Phoenyx: Flesh & Fire (26 page)

I grabbed a stool opposite him and dropped my bag at my feet. “Thanks. How’s it been?”

“Quiet, really. We came up with a couple of new themed evenings which didn’t go down as well as we thought, At least you’re back now, and we can return to normal routines.”

“Great,” I smiled.

“By the way, Phoenyx – that cat of yours is a bastard. He wouldn’t do anything I told him.”

I laughed at that. “He knows who his mother is. And even I can’t control him most of the time. By the way, has Honey been around lately?” I asked brightly.

He paused before answering, as if thinking about how he should answer. “No, she’s not.”

“She should be, she’s performing tonight. Isn’t she?”

Bruno leant against the bar and opened up his silver cigarette case. “I’m afraid not, Phoenyx. She called me up the other night.”

“What? Is she alright?”

“She’s not ill. She’s gone.”

“
Gone
?” I squawked. “What do you mean?”

I didn’t want to hear his reply. That’s what my mother said happened to my father, when he vanished back to East Berlin – he was simply
gone
. Not dead, just lost forever; for as long as that damned wall was in place he might as well have been on Mars.

And
gone
was what happened to mother’s parents, both killed during the war by Allied bombs gone astray (or so Mother had always said – perhaps because she could never believe that the ‘good guys’ would ever target civilian populations). But Bruno couldn’t possibly have meant it
that
way.

Suddenly, I wanted to know. I
had
to know.

“What do you mean?”

“She’s left. Moved on. Didn’t say where, something about making hardcore in Hollywood for the grind house circuit. And she told me to tell you – she wishes you all the very best, and hopes you spread your wings here.”

I just stood and stared at him. He couldn’t be serious. This was a mistake, a wind-up on Honey’s part.

“No,” I gasped. I dumped my bag up on the bar beside him. “No.
No
.”

I ran out of the Klub and all the way along to Rosenfestplatz. I stumbled along the wide pavement, weaving in and out of pedestrians whilst staring up at all the top-floor apartments in every block. Eventually I found the last block on the avenue – another huge, 19th-Century tower on the corner. I raced up the outer steps, into the hall and clattered all the way up the huge spiral staircase to the top floor.

I found myself standing between two doors bearing nameplates:
St. Clair
, and
Wolfowitz
. I had no idea which was hers, so I chose the door on the left, Wolfowitz, and knocked. After a moment an elderly, rather tired-looking gentleman pulled back the door on a short security chain.

“Yes?”

“Ah, sorry to bother you, sir. I was looking for someone. A young, blonde woman...”

“Oh, her? Noisy thing, lived across the way. She’s gone, thankfully. Moved out yesterday. Sorry, you’ve just missed her.”

The door closed on me and I turned away to look behind me. I pressed myself against the doorframe, and ran my fingers over the nameplate St. Clair, tracing the outline of the letters which spelled her name. All that time with her, all those intimate hours of friendship and more besides, and I had never even known it or bothered to ask.

I found myself sinking down to the floor, and I just sat there with my back to the door – both hands in my hair, refusing to believe that she would have just run out like that and left me without even a telephone call or a visit. And only a ‘good luck’ message delivered via Bruno? What the hell had I done to deserve that?

Then I felt it, like a kick in the guts – the hard, cruel, realization, reminding me, answering my own question. How many times had she asked me to move in with her, and how many times had I stumbled and mumbled over my response? How long must it have felt to her that I was only playing her along the whole time – an endless tease, with promises of revealing everything, but in fact showing nothing? Had those stupid little things – the familiarity of Wilhelmsgasse, Boris, and Mrs. Groenenberg – meant so much more to me than the genuine offers I’d been given repeatedly in the past? The trip to Tokyo had, I guessed now, been designed to test if she could put up with me, but it was I who had failed to decide that I could, after all, put up with
her
.

I remembered what Mrs. Groenenberg had told me once, to get it while I can. Had I been playing the same stupid kind of game that she had in her younger days? I had never knowingly played Honey along or doubted her commitment. I had only been unsure of my own ability to commit to such a big move and lifestyle change, yet what was I afraid of? That Honey may have gotten bored with me, and kicked me out?

If you care for someone, tell them...the worst way to live is to live with regret, and guilt.

Her words came back to my memory, laughing at me. I felt that if I lived forever, I would never be able to lose that regret, and that guilt. The guilt over the disappointment she must have finally felt with me, and that with myself, for denying me that one true shot at something special. Sure, Honey and I might not have lasted, but the experience would have changed me forever, rather than dumping me back on Square One again.

I dragged my numbed body to its feet and scuffed across to the top of the stairs, feeling more alone and dejected than I ever had in my whole life, including that day I stepped off the train in Old Berlin with Boris in a basket and a suitcase in my hand. Every friend I had back at the Klub – Bruno, Olivia, Petra, Mel – seemed so pale in comparison to she who had lit up my life like a fire and given me such a bright future, filled with love and fun, new experiences, desire and companionship. She had taken me to the other end of the world, been responsible for the fiery bird now indelibly inked across my shoulders and spine, and helped me give my heart away to Johnny Iko. How quiet and still my life would be now without her thrilling, impulsive brand of disorder to keep it on the boil at all times.

Well, I had wanted my own space, in my own stupid immature and stubborn way, and now I had it. I dumped myself down those wide stone steps one at a time, clinging onto the handrail for support. I hadn’t even made it half-way down when the tears burst out of me completely.

I got back to the Klub about an hour later.

Bruno caught me as I came in and almost walked straight past him. “Here, you left this.” He handed me my shoulder bag. I grabbed it and carried on towards the backstage, to a job and a place which now seemed a whole lot emptier, duller, and less enticing.
“Phoenyx?” he called after me, but I didn’t turn around. I didn’t want him to see me in that state.

I spent fifteen minutes in the toilet, head between my knees as I sat locked in a cubicle. Gradually, I became aware of a familiar voice singing quietly to itself from outside. I raised myself painfully to my feet, pulled the plug and wandered out.

“Evening, darling,” Olivia said. “How are you?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Shit.”

“Oh. Did you not have a great time in Japan, then?”

“Yes, I had an amazing time. Coming back wasn’t so good though.”

“I just heard that Honey’s left us. Did that have something to do with it?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“That’s a shame. You got on very well with her, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. I did,” I grimaced. I turned to face her and threw myself into her arms.

“C’mon, let’s go get drinks.” She wiped a finger underneath my eye, “And get you dried up.”

We headed back out to the bar, only to find Bruno scowling at a letter.

“Well, looks we’re another body down now,” he said as we settled ourselves onto stools. “Never rains but it bloody pours.”

“What?” Olivia gasped.

He waved the letter in the air. “Petra’s pushed off. Currently somewhere in Austria, according to this – she doesn’t say where, but she won’t be back for a while yet. If at all.”

Olivia gasped in disbelief. “Why? What the hell brought that on?”

“Personal stuff,” he said. “She doesn’t explain it – I guess she just needed a break.”

“Shit,” Olivia seethed. “Could at least have warned us. Well, if it’s a personal crisis, I just hope she’s okay.”

“Guess I’d better advertise for another couple of performers,” Bruno said. “I don’t really want to, knowing how well you lot all get on together. But—”

“Then don’t,” I told him. “Seriously. Let’s not fill Petra’s grave so quick. Honey was always a wild card anyway. I don’t mind doing an extra set or two to fill in. It’s not like I’m doing much else now, anyway.

“We’ll survive. Won’t we?” I looked at Olivia, hoping she believed me. I didn’t believe the words myself. I didn’t really believe anything at that moment. For all I knew, Honey and Petra could have shacked up together in the least likely tryst imaginable. I was too tired, too frail, to say much more. Olivia just lit up a cigarette and drew in a long, quivering breath.

“Yeah, we’ll survive,” she agreed at last. “We’re all Kits together, dammit. That’s why I’m a little bit pissed at Petra – she knows we would all have been there for her. We’ve helped each other through all kinds of shit in the past.”

Bruno put the letter away underneath the bar. “Well, if I hear any more from her, or from Honey, I’ll let you know.”

“You won’t be hearing from Honey,” I said. “I can tell you that right now.”

“Something you want to share?” he asked, probing me for a little revelation.

“No. It’s just not her style, that’s all. Once she’s made up her mind to do something – poof. That’s it. She came out of nowhere and she left the same way. Tokyo was a gas, but I think she was looking for a lot more than I – and this place – could ever offer her.”

“Well, she was never a true Kit anyway,” Olivia scoffed. “Never went through her initiation, or anything. I still liked her, though.” She placed a long hand on Bruno’s shoulder. “Darling, get a bottle of wine, would you? This girl beside me looks like she needs an awful lot of cheering up. As do I now.”

I got home that night by walking all the way from the Klub to Wilhelmsgasse, half-drunk on Olivia’s wine, most of which was offered
gratis
by Bruno. I had been hoping to unveil my tattoo to everyone that evening, but it lay forgotten beneath my dress, out of sight, since everyone was more concerned about Petra’s sudden departure and speculating about the reasons behind it.

It didn’t even occur to me that something,
anything
, could have happened to me on the way home – I didn’t care, anyway. I walked past young, cocky hookers who sneered and jeered, swerved around a couple of obnoxious drunks and before I knew it, I was back at the old stone steps and the dark, unwelcoming entrance up to my old second-floor apartment.

I pushed my way inside and nearly stepped on Boris in the dark. I thought about cursing him, until I remembered that he was about all I had left at that moment. I grabbed him up and went through to the living room, where I spent the rest of the night – and the morning, until the sun came up – sitting by the window, staring out at the sky with him on my lap. My head was full of everything and yet nothing. I grew colder as the darkness hung heavier and more oppressively, but I couldn’t even be bothered getting up to turn the gas on. I couldn’t be bothered doing anything.

I think I must have finally fallen asleep at about nine or ten am, for I woke up in the early afternoon with the sound of traffic in the street below. My head was still overflowing with a waterfall of thoughts and snatches of conversation – some of which I’d had, some of which I wanted to have and some I still hoped that, one day soon, I could. I wondered if Mrs. Groenenberg would come around to visit. And the more I thought about that possibility, the more I wanted it. She would be the perfect person to talk to about this. She’d been there, more than once, and had probably cursed herself blind in the same way that I was still doing. And, though it had taken me a while to realize it, pleasing her was an incredibly erotic and liberating experience, unlike anything else I’d been introduced to. I liked the way she spoke to me, and the effects I had on her. It felt good to be wanted, desired. To be essential.

I drifted through Sunday doing mechanical tasks around the house, things that failed to make me feel human: making food, drinking coffee, tidying up. Instead, I felt like a hopeless brain imprisoned in a robotic body, unable to function beyond a few limited and pre-programmed actions. Boris sensed it as well, and instead of coming near me for attention as he usually did, he avoided me for the whole day.

I sat on the toilet, waiting for a pee that seemed it would never come. I knew why: I was tense and anxious, and when I had things on my mind, my bladder always seemed to get blocked as a result. I turned aside to look at my antique perfume bottles which sat on the tiled window ledge behind me. I’d previously arranged them in order of red, white and blue – or more properly, burgundy, crystal clear and teal – and started to shift them around, making idle color combinations for the outside light to shine through. I went from the flag of France to the flag of Italy, dragging in my glass green shampoo bottle to add variety. In the end I conceded that my body wasn’t going to accommodate my desires, so I got up and decided to do something else more practical.

Having moved the shampoo, I was alarmed to see how much grime and dust had collected around it, leaving a clean white circle on the tiles where it had been. I really had been neglecting things lately, and so got busy again with the cloths and the cleanser.

I was half-way through cleaning the bathroom when a hard, authoritative knock from the door shook me. I almost dropped the brush down the toilet, and raced out into the hallway, heart racing with expectation. A quick squint through the spy hole told me it really was, finally, what I had been longing for – it was Mrs. Groenenberg.

I pulled open the door, eager for another secret session to take my mind off it all.

“Hello, Mistress,” I gasped.

She stood there dressed up in a dark blue suit, looking very severe and serious, even wearing a hat which made her look as if she was on her way to a wedding, or a funeral. And beside her, in a black three-piece and hat, stood an older man with long flowing silver hair, looking a bit like von Karajan. I wondered what kind of game she had in mind this time. Surely
he
couldn’t be Mr. Groenenberg – he looked too old for her. Suddenly, my growing excitement stalled, and I felt a grim foreboding begin to creep through me, all the way to my fingertips which began to tremble as they held on to the door.