by Zoe Constantin
(5/31/00)

From the cool darkness of the train station, Sarah emerged into the harsh sunlight of August. Germany was never this hot, she thought. The air shimmered; already, a gloss of sweat covered her skin. And yet, the immediate difference revived her. When an elderly woman prodded against her back, Sarah gave way with an apology in her best German.

The woman narrowed her eyes, glanced over Sarah. No words, but her face clearly expressed her amusement at Sarah's accent.

Sarah shrugged. So, some things had not changed. She would not let one encounter spoil her plans. Spotting a bank kiosk, she let the crowds sweep her in that direction, past throngs of chattering schoolchildren, wearied travellers, and untidy students.

No help for that, she thought. Even before she found a hotel, she needed to change money. She'd changed ten dollars in New York, but that would only buy her a cheap dinner.

A shadow crossed over her shoulder. A man brushed against her, then spoke. She ignored him, until he spoke again.

Sarah turned, shaded her eyes against the sunlight, too surprised at first to understand his fluid German.

Immediately, he smiled and said in English, "You will have a long wait, I fear. The lines for summer tourists..." Then his expression changed slightly. "Are you American? You could use dollars in most hotels, you know."

Again the instant recognition of her nationality. She bit her lip and did not answer.

The man continued to smile, undaunted. "However, if you do want to change money, you could take a streetcar to the town center. The banks there give a much better rate." He appeared to accept that she wanted his directions. "Take the number one streetcar to the Friederich-Ehebert-Platz," he said. "There you will see a Deutsche Bank on the corner. Not far. Do you have a ticket for the streetcar?"

Sarah kept her expression friendly but her eyes neutral, something she'd learned over the years. She deflected his questions politely, nodded or shrugged, until at last he departed.

She waited another moment. No stranger returned. With several more nervous glances, she threaded her way to the streetcar station. She boarded the number one, where she made a passable exchange of German with the conductor. "Sehr gut," he said when she gave him the correct change. He was grinning carelessly.

It rankled Sarah that the first man had spoken English, and that he'd known she was American. Some things never change, she thought again. When she had lived here before, she'd tried to escape her American identity, without success. Though she studied the accent and memorized pages of vocabulary, her face -- with her direct eyes and expressive lips -- betrayed her nationality even before she spoke. At best, she convinced a few shopkeepers she was English. For an American, her accent was good, they told her.

The loudspeaker announced a stop, interrupting her thoughts. "Stadt Bibliotek," she thought she heard the conductor say.

Two stops more, maybe three, until the bank. Reading the map, she noticed a few changes in the route. Perhaps it was better she'd accepted the man's directions.

Sarah watched the line of stores blur past as the streetcar sped through a long stretch without stops. Bahn, she thought. Strassenbahn, Eisenbahn. Variations of the word for train, the first word she'd learned in German. The streetcar's rhythm conspired with a ripe, August sun to rob her thoughts of clarity. She shook her head to disperse the cloud of sleep. Exhilaration alone had carried her from the airport to the train station in Heidelberg. There, she bought a newspaper and soda and felt remembrance slip beside her, whispering memories of ten years ago.

I want it to be different this time, she thought.

At the kiosk outside the station, she made hotel reservations, then lingered, drinking her warm soda and translating handwritten signs in a collection of languages. Most were from students traveling across Europe. She knew -- she'd been one.

"Friederich-Ehebert-Platz."

The streetcar stopped abruptly in the present. You will see the bank on the corner, near the Bismarkplatz. She remembered the man's clean English, spoken with an accent neither German nor American, and she wondered where he'd studied English.

Memory and language followed Sarah through the summer afternoon, from the bank where she changed money to the hotel by the train station, where she listened to the shriek of trains until sleep came to her at last. From sleep, she drifted into the unsheltered territory of dreams.

Dreaming, she walked the main street of Heidelberg, moving like a swimmer against the pulsing heat. Sunlight brushed her with sweat. Too hot, she thought, turning down to the river.

At the intersection of street with an alley, a man appeared. She decided, I'll start with him.

Sarah tapped the man's shoulder. "Fuck me," she said in cool and perfect English.

The man nodded as if he understood perfectly. He led her into the narrow alley, to a doorway littered with newspapers and cardboard boxes and the rich, lingering scent of decay. Sarah leaned against the door and raised her skirt. "Do it hard." She kept her voice level, only her lips trembled.

With a practiced motion, the man opened his pants and lifted a stiff organ to her naked sex. "Wet," he growled. "Oh yes."

He entered her smoothly. She stifled her cry, though a quick pulse of orgasm penetrated her body. She wouldn't cry out, not yet. "Fuck me harder," she said.

At her command, he slid her into a corner of the doorway and braced himself with one arm against the frame. His body moved in a steady, rising beat against her, as if he wanted to break through the barriers of her flesh. "Is this what you want?" His voice grated in her ear.

Short, scattered sensation broke through her orgasm -- the heavy musk of garbage, a sharp clatter of traffic from the upper streets, the chiming of bells from the nearby church. The only emotion she let herself feel was determination. At last, the man gave a tremendous thrust and strained against her, crushing her into the soft wooden frame, releasing his flood into her body and over her legs. Loosed from her waking prison, she cried out in pleasure.

A train whistle broke her dream.

Sarah bolted upright in bed. Oh god. Not again.

A trickle covered her thighs and fingers, a sharp, musky scent that collided with the bitter, salt sweat coating her lips. Through the open window, she heard the announcements of departing trains from the train yard below. Shaking violently, Sarah pulled a robe around herself and stumbled to the shower.

That's not what happened, she tried to remind herself. It's just a dream. I didn't do anything. Not this time. Still, she scrubbed her arms and legs, as if she'd lain for hours on a public street coupling with a stranger. I'm not like that, not really, she told herself and dressed quickly.

When at last she'd regained her composure, Sarah took the bus to the old quarter of town, to a small jazz club near the University Square. Sensing her fluency return, she hailed a waitress in German and ordered goulash and wine from the scant menu. The last, hazy sunlight of the day filtered through the smoky windows, illuminating the outer rooms of the club. On the tiny corner stage, a quartet adjusted the microphones and made other, tentative preparations for their performance. Afternoon tourists of several nationalities crowded the bar; Germans populated the tables, waiting for the evening show. Sarah tasted her wine and considered what to do next.

"Is the seat free?" A familiar voice, soft and clear, spoke behind her. In English, she realized, turning around.

The man from the train station pointed to the empty seat beside her. "May I sit here?"

Sarah remembered the custom that let strangers share a table. A list of German phrases, the legacy of a distant classroom, echoed through her mental speech. Out loud, she answered in English. "Of course."

He signaled to the waitress. "I heard you order," he said to Sarah. "Your German is quite excellent. Where did you study?"

"Here, at the university."

"Then you were an exchange student."

When the waitress arrived, he gave his order, quickly, and with a rich tone that skated effortlessly between the impersonal accent of pure High German and the myriad dialects of Southern Germany. It was Sarah's favorite accent, the one she had set as her goal ten years ago. In her mind, she found herself memorizing a new phrase he used, hearing it spoken in memory with his intonation.

And yet, even to her uncertain eye, he did not look German.

"Möchten Sie auch etwas zu trinken?" The waitress asked if he wanted something to drink.

"Ja, ich hätte gern ein Pilsner."

He ordered a beer, then turned back to Sarah. "So, you must tell me. Do you want that we speak German or English?"

"It's been ten years since I lived here. You might prefer my English."

He laughed. "I should be gallant and say you speak perfect German. But it's true -- I heard your hesitation. Though your mistakes are not many."

"Now I know you're not German."

His eyes were dark, almost black. "Why do you say that?" he asked quietly. Despite the music and the crowds, his voice carried to her.

"Every other German tells me how beautifully I speak their language. They must be surprised an American would know anything other than English."

"True. The Americans even walk with an accent. No," he said. "I was born in Germany, but I am not German."

The waitress returned, carrying his beer and her goulash. "Bitte schön."

Throughout her meal, the man kept silent, and Sarah assumed their conversation would not continue. No matter, she'd come for the music. Wrapped in the summer evening, she listened to the saxophone echo blue notes through the smoky room, and her mood lifted to serene. She'd ordered a second glass of wine when the man spoke to her again.

"Did you know I followed you here?"

Sarah held still at his words, her complacency gone. She thought quickly of the hundred ways she knew to end a conversation like this, but somehow her American methods seemed inadequate with this man. "Why?" she said at last.

"I have a proposal for you."

Despite the apprehension that chilled her, she kept her voice indifferent. "What's that?"

He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke toward the ceiling. "You are careful," he said, as if she hadn't spoken. "I noticed in the train station -- you didn't smile. You spoke very quietly. No up and down, no emotion. But you do this only when you feel danger. Is that not true?"

She tried to smile. "Why should I be afraid of you?"

"I did not say afraid, exactly. But you are, and because I'm a stranger." Casually, he tried to take her hand, but she snatched it away. "So, you don't allow touch."

"I don't touch people I don't know. Why did you follow me?"

"Because you are pretty -- black and white and pink." His eyes wandered over her face, and his mere glance felt intimate. "And you know the town. You aren't here to see the museums, the castles. You came here for memories. I would like to make these new ones for you."

He spoke as though he'd read her plan, imperfect and undecided, from her soul. She nervously placed her empty glass to one side and looked for the waitress. "Who are you?"

"Call me Jack. Jack of all trades." He delivered his answer in that perfect, flat accent.

Sarah glanced at him, then away from his dark, smoky eyes. "That's not your name."

"No, but it will do." This time, he caught her hand before she could avoid it. "You don't like me, I can see. You want to run away. Do you like only girls?"

"No." Her pulse answered the heat of his skin.

"Then why not? I'm good-looking, they tell me."

She laughed, shakily. "And they tell me I speak perfect German."

With his free hand, he ran light fingers along her arm, still holding her fast. "Yes," he agreed. "Sometimes, they wish to be nice. Perhaps they lie to me."

He was a mosaic of dark. His eyes, his hair were both painted with shadings of brown verging to black. His skin was a dusk deeper than tan, and his cheekbones that might have been German, but which were not, lifted to an angle that spoke of countries farther east.

"No," she admitted. "They don't lie."

"Then I tell you my plan." Still he stroked her arm, raising currents of warmth through her skin. "We leave here and go with the bus to the strassenbahn -- excuse me, the streetcar. We ride across the river and look at the moonlight. Perhaps you still don't like me. Then I leave. No problem." He called to the waitress. "Rechnung, bitte." He motioned that he would pay their bill.

A remnant of sanity clung to Sarah, despite his fascinating voice and beautiful eyes. But just a remnant. "Why should I go with you?"

Jack turned back to her. "Because I think you want to. Though perhaps you don't know why."

He could be Mephistopheles, she thought. The devil who trades in secret desires. He was right, she did want to go with him, despite the warnings from her rational self. Perhaps this was her plan after all. She stood to follow his challenge.

They took the bus from the University Square to the Bismarkplatz, then changed to a streetcar bound across the river. "Vorsicht bei der Abfahrt," called the conductor, ringing a bell. The streetcar staggered into motion, slowly at first as it rounded the corner of the Platz, pulling straighter and faster once it turned onto the road to the bridge. Sarah stood by the doors, watching the streetlights flash by, letting her body sway to the rhythm of the car. Bahn, she thought.

Jack stood close behind her. "I was not lying," he said. "I think you are very pretty." Gently, he kissed her bare shoulder.

She jumped. "Don't do that."

"Why not? I like to kiss pretty girls." Jack kissed her other shoulder. "Skin like silk and velvet," he whispered, grazing her cheek with his lips. Gently, he ran light fingers down her arms to cup her hands in his. Sarah shivered, remembering her dream. Oh yes, said the stranger...

"Bergstrasse," called the conductor. "Nächste Haltestelle."

"This is our stop," said Jack, pushing the button to signal the conductor. "From here, we can walk to the river."

When his lips abandoned her shoulders, she felt momentarily bereft.

For several blocks, they walked in silence past the rows of old-fashioned storefronts, yellowed plaster and red tiled roofs, broken here and there by the sheer glass window of a modern cafe. "You're an interesting girl," said Jack. "So timid. So careful. And yet, you decide to walk with me."

"Don't you want me here?" She kept a scant foot separate from him. Still in control, she thought.

"Very much. But I would like to know why you came back to Heidelberg."

"It's not important."

"Not quite true. I saw, also in the train station, you wanted something. That's why I followed you."

They'd reached the small plaza marking the bridge. Sarah walked past Jack to the stone pillars of the bridge. It was full evening, and moonlight cast strands of light over the rippling waters of the Neckar River. Along its bank, the dark mantle of a riverside park separated Heidelberg from its river. "I don't think you could possibly understand," she said, making her voice cold and distant.

"Of course not, since you will not talk about it. But I have a string of guesses. Did a man attack you? Is that why you are afraid of sex?"

She flinched. "I'm not afraid."

"Yes, you are. A blind man could see this. And yet you want it, very much."

The dark mongrel of Satan stood behind her, quoting the secret text of her life. Sudden anger twisted the words from her mouth. "How could you ever understand? I had a baby--"

She stopped her mouth with her hand, horrified she'd said what she never permitted herself even to think. She spun back to face Jack.

Jack lifted his chin, his eyebrows arching to make new shadows in the lamplight and waited for her to continue.

"No," she said. "I can't. I can't tell you."

He nodded as if he did understand, after all. "I have my own secret," he told her. "Not so big, perhaps, but I will tell you what you guessed earlier. My mother, she is German, but my father is from Turkey. My name I use in public is Jehan, but my real name, the one my father gave me, is Kemal. Please call me that if you like."

Small confessions eased the tension between them. Sarah leaned back against the stone pillars, listening to the calm wash of the river against the tiled shore. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Perhaps to say that I do understand." He hesitated. "Do you know the word Gastarbeiter? My father was one. It means guest worker, a very pleasant word you might think. And yet I have heard Germans, good Germans, shout that word as if it were a bomb that could explode my soul. I was born here, and yet I will always be outside the others. Like you."

A rivulet of breeze ran over Sarah's skin, stealing away her anger. "I had a plan," she whispered. "I came to make new memories. I thought, if I spent a week here, and nothing bad happened, then I could forget what happened before. I could go on with my life. Stupid, isn't it?"

"Not so very stupid. Can you tell me what happened?"

"I was young," she said. "Young and reckless. I met someone here -- another student -- and I wasn't careful. Not the first time, not any time we made love. When I found out I was pregnant, I went back to America." She spoke faster to let the words escape. "I gave the baby up for adoption. It was a little boy --" Her voice broke into tears. "I don't know where he is. It's not allowed."

For a moment, she pressed her hand against her mouth, kept her brimming eyes fixed on the ground, waiting for his reaction.

Kemal sighed. "A simple story. It cannot begin to describe the complications. I'm sorry for you."

Sarah wiped her eyes. "I don't know why I told you that. I must be crazy."

"It is the night. It makes the secrets harder to bear. And perhaps, you begin to trust me, a little." He stepped closer, to brush the hair from her face. "Cry a little. It will make you feel better."

She let the tears spill from her eyes, over her cheeks. "Call me Sarah. That's my name."

"Sarah." He spoke with quiet satisfaction. "A pretty name, for a pretty girl. But you are wrong, Sarah. You want to erase something with nothing. There are the days I think I should leave Germany, I should go to Ízmir, where my family now lives. And yet, I remember it is only some Germans who hate me, who would put me in a cage. I have friends here and memories I would not lose."

From the lamp and moonlight, Sarah saw the answering sheen of tears on Kemal's face. Astonishing. Her own grief dissolved at the sight. She stepped lightly to him and put her arms around his shoulders. "Kiss me," she whispered.

He brushed her lips softly, a light caress, as if he couldn't believe she let him. "I wanted to kiss you at the train station," he whispered. "So soft, so sweet. Like a dove." He marked each word with another kiss, each longer and more demanding, until he wrapped his arms around her and held her to his chest.

Sarah listened to the strong rhythm of his heart against her own. Her plans shifted to new patterns, and she realized they were simply a recognition of her desire. "Kemal," she whispered. "I want to make love to you."

"Sarah, Sarah... what are you saying?"

She started to tremble, this time in anticipation. "I want new memories. Good ones. Ones that make me smile."

Kemal kissed her forehead. "You might shatter, and what then? I don't want to hurt you. What about the last time? What about the baby?"

He wanted her to tell him his doubts were wrong -- she felt his own desire shimmering through his clothes. "I won't shatter," she said. "And we'll be careful, both of us. Kiss me again, Kemal. Once more, then we go."

"Yes, we must go."

Breathless, they rode the streetcar through the city to Sarah's hotel. Sarah clung to the pole by the door, letting the rattle of the car shudder through her body. Its muffled, clattering rhythm lifted the absence of years. Kemal pressed against her back, his arms wrapped around her waist, his cheek against her hair. Bahn.

Once at the hotel, Kemal went to the restaurant and returned with a bottle of wine. "Quickly, quickly" he said, as if she might change her mind. In her room, he kissed her greedily, tenderly, stopping just once to pour the wine. "Sarah," he whispered. "It's so good to be here. Are you certain? Are you afraid?"

"No, it's wonderful." She nearly sobbed.

"Hush. We've been too impatient. We have all night to kiss, make love, whatever." Kemal led her to the bed and gave her the wine. "Drink slowly, and remember this. Remember everything we do." Taking a drink from his own glass, Kemal set his lips to hers and let his wine pour into her mouth. The crisp, light wine calmed her. "You are delicious," he said. "I want to kiss more."

Anticipation ran taut throughout her body as he laid her across the bed. Slowly, Kemal parted her legs and kissed the back of her knee. "I like this very much. Do you, Sarah?" He lingered over the syllables of her name, then moved his lips over her skin, kissing first one knee then the other. Then his tongue skimmed her thigh. Sarah moaned.

"My poor, little girl. I but kiss you and you are coming."

"It's been so long."

"Yes, I know." He kissed her foot. Ran a staccato of kisses from her ankle, past her knee, under her skirt to her panties. "These must go." He lifted her bottom, slid her panties from her, and tenderly kissed her sex. "You are very, very wet," he observed.

Sarah moved as if to protest.

"No, I like this," he said. "I would like to think you are always wet. If not, I would like to make you so." He nuzzled her belly, then dropped his mouth over her sex. "A treasure."

Sarah felt as if they'd always been here, had always made love. She ran her hands over her breasts and down her body, to run wildly through Kemal's hair. "You're beautiful," she said. "I can hardly believe it."

"Tell me a story, Sarah, while I feast on your body."

Her tears threatened to return. She ordered them away, but said, "All my stories are sad ones."

"Then tell me a sad one, and we will try to make it better."

Maybe we can, she thought. Sarah picked the first story, the oldest one of her life.

"When I was ten years old," she said. "I read a story about a little girl who slept without her pajamas, so I decided to try this myself. It was wonderful -- the sheets were like a great, cool hand laid over my body. I'd never felt anything like it. I wanted to laugh, and I think I did, but suddenly, my mother opened the door to my room. She pulled the covers away and shouted, 'What are you doing?'" Sarah curled a lock of Kemal's hair around her finger. Kemal's slow, tender kisses spread a warmth through her belly.

"She told me I'd been wicked -- she used that word, wicked -- and she told me never to do that again. But three years later, when I was thirteen, I dreamed I stood at my window, watching a boy who stood in the street. In my dream, I lifted my nightgown over my head and stood there naked, hoping the boy would see me.

"He did. He turned around and looked at me with very serious eyes. I felt cold, then hot. I didn't do anything else, I just stood there, knowing he could see my breasts."

Softly, Kemal drew a line of kisses down her thigh. He crossed to the other leg, traveled back to her sex, up to her belly. "I love this part of you," he murmured.

"I had this dream again and again," she continued. "Each time in a different place, each dream more exotic and daring than the last. One time, I was standing in a room with floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, on the sidewalk, people passed by, looking at me. This time, I pretended I didn't know they could see through the glass. I undressed very slowly, making certain I kept my eyes to the floor. I walked from one side of the room to the other, as if I were looking for something. I felt their eyes on me, but I pretended to be indifferent."

"You didn't want responsibility."

"That's right. I wanted to be wicked, but I didn't want to be punished. I thought, if I were like a picture, they couldn't blame me."

"And who are they, Sarah?"

"People. I don't know."

"People like your mother?"

"I guess."

"Do you still believe you are wicked?"

"Sometimes."

Kemal lay his head on her belly and drew caressing circles over her skin with his fingertips, kissing the silver web of scars that marked her pregnancy. "When you had the baby, did you feel wicked then?"

"I felt -- oh god, I felt a thousand different things, all miserable -- but yes, I felt wicked. As if God had punished me for taking pleasure."

She felt the warm pressure of Kemal's head, and the rumbling of his chest when he spoke. "Americans are ashamed of so much," he said. "All day long, they scream sex, sex, sex. And yet, they are afraid when someone notices. Sarah, there is no god in heaven that would call pleasure wicked. Only the unhappy do this, when they try to deny others what they dare not feel." He ran his tongue over the lips of her sex, easily recalling the warmth of her first excitement. "Listen," he kissed her shuddering belly. "It is now almost nine-thirty. The next train comes from Frankfurt. It will have at least a hundred passengers -- I know this. I want to make you scream from pleasure." He pressed a kiss inside her thigh. "I want everyone to hear."

Sarah's resistance faded with each kiss. Her throat hurt now, and she was panting quickly. Kemal covered her sex with his mouth and sucked. "You are delectable." He slid hands over her hips to her waist, driving his mouth against her. The edge of teeth tickled her, then his tongue, thick and firm, reached inside.

"I'm coming..." Her throat opened in relief. She wanted to ask him where he'd learned this. Each caress was practiced, as if he'd studied her for years. Then, he pointed his tongue deeper, and she couldn't think anymore. "Fuck me," she cried. "Oh, please fuck me."

"Not now. Not yet."

Through the window, a thin, rising whistle announced the approaching train. Hundreds of people, she thought. Listening to me scream in pleasure.

"You are coming again," said Kemal.

"I haven't stopped. Lick me faster."

He obeyed, with an expertise that nearly frightened her. Now she couldn't hold it back. The moan rose from her belly to her chest, traveling through her aching throat to burst out, savage and incoherent, until she lost the ability to speak and could only howl. Dimly, through the window, she heard the train pull to a stop, its brakes shrieking against the rails.

"Sarah, Sarah..." Kemal chanted her name like a song he'd just discovered.

"Don't stop, Kemal. Please don't stop."

"Dear Sarah, we've just begun to make love..."