February 1, 1933
Berlin, Germany
"Won't you try it on tonight, liebchen. Bitte schön?" Sabine's mouth, blistered pink, was pouty, "The audience will love you for it."
"Nein." Jack sighed, "You know that I won't." He applied the last of the powder to his face, heavily caked. The room was flush with heaving bosoms and the tang of excited perspiration, a sea of bodies tucking, buttoning, and squeezing into pre-performance contortions. Jack could see Loreen's disembodied leg rising and falling behind his reflection as she stretched, touching her knee to her ear and back down again.
"Fine, but don't come to me if Niko kicks you out of the show." Sabine stalked off, tripping over the frills coming off the dress she'd wanted Jack to wear. He just shook his head and smoothed his hair back, and turned to Loreen, rotating slowly so she could evaluate his attire, "Schön, ja?"
Her eyes, outlined in heavy kohl and accented with red, started at his feet and worked their way up, taking in the black suit and the perfect cut, hugging all of his curves, somehow sensual despite the crisp edges. "Immer, mein Freund." She smiled, "But I cannot say you look much like Hindenburg."
"Who will care? Certainly no one in our audience. And you know it is the acting they come to see, not those." He raised his eyebrow at Loreen's chest, lifted and separated, powdered into a pearly luminescence. Her lips, glistening cherry, looked garish up close, the curse of stage makeup; it was only intended to be viewed from a distance. She pursed those lips, and rolled her eyes at him, and flipped her tightly curled hair in his direction.
"Komm jetzt . The curtain rises."
Showtime.
Ennis, floating in a warm haze from a imbibing a veritable waterfall of amber liquid, made his way through Potsdamer Platz, leaving behind four aborted canvases and twelve proposals for a bed to share. He'd met Alma on a night like this, not long after returning from Vienna, a dark haze curling around her face in his barely conscious state and he'd asked if she was angel, come to take him. Taken him she had; her ring was gold was manifest proof. She said it was his eyes, that night; she had thought he was on the verge of tears, and had to help him.
But he couldn't remember the last time he'd shed one.
Whatever the impetus, he would not look at another motionless face, another slab of flesh, with its roiling contours, destitute of value or beauty. He walked through the crowds, carefully avoiding contact, removed from the collective consciousness of the flow of bodies, like a piece of detritus floating atop the currents of the gutter. He balled his hands into fists inside the pockets of his coat, thick black wool, collar flipped up against the cold. Turning onto Leipziger Straße, the noise increased tenfold, rife with discord—but rising above the drone was a melody, sweet in its clarity, and he veered his course to the source. The Cabaret Shangri-La. He'd never been here, despite living nearby; Alma found nightlife, for the most part, sordid, especially the cabarets. She disapproved of their satire, the erotic costumes, the propensity for silliness juxtaposed against critique of society. He decided it sounded interesting and entered, handing the host a few crumpled marks and removing his coat, revealing his shirt, discolored by paint and other unidentifiable stains. A sickly sweet smell assaulted him, an amalgam of nicotine, ladies' perfume, sweat, and sour breath, and squinting his eyes at the air, laced with acrid smoke, he took the first seat he could find.
The woman on stage was a lovely apparition, attired in lush velvet, the shade of dark red wine, thin face framed in black curls that hugged her cheekbones, accentuating their terrain. He noted the high arched eyebrows, mostly likely crafted by careful plucking, the full lips, the swell of her hips in the folds of fabric—but it was her voice that held his attention, husky with a tint of desire wrapped in sorrow, Ich bin sehr müde, mein Herr, so müde, aber ich liebe dich. Ennis gnawed at a hangnail, crossing and uncrossing his legs; he failed to notice what was so sordid about the show. She finished her number and the emcee, attired in a suit sparkling with sequins, began to speak, "Applaus, bitte, our very own Loreen Naumann, star from Mädchen in Uniform! Applaus, bitte!" His enthusiasm and the pitch of his voice increased as he to discussed the main event of the evening. Ennis ordered a drink, surveying the room in more detail, eyes tracking the patterns of the moldings and the golden chandeliers.
"Und jetzt, our entertainment for the evening, Hindenburg in Uniform!"
The show was supposed to be a parody of the film Mädchen in Uniform, except that the cast of stars, instead of a boarding school full of lesbians, were politicians in drag. He had only seen bits of the film, far more concerned with woman in the seat next to him than the ones onscreen. He was halfway out of his seat to leave when the actor playing Hindenburg came onstage, and he stilled, sitting down once more in slow motion, breath halting in his very lungs and eyes watering with the need to blink.
Ennis watched him like a sinner begging for repentance, mouth falling open and parched eyes drinking in the sight. Every gesture, every step was fluid, in perfect time. His performance had no pretenses, no airs; his attire and makeup were almost stark in their simplicity, but this was a man who had no need of them—he slipped into the character as easily as breathing.
Art in motion.
When he left the stage, Ennis sketched desperately on his napkin—it was cloth, but he'd pay the restaurant if they complained—fingers practically trembling with the need to pick up a brush, one eye on the lookout to see what he'd return. He worked the charcoal into the cloth in jerky motions, hands rapidly soiled with the efforts. He ground his teeth for want of a canvas.
By the end of the show he was a bit more composed; he paid the host for the napkin and tablecloth, which they were kind enough to put in a paper bag for him, and went to the restroom to wash up. He scrubbed his hands, watching the sinkwater wash the black particles away, but didn't bother with his fingertips—they were permanently black—and splashing cold water on his face, he squared his shoulders and headed backstage, squeezing his way past the crowd in front of Loreen's dressing room.
He made an educated guess and tried the door after hers, unadorned except for a small wreath of dried purple flowers and peeling brown paint. After the second knock, he heard a muffled Hallo? from inside and cracked the door open. The man was sitting at his vanity, using a towel to vigorously strip the makeup from his face. He was no less stunning up close. A tight, hot band closed around Ennis's chest.
"Guten Abend," He croaked out.
The man turned, a surprised expression on his face. "Achso! Entschuldigen Sie, bitte," he apologized, and quickly got up, coming to the doorway, hand extended, " Ich bin Jack. Jack Schwarz. Wie geht es Ihnen, mein Herr?"
"Ich bin Ennis… Demarien. Mir geht's gut, danke ." They shook hands in front of the modest dressing room, and Jack gestured for him to come in. Ennis sat across from him, fidgeting in the frail wicker chair while Jack wiped the last of the makeup off his face and then turned to face him.
"A pleasure to meet you. What can I do for you, Herr Demarien?" He asked, offering him a cigarette. Ennis accepted with a nod.
He let Jack light the cigarette, vibrating slightly in his fingers, and took a drag before speaking. "Well… I am a painter." He took another long drag, holding the smoke in his lungs, savoring the burn.
"I can see that," Jack said, laughter in his eyes, nodding his head at the paint-stained shirt.
Ennis crossed his legs, leaning forward, and cocked his head at Jack.
"…I can pay you," he said, slowly, almost like it was question.
"I am not one to turn down money, mein Herr, but I would like to know what it is you can pay me for."
Ennis flushed slightly, leaning back again as if repelled by his own idiocy. Biting his lip, he tried one more time.
"Will you model for me, Herr Schwarz?"