'It is permitted?'

Enjolras jolts out of his reverie, tearing his gaze away from the landscape rolling past the train window. The man in front of him is well-dressed enough that Enjolras's hated English manners kick in automatically. 'I'm sorry, I didn't-' Belatedly, he notices that he's gesturing at the empty seat opposite Enjolras. 'Certainly. Of course.' The man sits down, and, to Enjolras's relief, doesn't seem to want to continue the conversation. Enjolras goes back to looking out of the window.

'You are English?'

Enjolras suppresses a sigh and turns back to his new companion. He's a rather gaunt-looking man in perhaps his mid-forties, with dark circles under his eyes and his receding hair combed straight back. He seems harmless enough. 'Yes.' He can hear his mother's voice chastising him for his abruptness, and adds reluctantly, 'You have a beautiful country. I have always wanted to visit Berlin.' Too late, he raises the potential implication of his words. Berlin is notorious, and young, effeminate men like him tend to gravitate towards it for a very specific reason. But his companion merely raises an eyebrow. Another silence falls. Enjolras hopes against hope that maybe he'll give up on making conversation.

'I am called Babet.' He hesitates, but gives no Christian name.

'Enjolras', he replies, shaking Babet's outstretched hand. He's glad for the excuse not to give out his first name, not being particularly fond of it. Babet fishes out a silver cigarette case from his jacket pocket, polished and ornamented to a degree Enjolras's mother would turn up her nose at. There are initials engraved in it, one of which is presumably the first letter of his Christian name. Enjolras doesn't bother attempting to read them. Babet opens the case and takes out a cigarette, offering them to Enjolras. Enjolras takes one and allows Babet to light it for him from an equally ostentatious cigarette lighter. Babet smiles, leaning back in his seat. They smoke in silence for a few moments before the train jolts and slows. Enjolras jumps, glancing out of the window.

'We are slowing for the German border', Babet informs him.

'You've taken this trip before?' he asks, a little stiffly. Babet smiles, and Enjolras shifts a little in his seat, uncomfortable without quite knowing why.

'Many, many times.'

The door to their carriage slides open, admitting a German customs officer. Babet sits up with a jerk.

'Deutsche Grenzkontrolle. Ihre Pass, bitte.'

Enjolras starts. 'Pardon?'

'Your passport, if you please.' Enjolras fishes it out of his pocket and hands it over. The guard glances at it, hands it back and stamps Enjolras's bags without opening them, then turns to Babet. They have a brief exchange in German, too fast for Enjolras to follow. While the officer is busy going through Babet's bag, Babet moves lightning-fast, placing his briefcase among Enjolras's bags. Enjolras stares, unsure what just happened but reluctant to say anything. He's still staring at Babet when the officer leaves, wishing him a happy new year. Babet catches his eye.

'Forgive me. Baubles from Paris…silk stockings…but more than is permitted.' Enjolras is silent. 'You understand?'

Enjolras doesn't, really, but he nods. 'I suppose so.'

Babet looks relieved. 'You are very understanding. I thank you.' When Enjolras says nothing, he continues. 'I would like to see to it that Berlin will welcome you. We begin tonight- the Kit Kat Klub! Telephones on every table- girls call you-' He gives Enjolras an appraising look. 'Boys call you, you call them. It is most…modern.'

Enjolras splutters. 'I don't- I mean-'

Babet puts a hand on his knee, giving what might be intended as an understanding smile. Enjolras recoils. 'Thank you, but I haven't- that is to say- I haven't yet made arrangements for my accommodation. I think I ought-'

'You have no room? Ah, but this is no problem.' For a moment, Enjolras is afraid Babet is going to invite him to stay with him. 'Here.' He fishes out a piece of paper, jotting down an address. 'Just tell Fraulein Fantine that Herr Babet sent you.'

Enjolras hesitates before taking it. He know no-one in Berlin, has only the vaguest idea of how to go about looking for accommodation, and he'd rather not start the new year sleeping on the streets. 'You're very kind.'

Babet smiles. 'Welcome to Berlin.'

Enjolras doesn't quite know how Babet manages to talk him into coming to the Kit Kat Klub. He vanishes into the smoky air almost as soon as they're seated, waving at someone across the room, and doesn't return. Enjolras is left sitting alone at his small table, uncomfortably warm in his heavy suit and clutching a drink pressed into his hand by a muscular young waiter, the contents of which are entirely mysterious to him. He takes a tentative sip and chokes. His eyes water and he looks about the room, hoping to have gone unnoticed and cursing Babet for choosing such a central table.

Waiters, all young and attractive in their matching waistcoats, flit between the crowded tables. Several catch Enjolras's eye as they pass and smile. One even winks. Enjolras shrinks into his seat and stares down at his hands as the room goes suddenly dark. The conversations around him dull to a murmur.

A man in black tie and tails steps out onto the stage, wearing a thick layer of makeup that almost obscures his features. His lips are painted an obscene cherry-red; his hair is carefully waved and set so firmly into place it looks solid, like a helmet. His eyes are dark and shadowed as he smiles out at the audience.

'Meine Damen und Herren, Mesdames et Messieurs, Ladies and Gentlemen… the Kit Kat Klub is proud to present the international sensation…We know his real name, but we'll never tell. To you, he's simply…R.'