(Raspberries! Hans thought suddenly, like someone opening a window. Sophie’s sex tastes just like raspberries — raspberries to begin with, and afterwards lemons.)
Raspberries, yes! Rudi declared, stirring from his bored stupor, a capital idea, Professor Mietter! Elsa, liebe Jungfer, would you? …
(There’s something strange going on here, Hans said to himself, glancing anxiously at Sophie, who flashed him a look of desire. There’s something decidedly peculiar going on here, Hans repeated to himself, or didn’t I get enough sleep last night, or what?)
Raspberries! exclaimed Frau Pietzine. Heaps of raspberries!
(No, I didn’t get enough sleep, Hans said to himself, I stayed translating into the small hours, and it was late, late, very late when I went to bed.)
Heaps of raspberries! Frau Pietzine howled ecstatically. And Frau Levin joined in, dropping her fan and lifting up her skirts: Just like Sophie’s sex!
(Wait a moment, what? Hans said to himself, what the? …)
Herr Hans, said Sophie.
(What the? …)
Herr Hans! Sophie repeated, giggling.
What! asked Hans, his eyes opening with a jerk.
We rather suspect, Sophie said with amusement, that you were enjoying a little nap, Herr Hans. Hans sat up in his chair and noticed a crick in his neck. He glanced around him — the other guests were looking at him, amused. Ladies and gentlemen, Hans stammered groggily, I’m terribly, terribly sorry. On the contrary, said Sophie, it shows you feel at home in our courtyard. You see, last night, Hans tried to rouse himself, last night I, er, I translated, ah, translation! Forgive me, So, er, Mademoiselle Gottlieb, but how long was I asleep? Not very long, said Álvaro, unable to stifle a chuckle, a few minutes, about as long as it took Professor Mietter to answer you! Professor, said Hans, sitting up straight, please forgive this mishap, which owes nothing to your reply and everything to my tiredness, I have an accumulation of work and last night … Oh, the professor said, waving his hands disdainfully, don’t worry, don’t worry — we translated it in accordance with your theories as a form of cultural exchange with Herr Urquiho.
The other salon-goers burst out laughing. Hans joined in, forcing a smile. He felt a hissing in his ears, his eyes smarted and he had a slight taste of raspberries in his mouth.
As evening closed in, Elsa and Bertold brought down four candles to the yard and spread them out along the folding table. The conversation became filled with shadows and glistening profiles. Before taking his leave at the customary hour, Herr Gottlieb placed a fleshy hand on Hans’s shoulder. My dear Herr Gottlieb, said Hans, rising from his chair. Herr Gottlieb lowered his pipe, drew his bushy whiskers near, and whispered discreetly: Would you be so kind as to accompany me to my study for a moment? Fearing the worst, Hans said of course, it would be an honour. Sophie watched the two men leave out of the corner of her eye.
They climbed the steps together and walked down the icy tunnel of the corridor, which always seemed to remain at the same temperature. Although since the beginning of his friendship with Sophie he had taken the precaution to continue visiting Herr Gottlieb on his own, Hans had never been invited into the mysterious room where Herr Gottlieb would withdraw for hours. Bertold opened the door for them, went ahead, and lit a couple of oil lamps before disappearing. Hans’s attention was immediately drawn to the shelves lined with leather-bound volumes. Next he glanced at the desk made of dark wood, the leather armchair and the bronze inkstand containing an inkwell, quill pens, a penknife and a bell to ring for the servants. On one side of the desk was a framed photograph of a pale-faced young woman. The lamps were placed so that that the whole room was plunged into a purposeful gloom, forcing the visitor to tread more cautiously, almost with trepidation. Herr Gottlieb sat down in his chair, gesturing to Hans to sit down opposite him, and poured two generous glasses of brandy. Hans swallowed hard.
You see, my friend, said Herr Gottlieb, I would like to be frank with you. I know I can trust you, because we have got on from the very first and you have always seemed to me a responsible and perceptive young man. I have been observing this literary collaboration between you and my daughter for some weeks now. Don’t get me wrong, knowing my daughter as I do, I find nothing surprising about her interest in translating and seeing her work published in these magazines, indeed I would describe it as yet another of her countless whims. I understand her need to begin freeing herself from her father’s authority, and also, to some degree, to establish her independence in the eyes of her future husband. Sophie has ever been thus, since she was a child. I’m afraid Herr Wilderhaus knows it only too well and, thank Heaven, loves her all the same. However, my dear Hans, I cannot help wondering how appropriate it is for a young woman about to marry to be working, let us say, at such close quarters with a bachelor like yourself. I assure you I have no objection to you personally, on the contrary I like to think you and I have developed a certain friendship, correct me if I’m wrong, good, I’m glad you agree. I am relieved to be able to tell you all this, because, you see, I am concerned as a father, and also as your friend. What do you say, dear fellow?
The brandy thickened.
Your feet, Sophie commanded, your feet, too. Hans hated his feet. Sophie adored them. She adored his rough heels, his rather stubby toes. Come on, show me, she urged as she undressed, and he obeyed with the awkward excitement of one allowing the last of his modesty to be trampled. Sophie raised her arms to strip off another garment, revealing her underarm hair. Hans, embarrassed, contented, removed his socks as one might peel a piece of fruit.
Hans lay on his back awaiting Sophie’s manoeuvres, which she would draw out, prolonging these moments when she felt he was in some way at her mercy. She liked it when Hans showed his eagerness, called out her name, implored her. And not because she didn’t share his urgency, but because she felt a violent symmetry, a harmonious tension in possessing him before being possessed. Sophie lay on her side, and studied Hans’s testicles. She saw their heaviness, their blemishes, their tight pores and wrinkled darkness. The lines and furrows reminded her of a map with its maze of rivers, paths, promontories and valleys. She imagined travelling over these testicles made of earth, exploring their seed. She brought her mouth close to them, closed her eyes and began to lick them, to moisten their folds, soften them. Sophie’s wandering tongue reached his anus. She moved the tip of it close to the orifice, then paused. Opening her eyes she looked up at Hans. He silently consented, covering his face with his forearm. Sophie raised his legs, which seemed light or put up no resistance despite the puzzled look on their owner’s face. Hans feared Sophie’s nails might hurt him, but out of the corner of his eye he saw her drag the washstand over and soap her hands. First she circled the orifice, probing its mysteries. Then she discovered its softness, the hair around the fissure. Then a soapy finger slipped inside. Then his flesh opened to her.
Sophie enjoyed watching the muscles along Hans’s back go taut as he moved on top of her as if he were climbing. She liked feeling his weight, that mixture of protection and aggression, of freedom and suffocation. She could read his exertions, his spasms, his pauses in the skin on his back. She lay back, felt close to the edge of something, and gripped Hans’s arms, which were flanking her, throbbing, straining, scarcely able to hold themselves up. She gripped them as someone might clasp a railing to prevent themselves falling, she pushed against them, tried to make them give way, felt every muscle, then suddenly began laughing without knowing why. She went into the tunnel of laughter, searching for an end that might be a beginning. Hans pressed hard, but held back his climax and closed his eyes — in the darkness he saw a double helix of light turning on itself, almonds within almonds, as though fingerprints were being etched on the inside of his eyelids.