Nina Berry - The Notorious Pagan Jones

They drove past a crowd of people lining up in front of a warehouse-like building. Thousands of men and women in neat summer clothes were carrying suitcases and shepherding children. Pagan remembered what she’d read about the mass exodus of people from East Berlin and craned her neck to see if these were indeed immigrants from East Berlin. No way was she going to ask Devin a question now. She glimpsed a sign: Réfugiés/Flüchtling .

“That’s the French sector processing center for refugees,” Devin said as if she’d asked him aloud. His voice was friendly as ever. “The city gets nearly two thousand a day. The other borders with East Germany are closed, so Berlin’s the last place of escape. For now.”

She didn’t reply as the car entered a wooded area. Up ahead loomed a column that glinted gold on top. She leaned forward to look up at it through the windshield and caught sight of a glittering winged statue with arms outstretched.

“The Victory Column,” Devin said, still in his best tourist guide voice. “But the Berliners call it Goldenelse —Golden Lizzy. The Prussians erected it last century to commemorate their victory over the Danish. But by the time it was done, they’d also defeated Austria and France in other wars, so it covers a lot of victories.”

Pagan said nothing as they circled the monument’s red granite base. A lot of wars had come and gone since then. The Germans sure wouldn’t be erecting a victory column to commemorate the last one.

The parkland gave way to newly constructed buildings, some still with scaffolding. “Still rebuilding,” Devin said. “From the war.”

Pagan stared. Sixteen years later they were still rebuilding?

It was one thing to read about World War II, another to see how people’s lives were still affected by it here. No wonder Berliners were fond of Golden Lizzy, their angel. They needed one.

Pagan could’ve used an angel, too, a few times in her life, but how could her tiny little troubles stack up against what Berlin—what all of Europe—had been through? Hollywood seemed like the center of the universe when you were there, making movies, attending award shows, reading about yourself in the paper. But Berlin was a reminder that in the big-budget epic of the history of the world, Pagan was nothing but an extra.

* * *

The Hilton was sleekly modern and sparkling behind its subdued but gracious facade. Pagan blearily followed the bellboy and her luggage up to her room. When Devin stopped at the door next to hers and let his bellman take his luggage inside, relief overtook her. So she would get time to herself after all. And if she needed to, she could walk quietly past his door and he’d be none the wiser.

The room turned out to be a suite. She gave the bellboy five dollars, apologizing in German that came out better than she expected that she didn’t have any German marks. He replied in perfect English that dollars were better anyway.

Then she was blessedly alone, wandering from the large living area with its low-slung sofa and large curtained windows looking onto the Tiergarten to a set of double doors that led to a room with a queen-size bed and adjoining bathroom.

She kicked off her shoes and began unzipping her dress. Lovely as it was, she couldn’t wait to get it off and crawl into the fluffy red-and-white bed, which, as usual, had way too many pillows. She unsnapped her garters, yanked off her stockings, and walked barefoot over the thick carpet to investigate another set of double doors. They opened up to reveal a second bedroom, complete with its own bed and bathroom.

She stood in that doorway, frowning. Why would they give her two bedrooms? In the distant past her mother would have stayed there, but the studio had no reason to be extra generous with her now.

There came a chunk and a scrape—a key turning in a lock. She turned to see a door she hadn’t noticed before in the opposite wall. It opened, and Devin Black stood framed there. She could see a portion of his unlit room behind him.

She grabbed the gaping hole in the side of her dress, where she’d unzipped it, strongly aware of her bare legs and feet. “Is that how you’re going to keep watch on me, unlocking the adjoining door between our suites?”

“Not at all,” he said, and, picking up his suitcase, he walked a few steps into her suite to set it down. “That room is just for show.”

Her face flushed, scalding hot. “But…but…”

“I left you alone in your bedroom in Los Angeles, and you chose to run away,” he said. “I don’t make the same mistake twice. Thank you for saving the bedroom closest to the exit for me.”

Words failed her. She fled to her bedroom, slammed the door, and turned the lock.

Through the wood she heard his low laugh. “Sleep tight,” he said.

Breakfast the next morning was of the very silent room service variety. How bizarrely domestic to sit across the tray table from Devin, sipping coffee and eating eggs while he, the picture of ease and elegance in another splendid Savile Row suit, his dark hair combed perfectly back, read the International Herald Tribune . Pagan couldn’t help staring at his deft hands as they poured her coffee. Unbidden, the thought of those skillful hands on her skin flashed into her mind. But that was only because she missed Nicky. Still, her cheeks burned. She needed to refocus on something, anything.

“How old are you?” she asked Devin, not caring how abrupt it sounded.

He set down the paper and looked at her. His eyes were darker today, a stormy blue closer to the navy of his suit, and they took a moment to slide over her, taking in everything from her teased updo to her new green Givenchy dress.

The effrontery of the frank assessment made her flush. What was it about him that made her acutely aware of the brush of her blouse against her collarbone, of the taut line of her garter as it bit into her thigh?

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