The Other Me (13 page)

The newspaper on the table at the club screams
Germany, Defend Yourself!

We gather in a group around Winkler. He holds up the paper with both hands and shakes it at us.

‘You see,’ he shouts. ‘You see what the filthy Jews are doing to our great country?’ His mouth twitches as he glares at us. ‘They dare to spread lies. Propaganda. Because of their dirty slander, we face a world-wide economic boycott.’

He puts the paper on the table, smoothing its rumpled pages. ‘Now, what do you think our response should be?’

‘Smash up their things!’ Anton Vogel yells.

‘Tear their ugly asses apart!’ Karl Ludwig bangs his fist on the table.

I glance at the portrait of the Führer. He seems pleased. Winkler holds up a hand. ‘Good. Very good. The Fatherland won’t stand for this. We will boycott all Jewish firms. All their shops. And you will play an important part in this.’

Winkler hands us paper and pots of paint. Splashing black and red on our hands, we laugh and bite the ends of our paintbrushes as we discuss what to say. We write
DO NOT BUY FROM JEWS!!
And
WORLD JEWRY IS OUT TO DESTROY US
. Winkler writes one of his own:
PERISH JUDAH!
in big letters. As we leave the club house with our freshly painted signs, we hear the sound of smashing glass. There are lots of shops in town owned by Jews. The chemist and the ironmonger are the first that we come to. We’d intended to stick our posters up on their walls, perhaps throw a stone through their windows, but a truckload of Storm Troopers have beaten us to it.

They’ve shattered the windows of the ironmonger. Boxes of nails, bowls, spades and forks lie across the pavement; the door sags off its hinges. Glass glints across the pavement. People are picking things up and walking off with them under their arms. I see Herr Peters from the post office carrying a spade back to his shop. We are open-mouthed, watching the men in their brown uniforms, guns at their sides, as they smash every window in the chemist with truncheons. The glass cracks; panes fall, crashing and tinkling onto the road. I have a hard lump in my chest. The violent destruction makes me afraid and excited. And I feel sorry for Herr Engel and his wife. I’d carried a parcel for her once and she’d given me two Reichsmarks. The SA push inside the shop; we hear crashing and thumping, and armfuls of soap come flying into the street. Bottles and tins bounce and shatter over the pavement. It is over in minutes. They are back in the truck, engine roaring.

‘That’s how it’s done!’ Winkler is shouting. ‘Fast. Furious. That’s the way we take revenge in Germany.’

People stand outside and peer from doorways. Nobody says anything. Karl squats down and begins to pick out pieces of candy from the broken glass. Other boys copy him. Otto finds a tin of talc and shakes it with big extravagant sweeps, the white powder making a billowing cloud in the air. I smell the sweetness of lavender. It mixes with other scents: peppermint, ammonia. I shuffle my feet through shards of glass, powder, puddles of coloured liquids. An unbroken bottle of camphor rolls across the pavement. I kick a round tin. It has ‘ointment’ written on the lid. Then I stoop to rescue a bar of soap wrapped in purple paper. I put it to my nose and inhale. Violets. I rub my thumb across the flowery packaging and think of Sarah. Perhaps she’d like soap like this. But then I remember, and drop it.

KLAUDIA

1996, London

February

I took a train from East Croydon to Victoria, then hopped on the Tube for one stop. It didn’t take long, but Brixton feels like a different part of London. This is the real thing: the edgy, urban bustle and grime of a city.

There will be all sorts of possibilities here, I tell myself as I emerge from the steps of the Underground, jostled by a crowd of hurrying commuters. But as I trudge up and down the high street, going in and out of countless shops and restaurants asking for work, I begin to realise that getting a job isn’t going to be easy. I leave copies of my CV with uninterested managers, even though I’m sure I’ll never hear from them. My feet ache; I’m hungry and thirsty; I wish I could have a cup of tea or coffee, but I can’t afford it.

The spicy smell from a Caribbean fast-food shop makes my stomach rumble. I go past a dusty-looking second-hand bookshop, thinking that I might come back later to browse. There are a couple of men leaning up against the wall of a hairdressing salon, cans of lager in their hands. I feel them slide their attention towards me. One of them winks. I hurry on, my fingers plucking at the red beret that Meg gave me for Christmas, covering the stripe of blonde that flares from my scalp.

I hear a low wolf-whistle behind me, and square my shoulders, feeling hounded. My eyes scan the shop fronts, and I turn my head left and right, searching for a burlesque club. I’ve been looking for it since I emerged out of the Tube station. It’s the real reason I’ve come to Brixton. I want to find the club that Cosmo told me about. Because even if I just stand outside and stare through the window, I can have a moment of feeling connected to him.

A sign hangs outside the next building. Ornate letters read:
The Smokey Quartz
. Underneath it says:
Burlesque Club – open 8 p.m.–12.
I stop, biting my lip, suddenly nervous. Curiosity pushes me to edge closer. It’ll be closed now, but the door is ajar and I want to peer inside, knowing that Cosmo has been here; that he’s entered that doorway, looked at the same things I’ll look at.

Fingers tap my arm.

The touch makes me jump and I spin round expecting to find myself confronting one of the lager drinkers. But it’s him. I stare. I think my mouth actually drops open. The slide from daydream into reality makes me feel as though I’ve fallen through a gap in time.

‘Eliza,’ Cosmo says. His face is tight. ‘Where the hell have you been?’

We stare at each other. I want to fling my arms around his neck. But I’m not Eliza anymore. I drop my eyes. Stare at his shoes. His old trainers, battered, familiar. My heart aches. An instinct to run starts up inside me, to run as fast as I can from his wounded expression, his need for explanations. I remain on the pavement, frozen.

‘I’m sorry.’ My voice is small. ‘I’m so sorry.’ My mind is struggling to find a reason. I offer him a half-truth. ‘Something happened. There’s been an accident…’

He steps closer, his expression softening.

‘A relative,’ I stumble, searching for words. ‘An… aunt. She died suddenly, and I’ve had to drop everything to come to London and look after… my uncle.’

‘You couldn’t have told me?’

I shake my head. ‘It was a shock. I wasn’t thinking. It happened so quickly.’

‘Eliza. It’s been weeks…’ he looks puzzled. Then he sees my face and sighs, pulls me close. ‘And that note you sent was so cryptic. You told me not to worry – but it made me insane with worry. I’ve been searching for you everywhere. Nobody had a telephone number for you. Not the cafe where you worked, or the dance studio. You didn’t leave Meg’s details in Paris. Lucy said you’d paid off the rent without giving a forwarding address. She gave me Meg’s number, but when I got through to her, you’d already left. Then I noticed that the postmark on the envelope you sent was from London.’

The postmark. I hadn’t thought. I nod into the weave of his jacket. I smell washing powder, city grit, lingering traces of old aromas caught in the wool. A tear slides down my cheek.

‘What are you doing in Brixton?’ he murmurs above my head. ‘Were you coming to the club?’

‘I’m looking for work,’ I manage. ‘A waitress or something. I didn’t know you’d be here,’ I add, hearing even as the words emerge, that it’s a silly thing to say.

‘Come inside,’ he takes my arm. ‘I’ll introduce you to Josh. Maybe he’s hiring.’

I blink as we enter a dim room. My heart is beating fast. Cosmo is still holding my arm as if he’s arresting me. Chairs are piled on tables. A radio plays on the surface of a bar. The place is deserted. It’s obviously closed. I start to feel relieved. Then a man straightens up from behind the bar.

‘Hey, buddy!’ he calls out in an American accent. He clasps Cosmo’s hand and claps him on the back simultaneously. ‘This is so cool, man.’

Cosmo has let go of me to greet the American. He turns back to me. ‘Josh. Meet Eliza. Remember, I told you about her… from Leeds.’

Josh leans across the bar to shake my hand. His grip is firm. ‘So… you’re Eliza, huh?’ he grins.

There is a fluttering in my chest. I should say something. I should tell them that Eliza isn’t my name. But that would sound crazy. And it would make Cosmo look ridiculous. I open my mouth and close it again.

‘Eliza is looking for work,’ Cosmo says. ‘Anything going? She’s very experienced at bar work. And a great dancer. She’d be an asset.’

‘Really?’ Josh looks at me. ‘Ever danced on a burlesque stage?’

‘Oh, no,’ I say quickly. ‘It was… bar work that I was looking for.’

Josh rubs his chin. ‘As a matter of fact we could do with some more help. Business is picking up. If you’re a friend of Cos’, that’s good enough for me.’ He smiles. ‘Can you start tomorrow?’

Cosmo turns to me with an expectant look.

Things are moving too fast. My head spins. I feel the need to hold on to something solid. There is nothing. Instead I wrap my arms around myself. Working here would be an impossible situation. I can’t accept. I clear my throat, opening my mouth, the word ‘no’ ready on my tongue.

‘Thanks,’ I say instead, my voice cracking.

‘Fantastic, Eliza.’ Josh grins. ‘What’s your surname?’

I moisten my lips. ‘Bennet,’ I tell them. ‘Eliza Bennet.’

I’ve stumbled further into the deception. I can’t see a way back now.

‘Welcome to the mad house,’ Josh says.

I make myself look him in the eye; and I wonder if I will ever be able to stop lying.

‘Just a minute,’ Cosmo tells me. ‘Do you mind waiting? I need a quick word with Josh; then can we grab a cup of tea or something?’ He puts his hand on my arm. ‘Don’t go anywhere.’

They disappear into a back room behind a velvet curtain. My heart beats faster. I twist my head, staring around the empty room. I could escape. If I walked out of the door, I’d never have to see Cosmo again. I’d be free of my lie. I could go back to being Klaudia.

The radio continues to spew out a tinny dance tune. It crackles into a jingle for the station. I don’t go. My feet are heavy, immovable. I can’t leave him.

I stare at the dusty folds of velvet curtain and wonder what they have to discuss in private. The place is scruffy in this light. I can see scratches on the floor, and the rolled up backdrops on the stage have frayed edges. But I guess at night, when the pink lampshades are lit and the mirror ball is turning, the room will be filled with a warm glow. The shabbiness will be transformed into something glamorous, mysterious.

A tall girl with flaming hair strides in through the door. She is wearing Lurex leg warmers and black tights under the swing of a long green coat. She pushes a tendril of curling hair back from her face and gives me a quizzical look.

‘Can I help you? We’re closed.’

‘Oh. I’m… I’m Eliza.’ I say. ‘The new bar staff.’

‘About time.’ She purses her lips and looks me up and down. ‘I’m Scarlett.’ She nods towards the stage. ‘The dancer in this joint. But Josh has had
me
working behind the bar.’ Her eyebrows shoot up, and she widens her eyes. ‘That didn’t go down so well with yours truly. I’m glad he’s seen sense and hired you.’ She also has an American accent. But hers is Southern slow. ‘I’ll be seeing you around, Eliza.’

She disappears through another door as Cosmo reappears through the velvet drapes like a magician in a show.

He says he knows of a good greasy spoon nearby. We take a shortcut through the market. Stalls of fruit and vegetables line the street under the railway arches. There are yams and plantains among shiny mounds of oranges and apples. ‘Two for a pound!’ a man shouts.

‘Come and ’av a look,’ calls a woman. Her weather-scorched face is folded in on itself, like a screwed-up wrapper. She must be ancient, but she is alive, stamping her feet, the scent of oranges on her fingers. The woman hunches into her anorak and winks at me.

‘You’re very quiet.’ Cosmo looks into my face. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes,’ I straighten my spine, putting my chin up. ‘I’m fine.’

‘What an idiot.’ He smacks a hand to his head. ‘Of course you’re not fine. I’m sorry. You must have been through hell. I wish I’d known. When you didn’t show up at the house… I didn’t know what to think. I was kicking myself for not asking you for Meg’s number. I had no idea how to reach you. I’m not going to let you do that to me again.’

His arm slides around my shoulders, holding me tight against his side. Our footsteps find their rhythm. Usually I’d slip my hand in the back pocket of his jeans, or curl it around his waist. Instead my arm hangs awkwardly, getting in the way.

‘Has it been awful?’ he asks softly.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

We pass a wig shop. The window is a rainbow of crimson, yellow, blue and silver; curly, afro, pixie, straight and long are displayed on top of a small army of faceless, bodyless heads. The pawnbroker’s glitters with silver rings and gold watches. At the end of the street there’s a halal butcher; carcasses hang on hooks above trays of pink mince. I hold my breath against the sweet, bloody smell.

The cafe is packed with men in overalls and fluorescent jackets, thick with the aroma of fried food. We find a corner table and sink into it across from each other. The window is cloudy with steam. A waitress with bleached hair and a nose ring takes our order: tea for two and a full English for Cosmo.

‘Are you… staying with your family?’ I ask quickly. Hoping to deflect his questions by getting my own in first.

‘No. They’re not too happy with me at the moment. There’s another reason that I’m in London. Josh has commissioned me to paint a mural in the club.’

‘A mural?’ I frown. ‘What about your course?’ I pause while the waitress puts a teapot between us, and a plate in front of Cosmo.