The Girl Behind The Curtain (Hidden Women) (5 page)

I opened the computer file. The list of contents I found there was innocuous. Looking at it didn’t hurt so much, but I knew that if I opened any one of them, I might feel differently.

February 1st, for example. Was that the day when we told each other how we lost our respective virginities? Was February 19th when I told him about the end of my relationship with Steven? I could no longer bear to look. Especially not at the direct messages we had sent each other that day in the library when Marco asked me to open the top left-hand drawer of the desk and I found a small black pebble-shaped vibrator waiting for my pleasure.

Thinking about that day made me close my eyes tightly to hold back the tears. I thought it had been the start of something. I had been so very wrong. After that day, everything seemed to fall apart.

I closed the Marco file. I hovered the cursor over it, ready to drag it into the trash can in the corner of the screen. It would have been so easy to leave it for another day but something in me wanted to make a definitive move right then. I dragged the file to the dustbin icon and quickly clicked on ‘empty trash’ so that there was no way I could go back and reinstate the files later. I felt a moment of heart-stopping horror as I heard the sound of scrunched-up paper that accompanied the virtual action. But then it was over. Marco was gone from my laptop.

After that, while I was still feeling brave, I took out the letters I’d read so many times and the pressed flower that had seemed such an important symbol of my feelings for the man in whose garden it had grown. I’d carried them from Venice to Paris and to London. Now I put them all into the bin in the kitchen, before I poured the fast-cooling remains of my camomile tea over the top of them, ruining them for ever. It was the only thing to do. The right thing.

It was about four o’clock in the morning by the time I went back to bed. By now, I was properly tired and it wasn’t long before I fell asleep. In fact, I fell asleep in the middle of reading and would wake up with the imprint of my paperback pressed into my cheek. But until then, I slept deeply and dreamlessly. I was not bothered during the night by thoughts of Venice and my masked lover. No paramour came to call up to my window and entice me to join him in the shadowy felce of his sleek black gondola. No passionate stranger slid his hands all over my naked body as though he were playing a rare and delicate instrument. No man made music of my protestations, my acquiescence or my sighs of ecstasy and delight.

I slept. I woke up. In the morning the light through the thin curtains at my bedroom window was grey. I looked at my face in the mirror, creased and blurry with sleep. Time to face the day. The future.

Chapter 5

The Hotel Frankfort, Berlin

Thursday 9th June 1932

Drat it. There’s still nothing from Mother. I can’t believe my luck. Things have been very tight indeed, particularly as I had to splash out on a pair of new boots to avoid harassment every time I leave the hotel. Honestly, I started to think that perhaps I should offer someone an afternoon of enslavement and scatological entertainment just to be able to afford to move out of this fleapit and into somewhere decent again. I am sure that nobody looked at my boots in such a strange way when I was staying at the Hotel Adlon.

On Monday and Tuesday I went to all the secretarial agencies I could find, but it turns out that my German is nowhere near good enough to get me a position as a bilingual secretary. The woman I met at one place was quite cruel about my lack of ability. She said that perhaps in England people are happy to employ young women on the basis of their looks alone, but in Germany a neat appearance has to be backed up by solid administration skills. In any case, the bitch continued, while my dress was very fetching, it was far more suitable for a nightclub than a respectable office. I suppose she had a point about that. I have been forced to wear some very strange combinations while I cannot afford to send my clothes to the cleaners. Oh Cord Von Cord! What you have reduced me to!

I can’t believe Mummy hasn’t sent a money order. She’s usually such a softy. She can never resist a sob story, least of all from me – her only child! I can only think that perhaps she didn’t get my last letter. Perhaps Papa intercepted the post and is trying to starve me into submission.

Well, more fool him, because I can hold out against his tyranny for far longer than he imagines. I am resourceful. I have proved that to myself in bucketloads this afternoon. I’ve only gone and got myself a job!

So perhaps it’s not the kind of job my parents would have wished for me but I have no doubt that it will be interesting. I heard about it when I was trying to sneak past the hotel reception desk at lunchtime.

I owe nearly three weeks’ rent and I just don’t have it so I have been trying to avoid Enno, the hotel manager, as I go about my day. He has been very kind so far but I know he can’t keep extending my credit for ever and the last thing I want is to find myself too much in his debt. He’s completely cross-eyed and smells of sauerkraut. But today, he caught me. He saw me coming and hid behind the desk, knowing that if I didn’t see him there, I might risk taking a look at the pigeonholes to see if I had any post. As I leaned over the desk to do exactly that, he grabbed me by the wrist, like the troll beneath the bridge grabbing the Billy Goats Gruff.

I screamed.

‘Got you,’ he said.

I screamed again. It was horrible. He scared me half to death. Still, he found me a chair and made me sit down on it. He waited until I had finished hyperventilating before he made his case.

‘Fräulein Hazleton, you are a whole three weeks behind with your rent. The rules of this hotel are that bills are settled on a weekly basis. There are to be no exceptions.’

I nodded along to his speech.

‘I cannot continue to extend you credit,’ he said. ‘My own job is now on the line.’

I burst into tears and cried very prettily but I knew I could test his patience no more.

‘I’ll move out this afternoon,’ I said. ‘I’m sure I will be perfectly fine under the railway arches.’

Poor Enno looked horrified. ‘Hey hey!’ he said. ‘There’s no need for that.’

He handed me his rather dirty handkerchief with which to dry my eyes.

‘Look, a friend of mine is looking for waitresses in his bar,’ Enno told me. ‘I’m sure it is not the kind of work you’re looking for, but it is better than nothing. It’s a nice place. The staff are friendly. If you go over there this afternoon, I will wait until you have your first pay cheque before I ask you for money again.’

‘Oh thank you, Enno.’ It was such a kind offer, I had to say I’d take it up.

Enno’s friend – a man named Jerry Schluter – owns a place called the Boom Boom Bar. I have passed it many times but never dared set foot inside. It doesn’t look like the kind of place a girl should frequent on her own. But Enno assured me that no harm would come to me. The man who owns the Boom Boom and the guys and girls who work there are all good people, he said.

‘They’re just a little different, that’s all.’

How different, I had no idea.

I arrived at the Boom Boom around three in the afternoon. The outside is very shabby. It also looked closed, but when I pressed my nose to the glass panel in the door, I saw there were people inside. I stepped into the lobby, with its worn-out carpet and velvet-flocked walls, and plastered on my most enthusiastic look. It was hard to hold that look for long. The floor was sticky and the air was redolent of spilled beer. I thought I might get drunk just from breathing.

A couple of people passed through the lobby without even looking at me, so I took my enthusiastic face off and coughed to get someone’s attention.

‘A-hem,’ I said. ‘A-hem!’

There was a woman on the counter. She had red hair piled high on her head in a number of tiny curls so that it looked like a dish of profiteroles (having lived off just one meal a day for the past week, I am starting to see food everywhere). When I asked her where I might find Herr Schluter, she answered me in an extraordinarily deep voice. And when she looked up, I saw she had five o’clock shadow. I couldn’t hide my surprise.

‘Yes, dear,’ she said, in a bored sort of voice. ‘I’ve got it all.’ She grabbed at her crotch.

‘Well, er, I’m . . . sorry,’ I said. ‘If I seemed at all rude. It’s just that you remind me of my aunt.’

The redhead chuckled.

‘She’s got a dick as well, has she?’

‘My father says he wouldn’t be at all surprised,’ I answered. The redhead grinned. I had the feeling I’d passed some kind of test.

‘Who are you looking for, my darling?’

‘I’m here to see Herr Schluter.’

‘Down the corridor,’ the redhead told me. ‘Better make sure you knock.’

I hurried in the direction of Herr Schluter’s office. I was already sure I didn’t want any kind of job he could offer me but if I at least saw him, it might give me a little credit with Enno. Even a couple of days would be perfect. Mummy could write at any moment and then I wouldn’t need to work at all . . . Still I knocked, as instructed.

I heard giggling in the room beyond. It was a little while before my call was answered by a scraggy-looking blonde, who waved me in and scuttled away.

Herr Schluter, a tiny man with a head as bald as an egg, was sitting with his feet on his desk. He looked me up and down. He pursed his lips. ‘Enno told me you had tits,’ was his idea of a greeting.

‘Well!’ I crossed my arms over my chest.

‘Never mind,’ said Herr Schluter. ‘He was just trying to make sure I saw you. Tits are my thing, you see. But girls who look like boys appeal to plenty of people around here.’

‘I didn’t come here to be insulted,’ I said.

‘No,’ said Herr Schluter. ‘I understand you came here for a job. Have you worked as a waitress before?’

‘Of course I haven’t,’ I said.

‘There’s no “of course” about it, as far as I’m concerned. You’re living in the Hotel Frankfort and you haven’t paid your bills in three weeks. You’re in no position to play the society girl with me, Fräulein . . .’

‘Hazleton.’

‘Hazleton . . . So you’ve got no experience but I like your face. You seem quite plucky. If you want the job, you can start tonight.’

‘What do I have to do?’ I asked.

‘Wait tables?’ came the reply. ‘Anything else you do in your own time and well off the premises. I don’t want any trouble.’

‘I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘You will,’ he said. ‘You will.’

After that, thank goodness, Herr Schluter got a little friendlier. He gave me a tour of the club. I could tell he was proud of the chipped gold tables and the tiny stage with its red velvet curtains. Then he showed me the kitchen. ‘Where miracles happen,’ he said. A chef with a filthy apron was peeling potatoes for the evening ahead. I was glad I’d never eaten there.

‘Is this the new one?’ the chef asked of me.

‘I certainly hope so,’ said Herr Schluter. ‘English. A touch of class for the place, don’t you think?’

‘Heaven knows it needs it,’ said the cook, who was called Hans. Old Hans, to be precise. It differentiated him from Young Hans, the stagehand who works the Boom Boom’s curtains.

After he had finished the little tour, Herr Schluter told me to ask the man-woman on reception to find me a uniform. Since I was going to have to work with him/her, I thought I’d better ask his/her name.

‘It’s Marlene,’ was the reply. ‘Like Dietrich. And I am always referred to as “she”.’

‘Katherine Hazleton. Kitty,’ I said, holding out my hand.

Marlene looked at my gloves, once white, now distinctly grey. There was a hole in the tip of one finger.

‘Goodness me, you really do need this job,’ she said.

Marlene took me down into the basement where the uniforms were kept. We passed a couple of dressing rooms. I couldn’t resist peeking in. In one room, a young man about my age was coating his lashes with mascara. He was wearing a rather lovely silver dress. He caught me gawping and gave me a smile.

‘That’s Isadora. Like the dancer.’

‘Hello, sweet thing,’ Isadora called.

Isadora’s friendly smile made me feel a little better. Likewise, Young Hans seemed rather nice. I began to feel as though my new job might not be so bad after all. Until Marlene handed me my uniform. The skirt barely covered my bottom.

‘This isn’t my size,’ I told her.

Marlene assured me it was.

‘But it shows my . . .’

‘That’s the idea, you silly sausage. All the better for earning those tips. You won’t get by on your wages alone. You need to work the floor. You got any rollers? Your hair could do with being more . . .’ Marlene mimed a bouffant.

I told her I didn’t.

‘Then come a bit early,’ she said. ‘And I’ll fix you up.’

Now I’d better finish this diary entry and get myself to the Boom Boom so Marlene can indeed do my hair. I can hardly believe that tonight I start work as a waitress. A waitress in a transvestite club at that! Papa would be apoplectic. I think Mummy would be secretly impressed. All the same, I don’t think I’ll tell her when I write again tomorrow morning.