible impediment: a lover.”

“Only one?” piped up Hans as I sat beside him under Camilla’s glare. Her entire demeanor had altered. I could see she was displeased but I had no idea why. Did she expect me to accept the first invitation that came my way? Was that her plan, to ensure that I found what she thought I’d come for without disrupting her night?

“Camilla misunderstands,” I said. “I have no lover tonight. I do as I please. And I haven’t decided who or what might please me.”

I saw with a thrill that the others responded to my words, the heavyset woman quivering, pressing her thigh against mine while the brunette nodded in cruel appreciation and Hans crowed, “Camilla, wherever have you been hiding her? She’s marvelous.”

Camilla’s eyes narrowed. “She certainly is. Even in borrowed clothes.” She paused. “But all dressed up with nothing to do. No lover, no booze, no cocaine—such a shame.”

Just as I thought I might have to sniff some of the odious powder or order a cocktail, the stage show ended and a four-piece band—men in corsets and top hats—struck up a tune. The occupants of the booths around us rushed to the floor, fully lubricated and ready to gyrate. The heavyset woman whispered to me, “Shall we Charleston?” and as Camilla smirked and I hesitated, I caught sight of a tall figure in a white jacket walking toward us. I recognized him at once. It was the same man I’d seen watching us earlier, whom Camilla had pretended to ignore.

“Ooh.” Hans shuddered. “Here comes my Austrian meat.”

Camilla said dryly, “Rudi is Czechoslovakian. And he likes to dive, not suckle.”

“Perhaps the Czechoslovakian hasn’t tried it yet.” Hans reclined, unlacing his vest to expose his rouged nipples as the man reached us. “Have you, Rudi? Suckled, that is?”

Rudi gave him a languid smile. He had square teeth in handsome Prussian features, a thin aquiline nose, and a defined chin. Up close, I saw he was well shaped, though not muscular like Hans. Rather, he had a sleek appearance, a man who liked to be groomed, his dark blond hair plastered with brilliantine, save for a tawny lock that tumbled onto his forehead. Splashes of red and blue light from the stage turned his crisp jacket opalescent, enhancing the bronze in his skin. As he inclined his head with old-fashioned courteousness, Camilla said indifferently, as if she’d failed to notice him before, “Back from Prague, I see. How was it? Hot, I imagine. You’re tan. Did you shoot outdoors?”

As Hans giggled at the double entendre, I detected a jarring note in Camilla, almost indecipherable. Resentment? Was he the reason she had wanted me to make myself scarce?

“We did shoot some exteriors outside. I forgot to wear a hat.” Rudi’s voice was low, confident. As his smile deepened, I realized he wasn’t like the others here—he was elegant and without artifice, fully cognizant of his appeal. A homosexual, no doubt. A man like him must be. Or maybe not. Camilla seemed to think to the contrary, and if anyone would know, she would.

He turned to me. “Who might you be?”

“Marlene Dietrich.” I gazed at him through my monocle, thinking perhaps here at last was what I needed. Then Camilla said, “She’s a student at the academy. Perhaps you can promise her a test? I’m still waiting for mine of course, but maybe she’ll have better luck.”

Definitely resentment. She wasn’t joking when she said I might be too much competition.

Rudi looked bemused. “Are you an actress, Marlene?”

“I hope to be.” I saw no reason to lie.

“Have you done any film work?” As he spoke, he glanced at the mirror on the table, over which the skeletal brunette was noisily inhaling cocaine from the spoon.

“A little.” This time, I did lie. He had mentioned shooting exteriors; he worked in the business. All of a sudden, ambition surged in me. If he was so important that Camilla had to pretend to avoid him at first, he must be very important. She never invested time or emotion in anyone who couldn’t provide opportunity.

“Really? In what?” he asked, and I wasn’t sure if he was genuinely curious or merely making conversation. “I’ve never seen you before.”

“This and that. Nothing important.” I sensed Camilla start to bristle, clearly wanting to draw his attention back to her. “It’s very nice to meet you, Herr . . . ?”

“Sieber. Rudolph Sieber. Rudi, to my friends. Likewise, Marlene Dietrich.”

Hans said, “Oh, no. Watch out, Camilla. This virgin has claws.”

I was lighting a cigarette when I realized Herr Sieber was still looking at me. I raised my eyes again. “Yes?”

“Would you care to dance?”

Hans guffawed. “Bull’s-eye.”

Camilla’s face turned stony. Draping her arm around the brunette’s shoulders, she said, “Yes. Go on, Marlene. Dance with him. You’ll be the only two dancing with the opposite sex, though in your getup, who will know? How droll.”

Rudi escorted me to the floor, where the Charleston had given way to a slow dance, with couples swaying against each other, kissing and fondling.

This was what I wanted, why I was here. Yet as he set his hand at my waist, I wondered if he’d responded to me or sought to goad Camilla. She’d said he preferred to dive, a euphemism that was obvious, but after what I’d seen, one could never know until proven.

He held me at a discreet distance as we danced, increasing my suspi
cion. Hans was beautiful. Any man here would want him. Perhaps Herr Sieber did not appreciate blatancy?

“So, you work in the picture industry,” I finally said.

“And you are an actress who has done nothing important,” he replied. Up close, I saw he had a slight cleft in his well-defined chin. “Do you want to act in film or only on the stage? The Reinhardt academy is quite prestigious, but they train actors for the theater, not the camera.”

“I’ve worked before a camera; I model for magazines. And my sister’s fiancé,” I added impulsively, though I’d not seen Liesel in months, let alone met her boyfriend, “is Georg Wills, who manages the Theater des Westens. He says he can hire me after I finish my training.”

Hearing my own rush of praise for myself, as if I were verbalizing my résumé, secretly appalled me. Why did I care about impressing this stranger? But I couldn’t deny that I did. His air of sophistication, the slight pressure of his hand at my waist, and his almost disinterested smile made me feel as I had with my French schoolteacher, eager to show how skilled I was.

I want to sleep with him, I thought, and the realization opened in me like a warm bloom.

“Well, then,” he said. “You have options. In Berlin these days, options are everything.” He skillfully guided us away from a drunk couple. The floor was jammed. I was sweating in my tuxedo, my shirt drenched under my tails. I suddenly felt as if my inexperience was so evident, he could read it on me like a price tag—a girl playing dress-up in a naughty club.

“Do you like men?” he suddenly asked.

I started. “Why do you ask?”

He considered this. “Because I think I might want to see you again.”

“Then I do.
If
you want to see me again.”

His laughter was soft. “I think I must. You’re extraordinary. I agree with Camilla. You should come to the studio for a test, if that doesn’t present one option too many.”

I went still, stunned. The dance ended. A gong sounded and another act took to the stage—boys in lace nighties, with nectarine lips and blond
wigs, dragging fringed stools with protruding dildos that they proceeded to straddle. The crowd hooted; Rudi took me aside, observing the antics with a sardonic expression. Unsure as to what to say or do, I fumbled for my cigarettes in my trousers. When I extracted one, I found him with his lighter ready. As I was leaning to it, hearing the crackle of tobacco and feeling the sting in my lungs, he said, “I’m serious about the offer. I work for Joe May. Do you know who he is?”

I almost choked on my cigarette. “I do,” I said. “He makes pictures.”

Rudi chuckled. “He’s one of the best in Germany. Your fellow students at the academy, they queue for hours to get a part, any part, in one of our pictures. So, can you come to the Tempelhof tomorrow after five? We run our tests then.”

I had a sudden lump in my throat. “I can.”

A hint of a smile crept across his mouth. “If you can, don’t tell Camilla. She’ll rake my eyes out. She’s been begging me for a test, but she’ll never be a picture actress. She’s too overt. You, on the other hand . . .” He let his gaze pass over me. “I suggest you wear something else. As enchanting as your current apparel is, Joe prefers pretty girls who dress like pretty girls.” He gave me a short bow. “
Gute Nacht,
Marlene Dietrich.”

He turned and strode away as if he’d said nothing of import, as if he hadn’t just upended my entire existence. A test at the Tempelhof Studio with Joe May! It was unbelievable. Had he not left me standing there, I would never have believed it. I’d have thought he was saying whatever he thought I wanted to hear to lure me into bed. Ironic, as I’d have gone to bed with him anyway, without the offer.

My evening had not gone as planned. But I wasn’t disappointed in the least. I had come here to find a man and I had found one—and he could change my future.

The question was: How would I tell Gerda?

VII

T
he question was superfluous. Of course I wouldn’t tell her until I was certain. A promise in a cabaret meant nothing, I thought the next day when I woke with a terrible headache, for I had stayed at Das Silhouette until closing, no longer caring if I met anyone else of interest, ignoring Camilla’s glower as I danced with Hans and flirted with the transvestites. By the end of the night, I’d made several new friends, who insisted I must come back to the club. Camilla was so furious that she left me alone to call a taxi for myself, which depleted my emergency marks.

After I brewed coffee to get rid of my hangover and saw to the cats, I called up the revue manager to tell him I was ill. He delivered a blistering threat that if I did not show up, ill or not, he’d sack me, though I’d not missed a single performance since he hired me, while other girls dropped out like flies.

“Fine,” I shouted into the telephone. “Fire me. I don’t care.” I slammed the receiver onto the hook, turning to find Trude with another of her anxious looks.

“Gerda won’t like it,” she said. “Skipping out on your job for a test.”

In my excitement, I’d confided in her. I now regretted it. “Gerda isn’t here. She has her own job. If she doesn’t like it, she can sack me, too.”

The studio was located in the Weissensee suburb. I had to take three trams and walk several blocks to reach it, arriving disheveled and lamenting my choice of attire—a white slip dress and new stockings that sagged at my knees, so that I had to keep yanking up my garters. But I gave the receptionist a bright smile and my name; a few minutes later, Rudi came out.

“I thought you might not come,” he said, cupping my elbow.

“Really?” I said, and I allowed him to lead me into labyrinthine corridors abutting shooting stages and cramped offices. “You’ll be fine,” he assured me. “Just be yourself. You look lovely. Don’t be nervous. It’s only an interview and a test.”

Easy for him to say, I thought. I was trembling as he took me into an office with posters tacked to the walls, all featuring pictures produced by May. A rotund, heavy-featured man wearing glasses and a scowl stood before a paper-heaped desk. He gave me one look before he barked at Rudi, “You kept me waiting for this?”

“Joe.” Rudi’s tone was soothing, as if he’d known the director for a long time. He drew him aside. While they murmured, I tried to hide my nerves by affecting a bored stance, a hand on my hip as I looked about in disinterest at the impressive display, though I was far from unimpressed. The posters and photos on the walls attested to May’s repute; he had produced and directed a series of highly successful crime pictures, known as noirs, as well as exotic adventures like
The Indian Tomb,
whose epic lengths were screened in two parts at the kinos. I had played my violin for one of his pictures while working for the UFA:
The Mistress of the World,
starring his wife, Mia May. It was one of my favorites, about a woman’s revenge and the lost treasure of Sheba.