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A cool breeze flows through the alleyway, gooseflesh popping on Martin’s hands. He burrows them further into his coat as he marches forward, head down, ignoring the catcalls of the men he passes. They will have to do more than flirt with him in the dark to earn his affection.
Die Kurvenreich Strasse comes into view as he emerges onto the main road. Warm, red lights shine from its windows, beckoning all who pass into its depths. Martin crosses and pushes the doors open, smiling at the sight of its already-drunk inhabitants.
“Martin, darling, how nice of you to join us!” calls Herr Fritz from the bar, flashing a dazzling smile his way. “Come, come.”
“My apologies, sir, I was held up,” he says, but the colorful man merely waves a casual hand.
“No worries, no worries. Your fans were the only ones disappointed by your absence this evening.”
“I’ll make it up to them,” says Martin. He wiggles his eyebrows a little. “Wouldn’t want to lose my dedicated men.”
Herr Fritz lets out a bark of a laugh. “Of course not. Go enjoy yourself, love, I’m sure someone will want your help even off the clock.”
Martin accepts the glass held out to him - of what, he isn’t sure - and he sits down at a small two top near the back. It’s getting late, nearing 11, and the crowd has become much wilder in their activities. The band blasts out familiar songs, the crowd whirling about in splashes of color and sparkles.
He waves his scarf at some men who catch his eye, and at Helga, one of his closest friends. Minutes tick by, and he lets them, not eager to join in conversation or dance with anyone this eve. He sips the cocktail of rum and fuck knows what else as he quietly observes the room, eyes watchful.
Despite the power of observation, Martin startles when a gentle voice asks from beside him,
“What brings a lad like you to a place like this?”
The face that greets him is unfamiliar: pale with dark eyes, framed by some age lines, deep brown curls and a kind, soft smile. He’s taller than Martin, but not by much, and he’s clearly older; not that age has any real meaning to anyone in attendance on a Friday night. If he were wearing anything other than the red dress and elegant faux pearl necklace, Martin might’ve responded with that exact question.
“Reinhold Gräf,” the man holds out a gloved hand; Martin accepts it.
“Martin Schelling,” he says. “I’d remember a figure like yours. Why’ve I never seen you here before?”
“Oh, I’ve not frequented Fritz’s establishment for a while,” Gräf lets out a quiet chuckle.
“May I?”
“Yes, of course,” Martin nods to the seat beside him.
There is a fatigue hidden in Reinhold’s eyes, but he seems content despite his evident exhaustion. It’s a familiar bone-tiredness, the weight of reality, one Martin tries to shrug off while he still can. Every year it gets harder to avoid shouldering the weight of maturity, of course, and it appears Reinhold Gräf has given up slipping past it.
“How old are you, Martin?” The man asks, rather straightforwardly, as he lifts his glass of scotch to his lips.
Martin takes a moment to look at the mob of moving bodies in front of them before he responds.
“Eighteen. Nineteen next month,” he says, then looks back at Gräf carefully. “Do you - if Ritz set you up I can… we can move. I’m on my night off, but I’m willing to be flexible for extra pay.”
The man lets out a laugh, eyes widening slightly, “No, no nothing of the sort. I don’t come to this side of town much anymore, not for that, leastways. I’ve got my own person at home to keep the bed warm.”
Something twists in Martin’s chest at the idea of having someone to share his life with. Certainly Gräf seems old enough that such a relationship is to be expected, but still; Martin misses having family.
He realizes he’s been staring at the other far longer than is polite and looks away quickly, staring at the dark polished wood before him. He is surprised when he tries to take a sip of his drink and finds it empty. A light buzz of alcohol warms his veins, but not enough to make a difference in Martin’s demeanor.
“Have you worked here for a long time?” Gräf asks, interrupting the silence that spreads between them.
“A few months. I’m paying my way through nursing school at the Charite,” he replies, and decides Gräf doesn’t deserve to have all the answers this very minute. He fixes his gaze on the man once more, straightening a little in his seat. “And you? Where do you work now that you no longer work for Herr Fritz?”
“Nursing school is a noble cause,” says Gräf. “I’m a photographer for the forensic unit at the Berlin police department. Before that I was fortunate enough to be picked off the street by my mentor, one might say I worked here far too long.”
The photographer pulls out a packet and offers a cigarette, which Martin accepts. If the man doesn’t want sex, Martin can’t imagine what he actually wants. Most older men do not speak to him unless they have a price to name. This particular man is so gracious and so clearly an expert at his craft, Martin doesn’t understand how he, a bystander not even dressed to the nines, could garner such attention.
He inhales smoke, flicking the ashes into a little tray and watches Gräf cautiously still. There has to be a catch.
“You needn’t look at me like that,” Gräf smiles a little. “I’m not here to take advantage of you nor do I wish to try and convince you to ‘fix your ways’. I know what it feels like.”
Martin was fairly certain he didn’t. Any man with another at home and a job that they simply received in a miraculous turn of events doesn’t know the absolute shit he’s endured, probably couldn’t imagine it. He knows the disillusion shows on his face.
“I promise I know, Martin Schelling.”
“I’m supposed to simply take your word?”
Gräf looks around and leans in conspiratorially to whisper, “I was given the title The Grasshopper at the ripe age of 16. I performed on that stage and many others like it. I sold myself to whoever would take me, just for a chance at escaping, whether through drugs, sex or both. I’m familiar with the nightlife of Berlin, Schelling. Why else would I dress as I do? You don’t become talented at beauty without experience.”
When he leans away once more, Martin exhales and nods. He supposes that Reinhold Gräf is telling the truth. Resenting someone so accustomed to this world is damn hard, considering so few can speak to the experiences held within it.
“I was fortunate that I could rebuild my life and my entire persona. I think you’ll find it a little easier if you’ve already got nursing school in your pocket,” Gräf leans back in his chair again.
“So why speak to me at all?” he asks, still confused as to Gräf’s intentions.
“Out of curiosity, I suppose. Would you rather I sit far away and leave you seated alone? I suppose I ought to have figured you weren’t working tonight.”
“No, that’s - that’s alright,” Martin shakes his head. “I don’t mind the company, I suppose. I’m just…”
“Not used to being seen as something other than a commodity?” Gräf raises a brow.
“I suppose not,” he says, sighing heavily.
Something passes between them then. A feeling of commonality, of understanding, and Martin is grateful he wasn’t left to sit and wallow all evening by himself. By some chance this stranger arrived to make the evening bearable.
He looks out at the sweaty crowd again. A familiar singer has joined the band onstage, cooing gently into the microphone, wearing multicolored feathers and sequins. Madame Francine is a beloved member of the community, and Fritz books her constantly. Martin smiles when he briefly catches her eye from afar.
At the same time, he catches the eye of a server and waves the man over.
“Can I have an Apfel Saeur, please?” he asks. The man nods, then looks at Gräf.
“I’m quite alright, thank you,” says the older man.
When the server disappears, Martin turns back to Gräf. Those brown eyes are taking a turn at surveying the atmosphere.
“What brought you out tonight?” he asks.
“Oh… Fred had a work meeting, I needed to get out of the house on non-work related business, and I wasn’t in the mood for joining a friend. I don’t usually come to this particular side of town,” says Gräf. “But Fritz asked me a while back for a visit and offered me a drink on the house, so here I am.”
Gräf gives a little shake of his shoulders at the last word, taking a drag from his cigarette as he watches Martin.
The server returns with his cocktail and Martin takes several gulps from the tumbler to cool his nerves a bit. They may have reached a common ground, but he still feels more anxious and in awe of this man than he ever has around any client, and drowning his nerves seems the best course of action.
The music changes tempo again, far more upbeat, trumpets blasting staccato and sending the dance floor into a frenzy. Martin looks at the bodies, then back to Gräf. Nearly swallowing the rest of his drink, he grabs the bull by the horns and takes a calculated risk.
“Well, I suppose we could make the night a little more entertaining?” he proposes. Gräf smiles widely.
“Are you asking me for a dance, Herr Schelling?”
“I do believe I am, Frauline Gräf,” he smiles, extending a hand.
They float away from the table to the floor. Martin isn’t a particularly talented dancer, but he does his best as the other man takes his hands and begins to move in time to the beat. It’s at best a flail - but that’s what every man he’s ever danced with has to be content with, and Gräf seems to be no exception.
It’s nice to spin about, to land in Gräf’s arms, to breathe so close to someone with the knowledge that there are no strings attached. No expectations about the future are held inside either of their bodies. Martin finds he can let go of his typical cynicism, of his nerves, laughing as Gräf attempts a particularly daring spin and jump sequence, the dress affecting his movements. In return, Martin also provides a spin and jump in one movement instead of separate.
When the music slows, they slow as well, sweat pouring off their bodies. Martin falls in line with Gräf’s stranger, almost modern dance-like movements, arms and faces and legs twitching this way and that. It is freeing, a joyful celebration of the ability of their bodies to do as they please. Age difference or not, Martin revels in the grace that the man before him carries.
He also marvels in his own ability to take on such strange expressions, strange sequences that he would never have experimented with otherwise.
For a few minutes it feels as though they are the only ones on the floor, the only ones flailing limbs up and down. Martin closes his eyes against the bright, swaying lights a few times, and at one point, he allows himself to fall into Gräf’s hold and is moved back and forth, those gloved arms wrapped around his waist.
“Do you think,” he asks, as they sway, “Do you think that I’ll ever be this free again?”
It’s one of those silly thoughts brought on by drinking. Gräf doesn’t seem to resist the question or its origins, lowering his mouth so he is nearer to Martin’s ear.
“I think you’re more free now than you believe,” he says. “Looking back on my days working in this district, I’ve come to think that despite the suffering, I became something more because of it, not in spite of it.”
And despite all of Martin’s earlier inhibitions, and his general mistrust of those around him, he knows Gräf tells the truth.
When they finally peel off one another and leave the dance floor, returning to the table in the corner that is - luckily - still empty, Martin takes his seat and smiles at Gräf through his exhaustion. The older man stirs what is left of his drink, eyes gentle when he returns Martin’s gaze. As they sit, catching their breath, the band announces they will be going on a twenty minute break.
“Thank you,” he says, to break the quiet that falls over the room. “For indulging me.”
“I should thank you instead,” Gräf chuckles. “It’s been too long since I let myself loose surrounded by people such as yourself.”
“Do you often go dancing by yourself?” He asks, smirking.
“I often go dancing with women who are spoken for.” Gräf winks in return.
Martin laughs at the thought of Gräf, dressed as he is now, dancing with some lady friend to the immense dissatisfaction of some man in a suit watching from afar. They lapse into another silence.
Chatter fills the club that no longer echoes with brass instruments and sonoric voices. A figure moves toward their table, laying a sweaty hand on Martin’s wrist.
“You care to join a lady at the bar, or are you busy, darling?” Wally, one of Martin’s many friends, blinks down at him with that dazzling smile and golden powdered nose.
“He can join you,” says Gräf, and Wally’s eyes fall on the man actually at the table.
“Oh, I wouldn’t deprive you of his wit,” Wally says.
“Wally,” Martin intones.
“Hush, you crank, I’m making friends with this new face. What’s your name, love?”
“Gräf, but you can call me Gertrude if you’d like,” Gräf winks at Wally, holding out a wrist. Martin swallows an audible groan, caught on the name.
“Well, Gertrude, I won’t continue to impede your time with Schelling here, but don’t let him take you all the way tonight. Take my word for it, he’s got no bedside manner,” replies Wally, brown eyes sparkling, orange hair ablaze in the light.
“I’ll be careful,” Gräf says. “I wouldn’t let any man take advantage of me, leastways this one.”
Wally laughs, squeezes Martin’s wrist once more, and waves goodbye, tottering away on his six inch heels and disappearing in the crowd. Martin watches him go before turning back to roll his eyes at Gräf.
“Gertrude?”
“That’s what you got out of that? My alias?” Gräf smiles.
“Wally’s an ass,” Martin says, as if that explains anything. He tries and fails to hide his own smile.
“An ass with manners,” Gräf shrugs. “He knows an old spinster when he sees one.”
“I’m sure your Fred wouldn’t be pleased to hear you call yourself a spinster.”
“Gertrude is an old spinster. Reinhold Gräf has established a life-long companion.”
Martin snorts, laying his forehead against the cool surface of the table as they both break into what he can only call giggles. Perhaps it’s the alcohol, or the excess energy from the dancing; he’s not sure, but he knows he feels incredibly comfortable and oddly cared for under the watchful eyes of Reinhold Gräf.
He hasn’t felt this way about a guardian figure since he was very young. Actual tears pop into the corners of his eyes at the thought, and he hurriedly pushes them back. Fuck, he must be drunk. What the hell had Fritz put in that first glass?
“Speaking of the bar, do you need anything?” Gräf offers.
Martin lifts his head, shakes it. “I think I need about a month of sleep and some coffee tomorrow when I wake up. Fritz is going to lose his goddamn head if I’m too exhausted or hungover for work.”
“Here,” Gräf says, pushing a glass of water towards him. “Drink up.”
The glass’ origins do not come to Martin as he chugs it, but he’s grateful for its existence nonetheless. Behind the dance floor, the band begins a swinging tune once more, clapping overtaking the voices of their beloved audience.
“But should I call you Gertrude?” he asks, this time looking Gräf directly in the eyes.
“Only if you want. Most who knew me before this,” the man waves his hand about as if to imply everything, “Don’t exist in this scene anymore. Gertrude la Rouge is more of a legend than anything else.”
“I think she’s a delightful dancer, regardless of her mythic qualities,” he says.
“Ah,” Reinhold says. “Thank you.”
Martin pushes himself off the stool and stretches, yawning expansively. He’s not sure where he will float to next: whether he should return to the dance floor or go home. The man in the red dress - Gertrude la Rouge - watches him carefully.
“Would you like an escort this evening?” asks Gräf.
“I’m… I can make it. It’s about a block from here,” he says.
“Well, in that case, I’ll take my leave.”
“Going so early?”
“A spinster knows exactly when to retire,” Gräf replies, eyes twinkling as he stands. “If you ever need anything, please, ask for me. I’m known to work sporadic hours, but a message can always be left. Fritz has my information.”
“Thank you,” Martin says, and he’s a little shocked to find he truly means it.
“Of course, darling. I wish you safe travels home tonight, and fantastic luck with your schooling.”
Gräf raises a hand for Martin to kiss farewell.
“Goodnight!” he calls as the man disappears into the crowd that flows with the drums.
Before he can say or do anything else, Helga appears at his side, eyes wide. Martin turns to look at her red, sweaty face.
“Who was that?” she asks.
Martin sees a last bit of red fade out of sight. He smiles.
“A guardian angel, of a type.”