Joseph Kanon - A Good German

When the song repeated itself, he frowned and got up to take it off. No water now, no sounds upstairs. She’d be drying herself, toweling her hair, pinning it back up. He heard a soft movement, like mice, and knew she must be crossing the hall. In his room. He took a handful of records and put them on in a stack so he wouldn’t hear anything else, no rustling, nothing to make his thoughts dart back and forth. Just a piano, bass, and guitar, and the steady rain. He put his feet back up on the sill. The old afternoons had never been long enough-a rush to get dressed, back into the city. Now the minutes stretched out with nowhere to go, as formless and lazy as the cigarette smoke curling up in the empty house.

He didn’t hear her when she came in, just felt some change in the air behind the music, a smell of lavender. He turned his head and saw that she was standing still, waiting for him to see her. Making an entrance, tentative. He stood up, staring, his mind turning over. The bath had given her color, pink as his room, her old face. But there was more. The dress was a little big and she had belted it tightly, making it blouse over on top, a 1940 dress. She had combed out her hair to go with it, letting it fall down around her face in the old style. All arranged, like an invitation, everything he’d asked for. She smiled shyly, taking his silence for approval, and took a few steps toward him, then turned to the phonograph, a girl on a date looking for something to say.

“What does it mean, ‘you’re the cream in my coffee’?” she said, looking at the record.

“That they go together,” he said absently, still staring at her.

“It’s a joke?” she said, making small talk.

He nodded, hearing the lines now because she seemed to be listening. “Like that. ‘My Worcestershire, dear.’”

“Worcestershire?” Stumbling over it in English.

“A sauce.”

She glanced over at him. “Do I look all right?”

“Yes.”

“I borrowed the shoes.”

And then nothing, just looking at him while the record changed, waiting. A slower song now, “I’ll String Along with You,” the kind they dreamed to at Ronny’s. She came over to him, swaying a little in the unfamiliar shoes, and put her hand on his shoulder.

“Do you still know how? I think I forget.”

He smiled and put his hanc on her waist, beginning to move with her.

They danced in a small circle, not close, letting the song lead. Through the thin material he could feel that she had nothing on underneath and it startled him, as if she were naked, past the fumbling hooks and snaps of getting undressed, all ready. He moved away slightly, still unsure of her, but she held him, her eyes on his, keeping him with her. No sound but the rain.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he said, touching her hair.

“I wanted to. You like it this way.”

A smile, pleased with herself, still looking up at him, until finally he didn’t know what it meant, what had happened upstairs, except that questions would ruin it and they were moving together. Just dance, a little bit at a time. The record changed. She moved closer, warm against him, so that he could feel the swell of her down below, the faint scratch of her hair through the material, teasing him. He started to move back.

“It’s all right,” she said. “I want to feel you.”

But she had blinked, like the gasp at the tree, and when she put her head on his shoulder it was to close her eyes, willing herself against him.

“Lena, you don’t—”

“Just hold me.”

They danced through the song, not hearing it, their feet moving by themselves, an excuse for being close, and the music worked, he felt her let go, an easy leaning into him. A little bit more. But she surprised him again, pressing tighter to feel him there and putting her arms around his back, her mouth to his ear.

“Let’s go upstairs,” she whispered.

“You’re sure?”

She didn’t answer, just led him slowly across the room so that their going seemed another part of the dance, rhythmic and dreamy, one leg after another up the stairs. Now it was he who was tentative, not sure what to do, following her, watching her stop halfway up to take off the shoes, a slow, erotic gesture, undressing for him, bending gracefully to pick them up, then the bare feet, pale white, as if they were the most intimate thing about her. He followed the rest of the way, watching her skirt brush against her legs, and then they were in his room, the music went away, distant, and he could hear himself breathing. He stood waiting, still at a loss, while she let the shoes fall and turned to him and opened the top button of his shirt, then the next, movements as deliberate as steps. She opened the shirt, smoothing her hands across his chest, making his skin tense at the surprise of it, then went back to the buttons, down, almost to the last, when she stopped and leaned her head against his bare skin, resting there.

“Help me,” she said.

He put his hand to her neck, moving the hair aside and stroking it gently until she tipped her head back to look up at him again, nodding for him to go on. He undid her belt, hearing it drop to the floor, then slowly began pulling the dress up, gathering it until she raised her arms, trancelike, and it was over her head and off, then somewhere on the floor, and she was naked. Both hands now along her neck as he kissed the top of her head, rubbing his face in her hair. He moved his hands down her back, resting at the bottom, then walked her to the bed, sitting her down on the pink spread.

He started to undo his belt buckle, but she reached up and did it for him, the shirt falling away, then pulled the zipper and put her hands on his hips, pushing pants and underwear down at the same time until he sprang free and she was looking at him. She touched his penis, moving her hand over it slowly, making it familiar, and he stood rigidly, his eyes closed, trying not to feel her. Finally he took her hand away and dropped to the bed, moving next to her so that they were facing each other, his hand on her hip as they kissed.

Slowly, a little bit at a time. He began stroking her softly, every piece of skin familiar, the curve of her back, the hollow just before her hip, the underside of her breast, brushing it with the back of his hand until it rose with her breathing, trying to imagine her feeling it, to do it for her. Everything familiar. Except the pleasure, the feeling itself, always new, different every time, like the sky, too immediate to hold in memory. You remembered skin, the shape of a curve, but the rest disappeared and you spent your whole life coming back to it, again and again, only to find it was never the same, each time a surprise. So private no one else could ever feel it. He tried to hold himself back, emptying his mind, but she pressed up against him and there it was again, insistent. But not now; a little at a time, the grateful luxury of simply touching her. All this time and he hadn’t remembered anything, just the outline, just enough to want it again.

“Lena,” he said, a whisper, “are you sure?” but she covered his mouth, an open kiss, willing them quiet, and he wondered where she was, not lost in the feeling with him but somewhere inside her head, maybe in the past, where they no longer needed to go.

He moved his hand down to her thigh, trying to reach her. The soft inside, the most vulnerable place in the world, gently, light enough to coax her back. When he ran his finger along her bush, trying to open the lips, he could feel she was still dry, still closed away, for all the kissing and rubbing against him. Not ready. A little more. He put his finger in his mouth, wetting it, then placed it over her clitoris, just resting it, until he heard her intake of breath, a connection, and began moving it lightly in a circle, the merest graze, moistening it, circling wider and moving smoothly now, getting slick with her own wet. Her pelvis moved against him, as if she were trying to close her legs, but instead they went slack, opening to his finger. “Oh,” she said, an involuntary sigh, as he slipped it farther down, still rubbing lightly back and forth until it was wet enough, then farther, parting the lips, slipping finally inside her, feeling the heat as she closed around him. He paused to let her catch her breath, but she put her hand over his, forcing him to keep moving it, and his finger continued in a steady back and forth, lingering near the top to circle the nub, then down, the lips spreading wider until she was open and wet everywhere, riding his finger. She turned to open her mouth to him again, as wet as below, reaching behind his head to lock him to her as her hips kept moving. When she broke away, gasping for air, shaking a little, it was to take hold of his penis. “With you,” she said, drawing it to her, the head jumping when it touched the slick open skin.