February 4, 1933
Berlin, Germany
Jack leaned over his coffee, pouring in cream bit by bit, stirring it into a vorticity, white dispersing into the dark brown. Looking up at Dr. Abraham, he shook his head. "I do not agree with Frau Sanger about the 'feeble-minded,' Abraham. She has a very harsh view towards them." Sitting back in his seat, he sipped the hot beverage, letting the flavors play over his tongue.
"Her view towards them is very progressive, Jacob. What would you have the state do with them instead? In an ideal world they would not reproduce of their own volition, but as she has observed, we are far from an ideal world." Abraham stirred his own coffee, face heavily shadowed by the low lamps lighting the café. The shop was abuzz with conversation, many cups and plates lay abandoned, forgotten in the ongoing battle of philosophical debate; arms chopped the air to emphasize a point, fingers pointed in accusation, but by the time the dessert was finished, hugs were exchanged and promises of meeting again were arranged. The world of academic bohemia was a schizophrenic one.
"Progressive though it might be, I cannot endorse it." Jack shrugged, sliding his spoon into his chocolate cake, thick and rich, drenched in raspberry coulis.
"You are always about ten steps ahead of the progressives, Mein Freund. Ever thought about slowing down and joining the rest of us mere communists?"
"What a strange bunch they are. They might think they've envisioned Utopia, but I must argue that any society functioning on those principles would be the most boring place on earth. I doubt they'd allow the cabaret, and without that, what would I do with myself?"
"True enough. How was your last performance? I heard that Hindenburg in Uniform was a smashing success."
Jack sighed. "It went well enough, I suppose. Sabine and Niko are still pushing for me to do more comedy. I'm starting to see why my father forbid me from joining—the art of cabaret is being lost. Not like it was when he was performing; now we can only touch politics with the softest of kisses. After the Weimar Republic ended they practically burned the politicians with hot fire brands."
"You would have fit right in. Fifteen years too late, not much to be done. Unless you want to become a revolutionary, ja?"
Jack laughed, licking chocolate from his spoon, tongue red like the inside of a plum. "Nicht für mich. That's more your line of work than mine. How goes your latest case, Doktor?"
Abraham shrugged, "She's well, recovering nicely from the surgery. I'm afraid she still isn't as feminine on the outside as she is on the inside, but I will do whatever I can to help her."
"'Gender re-assignment' is such a bland name for what you do. I think you should change your title from 'head of sexual forensics' to the 'champion of the inner psyche.' What do you think?"
"Wundebar! I will let Hirschfeld know right away about the change in my status." Abraham shook his head, laughing. "What are you doing tonight? Your next show hasn't started yet, has it? Giese is having eine Fete later, why don't you join us?"
"As tempting as it is to exchange repartee with you all night, I have a prior engagement." Jack bit his lip, smiling a little, "I'm modeling for a painter."
Abraham raised an eyebrow at him, "And what is he like?" He chuckled, "More importantly, does he like men?"
"Er ist… interessant. Und weiss ich nicht. I certainly hope so, though. He is a lovely specimen."
"I'm sure you will not hesitate to use the many charms at your disposal, Schatz."
"We shall see. He may be one of those who would rather fuck a painting than a person. I will report all the sordid details to you once I've created them."
"Prima, prima. Also, see you tomorrow at the Institute." They rose, paid for the coffee and cake, and kissed on the cheek.
"Send my greetings to Giese and all."
"Jawohl. Und Viel Glück, Mein Freund!"
"Danke. Bis später, Abraham."
Buttoning up his coat, he walked down the street, hearing the clock chiming seven. The sky, draining into twilight, was steel blue interspersed with lilac, the evening's last clouds scattering into oblivion. He lit a cigarette, flares running up along the ragged edges of the brown paper. Exhaling, the plumes billowed in front of him, screening the blue of the sky through a smokescreen. Coming to the street sign, he mentally reviewed the directions Herr Demarien had given him—he'd asked for Jack to arrive just after the sun set. Jack smiled.
The most exciting parts of his life always occurred after night fell.
Ennis paced the room, rubbing his clammy palms up and down his thighs. Sketches were scattered beneath his feet, crumpled and trodden, futile attempts at capturing the movement of energy that he'd seen two nights ago. Even his daywork had suffered; the portraiture was merely acceptable. He'd felt obligated to lower his prices, something he had never considered doing before, even at the threat of physical violence. Sweat sheened on his chest; he'd tossed his shirt aside hours ago, burning up with frustrated heat and yelling obscenities at it, sure it was constricting him somehow.
He nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard the knock on the door, looking around at the chaos of his room in a panic. No time to clean. He ran his hand through his hair and threw on a shirt without bothering to button it, eating up the floor space to the door in three large strides. He laid his hand on the cool door handle, hesitating for just a moment before opening it, breath trapped by a tempest of emotion in his throat. He swung it open to find Jack standing before him.
"Guten Abend, Herr Demarien." he said, holding out his hand.
He was no less stunning than two nights ago.
Ennis wiped his hand on his thigh again before taking Jack's, barely remembering to whisper an "Abend" in response before he let go. Stepping back, he gestured Jack into the room, an attic studio with sloped ceilings, beams spearing the air. The decorations were spare to none, all available surfaces covered with candles, brushes, paints or rags and the walls devoid of anything to break up the expanses of white.
Jack entered, carefully stepping over the sketches on the floor, looking around with interest. He stopped in the center of the room, unwinding his scarf from around his neck, "Hier ist gut, Herr Demarian?"
Ennis nodded, standing at his easel, arranging his brushes and palette. Jack discarded the scarf onto the bed, slipping out of the rest of his clothes piece by piece, layering them into a pile on the blanket until he stood completely nude. Ennis's throat worked but no sounds emerged. He didn't understand why his heart began to race; he'd seen more models in his life than he could count. Nudity was as natural to him as breathing—this man, however, seemed to be stealing the very air from his lungs.
"What would you like me to do?" Jack asked, one hand on his hip, the candlelight splaying yellow soft across his skin, highlights blushing on his curves.
Ennis swallowed, trying to find the saliva to wet his tongue.
"Would you… dance for me?"
Jack shrugged, "Ich kann. What kind of dance would you like, Mein Herr?"
He could barely answer, lost in the luminosity of Jack's skin, "Bitte…whatever comes to you. I will sketch tonight." He pulled out his drawing pad and charcoal, perching himself on the stool. "Let your body move you."
Jack's expression slowly transformed from confused to radiant; a smile grew from the corners of his mouth, organic, until the laugh lines gathered around his eyes. "It has been a long time since I have had an audience for this," he said, taking a deep breath and shaking his limbs out.
Jack crouched quickly, arms curled under his chest, wrapping into himself, tucking his head down and under. Then, with such precision and fluidity that Ennis saw no movement, he unwrapped, vertebra by vertebra, uncoiling one muscle at a time until he was standing once more, arms and legs spread to their fullness. The only sound in the room was the scratch of grit against paper and slow, rhythmic breathing.
He sketched in absolute silence, worshipping Jack's movements with his charcoal. They picked up speed in time; legs swinging swift arcs and arm muscles tensed into sculpted lines of grace. The pebbly black dashed across the paper over and over trying to imitate the sensuous curvature beginning at the neck and ending just below the buttock, the volatility of the physical undulations. Jack's feet began to thwack against the floor as his dance evolved, a flurry of sinuous motion that coursed with the blood in Ennis's veins, created melodies in his mind that sang of desire and passion and want. When Jack struck his final pose, left leg behind him and arms trailing, as if he were about to jump forward into the abyss, the charcoal snapped clean in two in Ennis's hands.
He could have cared less.