Paradise To Go

By Udo Robin Gardner

Suddenly, Rante Kleinknecht finds himself down--not only because he drunkenly runs nose-first into a wall, but because he has just found himself out of a job. Not the best scenario for scoring points with the lady he's fallen head over heels in love with...
After a less than stellar career as an actor, and a brief interlude in Danish porn, Rante's zigzag path lands him a successful gig in real estate. The young, good looking guy has finally taken the elevator straight to the top. But there is a price to be paid for his new-found success: an empty marriage. Not a problem; until his former love unexpectedly turns up – and their undying passion takes over...
The time: 1967 – 1975. Sex, drug, rock’n’roll – the Beatles, Stones, Dylan, Baez, Hendrix and on to the Europop of Abba – as culture and politics turned upside down. The gray of the Fifties vanished in a burst of psychedelic color, propelling the world into that long-overdue future we live today.
The European overlay also provides the non-European reader with the pleasures of a tourist—first-time or habitual—in traipsing back and forth across the Continent, taking him from Berlin to Copenhagen to Paris, from Heidelberg to the Rhineland, and on the Greek Isles, the South African Tsitsikama Forest, and ultimately to Rante’s own amenity-laden condominium Utopia on the Baltic Sea.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Udo Robin Gardner
• Release date: Mar 25, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311524638

Udo Robin Gardner

Udo Robin Gardner is the pen name of a Berlin actor and director. This is his first novel, apart from an early attempt at the age of fifteen. Before writing Paradise To Go, he worked extensively in the German-speaking theatre in Berlin, Bonn, Frankfurt, Vienna and on television and radio, as well as mounting productions as far afield as Beirut, Bahrain, and Washington DC. In addition to holding degrees in Law and Theatre, he travels a great deal and frequently finds himself in New York.

Book preview

1

1967

WHAT A FUCKING LIFE. The rain poured down and soaked me to the soul. Hands in the pockets, head deep between the shoulder blades, I shlepped my way to ″The Pit″. God, I was miserable! Soaring above the clouds? No, my life had crashed.

I’d only come to Bonn because I’d been promised the ″big break″. I should have known better. The warning bells went off the moment I heard that genius director outlining his concept: actors in bulky robes to hide the banality of the human form; mysterious yellow masks, insuring that individuality did not intrude upon the text; and a mouthful of marbles, to guarantee that the poetic experience never be comprehensible to the ignorant public.

While I was still brooding over how to escape disaster, fate stepped in. Yesterday morning, I tripped over my costume and tumbled headlong into the first row. Then, in the middle of my big scene, I swallowed one of my marbles and almost croaked. And, finally, when I encountered difficulty spitting out my incomprehensible text, the director took me aside to kindly inform me that it was obvious I did not possess the intellectual capacity necessary for the creative process. So, that was that.

To make the day complete, in my drunken stupor I ran smack into the first wall that lay in my way. If it had any symbolic significance, then, Lord—or whoever you are—let me tell you, no goddamned fucking screenwriter would dare come up with an image like that!

I was a mess. One sad bloody eye peeking through disaster. The gash across the forehead didn't worry me. But the nose, that was really scary. Whatever chance I might once have had with the girl of my dreams, I could now deduct another hundred percent.

I'd seen her for the first time in The Pit, a student hangout in the center of Bonn, and she was my only reason for going. This evening, she turned up around eleven in her usual company, a mountain I could only describe as King Kong.

Charlie, bartender and resident Casanova, pursued her openly across the bar. She had such an incredible trick of throwing her head back when she laughed, that lent her an air of the wild and untamed. Huge wide-set eyes shining with a zest for life. Shoulder-length blond mane glistening in the light. That little turned-up nose. Her lips so full and sensual, they made me dizzy.

I must remind myself to write Santa in time for Christmas.

Brutally torn from my reverie, the guy next to me spilled his beer all down my sweater. Heading for the men's room, I asked myself what she could possibly see in that barroom Casanova. Having salvaged what remained of my dignity as I came back into the world, I almost collided with her on her way to the little girls'.

″Sorry,″ I said, slipping by as naturally as I could.

″Mind if I ask you something?″ Her voice. Startled, I turned. Was she addressing me? Yes, she was; looking at me askance. ″What'd you do to your face?″ she asked.

In shock, I forgot to answer.

″Don't you talk to strangers?″

I managed to get a grip on myself. ″My face? What about it?″

″Looks like someone did quite a number on you.″

″Seems that way. Doesn't it?″ I mumbled.

″Even worse.″ She smiled. ″But don't let that discourage you. What happened?″

″Promise you won't laugh?″

She nodded, one eyebrow slightly raised.

I took a deep breath and told her I'd taken a curve too close and walked into the wall.

She squinted skeptically. ″Aha! Anonymous alcoholic. Right?″

Pause. I worked to look her in the eye.

″Why've you been staring at me?″

″Sorry. I...didn't mean to bother you.″

″My name's Amina Frank.″ She smiled encouragingly. ″What's yours?″

″Rante. Rante Kleinknecht.″

″Kleinknecht...″ She seemed to savor the combination of letters cautiously.

″Atrocious. All those k's and n's. Hard to get your mouth around.″

We both laughed.

″But Rante is really nice. Suits you,″ she said. ″A bit...unusual, isn't it? Rante.″

″Well, I'm glad someone likes it.″

We were still standing in front of the restroom doors. Not really the best spot for openers, jostled by those in a hurry. But Amina stood her ground and kept on at me.

″What do you do, Rante—you a student?″

″Me? No, an...actor.″

Her eyes widened. ″An actor? Oh!″

″Freelance.″

″You in something now?″

″I was. But I quit. Can you imagine playing with a mouthful of marbles? Well, I told the director where he could stuff 'em. And that was that. So, I'm free.″

″What's up next?″

″Who knows.″

″How about another drink? Coming to the bar?″

″Great idea″, I said, when a heavy hand fell on my shoulder. I jumped and turned. King Kong was standing there in front of me.

″You've run off at the mouth enough for one night, friend. The lady's with me.″

″I—″ His mere physical proximity stifled any argument. He was more than a head taller, and I was by no means short. Hell, all I needed now was to have this gorilla ask me out to dance.

But Amina cut in. ″You've got your head screwed on backwards, Max! Can't you see I'm trying to have conversation here? What'd you do, check your manners at the door?″

You could see it go to work on him. ″I'm supposed to—″

″To what?″ she spat back. ″Mind your own business.″ She turned to me. ″Don't pay any attention to him, he's harmless.″

″Well, I'm glad to hear that.″ I smiled up at Kong, who stood at a total loss, mouth agape.

But the evening was over. There was no possibility of going on. The gigantic shadow loomed behind her at the bar and wouldn't abandon us for an instant.

″I need to get some sleep.″ Amina emptied her glass. ″Got a long day ahead. Nice meeting you.″

″And what do you do?″

″I'm a model. In Cologne. But I live here in Bonn.″

As they turned to go, I gathered all my courage and held her back a second, whispering, ″How about tomorrow…?″

Two days later she announced, ″Tomorrow, your place. I want to see how an actor lives. And I’ll fix dinner.″

The whole day I slaved to clean up the war-zone. Even sprung for a huge bouquet of flowers.

″God, Rante! Flowers! Wow!!″ Before I knew what was happening, she had her arms around my neck, hugging. I swore to make a pact with the flower stall.

Bratwurst, wine, candlelight. Best dinner I ever ate!

And there we were—table cleared, dishes stacked and washed—Amina beside me on the edge of the bed. We finished the wine in silence.

Hell, it was all so clear. Why didn't I just take the old masculine initiative? But my arms were lead.

″Don't you find me attractive?″ She straightened as if coming to a decision.

″Do you need to ask?″

″Why don't you kiss me then?″

The moment of truth. I thought my lungs would burst.

″Don't worry. I'm on the pill.″

The trees already displayed autumnal hues, soon to be shorn of their leaves, bald to the eye of old man winter. My father had found himself in this state for several years, and I hoped that in this respect, as in others, I wasn't down to follow him. In actuality—and this had become increasingly clear to me—I only became an artist to annoy him. He had no feeling for the arts whatsoever and was therefore suspicious toward that which did not conform to his petty bourgeois existence. That I would end up becoming a nuisance to myself, only came gradually. Besides, when I got myself kicked out of school I didn't have a clue as to what else to do with my life.

I'd grown up here in Freiburg—in this picture-postcard city at the southern tip of the Black Forest, its famous cathedral towering above the historic center, proclaiming to the world who it was who really ruled this town.

As we turned into the old street where my parents still kept their modest little house and garden, I slowed down. Amina immediately sensed the tension in me and pressed my hand in compassion. We'd just returned from six months in the Aegean, six wild and glorious months. Mikonos, Naxos, Paros, Crete—drifting wherever the wind took us.

We'd finally landed on Kos where we'd discovered paradise. I had a nasty feeling the old man wouldn't be at all pleased to find Robinson Crusoe on his doorstep. He hated anything to do with long hair, and not without reason. All my childhood came rushing back: I'd always been the sad misfit, swearing I would never grow up to be anything like them.

And there we were. Nothing had changed. The old cherry tree, the fence still in need of whitewashing, the gate screeching at the top of its lungs. Whether in protest or in welcome remained its secret.

My mother opened the door, behind her I could just see my father and my big brother Rainer coming into the front hall. No one seemed to recognize me, they just gaped as if encountering a pair of grizzlies on a desert island.

This is Amina, I'd meant to begin. But my mother managed to find herself first, rolling her eyes heavenward and breaking into tears. ″Oh my God, Rante! Look at you!″ The old man refused the hand of the new hippie generation, face to face at last with pagan culture.

″If you don't like what you see,″ I snapped, ″we can just turn around and walk. We only came by to say hello anyway.″

My father disappeared without a word, returning a moment later with a handful of mail. ″Yours. There's one from Werner among them.″

Werner had been my best friend, but since his marriage he'd become a sniveling little milquetoast, so we'd lost contact. He wrote me that I should come to Vienna. In the meantime, he'd rid himself of the wife and had a huge new flat with lots of room.

I stuck the letter in my shoulder bag. ″OK, we got what we came for. Time to go, Amina.″

Well, the shit hit the fan. My mother sobbed against the doorpost, my brother Rainer shouted who-the-hell-do-you-think-you-are, and the old man went white about the nose—meaning he'd been shaken to his roots.

″Let's be reasonable.″ Father the Peacemaker. ″Let's all go into the house, shall we?″

We should just have turned and walked away. While we sat around over coffee and cake, they badgered me about what I had in mind for the future. ″The only thing I know for sure is we're going back to Greece,″ I said. That didn't seem to satisfy them in the least.

″Wake up,″ my father groaned. ″You're twenty-four. You can't just go on living from one day to the next. What about the three years at the acting school in Vienna I paid for?″

″Who cares?″ I leaned my chair back. ″To be precise, theatre is not at all what anyone would call a living.″

″My words exactly. I always told you that. But what else is there for you?″

I shrugged. ″Who knows? I just want to live, that's all.″

″Please don't let yourself get upset, Hans,″ my mother said, hand on his arm.

My father the teacher. He clasped his head with both hands. But before exploding, he leapt up and rushed from the room. I knew where he was heading: for his beloved bees—his only passion and the nightmare of his neighbors.

″Why didn't you tell them that you intend to go back to acting?″ Amina asked, sneaking into my room. Officially, of course, we were not to spend the night together. This would have meant the end for my parents.

″None of their business. I'm fed up with their interfering all the time, like they knew better. It's my life, isn't it?″

″Our life, Rante.″

Hands behind my head, I lay in bed staring at the single shaft of moonlight through the curtains. Amina, by my side, breathed steadily. Why did I ever come back? I'd wanted my parents to meet Amina—something I'd never done with any girl before—to validate my love for her. She was the best thing that had ever happened to me. I still couldn't quite believe it myself. She chose me, when she could have had her pick of the heads she managed to turn every time she entered a room.

Amina turned on her side; her face so near I felt her breath against my neck. I made up my mind to find sleep myself. But easier said than done. How would our life be now? This old house of my parents only gave birth to sorrows. God help me, I better find a job and not live off Amina's money. Disaster, unless my theatrical career took a turn for the better.

Welcome to reality, Rante. Good night...

Next morning, we shouldered backpacks and said goodbye. I tried asking my father for money—″we'd like to go to Vienna to see Werner″—but he regarded me grimly.

″No, my son. You won't get a thing out of me. I cannot support your irresponsible vagabond existence.″

My mother didn't understand me either, but moral judgments aside, she slipped me two hundred marks.

Werner looked at least mid-forties, maybe fifty. The tufts of hair that ringed his ears and the thick glasses made him seem so. Actually, he was thirty-one. The image was that of the faithful bookkeeper, and he dressed the part. The dull, grey flannel suit. And bow tie. But the inward man was exactly the opposite—forever cooking up some clever get-rich-quick scheme.

When I was studying acting, we used to hang out at The Blue Donkey in Hadikgasse. He was making money hand over fist. Crimean champagne, Russian vodka. All local stuff, of course, from Wachau. It cost him several months up river, and some hefty fines.

He picked us up in front of Westbahnhof—we hadn't actually come by train, we'd thumbed our way. The immaculate blue sky still hung over old Vienna. And for the end of October it was still agreeably warm.

He seemed to be doing well by himself, living in an elegantly appointed flat in Alseggerstrasse and driving a great big Citroen.

Beaming, he opened a bottle of wine and set out three glasses. ″Real Burgenlaender, this. I mean it. Wonderful to see you again!″ he said, tossing a charming glance at Amina. ″Congratulations on your delightful lady friend. You know, of course, Rante here is a real hell-raiser?″

″Oh, I'm well aware of that,″ she laughed.

″Quite impressive,″ I chimed, appreciating the surroundings. ″Real impressive. How long have you had it?″

″Since July. After the divorce I stayed with the folks till I came up with this. Yes, not bad at all.″

″Since you brought it up, why the divorce? Didn't last long, did it.″

He made a face as if he'd swallowed vinegar. ″Ah well, you know...″

″Don't talk about it if it's awkward.″

″No, not in the least! I just don't like being reminded. The whole damn thing was a disaster, an experience I don't wish to repeat, thank you!″

″Were you in love?″ Amina offered.

″Don't be shy in front of Amina.″ I put my arm around her. ″She's family.″

″Were you then?″ she asked a second time.

Werner grinned a little insecure. ″If love means that you forget to think, then yes, I was in love. If I'd stopped to think for a second of what was in store, I would have known enough in the first place to avoid getting burned.″

″That bad, was it?″ Amina’s eyes were full of sympathy.

″Bad? She was one of those women who mistake their man for his bank account. And I'm not the kind of guy who goes off to the office every morning and enjoys watching his wife piss away his hard-earned money. I want the good life myself. Besides, in the sack—we didn't set off any bells. Katherine was a bit of a corpse.″

Amina swallowed. ″Bit harsh, don't you think?″

″Maybe. But, unfortunately, that's the way it was. Let's change the subject.″

I asked about his new job, and he hemmed and hawed. ″I'd rather not discuss it,″ he said. ″Some people might get the wrong idea, my ex-wife included. The job was, after all, the main reason we split.″

I refilled the glasses. ″You've got me curious now.″

Werner leaned back and screwed up his face. ″OK, your funeral. I'm in porno.″

″You're in what? You're teasing us.″ Amina seemed more than a little shocked. ″Do you...do you pose in the...nude?″

″Hah! Take a good look! I'm flattered.″ He let forth with peals of laughter. Amina jumped. Werner's laugh was as high-pitched and piercing as a castrated hyena. ″We'd all be out of business,″ he snorted.

″Then just what do you do?″ I asked on the edge of my seat.

He blew a smoke ring into the air, relishing the moment. ″Best job I ever had. Two or three quick trips a month. First up to Copenhagen. From there to Brussels, Paris, Amsterdam, Rome. Wherever I go, first class all the way. And they pay through the nose.″

I got the picture. ″Smuggling...″

″Gosh! What an ugly word. But yes, one might call it that. I transport suitcases across international frontiers. Magazines. At two thousand marks a pop. Plus expenses.″

″Not bad,″ I whistled, remembering what I made in the theatre. ″Not bad at all.″

″I also get commissions to translate on the side. Novels. English to German. Icing on the cake. I'm not wild about sitting behind a desk all day long. What d'you say? Your English isn't bad. Cut you in for half.″

I shook my head. ″I don't think that's for me.″

″Hey, easy money, my friend. Give it a shot. Who knows? You might even get to do a couple on your own. I could put a word in.″

″I have other plans at the moment,″ I said. ″I'm going back into the theatre.″

Werner waved a contemptuous hand. ″Theatre! That'll net you zilch! Haven't you suffered enough for one life? Even so...a couple of books on the sly, between gigs. Think it over.″

Apparently he'd met the Grande Fromage, named Køber, on a flight to Hamburg and they got to talking. He was desperately looking for a new man to take over distribution. A handshake, and the deal was struck on the spot.

Werner took off his glasses and began to fumble about, cleaning them. ″So, off and running. And that was that, far as old Katherine was concerned. Don't regret it for a moment.″ He put the glasses back on. ″Køber is one of the most successful men in Denmark. Now I could, as it happens, arrange a meeting. He'll be here in Vienna next week.″

By now we'd downed quite a bit, but we went on to our old Donkey, where the owner, Tony the Greek, welcomed us with open arms. There followed far too much to eat, even more to drink, and still more to talk about. Tony had been away from home for more than twenty years and wanted to hear all about our Greek adventure.

2

HIGH ON LEOPOLDSBERG, through the open window of the restaurant, I watched as two gliders leisurely circled the mountain top.

Werner had lent us his car, and we'd spent the afternoon in the Vienna Woods. The trees shone rust-brown and yellow, the paths were carpeted with leaves. Then we'd come up here for the fantastic view. We could make out the steeple of Saint Stephen and, far away, the giant Ferris wheel of the Prater. At the foot of the mountain, the Danube, and a cluster of tiny boats.

I sipped my wine and lit a cigarette. Amina, her head against my shoulder, murmured sleepily, ″How about one for me?″

I lit one for her. And we smoked in silence.

Turning my head, I felt the sun against my face. It seemed somehow unreal, thinking back to our Grecian paradise when faced with the prospect of a career in pornography.

I smiled, recalling our first day in Athens. The fortuneteller proved to be the one sour moment. Amina was promised three kids and happily ever after. I'd be rich and powerful with four. ″How can that be?″ Amina mused as we left. ″Four? Is there anything you've forgotten to tell me?″

I could still hear the staccato rhythm of the sirtaki and taste the sting of retsina, see the dancing Zorba in our taverna, arms spread wide, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth; our cool white bungalow, far down the endless shoreline the mountainous Mike playing on his flute, his diminutive Georgia barefoot in the sand; our Japanese friend Toki meditating under his tree; and the two of us frolicking in the sand...

Amina nudged, bringing me back. ″Hey! Are you asleep?″

I yawned and looked out of the window. One of the gliders was still visible, it's cockpit catching the light of the setting sun. ″No, just dreaming.″

″Well? Have you made up your mind?″ she asked. ″Do we stay so you can work with Werner, or do we move on?″

″No, I want to know what you'd prefer.″

She sat up and looked pensively out the window. ″You know there's nothing pressing for me in Bonn, and I'm not crazy about the idea of going back to work. I guess I really don't like being a model. All the smiles, being gawked at and fussed over. But it's the only thing I know how to do.″

″You're breaking my heart.″

″Don't you...″ She threatened me with her finger. ″Don't you start teasing me now.″

″Amina. Do we go? Or do we stay?″

″You know the answer already. It's beautiful here. Especially when the weather's so glorious. All I have to do is phone my boss and tell him I'll be back by December. No problem.″

Obviously, the guy was tolerant, not to say generous. She seemed to be able to come and go as she pleased.

″Werner offered to stake us till I get the first commission,″ I said. ″I can pay him back later. Maybe it would be better if I took the job until something comes up in the theatre.″

We drank still another glass of wine and left. In the meantime, it had grown dark, and the air was cold and damp. Nevertheless, we sat down on the bench along the narrow path down to the parking lot and huddled against each other, sharing each other's warmth.

Numberless lights below winked up at us. Vienna seemed a huge dark lake reflecting back the stars.

We lay back in our seats, dying of laughter. Werner had just read back the last chapter aloud.

″No way to top that!″ he gasped, wiping the tears from his eyes. ″God help the poor bastard who reads this,″ I said, ″and doesn't believe in the everlasting love.″

The title translated 'Bad Boys of Barbados'. And was every bit as awful as it sounded. Incredible, the things that popped into the author's head to give his boys the continual opportunity of mounting one another, moaning and groaning in search of satisfaction. Dorian Benton. Disgusting pig! A young man like us, laughing all the way to the bank—or an old lecher, pounding away at his typewriter in arthritic ecstasy, wresting the last shred of perversity from a far off fantasy?

I got up. ″I think that's enough for anyone to stomach for one day.″

The Porno King flew in, and Werner drove out to the airport to meet him, taking along our work. At seven that evening, Amina and I would join them at The Donkey.

Werner and Køber were already eating. Køber got up to greet us. He was small, and except for a potbelly that stuck out as if he'd swallowed a soccer ball, thin as a rake. There was something of the hawk about him, even the hungry shifting eyes. His gray hair, like the beard, scruffy and unkempt, and he seemed to have slept in a suit which sported grease stains like military decorations. The whole impression, topped off by the hand- shake of a dead fish.

″Had a look at your work,″ Køber said as we all sat down. ″Good stuff, good stuff. Literally, first-rate.″ He squealed like a stuck pig, and snuffling, devoured his mixed-grill-for-two. Anyone who knew Tony's menu knew what 'for-two' meant. I had a more than healthy appetite, but I would have had enough on my hands dealing with a dish for-one. Clear now where the soccer ball originated.

I sat next to him. Amina with Werner, across the table. And since we were told to order whatever we liked, we did just that, selecting the most expensive items on the menu.

By the time our food arrived, Køber was already licking up the last of his plate. Absolutely squeaky clean. And in token of his appreciation for Tony's cuisine, he let out one hell of a belch. Satiated, he leaned back and, raising his glass to us, emptied it in one enormous gulp. Clanking it down on the table, he refilled it and—chugalug!—the contents vanished. He'd seemed to have had his fill at last.

But not for long.

We had just started to eat when I saw Amina gaping in disbelief. White as a sheet she turned helpless to me.

″You all right?″ I asked concerned.

A closer look, and I realized that Køber was nonchalantly trying to reach Amina under the table with his foot. Meeting my glare, he smiled but didn't seem in the least daunted.

I tapped him on the shoulder. ″Excuse me, but the lady is with me.″

His lean chops contorted. ″I know, I know. My compliments, as we say in old Vienna,″ he panted, and went on drilling away.

″Stop it! Now! You're annoying my girlfriend.″

″Annoying? Who's annoying? A little harmless fun, that's all. I'm sure I beg your pardon.″ He laughed, bleating.

″Take your foot away, I don't like this,″ said Amina, who'd finally found her voice again. She tried to push him away but this only served to spur his fighting spirit.

I gripped his arm. ″I'm warning you for the last time.″

Werner looked shocked. Køber just grinned. ″I don't know what all this fuss is about. Why're you getting all worked up over some little cunt?″

I jumped to my feet. ″Amina, let's get out of here!″

Amina got up, and Køber, whether he wanted to or not, was forced to withdraw the foot.

″Please do sit down again.″ Køber wore a paternal smile. ″I see, an idealist. Ah, that's good. I like that, he, he, he. Sit, sit. We all were once, back in the ice-age. But it's time to dump these silly old notions. Or you won't get far these days.″ He pointed to the space I had vacated on the bench. ″Now don't make such a sour face, man. Don't take it personally and sit the hell down again.

I glanced across at Amina. She shrugged, helpless.

″I promise you I will behave myself . All agreed?″

″Agreed.″

Werner breathed a sigh of relief and filled our glasses. ″To our friend Køber. And to mutual success!″

Tony stood arms folded, his face an ominous mask, by the kitchen door, uncertain if he should interfere or not. If it hadn't been for Werner and me, he would have thrown Køber out on his ear.

We went on to a little wine bar in Grinzing, and Køber tried at first to discipline himself, playing the cool, indifferent man-about-town. But not his style. Soon the wine, which he polished off like there was no tomorrow, brought his old self back to life. He confided to us that all women were, of course, whores and that he owed what he'd become today to that knowledge. Wallowing in his own accomplishments, he finally let Amina be.

Apparently he was Swiss, as if this were an explanation of his character. But after crossing the laws of his native land—and doing time for it—he moved on, his whore of a wife three steps behind, to Denmark, where he was at last free to pursue libertine ideals, working his way up to where he was now proud owner of ten Heidelberger printing presses that he kept running round the clock. In the meantime, having received his Danish citizenship, as a nod to his new homeland, he changed his name from Köberli to Køber.

After a couple of rounds in the Grinzing quarter he grew restless. So we changed watering holes and found ourselves in a nightclub on the Opernring, where he procured us a ring-side table. Køber shouted for champagne and big tits. And the bimbos flocked about us, sniffing his money. Once more I had to rap his knuckles for confusing Amina with one of them.

Amina's presence shielded me from the bevy of B-girls on all sides. We sat arm in arm, sipping champagne, and watched the show. A lady billed as Princess Erotique danced a kind of striptease, more indolent than lascivious, dropping bits of costume indifferently, helter-skelter. When at last she reached what should have been the piece-de-resistance, she stopped short and was gone. Amina slipped a hand into my lap and reassured herself that all was quiet on the western front.

She laughed wickedly. ″I could do better, I think.″

One bottle after the other arrived, Køber pouring champagne into cleavage and licking off the residue. Disgusting, the way this scrawny sewer-rat burrowed his snout in the panting milk-and-honey. Werner, too, was engulfed in a pair of platinum blondes and, judging by the sound of the hyena, was having the time of his life. The management, eager to fulfill Køber's every wish, snapped to attention every time he rattled off a new command. They knew the drill, and when time came to settle up, Køber would tip through the nose.

We stumbled out into the street. ″So, where to now?″ he asked, rubbing his hands enterprisingly.

Amina hiccuped. ″Let's go...″ she said with difficulty. ″I've had...hic...enough.″

I pulled her close. ″Hold your breath, darling.″

″You can't be serious!″ cried an indignant Køber. ″The night's still young!″

″Long past our bedtime,″ I explained. ″We've had enough for one night.″

″Spoilsport!″ Køber pouted. ″Look, I won't lay a finger on your little friend again, Rante, don't you worry.″

We didn't relent. He'd have to go off alone with Werner on his rape and pillage of old Vienna.

″We've seen the last of him,″ I said, once we were alone in the taxi and on our way back to Werner's. ″What a filthy pig. We'll leave tomorrow.″ God! I was swimming, pickled. ″Maybe the day after.″

″Please, Rante,″ Amina hiccupped, ″I've just gotten used to the idea of staying here.″

″OK. But working for that animal is out! I will not help that lecher amass his fortune. I can live without his filthy lucre.″

″Can you?″

″Well, I—″

Amina kissed me on the cheek. ″Don't be so short-sighted, darling. Forget old Køber. Just take the money and run.″

Around noon, Werner staggered out of his bedroom holding his head in both hands. ″Not another drop, ever!″ he groaned. ″I swear on all that's holy, not another drop.″ Cautiously, he let himself sink into the softest chair in the flat.