Part 29 (1/2)

'They'll be starting the lobby before the summer is over,' Father said.

'Then it's not too late!' cried Frank. 'I mean, is is it?' it?'

'Unsink the money, Daddy!' Lilly said.

Father smiled benevolently, shaking his head. Franny and I looked out the window at Ernst the p.o.r.nographer; he was moving past the Kaffee Mowatt, he looked full of disgust. He kicked some garbage out of his way when he crossed the street, he moved as purposefully as a cat after a mouse, but he looked forever disappointed in himself for arriving at work later than Old Billig. He had at least three hours of p.o.r.nography in him before he broke for lunch, before he gave his lecture at the university (his 'aesthetic hour,' he called it), and then he would face the tired, mean-spirited hours of the late afternoon, which he told us children he reserved for 'ideology' - for his contribution to the newsletter of the Symposium on East-West Relations. What a day he had ahead of himself! He was already full of hate for it, I could tell. And Franny couldn't take her eyes off him.

'We should leave now,' I said to Father, 'whether we're sunk or unsunk.'

'No place to go,' Father said, affectionately. He raised his hands; it was almost a shrug.

'Going to no place is better than staying here,' Lilly said.

'I agree,' I said.

'You're not being logical,' Frank said, and I glared at him.

Father looked at Franny. It reminded me of the looks he occasionally gave Mother; he was looking into the future, again, and he was looking for forgiveness - in advance. He wanted to be excused for everything that would would happen. It was as if the power of his dreaming was so vivid that he felt compelled to simply act out whatever future he imagined - and we were being asked to tolerate his absence from reality, and maybe his absence from our lives, for a while. That is what 'pure love' is: the future. And that's the look Father gave to Franny. happen. It was as if the power of his dreaming was so vivid that he felt compelled to simply act out whatever future he imagined - and we were being asked to tolerate his absence from reality, and maybe his absence from our lives, for a while. That is what 'pure love' is: the future. And that's the look Father gave to Franny.

'Franny?' Father asked her. 'What do you you think?' think?'

Franny's opinion was the one we always waited for. She looked at the spot in the street where Ernst had been - Ernst the p.o.r.nographer, Ernst the 'aesthete' on the subject of erotica, Ernst the lady-killer. I saw that the her in her her in her was in trouble; something was already amiss in Franny's heart. was in trouble; something was already amiss in Franny's heart.

'Franny?' Father said, softly.

'I think we should stay,' Franny said. 'We should see what it's like,' she said, facing us all. We children looked away, but Father gave Franny a hug and a kiss.

'Atta girl, Franny!' he said. Franny shrugged; she gave Father Mother's shrug, of course - it could get to him, every time.

Someone has told me that the Krugerstra.s.se, today, is mostly closed to all but pedestrian traffic, and that there are two two hotels on the street, a restaurant, a bar, hotels on the street, a restaurant, a bar, and and a coffeehouse - even a movie theater and a record store. Someone has told me that it's a posh street, now. Well, that's just so hard to believe. And I wouldn't ever want to see the Krugerstra.s.se again, no matter how much it has changed. a coffeehouse - even a movie theater and a record store. Someone has told me that it's a posh street, now. Well, that's just so hard to believe. And I wouldn't ever want to see the Krugerstra.s.se again, no matter how much it has changed.

Someone has told me that there are fancy places on the Krugerstra.s.se itself, now: a boutique and a hairdresser, a bookstore and a record store, a place that sells furs and a place that sells bathroom fittings. This is utterly amazing.

Someone has told me that the post office is still there. The mail goes on.

And there are still prost.i.tutes on the Krugerstra.s.se; no one has to tell me that prost.i.tution still goes on.

The next morning I woke up Susie the bear. 'Earl!' she said, fighting out of sleep. 'What the f.u.c.k is it now?'

'I want your help,' I said to her. 'You've got to save Franny.'

'Franny's real tough,' said Susie the bear. 'She's beautiful and tough,' said Susie, rolling over, 'and she doesn't need me.'

'You impress her,' I said; this was a hopeful lie. Susie was only twenty, only four years older than Franny, but when you're sixteen, four years is a big difference. 'She likes you,' I said; this this was true, I knew. 'You're at least older, like an older sister to her, you know?' I said. was true, I knew. 'You're at least older, like an older sister to her, you know?' I said.

'Earl!' Susie the bear said, staying in disguise.

'Maybe you are are weird,' Frank told Susie, 'but Franny can be more influenced by you than she can be influenced by weird,' Frank told Susie, 'but Franny can be more influenced by you than she can be influenced by us us.'

'Save Franny from what?' Susie the bear asked.

'From Ernst,' I said.

'From p.o.r.nography itself,' said Lilly, shuddering.

'Help her get the her in her her in her back,' Frank begged Susie the bear. back,' Frank begged Susie the bear.

'I don't normally mess with underage girls,' Susie said.

'We want you to help help her, not mess with her,' I said to Susie, but Susie the bear only smiled. She sat up in her bed, her costume disheveled on the floor of her room, her own hair like bear hair with its stiff and erratic directions, her hard face like a wound above her ratty T-s.h.i.+rt. her, not mess with her,' I said to Susie, but Susie the bear only smiled. She sat up in her bed, her costume disheveled on the floor of her room, her own hair like bear hair with its stiff and erratic directions, her hard face like a wound above her ratty T-s.h.i.+rt.

'Helping someone is the same as messing with someone,' said Susie the bear.

'Will you please try try?' I asked her.

'And you you ask ask me me where the where the real real trouble began,' Frank would say to me, later: 'Well, it didn't start with the p.o.r.nography - not in my opinion,' Frank would say. 'Not that it matters, of course, but I know what started the trouble that got to trouble began,' Frank would say to me, later: 'Well, it didn't start with the p.o.r.nography - not in my opinion,' Frank would say. 'Not that it matters, of course, but I know what started the trouble that got to you you,' Frank would tell me.

Like the p.o.r.nography, I don't wish to describe it, but Frank and I had only a very brief picture - we had only the quickest glimpse of it, though we saw more than enough. It started one evening in August, when it was so hot Lilly had woken up Frank and me and asked for a gla.s.s of water - as if she were a baby again - one evening when it was too quiet in the Gasthaus Freud. There were no customers to make Screaming Annie scream, there was no one even interested enough to grunt with Jolanta, to whimper with Babette, to strike a bargain with Old Billig, or even look at young Dark Inge. It was too hot to sit in the Kaffee Mowatt; the wh.o.r.es sat on the stairs in the cool, dark lobby of the Gasthaus Freud - now under construction. Freud was in bed, asleep, of course; he could not see the heat. And Father, who saw the future more clearly than the moment, was asleep, too.

I went in Frank's room and boxed the dressmaker's dummy around for a while.

'Jesus G.o.d,' Frank said, 'I'll be glad when you find some barbells and you leave my dummy alone.' But he couldn't sleep, either; we shoved the dressmaker's dummy back and forth between us.

There was no mistaking the sound for Screaming Annie - or for any of the wh.o.r.es. The sound seemed to bear no relations.h.i.+p to sorrow; there was too much light in the sound to have anything to do with sorrow, there was too much of the music of water in the sound to make Frank and me think of f.u.c.king for money, or even of l.u.s.t there was too much light and water music for l.u.s.t, either. Frank and I had never heard this sound before - and in my memory, which is a forty-year-old's memory now, I do not remember another recording of this song; no one would ever sing quite exactly this this song to me. song to me.

It was the song Susie the bear made Franny sing. Susie went through Franny's room to use the bathroom. Frank and I went through my room to get to the same bathroom; through the bathroom door we could peek into Franny's room.

The head of the bear on the rug at the foot of Franny's bed was at first unnerving, as if someone had severed Susie from her head when she'd first intruded. But the bear's head was not the focal point of Frank's and my attention. It was Franny's sound that drew us - both keen and soft, as nice as Mother, as happy as Egg. It was a sound almost without s.e.x in it, although s.e.x was the song's subject, because Franny lay on her bed with her arms flung over her head and her head thrown back, and between her long, slightly stirring legs (treading water, as if she were very buoyant), in my sister's dark lap (which I shouldn't have seen) was a headless bear - a headless bear was lapping there, like an animal eating from a fresh kill, like an animal drinking in the heart of a forest.

This vision frightened Frank and me. We didn't know where to go after seeing this, and for no reason, with nothing on our minds - or with too much on them - we stumbled into the lobby. There all the wh.o.r.es on the stairs greeted us; the heat and their own boredom, their inactivity, seemed to make them unusually glad to see us, although they always seemed to be pretty glad to see us. Only Screaming Annie looked disappointed to see us - as if she'd thought, for a moment, we might be 'business.'

Dark Inge said, 'Hey, you guys, you look like you seen a ghost.'

'Something you ate, dears?' asked Old Billig. 'It's too late for you to be up.'

'Your hard-ons keeping you awake?' Jolanta asked.

'Oui, oui,' sang Babette. 'Bring us us your hard-ons!' your hard-ons!'

'Stop that,' said Old Billig. 'It's too hot to f.u.c.k, anyway.'

'Never too hot,' Jolanta said.

'Never too cold,' said Screaming Annie.

'Do you want to play cards?' Dark Inge asked us. 'Crazy eights?'

But Frank and I, like windup soldiers, did a few awkward turns at the foot of the stairs, reversed direction, made our way back to Frank's room - and then, like magnets, we were drawn to Father.