The game proceeded in silence. High with wine, Taylor made reckless moves that Brokmeyer failed to take advantage of. Brokmeyer was erratic, both brilliant and stupid. By late afternoon, it was evident that the game was headed for a stalemate.
“We could leave the pieces in place,” Taylor suggested, “and finish later.”
But even as he spoke, Brokmeyer was sweeping his hand across the board, piling up the pieces in the center. “Another time,” he said. “Not a hassle.”
* * *
That evening, while Taylor and Francine sat quietly in the kitchen, Brokmeyer went into the parlor and made a series of abrupt phone calls. It felt odd to Taylor to hear German in the house. He had become used to Brokmeyer’s English, then Francine’s French. Now German words flew into the hallway like strange and noisy birds, landing loudly in the kitchen.
Taylor looked at Francine and shrugged, which for some reason made her smile.
Her green eyes were set, somewhat sadly, above high cheekbones, her lips as red as the apples in the basket before her. But despite an afternoon in the sun, her skin remained pale. The knot in her blouse had loosened, and as she folded her arms across her chest, her breasts pushed into view.
“T’as faim?” she asked Taylor.
“Non. Not for food. Not for food.”
“Quoi?”
“Rien.”
Francine ran her finger around the rim of the apple basket. “Ervin,” she said, “Est-il ton ami?”
“Oui. Pourquoi?”
“Je ne sais pas.”
“Qu’est-ce qu’il y a, Francine?”
“Rien, rien.”
Brokmeyer appeared in the kitchen doorway, grinning widely. “We are going to make a party,” he announced.
“Now?”
“No—on Wednesday night. I have talked to my friend Hans. His sister has met a girl from England who is now an au pair in Bielefeld. Her name is June. She is free on Wednesday and we will make a party here. You can have a girl now, too.”
“The more the merrier.”
“Qu’est-ce qu’il at dit?”
“Une petite fête. Ici. Mercredi soir.”
Francine was buttoning her blouse. “Ah, bon.”
* * *
Towards noon on Tuesday Brokmeyer and Francine discovered that the cigarette machines had been rifled. The glass fronts were smashed, the cigarettes taken, the coin boxes removed with an acetylene torch.
Brokmeyer was rabid. He called the police, swept up the glass, and drove Francine back to the house. Taylor was sitting in the garden, taking the sun, a bottle of wine beside him in the grass.
“I must go to the police station and make reports,” Brokmeyer said. “And then to the insurance company. I will find you later. You must stay with Francine.”
Brokmeyer wasn’t at the house for more than a minute, just long enough to deposit Francine, and then he was gone again.
Taylor got up from the lawn chair slowly, squinting into the sun. The wine encouraged him. “Promenade?”
Francine had been standing aside, on the periphery of Brokmeyer’s anger. “Oui,” she answered. “Très bien.”
Leading the way across town, Taylor found the castle, where they spent the afternoon. Later, they caught a bus to the Studiker. Then, after a pitcher of beer, Taylor called the house. No one was home. He ordered another pitcher and called again. Brokmeyer had just returned. He drove to the Stukider to join them, still angry, talking loudly of the robbery.
“Tomorrow I must meet with the distributor,” he said. “I do not know when they
can bring the new machines. First the insurance must be settled.”
“Let’s talk about the party,” Taylor suggested. “Tomorrow is Wednesday already.”
* * *
A small lamp with a red party bulb glowed weakly from an end table by the couch. The stereo was too loud. A coaster rattled on the speaker.
Brokmeyer, Taylor, Francine and June were sitting on the floor, an empty wine bottle in the center of their circle. Brokmeyer spun it and it pointed at Taylor. Francine laughed and poured some beer into a shot glass. Taylor took it and chugged.
June looked a little worried. “We’ll all get quite inebriated, actually, if we keep on with this sort of thing.”
Taylor laughed and spun the bottle. It pointed at Brokmeyer, who had a shot glass and was chugging scotch. He threw back his head, knocked back the drink, and gave the wine bottle another twist. It stopped at June.
“Bottom’s up!” Taylor said. “Just like in merry old England.”
“I’ve never really drunk before, actually.”
“Not a hassle.”
Francine poured the beer and passed it over. June chugged the shot and made a sour face.
“It won’t taste so bad,” Taylor said, “after you’ve had a few more.”
Brokmeyer smiled. “Now it is your turn.”
June flipped the bottle feebly and it pointed at herself. “Oh, dear.”
Francine poured another shot of beer.
Taylor was happy. June was pretty. The only problem was, she was so young—no
more than sixteen, he guessed. Like one of his students.
She had come to Brokmeyer’s house in a sleeveless yellow summer dress. When
the drinking game began, she had kneeled on the floor. Taylor and Francine were in jeans, Brokmeyer in his baggy khakis. After a dozen shots, June moved to a yoga position, cross-legged, making no attempt to conceal the inverted white trapezoid that flashed between her thighs.