And there she paused.
On the packet of her paprika crisps, a slice of potato with arms and legs beckoned to her with delirious eyes.
Alone in the midsummer night, Haffner had wandered off towards the hotel — on a road marked only by stray houses, then a Service Auto, beside a shop which seemed to sell the million varieties of cigarette, displayed behind glass cases, like extinct species of insect. Then a pizza place. And then a strip joint.
The twenty-four-hour bar (Service Non-stop!) into which Haffner descended, down a steep flight of stairs, was apparently in its busiest period. A group of possibly Polish truckers and a couple of policemen off duty made up the front row. Behind them, amphitheatrically, were ranged an assortment of men.
Haffner, however, wasn't here for the men.
He watched the women extend their legs around a stainless steel pole. He observed the way their breasts fell forward, elongated pyramids, as they leaned over — touching their toes in some strange imitation of an eighties aerobics routine, without the pink leg warmers, the turquoise sweatbands.
Then, in the crowd, Haffner recognised Niko: Zinka's boyfriend. He felt a descending qualm, a chime inside his chest. Niko gestured to him, warmly. He wanted him, it seemed, to join Niko's group. Haffner wondered about this.
He decided he had no choice.
— You all speak English? said Haffner to Niko.
— Of course we speak English. Fuck you, said Niko.
— That's a good accent you've got, said Haffner.
— Merci, said Niko.
It was the world of men.
— This man, said Niko, he look after my mad girl tonight. She bored you?
— No no, said Haffner, brightly.
— Yes, she bored you, said Niko. It's OK. We all understand. And everyone, including wistful Haffner, laughed.
— You want to play a trust game? said Niko. It is what we are doing. You can zip the person next to you — zip zip. Only zap the person across from you.
— No, said Haffner.
— Zap, said Niko.
— You mean zip, said Haffner.
— Yes, said Niko.
— Can we stop this? asked Haffner.
On stage, a girl was now entirely naked, apart from a pair of translucent platform heels, on which she was balancing with a grace and ease which charmed old Haffner's heart. But not Niko's. She lacked flair, he argued. If, however, Haffner wanted her. . He indicated that he had not finished his sentence. Haffner, however, was beyond the innuendos now. The masculine, and its zest for the tight-lipped, no longer charmed him.
He sadly nodded no.
— This is what you are here for? asked Niko.
Wearily, Haffner explained that, in fact, it was not why he was here. Or not officially. Nor primarily. Haffner was in this town to secure his heritage, his inheritance. He was here to do honour to his wife.
Angrily, he began a tirade against the state. He could not understand it. The bureaucracy bewildered him. It demeaned the human spirit. Why did no one seem to care? What, he asked Niko, did you have to do in this country to get anything done? He only wanted what was his due. He was hardly demanding the moon.
— You know, said Niko, I like you.
— I like you too, said Haffner.
— Yes, I like you, said Niko, then wandered off, leaving Haffner with Niko's friends, who did not seem to share his pure love of Haffner.
Ignored, listening to Niko's friends talk freely about him in a language he could not understand, Haffner sat and watched the women. If these men wanted to mock him, then so be it. He could do abasement. The silent pattern of his life had been delicately training him, thought Haffner, for these moments of humiliation. Like the time when he came home to discover that his father had sold all his bar mitzvah presents, arguing that they only took up space in the house, declining to discuss the possibility that he was going to use the money for some selfish gain. Yes, Raphael Haffner was used to the destruction of his hopes.
Then Niko came back.
— You want this place? said Niko. Maybe we can do this for you. But it costs.
— I'm sorry? said Haffner.
— You want this place? said Niko.
— I don't understand, said Haffner.
He understood, of course, that Niko had a proposal. It wasn't the deal which was beyond him. It was the fact that Niko seemed to think he could effect such a deaclass="underline" this was beyond the limits of Haffner's scepticism.
— Simple, said Niko.
He began to explain. It all depended on knowing the right people; and Niko knew the right man. It was not so difficult. It all depended on the right things getting into the right hands.
— You are not from here, said Niko.
This was just the way things were. Everyone knew how this worked. Either you could go through the ordinary ways of doing things, or you could enter the speed road. It was just a question of speed. Then the papers could get handed over, and the villa would belong to Haffner. The wheels would be oiled.
— No questions ask, said Niko.
There was a pause. In this pause, Haffner considered the perfect bodies of imperfect women.
— I am your patron, said Niko.
— Cash? asked Haffner, suspicious.
— Cash, said Niko. You crazy or what?
Niko didn't really understand, he said, why Haffner needed any more detail at all. He only needed to know this. If he was so impatient.
— I'm not impatient, said Haffner.
If he were so impatient, said Niko, then things could be worked out. He had seen this problem before. He knew how to fix it.
Haffner had to understand, said Niko, that it was still the same people in charge. Yes, Niko knew what had happened. Haffner's papers would be sitting there, ignored, in someone's office. Just waiting for a reason to be dealt with.
— Let me think about it, said Haffner.
And as he tried to balance his doubts as to Niko's efficacy — his general untrustworthiness, the danger of relying too much on a man whom he had spied on only the night before, and whose girlfriend had so recently been soaping herself in Haffner's bath — against the obvious benefit of having, as he used to say, a man on the ground, Haffner excused himself: desperate to find a toilet, a cubicle where Haffner could think.
But reality continued to pursue him. He took a few steps, into a corridor which bore graffiti, torn posters, an exhibition of faulty plumbing. Then all the lights went out.
And Haffner was in the dark.
Practical, Haffner told himself that he mustn't get this wrong: he didn't want to lose his way. To his surprise, in a basement, in a bar, in a wasteland, he found himself wishing he had the practical wisdom of Frau Tummel. He stopped. He considered this thought.
To whom was Haffner loyal? It seemed unsolvable. There seemed so many ways for Haffner to demonstrate his disloyalty. Livia, the obvious candidate, was so fluently replaced by all her avatars, her rivals.
In the dark, Haffner edged his way along the wall — his hand extended, palm flat: directing invisible traffic. Distant whoops of masculine joy reached him from the main area, whoops which were tinged, now, for Haffner, with a poignancy. It seemed unlikely he would ever see humans again. Then suddenly the wall gave way, as it transformed itself into a door. Haffner peered into the black. Soothing plashings from what he thought could be urinals echoed throughout the room. Was this a bathroom? wondered Haffner. He could not be sure. It might have been, for instance, the hideout of the janitor.