Ella raised her eyebrows, but showed no sign of getting closer to him, so he would have to say it louder, shout it. He couldn’t manage that.
Later, when they were back at their table, raising their full wine glasses, drinking to each other, he said: I can’t do it.
Do what?
Stay a child. I can’t.
Disappointed, she shrugged and assumed her haughty expression, that negative look from under her long lashes that laid all the Johnnys of this world low. She drank the wine in her glass straight down, waited for the waiter to arrive, gave him a half-smile and enjoyed his awkwardness. As soon as he had topped up the glass she took another sip. The wine was pleasantly astringent, her gums felt rough, her teeth felt rough when she ran her tongue over them, her palate felt rough. She had slight nausea, in line with the intoxication of her thought. Of course, Thomas had begun loving girls some time ago, the looks he gave them had not escaped Ella, he couldn’t see enough of them, when a certain girl crossed his path his deep gaze was embarrassing to Ella, and to Violetta if not also to Michael; Ella guessed it, but she didn’t want to know about it. His desire was not of the flesh, it was a sacred, spiritual, crystalline desire, she felt absolutely sure of that. She nodded to herself, so as not to lose her certainty. Never mind all that talk of gazelles — Siegfried liked her legs in particular. Her knee was a bulging mound, a clumsy joint run wild, she thought as she crossed one leg over the other and jiggled it in time to the music.
You are different, she said, and smiled at her own earnest tone of voice. I didn’t have time to want anything, Eduard was just there, and I hadn’t even started bleeding, I mean before. I wasn’t a woman yet. He thinks he made me one. But I’m not letting anyone make me anything. Do you understand?
Thomas nodded vaguely, took a large sip from his glass, and he might have been thinking of God from the way he gazed at the ruby red of the wine. He probably wasn’t listening to Ella.
And now here’s the lodger. Oh, what luck. Ella said it in a cold, contemptuous voice. Well, we’re really in luck after that mess we were in, she said, imitating Käthe’s tone of enthusiasm, he got us heating, genuine oil-fired central heating for the whole house, and we needed it so urgently.
You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. Exhausted, Thomas shrugged his shoulders.
I don’t want him scratching mine.
What do you mean? Thomas’s mouth dropped open, as it so often did.
Close your mouth or you’ll catch the flies. What I say. You know exactly what I mean. Didn’t you say so yourself in the poem about the Red Way? The central heating demands tribute. Her eyes were sparkling with an unpleasant, angry, impotent light.
Would you like chocolate cream with vanilla sauce or red-fruit fool with sago and whipped cream for dessert? Soundlessly, the waiter had approached, and was looking from Thomas to Ella and back again.
Yes, very snug, aren’t we? A lodger like that who doesn’t bother anyone? Ella tightened her lips.
Stop it. His voice was not angry but pleading. Thomas was begging her to stop talking about Eduard and the lodger and other men. Tell Käthe, tell her about it and then you can get rid of him.
You think she’d believe me? She doesn’t believe anything else I say, she’ll only think I’m showing off. Her lodger is beyond reproach, haven’t you noticed?
Excuse me, chocolate cream or red-fruit fool with sago and whipped cream? The waiter cleared his throat.
One of each, please. The chocolate cream for her, the fruit fool for me.
No, I don’t want either. A cigarette, please, do you have a cigarette? Ella interrupted him, banging the table with her fist angrily, as if their air of distinction was getting her down. The waiter disappeared backwards as silently as he had come.
Shall we order another bottle of wine?
Thomas’s eyes were fixed on Ella. She had been ignoring him for some time now, she wasn’t looking at him but straight past him, cutting him out of her field of vision.
I’m so sorry. His lips were quivering almost imperceptibly. He moved his hand in Ella’s direction over the white tablecloth, half clenched into a fist, an old signal between brother and sister; perhaps he thought she would push her own fist against his, a silent token of forgiveness. But she didn’t know what she was supposed to be forgiving him for. The waiter had placed a small silver salver beside her. It held a piece of dark blue felt, with a single cigarette in the middle of it.
Go on, cry. Ella reached for the cigarette and placed it in her mouth. When the waiter struck a match and lit it for her, she drew on it strongly. Once again she smiled at the waiter. He stumbled, and she quickly snatched at his hand, turned it over and inspected it in its white glove. What a hard-working hand. A glance up at him. Have you been working here long?
Excuse me, he stammered, and red shot into his face; with his left glove he touched his gleaming nose, his right was caught in Ella’s hands. Is everything all right?
Oh, very much so. Ella smiled and drew on the cigarette, holding it with one hand while she still held the waiter’s hand in the other. Smoke came out of her nostrils, a lot of it. She practised that because she though it was funny to breathe smoke like a dragon. She batted her eyelashes. Would you take this out of here, please? She looked deep into the waiter’s eyes.
Excuse me? His glance wandered over the table, on which only the refilled wine glasses now stood; he had cleared all the rest of the china and cutlery away.
My cheek, my face, me, I’m a girl, take me out of here with you.
Now the waiter looked at Thomas. Can I be of any assistance, sir? Would you like the bill now, shall I call a taxi?
That would be a good idea, yes. Thomas rolled his eyes. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their glass droplets reflecting the lights. My wife isn’t feeling very –
Huh, my wife — I’m not his wife. That’s my little brother. I’m paying the bill. And then I’m going away with whoever I want. Tell me, will you take me with you?
The waiter preferred not to answer this question, and hastily went away.
Ella reached for Thomas’s glass, which was still full to the brim, put her lips to the rim of the glass and blew bubbles into it, sucked up wine, raised her head: Oh, my dear little brother. She put her forefinger in the glass, put it in her mouth, deep, deeper, she sucked her finger and put it back in the wine. If I could only love, you know — she tried whistling on the rim of the glass — everything might turn out well. Really well. I’d be happy with Johnny. Or Siegfried. If I could only love.
Without moving his head, Thomas looked surreptitiously to all sides. They were being watched; the older, distinguished-looking customers were entertained by the young couple. But Ella, with her tongue out, licked the rim of her wine glass. Couldn’t you play a musical note on the rim of a glass? Which is worse, do you think, not being able to love or not being loved? She directed her question at the glass, putting out her tongue as far as it would go, perhaps getting it right to the bottom of the wine glass before the glass itself suddenly shattered between her hand and her mouth. Perhaps she had pressed it too hard, had bitten it?
The wine had spilled over her dress. Ella carefully removed a gossamer-thin splinter of glass from her tongue. She spat, several times, to get other shards out of her mouth, she spat on the tablecloth and on her dress, waving the stem of the glass, which she was still holding, back and forth like a conductor’s baton. Thomas had jumped up and hurried round the table. He mopped at her with his napkin, carefully collecting the tiny shards of glass.
Don’t swallow, show me your tongue again. Sure enough, he found another long, thin splinter on her tongue.
Your taxi is here. The waiter had brought the bill in a small silver booklet.