14

"So you weren't declared the enemy?" she asks as she stirs her coffee.

"It was close." But you managed to escape. What else could you say?

"How did you escape?" she asks, still in an offhand manner.

"Do you know what 'to simulate' means?" you ask, forcing yourself to smile. When an animal is in danger, it pretends to be dead or else puts on a fierce look. It does not panic and lose control. But, in your case, you had to be very calm as you waited for a chance to escape.

"So, you're a wily fox?" she laughs softly.

"Yes," you admit. "When dogs were all around hunting you, you had to be more wily than a fox or they would have ripped you to shreds."

"But people are animals, you and I are animals." She sounds hurt. "But you aren't a wild animal."

"When everyone had gone crazy, one turned into a wild animal."

"Are you also a wild animal?" she asks.

"What do you mean?" It is your turn to ask.

"Nothing special, I was just asking." Her eyelashes lower.

"To keep a patch of clean soil in one's heart, one had to work out a way of escaping from the arena."

"Did you escape?" she asks, her eyelashes moving up.

"Margarethe!" The smile goes from your face. "Stop talking about Chinese politics. You're leaving tomorrow and there are other things to talk about."

"I'm not talking about China and I'm not talking about politics," she says. "I want to know if you are a wild animal."

You pause to think, then say, "Yes."

She does not respond but looks hostile. After returning to the hotel from Lamma Island, she said in the elevator that she didn't want to go to bed straight away, so you and she came to this coffee shop. The lights are low and the music is soft, in another corner two gays are drinking wine. There is no sugar in the bit of coffee in her cup, but she stirs it with the spoon from time to time. She must have something on her mind that she doesn't want to talk about in bed. The gay lovers call the waiter, pay, and go off hand-in-hand.

"Do you want something else? The man is waiting to close." You are talking about the waiter.

"Are you treating?" She tilts her head back and has a strange look.

"Of course, it's not that much."

She orders a double scotch, then says, "Will you join me?"

"Why not?" You order two double scotches.

The waiter wearing a tie is polite but gives her a look.

"I want to have a good sleep," she explains.

"Then you shouldn't have had coffee just now," you point out.

"I'm tired, tired of living."

"What are you talking about? You're young, so beautiful, in the prime of life, you should enjoy yourself to the full." You tell her that it is she who has again filled you with lust, and you put your hand on hers.

"I hate myself, I hate my body."

Her body again!

"You, too, have used it. Of course, you're not the first and you won't be the last," she says, pushing away your hand.

Your confusion passes and, with a sigh, you withdraw your hand.

"I also want to be a wild animal, but I can't escape…" she says, head bowed.

"Escape from what?" It's your turn to question her, and this is more comfortable. Being interrogated by a woman is stressful.

"I can't escape, I can't escape from fate, I can't escape from this sort of feeling…" She takes a big mouthful of scotch and tosses back her head.

"What feeling?" You go to push back her hair so you can see her eyes, but she brushes it away herself.

"Women, a woman feels… you wouldn't understand." She laughs softly again.

It seems probable that this is what is causing her pain, and, looking searchingly at her, you ask, "How old were you at the time?"

"At the time," she pauses, then says, "I was thirteen."

The waiter is standing behind the counter with his head down, probably preparing the bill.

"That's too young," you say. Your throat feels tight, and you gulp down a big mouthful of scotch. "Go on!"

"I don't want to talk about it, I don't want to talk about myself."

"Margarethe, if you want mutual understanding, not just a sexual relationship, then it isn't just a matter of what you want. We should be able to talk about anything," you protest.

She is silent for a while, then says, "It was early winter, a dull day… Venice is not always sunny, and there were not many tourists on the streets." Her voice seems to be coming from far away. "From the window, a window that was very low, I could see the sea and the gray sky. Usually, when I sat on the windowsill, I could see the dome of the church…"

She looks out the window at the mass of lights above the pitch-black sea.

"And the dome of the church?" you say, prompting her.

"No, I could only see the gray sky." She continues, "It was below the window, on the stone floor of his studio that he, that artist, raped me. There was a radiator in the room, but the stone was very cold."

You shudder.

"Do you find this upsetting?" Her gray-blue eyes watch you intently from behind her glass, yet she also seems to be staring at the transparent scotch.

"No," you say. But you want to know if she was to some extent fond of the man before and after this.

"At the time I didn't understand anything, I didn't know what he was doing to my body, my eyes were wide open and staring at the gray sky. I only remember that the stone floor was very cold. It wasn't until two years later, when I discovered changes in my body and I'd become a woman, that I understood. So I hated my body."

"But did you go again, did you continue to go to his studio? During those two years?" you ask.

"I can't remember very clearly. At first, I was frightened and couldn't remember anything that had happened during those two years. I only knew that he had used me, and I was frightened all the time, frightened others would find out. He kept asking me to his studio, and I didn't dare tell my mother, because she wasn't well. At the time, we were very poor, my parents had separated and my father had gone back to Germany, and I didn't want to stay at home. At first I went with another girl my age to watch him paint. He said he would teach us to paint, starting off with sketches…"

'Go on." You wait for her to go on, and watch her turning the glass in her hands. The scotch she has been sipping leaves streaks on the inside of the glass.

"Don't look at me like that, I'm not going to tell you everything, and I want to make that quite clear. I don't know, and I can't explain why I went again…"

"Didn't he say he wanted to teach you to paint?" you say, reminding her.

"No. He said he wanted to paint me, he said my curves were gentle. At the time, I was tall and slender, still growing and just starting to fill out. He always got me to comply, he said my body was very beautiful. My breasts were not like they are now. He really wanted to paint me, that's all."

"So, you agreed to it?" You test her, wanting to find out what had happened.

"No-"

"I'm asking whether you agreed to be his model, not about what happened after he raped you," you explain.

"No, I didn't agree, but each time he would take off my clothes…"

"Was this before or after?"

You want to know if she had agreed to model for him before that. That is, had she presented herself naked to him.

"It was like that for two years!" she says decisively, then drinks a mouthful of scotch.

"Like what?" You want to get a better idea.

"What do you mean by 'like what'? Rape is rape, what else is there to it? Surely you know that."

"I've never experienced it."

You have a drink and try hard to think about something else.

"For two whole years," she frowns, turns the glass in her hand, "he raped me!"

That is, she had not resisted. You can't stop yourself from asking, "Then how did it end?"