Taylor sat across from her, his throat dry in spite of the beer. He couldn’t remember what it was like to make love.
The bottle was spinning, Brokmeyer studying it intently. Taylor raised his eyes to find Francine frowning at him. She’d caught him watching June’s crotch. Embarrassed, he looked away.
The bottle pointed at Brokmeyer. “Not a hassle!” He laughed and poured himself a shot of scotch.
The bottle spun again and again until the music suddenly stopped. Taylor took the end of the album as an excuse to end the game. He put on a selection of golden oldies and pulled June up to dance. He felt light-headed, swaying to Paul Anka—Put Your Head on My Shoulder—but June kept him at a distance, dancing stiff-armed.
Brokmeyer leaned against Francine, who was practically sober. The spinning bottle had not gone her way. She put her arm around Brokmeyer to hold him as they got up to dance, then pushed the hair from his eyes.
“What’s it like in America?” June asked. “Are the streets really paved with gold?”
“Not any more. We use asphalt—since your James Bond raided Fort Knox.”
June laughed, and Taylor pressed her closer.
“Where will you go after Bielefeld?”
“I’ve the address of a friend in Copenhagen. I think I’ll look her up.”
“Copenhagen’s quite beautiful, actually. Nothing like London, mind you. But
quite nice.”
Taylor laughed. “I had a lot of fun in London.”
“I’m having a lot of fun in Bielefeld!”
Suddenly Brokmeyer fell toward the end table and turned off the red lamp. He was stinking drunk. Francine followed him and turned the light back on. Then Brokmeyer tried to pull her to the couch on top of him, a wild grin on his face.
“Ervin,” she said softly. “Pas ici. Pas maintenant.”
Brokmeyer shrugged her aside. “Friend Taylor,” he said. “I must dance with our June. I must know what she thinks of Bielefeld.”
Taylor turned June’s back to the couch. “She likes it fine,” he said.
“I must dance with her. You must have Francine.” Brokmeyer stood unsteadily, kicked over his bottle of scotch, and a puddle grew at his feet. “I think our little June is a wirgin. We must not have wirgins in the house.”
“Relax, Ricardo.”
Francine slipped from the couch and grabbed Brokmeyer by the elbow. June squeezed Taylor’s hand. “I think I should be going, actually. But I shan’t drive home with him.”
“Where are his car keys?”
“I’m afraid they’re in his pocket.”
Taylor looked at Francine, patted his thigh, and pointed at Brokmeyer. “Les clès.
Pour la voiture.”
Francine’s eyes brightened. “Attendez—j’ai une idée.”
Brokmeyer shook his arm free. “Friend Taylor, what does she say?”
“She says she has an idea.”
“I have an idea, too. No wirgins in the house!”
Turning Brokmeyer’s face to her own, Francine kissed him squarely on the lips. “Dis bon soir, Ervin,” she sang, leading him from the parlor. “Il te faut faire do-do.”
“What does she say?”
“Time for beddy-by. She says to say goodnight.”
“Wery good idea. Goodnight to all wirgins in the house!”
Brokmeyer stumbled into the hallway and Francine steered him toward the master bedroom. Taylor followed, leading June by the hand. As the bedroom door swung open, he glimpsed Francine’s suitcase in the corner, snaps up, socks and underwear on top. There was a pillow and blanket on the floor.
The door swung shut and, moments later, Brokmeyer’s car keys were tossed out.
* * *
“Francine!”
Taylor woke on his bed—still fully dressed—as Brokmeyer’s shouting filled the house. Bright sunlight knifed through the blinds, increasing his headache. A door opened, footsteps pounded in the hallway, and Brokmeyer burst into the room.
“Francine!”
Taylor feigned sleep, and the door closed quickly. Then Brokmeyer stomped into
the parlor and the noise began again. Taylor could hear Francine crying. He lay very still,
listening, his heart thumping in his chest.
The shouting moved back down the hall to the master bedroom, incomprehensible
German words that banged like pots and pans. Gradually, the noise lessened. There was a
long silence, vague movement, then a rap at the door.
“Yes?” Taylor propped himself up on one elbow.
The door opened a slice. “Guten morgen. Do you know about my keys?”
“On the kitchen table.”
“Not a hassle.”
Brokmeyer pushed the door open farther. He was unshaved, pajama tops tucked into his baggy khakis. Francine stood behind him, suitcase in hand.