Ben Elton - Two Brothers

And now she was back, as if she’d come full circle, except that this time it was her parents who were holding her hand.

It was towards the end of the shopping trip that Frieda quite unexpectedly bumped into Karlsruhen. It was the first time she had laid eyes on her ex-employer since her final day as his model when he had assaulted her in his studio, and Frieda was startled to see the depths to which he had sunk. For Karlsruhen was not at the market to shop but to sell. He and his wife had set up a little stall in amongst the junk dealers at the back of the great hall from which they were trying to unload his previously valuable works.

It was a chastening sight. Both Karlsruhen and his wife looked thin and haggard. The skin of the sculptor’s previously fat jowls hung in creases from his face. Neither of them had overcoats and they were clearly feeling the cold. Despite it being summer the hall was draughty.

Karlsruhen and Frieda caught each other’s eye but did not acknowledge it. Frieda certainly had no wish to renew their acquaintance and he clearly felt the same way.

Unfortunately Herr Tauber had also spotted the stall and was pushing his loaded shopping cart straight for it.

‘Look at this, Mother,’ he called to his wife. ‘This stuff’s very good, proper art, not like this modern nonsense. Come along, Frieda! Bring the purse, I think I might buy something.’

Frieda had no choice but to hurry after her father, who was already introducing himself to a somewhat alarmed-looking Karlsruhen.

‘Tauber. Police Captain Konstantin Tauber at your service. I think your work is very fine, sir. Very fine indeed.’

Now Karlsruhen looked genuinely worried, clearly wondering whether Frieda had decided finally to make a complaint about what had happened. It made her angry because she had always felt that she should have reported him, and had only not done so because it would have simply been one word against another and could have done no good. Now, however, she found herself in the position of having to set her attacker’s mind at rest for fear that he would blurt out some lie and an awful scene would ensue.

‘Hello, Herr Karlsruhen,’ she said, ‘it’s been a while, hasn’t it? This is my father and mother. Don’t be alarmed,’ she added, as if making a joke, ‘he’s not on duty.’

Frieda forced herself to smile pleasantly. There was nothing to be gained from confronting him now, a year later, and she had nothing but sympathy for the man’s wife.

‘Goodness gracious, Frieda,’ Herr Tauber said. ‘Do you two know each other?’

Karlsruhen clearly wished they’d all go away but had no option but to introduce himself.

‘Your daughter used to model for me,’ he explained.

Frau Tauber had been inspecting one of the figurines and nearly dropped it.

‘Goodness!’ she exclaimed. ‘Modelled? For these?’

Every single statuette displayed on the table was of a naked girl. Frau Tauber’s expression hovered somewhere between astonishment and horror.

‘Yes,’ Frieda said brightly, ‘didn’t I ever tell you?’

‘You told us that you were modelling ,’ her mother replied, ‘but not…’

‘This is me,’ Frieda said, picking up one of the figures. ‘It’s a good likeness, don’t you think?’

Herr Tauber took it from her and then immediately handed it on to his wife, clearly feeling that even holding the thing was somehow inappropriate.

‘You mean, you posed for it?’ he said. ‘Completely naked?’

‘Yes, Dad. Don’t you like it? You did before.’

‘It is a Rhinemaiden,’ Karlsruhen said grumpily, taking it back from Frau Tauber. ‘Of course they’re naked.’

‘Yes, a Jewish Rhinemaiden,’ Frieda said, giving Karlsruhen a hard stare, suddenly fed up with tiptoeing around the man. ‘Think of that? What would Herr Wagner have said?’

‘Nonsense, Frieda!’ her father exclaimed. ‘A German’s a German. I have two French bullet wounds in my thigh that say my daughter has as much right to cavort in the damned Rhine as anyone. Isn’t that right, Herr Karlsruhen? She makes a splendid nymph!’

Karlsruhen admitted that she did and since the Taubers did not seem to be moving on he was forced to introduce his wife. Frieda shook the woman’s hand feeling most uncomfortable, not merely because of the unpleasant secret she shared with the woman’s husband, but also because of the reduced circumstances to which Frau Karlsruhen had fallen. She couldn’t help but suspect that the person who would suffer most from Karlsruhen’s wounded pride was his wife.

Herr Tauber, having got over the initial shock of encountering a naked depiction of his daughter, had decided that in fact he was rather proud that Frieda had inspired such fine German art. He thoroughly approved of Karlsruhen’s style and subject matter.

‘Had you been posing for one of these idiot pornographers our imbecile arts establishment insists on lionizing, then I should have been concerned, but this is the art of a patriot and gentleman. Herr Karlsruhen, I salute you.’

Herr Tauber shook Karlsruhen vigorously by the hand, utterly oblivious to the horrible irony of his description of the man, and the crackling undercurrents flowing between the artist and his daughter.

‘In fact, my dear,’ Herr Tauber said, turning to his wife, ‘I really do think we must have this! After all, it’s not every girl who gets to be a Rhinemaiden. And I’m happy to go without my bottle of schnapps this month to get it too.’

Karlsruhen scowled at this graphic illustration of the current value of his work.

‘It’s bronze and the plinth is marble,’ he said sulkily, but his wife had already taken Tauber’s money.

‘For you, my dear,’ Tauber said, making a flourishing gesture and handing it over to Frieda. ‘I’m sure Herr Karlsruhen will admit that it is not quite as beautiful as its model but it’s a fine piece of work nonetheless and I am proud to make you a present of it.’

Frieda suspected that Karlsruhen would admit no such thing, but the sculptor merely continued to scowl and said nothing.

‘THAT WAS THE Sheik of Araby , ladies and gentlemen,’ Wolfgang said, emptying the saliva valve of his trumpet into the cigarette-filled spittoon at his feet, ‘fresh out of the USA! And my many thanks to our genial host Kurt Furst for bringing such a scorching new tune to my attention. Smokin’! We’ll be back after a break.’

The boisterous crowd of young men and women, their elegant evening dress in disarray, shouted for more as the sweating combo retired to the little band room at the rear of the stage behind a shimmering beaded curtain.

Wolfgang had begun working for Kurt the very day after they first met, when, true to his word, Kurt had bought the club in which Wolfgang was working.

‘Say hello to your new boss, Mr Trumpet!’ the exuberant teenager had shouted, having waylaid Wolfgang in the alleyway at the back of the venue as Wolfgang was chaining up his bicycle. ‘I told you I’d buy this joint. So welcome to the Joplin Club, the hottest hell-hole in town.’

Katharina was there too, standing in the shadows of the little stage doorway, trying to keep her coat from touching the filthy, urine-soaked walls, the tiniest smile creeping across her usual mask of bored indifference.

Wolfgang smiled also.

But nervously.

In the early hours of that very morning he’d been wiping this woman’s lipstick from his mouth and lying to Frieda that he could not recall if she was pretty or not. He had in fact recalled very well how pretty she was, and had continued to recall it any number of times that day as he mangled nappies and created amusing faces out of apples and cheese for his children.