Authors: C. W. Gortner
Doubt prickled me as I glanced at the compact mirror on her low table, its tarnished surface smeared with white dust. Gerda would be furious. She despised drugs, and cocaine coupled with alcohol was Camilla’s preferred mix. We’d both heard her stagger into the boardinghouse after her all-night debaucheries, raving like a lunatic, waking the entire house and obliging poor Trude to help her to bed. She invariably claimed amnesia when we saw her the next day, which may have been true, considering her consumption. I’d learned from witnessing her epic outbursts that such momentary pleasures had too many drawbacks.
She now leaned over the mirror to inhale the powder. Blinking watery eyes, holding her head back so her mascara wouldn’t run, she drawled, “Were you thinking of going out with me dressed like that?”
I glanced down at my flower-patterned dress. “No. I was hoping you might help me. I . . . I need to research my new part. I’m playing a prostitute and . . .” I made myself shrug.
She eyed me, her irises dilated from the cocaine. “I can’t say I have anything that will fit you,
Liebling
. You’re so very robust these days.”
Robust? I stared at her in disbelief. I’d been starving myself again to look more like Ludmilla. But then I remembered the cream cakes I bought on the sly, hoarding them under my coat and gorging on them in my room.
And Trude kept bringing me slices of home-baked chocolate cake along with milk for the cats, insisting I must eat to keep up my strength.
“Nothing?” I motioned at the heaps surrounding us. “In all this?”
She shrugged. “Feel free to look. If you find something you like, try it on.” Rising from the chaise, she wandered through the curtain of colored beads separating her living quarters from her equally disordered bedroom. “I’ll just be a moment.”
As she peeled off her negligee, giving me an eyeful of her taut form, on which not an ounce of extra flesh showed, I turned away to dig through the piles. I found a green silk blouse and a skirt with a high slit. Feeling her gaze through the beads as she slipped into one of her shapeless black gossamer frocks that nevertheless always fit her like a second skin, I undid my dress and slipped on the blouse and skirt. I couldn’t fasten the second button on the skirt at my waist (how could it possibly fit anyone larger than a child?) but then remembered a fox fur stole Jolie had loaned me for my auditions. I could drape the stole over my shoulders, pin the dangling tails with a brooch at my waist to hide the gap from the button and—
A sharp laugh preceded Camilla, the fringed hem of her dress swinging about her silk-stockinged legs. “Now, isn’t that quaint? You can be my chaperone tonight at Das Silhouette.”
Through my teeth I said, “Must you be such a bitch?”
She paused. “What did you say?”
“I said I wanted your help. If all you can do is ridicule me, I’ll go.”
Her indifferent mask faltered. “I’m sorry. It’s only when you said you wanted to go out with me, I assumed . . .” Her self-deprecatory smile was rare but genuine. “You’ve refused all my invitations before. I know Gerda doesn’t approve of my decadent ways.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” I said, and the only button on the skirt I’d managed to fasten popped loose. Camilla glanced down as I tried to hold the skirt in place, even as it unspooled and collapsed to my ankles. I stood there in my stockings and garters, nothing else on underneath.
“Well. I see you’ve at least taken my advice to not wear those ghastly underthings that Gerda thinks can preserve your chastity,” said Camilla.
All of a sudden, I laughed. I couldn’t help it. I felt ludicrous, a plump younger sister playing dress-up in my sophisticated sibling’s wardrobe.
“Take that off,” she said, and as I removed the blouse, she surveyed the piles. She seemed to know exactly what she was looking for, though I could find no order in it. “Here,” she cried, and she plunged behind the chaise, withdrawing something black and rumpled and—
“A waistcoat?” I was hoping for something more alluring, like what Oma had dressed me in—a corsetlike garment that would both enhance and contain my offensive fat.
“Not just a waistcoat. I’ve the jacket with tails, too, and trousers to match. It’s formal wear, darling. A tuxedo. Very posh. All the fine gentlemen are wearing it.”
“You want me to dress like a
man
?”
One of her pencil-thin eyebrows arched. “Do you have a better idea? Garters and stockings may be feminine, but without a skirt or underpants, you’re bound to catch cold.”
“No.” I shook my head, even as she walked around me, sizing me up. “I’ll go upstairs, I must have something in my closet—”
“You have nothing.” Her fingers were icy as she fastened the waistcoat at my back. “I’ve seen what you own, and while it’s decent enough for desperate ingénues, if you want to make an impression, nothing you have will do.” She paused, her lips at my ear. “You do want to make an impression tonight, yes?”
“Yes,” I whispered, but I thought she’d make a fool of me as she unearthed a white shirt with faux-pearl studs, the coat with tails, and trousers with the suspenders still attached. I didn’t want to ask whose it was. Not hers, I assumed, if she thought it would fit me. And I smelled a trace of cologne on the cloth, an unfamiliar masculine scent.
As I buttoned the trousers, which were too long, and tightened the suspenders to the right length, she assessed me. It was then that I saw something sharpen in her eyes, like the glimpse of a serrated blade. “You need a bow tie and hat.” As she moved back into her bedroom to search for the items, I followed at her heels. She must have a mirror somewhere.
As I moved, I found I liked the way the trousers hung loose on me, a liberating comfort that erased any concerns of unwittingly exposing myself. I was shorter than Camilla but didn’t feel like it now, as she scavenged in the piles by her bed. I looked around and spotted a half-length mirror on her closet door.
I came to a standstill.
It was nothing like when I’d seen myself reflected in Oma’s undergarments. This was entirely different. Almost perverse. Standing in the glass was a shockingly androgynous figure, the shirt flattening my chest under the waistcoat, which slimmed my midsection and contained the extra width of the high trouser waist (whomever it belonged to, he was bigger than me), the curve of my hips and thighs filling out the pleats, while the cut of the tailored jacket with its tails broadened my shoulders. Reaching up, I pushed my curls from my face. I saw what Camilla must have glimpsed—my features round, flushed with youth, but with the bones of my adulthood beginning to surface, like the nascent angles of an unfinished statue.
Vanity,
mein Lieber
. . . It can seduce even its own reflection.
Camilla materialized at my side. Tying the white bow tie about my throat, she said, “Keep your hair back,” and she set a black satin beret on my head. “Ravishing,” she breathed. “I’m not sure I want you to accompany me now. You’ll be too much competition.”
“Do you really think so?” I turned to her. “You think it suits me?” I knew it did, as unbelievable as it seemed, but I needed to hear it from someone else.
“Don’t beg for flattery. Sit on the bed. Let me paint you.” After fetching her cosmetics, I watched in silence in the glass as she applied a touch of rouge and far too much lipstick, dark liner around my eyes, and sparkling green shadow on my eyelids.
“There. Perfect.” She glanced at my feet. “Except for the shoes.”
“Upstairs,” I said. “Gerda . . . she has a pair of wingtips.”
Camilla grimaced. “Of course she does.” She waved her hand. “Go. And bring money,” she called out as I raced to the door. “Das Silhouette charges by the person for a private booth.”
In my room, I slipped on Gerda’s wingtips after stuffing balled nylons inside, as her feet were larger than mine. Then I pinned up the trouser cuffs before I retrieved the marks I kept in a sock, tips flung at me by patrons at the revue, which I’d been saving for emergencies. As guilt stole over me, for Herr Held’s advice hardly qualified as an emergency, I shoved the money into my pocket. At the last minute, I grabbed my monocle and inserted it over my left eye.
If I was going to risk everything tonight, I might as well make it worthwhile.
D
as Silhouette on the Nollendorfplatz was infamous for catering to the most devout degenerates in Berlin. Gerda detested it, though she’d never set foot inside the place. But we’d heard all about it from Camilla, who delighted in describing its flamboyant ambience—the frenetic American jazz that had become the rage, the open use of opium and other substances, and its serpentine vacuum tube system coiled about the walls, satisfying patrons’ appetite for everything from illicit packets of cocaine to clandestine invitations not safe to convey via telephones in the booths. Sight unseen, Gerda had deemed the cabaret one of the worst—a seedy watering hole for riffraff, where acts of sordid disrepute were offered on an hourly basis.
A burly doorman detained the queue before the neon-lit entryway, signaling imperiously and seemingly at random at whomever he deigned fit to enter. He obviously knew Camilla, for no sooner had we pushed our way before him than he gave a wolfish grin and with a lewd look over me said, “And who is this delectable pussy?”
“A friend,” said Camilla. “Don’t be a brute. She’s a virgin.”
He guffawed. “Not for long,” he said and waved us through the leather curtains into the coat-check area. Camilla flung her fur stole and umbrella at the pretty girl behind the counter, who had coiled braids with a big bow
and wore a school dirndl that reminded me of my uniform from Schöneberg. Then I stared as she gathered up the stole and gave Camilla her claim ticket. Not a pretty girl at all, but a very pretty boy.
He winked at me, fluttering pearlescent lashes. “Anything to check,
Liebchen
?”
“No.” My lipstick felt caked on my mouth. “Nothing.
Danke.
”
“Have fun,” he said, and he turned to hang Camilla’s stole, revealing that his prim dirndl was so short, it sat above his naked buttocks.
“Did you see his lashes?” I whispered to Camilla as we descended a steep staircase plastered with posters. “They were beaded! Do you know how long that takes?”
“Hours and hours,” she replied, fishing out her cigarette case from her little bag and fitting a cigarette into a black filter. “The ladies live only for the night. If they’re not beautiful by sundown, they don’t come out at all.”
Ladies who were boys. It was a new world, one I struggled to assimilate as we entered the cabaret, where the air throbbed with a pungent, narcotic sweetness. Overhead, mirrored balls revolved like gigantic eyeballs, capturing and fracturing the smoke-infused light.
My heart quickened. Here I was at last, in Ludmilla’s arena. But I was thinking less of my character than of the stories that had fascinated me in Weimar, of the rending apart of the old to let in the new. Only, in this case, the new was outrageous, an overturning of expectations—a fantastical playland where nothing was as it appeared. I realized I had craved this all along—a world without rules, where I could become anything.
The cabaret was crowded to capacity, people crammed at the bar or clustered at the black-and-white tables before a stage festooned in cheap Christmas tinsel, where a squat man with a fake bosom and an askew red wig moaned naughty lyrics made famous by the Café Megalomania star, Rosa Valetti. I knew Valetti’s songs; her recordings were extremely popular and lascivious, extolling the subtleties of female pleasure over the impatient thrust of a man.
Camilla led me past the tables, smiling here and there at those who called out her name. As we threaded our way through, I caught sight of a
debonair man in a white dinner jacket watching us, sitting alone at a table a short distance away. I thought Camilla saw him, too; she shot a sharp glance in his direction and then pointedly looked away, quickening her pace.
“Come,” she said tersely. “My friends must be here somewhere.”
In my tuxedo, I felt both invisible and glaringly obvious. I tried to add a swagger to my step as the crowd thickened but found myself jostling past a group of simpering boys in skimpy peignoirs, with tattered stockings and ruffled little-girl panties. One of them smiled at me and inched up his negligee, exposing a prominent erection. It was shocking—and hilarious, especially as he saw me stare, so he reached into his panties to extract a dildo, which he put to his mouth and licked like a child with a lollypop. I couldn’t help but laugh, both at his lascivious outlandishness and at the thought of what Mutti would say, her horror that her great nation of Sunday social calls and Handel could harbor such decadence. Still, despite my enthrallment, I began to regret not confiding in Camilla the true purpose for our outing. Das Silhouette appeared to be a homosexual club, where I was as unlikely to find a willing man as I was likely to—
I came to a halt. We’d reached the private booth area, where spangled curtains on sagging rods acted as makeshift walls, either closed to outsiders or draped open to reveal built-in upholstered seating arranged around tables cluttered with glasses and bottles, along with spindly telephones. Here sat an impressive array of manhood in tight-fitted jackets and silk vests, pant-sheathed legs crossed as they gesticulated to one another with cuff-linked wrists. I assumed they, too, must be homosexual, until I looked more closely and realized that not everyone was male. There were women, too, in men’s apparel, some in tuxedos like mine. And when one of these women, her cheeks darkened with greasepaint to mimic a beard, met my eyes in brazen solicitation, I understood.
Camilla had dressed me like this on purpose. She thought I was a lesbian, wanting to go out on the town to be unfaithful to Gerda. She hadn’t misread my intent entirely.
The woman crooked her finger at me. “I just adore a gentleman with a monocle,” she purred. “So regal.” Her drag companions chuckled, patting
an empty space in the booth, indicating that I should join them. I turned to see Camilla drifting toward another booth.