It was winter in London, harsh winds biting through the dimly lit back streets. Melchior Gabor shielded his face against the gale with his coat, though the chill still coated the tips of his ears. He clutched a bundle of papers against him, cursing his cheap briefcase falling apart somewhere between his home and his office. The few people on the streets ignored him; there was nothing unusual about him, really. Just another young man desperate for that elusive thing every one craved; success. After a journey that seemed to have taken forever, he arrived at his destination; a chipped red door. He banged the knocker, and blinked as it fell off in his hand. The door opened, and he smiled at the familiar face of Lisa, the secretary of his boss.
"Good morning Lisa. How are you?" His English was almost perfect now, though his German accent was still very much present. She smiled happily and took a seat behind her desk. She always enjoyed his visits; he was one of the more pleasant staff that her boss employed. He always seemed tired, though, and gratefully accepted her offers of tea, biscuits, and occasionally whisky.
"Quite well, Mr Gabor. Mr Franklin says you're to wait here, and he'll call for you when he's ready."
"Thank you. And I have told you," his voice was light, playful even "you are to call me Melchior!" Lisa smiled, and said nothing. Melchior sighed – this deep into the centre of London, the formalities and restrictions of wealthy Victorian life were mostly forgotten, but for women to call professional men by their first names was still unheard of.
"Would you like some tea to pass the time, Mr Gabor?"
"Yes, that would be most welcome – the wind is very fierce today!" She nodded in agreement, and scuttled off to get water from the yard.
The small room that passed as the waiting area to the office was bare and cold, threadbare chairs scattered against the walls. This was the office for a small, independent London newspaper. It was fairly new, and Melchior had only been working for them for a few months. The stories were poor – corruption in markets, mainly, or poor attempts at social commentary. Melchior mainly wrote small adverts, being a young, foreign writer. However, he had just yesterday received a letter from Mr Franklin asking him to report to the office this morning to discuss a bigger project. He'd been asked to bring some writing samples with him, just to "remind" him what he could do. Melchior had known then that he hadn't read the samples he'd shown him when he'd responded to his advert.
Lisa handed him his tea with a smile. He smiled back; she was a pretty girl, about his age he would guess. She was an unusual case; women didn't often work in situations like this, it was considered shameful. He admired her for it though. She couldn't read or write, she had told him, but she could take orders and make a good cup of tea, and that was good enough for Mr Franklin. Melchior had smiled, and hoped that a cup of tea was all Mr Franklin wanted from her.
After about ten minutes, Mr Franklin emerged from his office, scowling and puffing away on a cigar.
"Gabor? Come in." Melchior got up and scuttled into the room, arms still wrapped round his pile of papers. "Sit down. Whisky?" His voice was a gravely Cockney, a man who had made his fortune in some way Melchior didn't understand, but here he was running a paper, small though it might be.
"No, thank you."
"Right, well I brought you here today to talk about an assignment I would like to give you." Melchior sat up a bit straighter then; an assignment sounded so much more promising than writing out that there was a room for rent in Cheapside. "I want you to write about a woman living in that bohemian community." He said the word as if he was talking about something truly disgusting. "She's quite the young muse – painted by almost every painter worth his salt in this city. Nobody can get close to her. I reckon we could make a book about her, everyone's dying to know more about her."
"What makes you think I'll be able to, sir."
"She's German. So you've got something in common straight away."
"What's her name?"
"Wendla Steifel." Melchior held back a choke – coincidences like this happened every day. Nothing to be alarmed about.
"Fine. Give me the address where I might find her. How long do I have?"
"Two months, let's say. Should be plenty."
"Fine. I won't let you down, Sir."
--
He arrived at the address later that afternoon, having dropped his useless writing samples back at his flat. The door was unlocked, a rare sight in this part of the City, full of crime as it was. He pushed it open, and was greeted by the over powering smell of oil paint. This was truly a house for artists; full of dancers, judging by the ballet shoes by the stairs, and creative types. He wandered up the rickety flight of stairs, and asked a stretching ballerina if Wendla Stiefel lived here.
"Upstairs, cock." Her broad Northern accent surprised him; it was not the voice you'd expect from one this graceful. "You best knock, mind you. All sorts of things happen up in that attic. Right to the top, go on luvvie." He thanked her and carried on, walking past doors clumsily painted all colours. The house had at four floors, and by the time he reached the attic he felt quite exhausted. The only door on the floor was open, and he knocked gingerly. A voice trilled "Come in darling, whoever you may be!" So he did.
"Hello, Wendla? I'm sorry to trouble you, but I'm Melchior Gabor and I was wondering if.."
"Melchi! Melchi! Oh I am so glad to see you!" Her voice changed from the clipped English to a frantic wave of German, and from nowhere a slender young woman had flung herself on him. "Where have you been?! Oh I was so sure you were dead!"
"What-who are you?" She pulled back from the hug and smiled at him brightly. He took a sharp intake of breath – she had barely changed a day, her flame red hair still cropped to her chin. Her face was paler, though, dark circles under her eyes. "Oh Ilse! How did I not guess? Wendla Stiefel indeed!" She grinned, though she looked sad.
"What better name to choose? Pay homage to those who were unable to escape." Melchior nodded, sadly. Ilse shook her head, as if she was trying to shake the memory from her mind. "Anyway, Melchi! What on Earth are you doing here?!"
"I- I was sent. To ask you for an interview, actually."
"An interview? Why the hell would you want to interview me! I'm nobody darling! You should interview John, downstairs. He is going to be a famous artist, you know. Or Nana, really her ballet is a sight to behold! But not me, sweet."
"Oh really, Ilse? How many paintings hang in galleries that bare your image?"
"A few, I suppose. But I am not so interesting. I live the way I have lived since I was thirteen, Melchi. Anyway!" She grabbed his hands and pulled him to the bed, forcing him to sit down. "You must tell me about you! Where have you been hiding yourself?"
"I've been in London ever since I turned eighteen. I was in the reformatory for four years. Four torturous years. So, four years in London as the typical penniless writer, really. Nothing so grand as all this – artists muse, living at the very top in a house full of artists. Almost like you're a secret." Ilse rolled her eyes at this.
"Oh, Melchi, still full of fanciful things. I live up here as it's quietest. Artists come here to paint me, you know. They're temperamental creatures. They don't want to be disturbed by Carmella doing her opera." There was a silence between them. Ilse couldn't bare silence. "Melchi! A drink. Have a drink with me. Then I'll tell you whatever you want!" She grinned.
"I don't know, I don't really drink."
"I suppose you still smoke those cigarettes I caught you with by the river, though?" He said nothing. "Oh come on, what else have you to do today? It's been so long, darling."
"Fine. I'm not getting drunk, Ilse, I know you. Always clutching a bottle of whisky and roaming the streets."
"Don't judge. If you're going to judge then you may as well leave."
"What have you got to drink then?"
--
Several hours and a bottle of whisky later, they were sprawled on Ilse's bed clutching their small tumblers full of absinthe.
"And remember when we were ten, playing pirates, and Moritz accidentally lifted up Wendla's dress with his sword!" Ilse howled, and Melchior laughed so hard he thought he might faint.
"I thought he was going to explode, he was so red!" They stopped laughing, and let the memory of their friends wash over them. "I miss them still."
"So do I. I wonder what our lives would be like, had they lived."She stroked his arm gently, letting her fingertips get lost amongst the thin dusting of wiry brown hair.
"I like to think I'd have married her. Living with our little baby, in Berlin or somewhere. Somewhere far away from that hell hole. Moritz living close by, and our child would call him "Uncle Moritz", and Moritz would blush, every time." Ilse smiled, the image clear in her mind.
"Would it have been a boy or a girl, d'you think?" Melchior sighed; he'd tried to hide the memories, to not imagine what might have been, but the alcohol had him feeling reminiscent.
"A girl. A little girl, with her curls and my eyes. She'd be beautiful, just like her mama." He took a drink, and blinked back the tears. "And then, later maybe, a boy. A tiny, inquisitive boy, who'd let his sister put Wendla's rouge on him when we weren't looking. Wendla would like that. She'd laugh, and wipe it off trying to pretend to be cross. She'd want lots of children, I think. Of course, I wouldn't complain. Lots of children means lots of trying to make children. No man would object." He stared at the green liquid at the bottom of his glass, words lost to him now.
"You'd have beautiful children."
"I know. I wanted to marry her, when I asked you to bring her to the graveyard." He laughed, a hollow laugh that made Ilse's stomach squirm. "Escape with her. I loved her. I loved her so much."
"I loved him, Melchi."
"I know. I think he loved you too. Ever since the pirate days."
"I could have stopped him. I was with him, the night he died. I saw the gun, on the ground. I thought he was playing, I never thought he would even have the courage to put a pistol to his mouth, Melchi."
"No. Nobody could have stopped him, dear Ilse." He gripped her wrist, and turned to stare at her. "Moritz might have been an idiot for shooting himself, but he was a stubborn idiot. Once he had an idea in his head, there was no getting rid of it." There was a knock at the door, and Ilse hopped up to open it, holding it open only enough to communicate with the person on the other side, so Melchior couldn't see their face.
"David?" Her voice was back to English, a shock for Melchior after speaking German for so long. "I'm sorry, I can't speak to you now. I have company."
"You bitch!" Ilse tumbled backwards, clutching her cheek. Melchior sprang up and opened the door properly. An obviously drunk man stood on the other side, his hand still suspended in the air.
"What the hell are you doing, hitting a woman?!"
"She's not a woman, she's a little slut!" He swung for Melchior, who ducked and aimed a fist to the man's stomach. He stumbled backwards, collapsing in a heap against a wall. Melchior slammed the door shut and turned the clunky old lock, and ran over to Ilse.
"Ilse, are you alright?" She smiled up at him, and his stomach fell at the red hand imprint on her cheek.
"Quite alright, darling. Would you like another drink?"
"It's late. Maybe I should go.." He turned to get his coat, and Ilse held onto his arm.
"Please. Stay. Just until morning." He sat down next to her, and brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes. She reached for a bottle and sloshed more into both their glasses.
"What is happening to you, darling? What have you done to yourself?" She scoffed at this.
"Nothing, Melchi. I've been this way for ten years. Is it really such a surprise? Look at yourself. Your hair's a mess, you've got a hole in your sock and you look like you haven't eaten in a week. Is your life really so much better than the one I've made? I'm happy. I have friends, I have a career, I have lovers.." Melchior frowned. "Oh, don't look at me like that, you're no saint! You've grown so handsome, surely you have a fair share of admirers yourself?"
"I don't..I can't.." Ilse stared at him, before a wide grin broke on her face.
"You can't get it up, can you?!" He stuck his middle finger up at her, draining his glass and standing up. "I knew it! Oh, Melchi!"
"I can get it up, alright?!" Ilse scrambled to her feet, tripping a little, and walked over to where he was standing awkwardly, starting to stroke his face. "Ilse.." he said warningly, groaning as she began to nibble at his ear. "Ilse, stop it." She pulled her head back so she was facing him. Her eyes were hazy, a playful smile on her lips.
"Melchi, it's been eight years. You need to let go of her. It's time to move on."
"I don't know if I can." He leant forward and kissed her, the taste of whisky and absinthe mixing with the smell of paint in the room. She kissed him back, snaking her tongue past his lips and into his mouth. He groaned, and she let him push her down onto the bed, his hands fumbling with the buttons to her dress. She giggled, and he broke the kiss and stared at her. "I'm sorry. Is this..This is too quick.."
"Melchi. It's fine. It's sex. In out in out then we're done. Stop thinking so much." She ran her fingers down the side of his face, enjoying the way his eyes fluttered shut. He moved his face to kiss her fingers, and soon enough he had kissed his way from fingertip to the hollow of her neck. She groaned, and let him continue like this until she thought she would explode. She leant up to catch his lips again, and that was it – they were finished, the atmosphere shifting from relaxed intimacy to something frantic, as she practically tore his clothes in her rush to get rid of them. He yanked her dress down, not caring when there was a ripping sound. "Mmm, Melchi.." She loosened his belt, and his trousers slipped down by themselves. She could feel his hip bones digging into her, his ribs underneath his shirt. He was thin, thinner than he was supposed to be. He shook them off, tossing her dress to the floor with his trousers. "Oh, I see I was very much mistaken with my claims earlier.." Melchior said nothing, but pressed his groin into hers with force. Ilse shrieked with delight, pulling down his underwear and hitching up her underskirt. He rubbed at her clumsily, somehow hitting all the right spots all the same.
"How does that feel?" Ilse nearly laughed; she was not used to a lover so inexperienced he would need to ask her if something felt good. It was particularly odd to hear it in German; she tended to go for the English ones, to distance herself from her past. Here she was with her past perched on top of her.
"It feels.." He slipped a finger inside her and she thought she might explode. He was eager, and his hands were nimble, his fingers thin. "Amazing, darling." His breath was hot on her neck; he was drunk, she was drunk, but he was so utterly adorable she couldn't think about anything else but what he was doing with his thumb.
"Oh, Ilse.." He moved his fingers away and pushed into her, rough and desperate, and Ilse nearly screamed with surprise at his force. "Is that alright? Did I hurt you?" She shook her head, and pushed her hips up to meet his. He groaned loudly. They continued in this manner, their movements clumsy and inexperienced, though Ilse was sure she hadn't felt like this in years. When it was over, and it was over unsurprisingly quickly given the amount of time Melchior had apparently abstained for, he rolled off her and stared at the ceiling. She was surprised he didn't reach straight for his trousers, to get out of here and away from her as quickly as possible. That's what most men did; a few shillings on the side if she was lucky. He groped in the dark for her hand, gripping it tightly. His breathing was heavy, and he sounded close to tears, his speech slurred a little.
"What would Moritz and Wendla say if they could see us now?" Ilse shook her head, and pulled down the covers to the bed, climbing in. She was comforted when Melchior joined her, wrapping an arm round her waist and kissing her hair, drifting off into a blissful, undisturbed sleep.