The Oktober Projekt (32 page)

He was pushing and she was retreating; the harder he advanced
the deeper she dug down into her own cocoon. He sipped his beer and got a taint
of lipstick from the rim of the glass.

‘So what’s so special about her?’ He dropped his tone, aware of
the danger of boxing her in, the fear of rejection.

‘Franziska, boy was she a chosen one, real VIP golden girl.
Franziska, one lucky lady, found her Prince Charming when Blümhof claimed her
as his own, but she too dumb to see Blümhof’s nothing but her pimp. She worked
the same shift as me, and we used to make a team for exclusive VIP work. I was
just there to make the pre-party go with a swing. Blümhof and this Russian guy
started bringing special guests, some nice, some crude. I was the warm up,
Franziska the star.’

‘Tell me about the Russian?’

‘Regular stinking pig, calls himself Sergei. Blümhof’s crawling
all over him, his personal chaperon, gives him guided walks through the
Brazillia, letting this pig choose who he wants. Always bragging how he’s a big
shot in the port, SDF Shipping or something. Hope the pig drowns.’

The two girls stopped dancing before the record played out.
Back at their table they accused a Korean girl of taking a purse from one of
their bags, spitting and hissing she got up to leave when the brunette drew a
flick knife. In one slow pass the brunette left a bloody line down the Korean
girl’s face, only Nick appeared to notice.

‘Any idea why he got the special attention? Sergei someone
Blümhof respects? Must be a reason?’

‘Reason, this, Sergei that. You got some fix on him?’ She turned
up her nose and drained her glass. She knew she was beyond help. Blümhof’s
rehearsed lines and coaching seemed to be days ago, all forgotten, not used.
Maybe now he would finally bust her nose for talking out of turn. What could
she do? Greiz was too much to resist, he had a way of making you want to
confess and she wanted very much to let it all out.

‘What makes someone like Blümhof respect Sergei so much?’ he
persisted, competing with the drink to win her over.

‘Blümhof enjoys living and Sergei can put a stop to that any
damn time he likes. Someone said he represents investors in Blümhof’s business
from the early days, I can’t remember, okay. All I know is Sergei has to have
all the care. Best champagne, finest girls. Sergei is important, number one guy.
Blümhof takes care of Sergei’s interests, Blümhof just does what he’s told.’
She pointed her finger and pulled an imaginary trigger. ‘They got a fabulous
arrangement okay. Blümhof and Sergei. They buy and sell girls, they buy and
sell things you’d pay a damn fortune for.’ Wary, confused, she pulled clear of
the table. She called for another vodka, her voice shrill.

‘And Franziska is Sergei’s favourite?’

‘Not me, okay, I wouldn’t want that pig around me again. My
best ever friend Franziska, Blümhof’s big star, okay,’ she said with a laugh,
draining her glass. She yelled again for a refill and the bar stopped to
listen. ‘Sergei is Franziska’s one big lover, okay. You’re mixing with the
wolves Greiz, know that,’ she said.

‘When does Franziska meet him?’

‘Slow up, okay,’ she warned, lighting a cigarette, her hand
swiping the match off the box in a crooked swoop.
 

‘You see a lot of Franziska?’ he asked, desperate to swing her
over the last hurdle before she disintegrated totally.

‘That’s a pretty dumb question Greiz. I seen her without
clothes all the time okay. A double act, two beauties and Sergei the beast,
ugly like a horse, stinks like a pig. The best two around, that’s how Franziska
and me used to be.’

‘So she’s not your friend any longer?’

‘Who cares? She’s Sergei’s big lover and she’s going to make
every day sweet. Blümhof takes care of her. Same message okay. Sergei is
special, special, special. Blümhof is a regular creep, okay and I didn’t tell
you that,’ she giggled, way out of Blümhof’s control. ‘He makes special
arrangements, got himself somewhere private for his VIPs and Sergei.
Franziska’s not dumb okay, she’s banked something special for the future,
something to make us all happy. I got a part in helping her make it happen, she
got a crazy deal arranged, but it’s all top secret,’ she disclosed with an
elaborate wink.

‘Those her words?’ Nick asked, as casually as he dared.

Sabine shrugged swaying her head, rolling it from shoulder to
shoulder in jerky nervous movements.

‘Second-hand, but sure, they’re hers,’ she said, the vodka
bright in her eyes.

‘Blümhof has other business interests too, doesn’t he?’

‘You’re too much,’ Sabine told him, with a lopsided smile. ‘I
shouldn’t be talking to you,’ she said, the sadness weighing on her shoulders.

‘You were threatened?’

‘No kidding, Greiz. Tolz told me, okay. Tolz is a photographer
who works for Blümhof, thinks he’s my boyfriend, okay, but he’s still a creep.’

‘Where does Franziska entertain her VIPs?’

‘Who knows,’ said Sabine with a mighty shrug. ‘Some place
outside town.’

‘Has it got an address?’

‘Don’t get so hot, Greiz, you hear? Maybe Sergei tells Blümhof
to take care of you also.’ She growled and clawed at him, pretending to be a
tiger.

‘Is that what Tolz said?’

Humming with her eyes closed, Sabine tapped her fingers on the
tabletop stained by years of good drinking. Nick roughly took her wrist and
shook her eyes open.

‘I don’t remember,’ Sabine said sleepily. ‘Tolz…Blümhof...
Sergei, they bad men you don’t want to get behind you. Who’s counting, who cares?
You a bad man too, Greiz? You sure you’re a friend I can trust?’

He nodded his head not wanting to break her course, waiting
with all his patience for her to resume. He even called over more vodka, lit a
cigarette and put it between her sagging lips. Alone or in pairs the other
girls drifted out, making for their own solitary beds.

‘Can you find Franziska for me?’

‘Who cares. I’m tired, dead on my feet, another night to get
through. I got clients to please. I smile, do the tricks and get paid a cut
okay, believe me, that’s just fine.’

‘Meet me again if you get some news, anywhere, you choose.’

‘Jesus, Greiz, you’re asking for too much. Franziska, my best
friend, here one day and then puff, she’s gone. Enough, okay,’ she caught
herself and seemed to sober. ‘Right now I need my bed and beauty sleep. Sorry
hero, that means alone,’ she said, putting her hand on his chest. ‘Don’t get me
wrong, I’d like to have you share, but not right now.’ Halfway to her feet
Sabine paused, dumped herself back down. She took an empty cigarette pack out
of the ashtray and blew away the ash. ‘Last I heard, this is where my best
friend ever met Sergei and her VIP clients,’ she said, head down writing, the
stiff dark roots of her hair standing out. ‘I do this because you’re a good
guy, okay, I can tell.’

Cramming her hair into the cowl Sabine swayed to the door, gave
her favourite waiter a long kiss on his cheek and turned to wave.

‘I never told you my number?’ he called. As he went after
Sabine her waiter collided with Nick at the bottom of the stairs, upsetting a
full tray of drinks. Rushing over, a companion joined him, fussing over Nick,
blocking him in. There were apologies, many smiles and the offer of a beer on
the house from the barman, which Nick politely declined. When he got outside
Sabine had a start that he’d never be able to make up. He stood on the step,
tearing cellophane off a new pack of cigarettes. Left or right? Knowing that
neither might take him to Sabine and perhaps no route ever would.

By himself on the empty street, Nick’s footsteps hammered sharp
solitary blows on the cobbles. On a hoarding, a hand had scrawled ‘Uli is a
Cheat!’ Aren’t we all he decided, we deceive ourselves from the moment we are
born and leave nothing but a trail of broken promises.

• • •

Before Petra arrived the next morning,
Nick had washed, shaved and made a cup of coffee that he never quite finished.
After setting the shop’s alarm he set off guided by Sabine’s directions on the
back of the cigarette pack, taking a slow train out of Hamburg. The day languid
frozen to its core with low ruffles of mist locked close to the land as copses
and farms lumbered into view, stage props appearing through dry ice; Deep
Purple, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd live on tour, concerts in his head. A journey without
an end. The name of a station gracefully slid into view announcing his stop, he
checked Sabine’s looping writing, Rendsburg, snap, I’ve won.

Following Sabine’s route Nick tramped off into a snowy cluster
of khaki brick streets topped by furnace red tiles, a setting for fairy tales
or lies. He wished that he’d eaten and never bothered to come. One by one the
houses were left in Nick’s wake as he shuffled out of town towards the shadows
of an enchanted forest where Franziska held a key for Lubov’s treasure. The
farm crept out of a rise at the end of a beaten track, its bright stepped
gables a stairway into the low clouds. A sign severely declared that Bauernhof
am Seeufer
 
was private property
and visitors were not welcome. He walked up the centre of the track between
deep tyre ruts partly filled by snow. Downstairs the windows on the main house
and its two wings were shuttered by wood panels decorated with fretwork hearts.
No one answered him at the front door, so he trudged off looking for another way
in, along an icy path wrapping itself round the house, entering an open yard
where a solid barn blocked out the watery light. Under its eaves an old woman
perched as tight as a rook, a cane shopping basket by her bootees.
 

‘There’s no one here.’ She made no movement, a small dark dummy
with a headscarf to protect her from the wind.
 

‘I’m looking for Franziska.’ Nick had to shout over the yard
but she refused to acknowledge him with her eyes. She spat into the earth at
her feet, her hands creased like brown oilskin found each other and lay in a
truce in her lap.

‘A whore, a waste of time.’ She cleared her chest and throat,
spitting out a solid deposit into the wind. ‘Sometimes they keep me waiting
‘till the afternoon before they arrive. Three kilometres here, three back. I
tell Karl it is too far for what they pay. Everyday picking up their filth, see
things I shouldn’t.
 
Don’t I have enough cleaning at home?
Now the idle fool Karl will not know to pick me up.’ Slapping her arthritic
hips she rose and turned for home, clutching her basket as she made off down
the path.

From the barn Nick brought a clay spade, inserting its edge
between the door and surround. A pain surged through his chest as he pulled
back on the handle, more pressure than his ribs could stand. The wood
splintered with a pistol shot crack, fading to an echo that mixed with the snow
stirring in the trees; breaking cover herons flapped across a hard grey sky.
                    

A kitchen that had entertained both sides during the war came
to attention when he flipped on a light, reclaiming it from its shuttered dusk.
Arranged at its centre a table long enough to seat a dozen officers, its ivy
leaf tablecloth cluttered by wine bottles, glasses, plates and cups not cleared
from a last supper. With no means of defence except his senses, Nick started on
the stairs; making cautious progress into the morning light producing gobbets
of weak colour through an open landing window, a silk curtain inching and
dancing in the draft. He stood and listened distrusting his ears; sound,
someone talking. Nick stayed by the walls creeping along, pausing at each
varnished door, the air stuffy with cigarette smoke from hours before. He
stopped; he had the door, inside a male voice deep and serious. Nick bundled
himself in.
 

On a chest of drawers a portable television featuring a young
bearded academic lecturing fervently on mediaeval pilgrimages to holy shrines.
The other details he saw in no precise order; an oak wardrobe, tallboy and
bedside locker, an odd leather glove on the varnished floorboards along with
the contents of an imitation crocodile vanity case; lipsticks, eyeliners and
powder. A couple of easy chairs piled with glossy magazines, a pack of condoms
and box of tissues. And lastly a double bed and king size duvet in a dreamy
blue; a fabric sky complete with fluffy clouds matching pillows and a family of
cuddly bunnies sitting idly around.
    

Wrapped in this but no luxury package, Sabine still in the
clothes she’d worn in Bar Z. Her hair was plastered on her forehead and her
eyes flopped around trying to focus. She had everything death promised in her
face, the creases and pallor of an overdose victim. Every breath surged in
forced unnatural draws, a rasping that he couldn’t bear. She had rolled from
her back onto her side and her fingers in their desperation to escape what her
body suffered, had opened a seam on the duvet.
 

A sprinkling of feathers trickled down to the floor partly
covering a syringe, spoon, leather belt, plastic lemon and disposable lighter.
Nick was no expert but guessed that she’d only just taken her final fix, not
cut with talc or bicarbonate of soda, but a mix so pure it packed a hundred per
cent hit she would never forget; her head in the clouds for evermore.

‘Sabine,’ he sat on a corner of the bed and his weight caused
her damp body to roll into him. ‘Can you hear me?’ Avoiding her red panda eyes
he put his hand on her forehead, the skin grey and thin. She was cold and sent
a shiver up Nick’s arm. Brushing away lank strands of hair, he tenderly stroked
her brow as he would have done for Angie or Tom. Soothing, calming her as the
gasps for air lasted longer, becoming spasms and finally stopped with a dry
frightening bark. He hadn’t been there for his mother’s death and Tom’s; now
he’d shared another, as though someone decided that he shouldn’t have missed
out on the anger and guilt. Kicked under the bed Sabine’s purse, a sturdy
leather model that held a driver’s licence, ID, loose change, thirty euros in
notes and an appointment card for a tattooist in Hamburg called Otto.