Pavel & I by Dan Vyleta

then ran a finger through the dial. He let it ring a dozen times, hung up, and tried again. When she finally picked up, her voice sounded tired and hostile.
    â€˜Is this Franzi?’ he asked in German, and introduced himself. ‘My name’s Jean Pavel Richter. I’m a friend of Boyd White’s.’
    â€˜Boyd’s dead. What do you want? He owe you money or something?’
    â€˜Do you mind if I come over? I need to talk to you.’
    â€˜Talk, sugar?’
    â€˜I’m willing to pay for it. I’ve got two packs of cigarettes here for you. More if I get what I need. Five minutes, that’s all it’s going to take.’
    â€˜Five minutes? That’s all it ever takes.’
    She gave him an address further east in the American sector, and reminded him to bring the smokes. ‘If you change your mind about talking,’ she said, ‘make sure you bring some rubbers, too.’
    Pavel thought about taking the bus but ended up walking, placing one foot before the other, oblivious to the cold. His body hurt, the lungs and the kidneys, but his mind had slipped into a strange reverie, was caught up in the joy of being alive, conscious of it, too, an animal thawing that had started during yesterday’s lunch of ham and potatoes, and continued now, as yet fragile and inarticulate, but welling up in him, inexorable like a burp. Of the many people who were milling about in the street, he was the only one who was smiling.
    Franzi lived in a house a half of which had been destroyed in one of the bomb raids. Some of the rubble had been cleared, and now the house stood in a gap-toothed block, cut precisely in two. If one stood a little to the side of it, one had a perfect view into the shell of half a living room, half a bathroom, and a few yards of corridor. Even the toilet in the bathroom looked like it had cracked right down its middle. In the muddy field next to it, snow had collected in soot-coloured drifts.
    Pavel ran an eye over the doorbells and learned that Franzi rented the ground-floor flat. Its windows were covered by net curtains. She had hung some Christmas decorations from the curtain rail, but these were barely visible through the frost that clung to the glass. He rang the bell and Franzi opened the door for him immediately.
    â€˜Come in,’ she said gruffly. ‘It’s freezing outside.’ She did not move to take his coat, and in fact it was too cold to take it off.
    Franzi was thirty going on forty, her hair dyed a henna-red and no money for make-up. A short woman with a big rump and, yes, generous thighs. These were wrapped in thick woollen tights and peeked out between her morning gown’s careless gape. Puffy skin, especially around the eyes, booze on her breath and her curls still lopsided from the way she’d slept on them. Pavel shook her hand and followed her into the living room. There was a shabby divan and a table full of drinking things. The apartment stank from lack of airing.
    â€˜Have a seat.’
    He sat down on the edge of a chair as she wrapped herself into a blanket upon the divan. ‘There’s no electricity for coffee,’ she warned, and he passed over the first of the packs of cigarettes that he had promised.
    â€˜I’m looking for a woman called Belle. One of Boyd’s other girls. He told me they were close.’
    â€˜Belle, huh? Guess they were. He hung around her like some puppy dog. Thought her something special, God knows why. A society girl, you know, ever such a nice accent. Airs and fucking graces. Let me tell you one thing, though: a whore’s a whore. Am I right or am I right?’
    â€˜Do you know where she is?’
    â€˜Haven’t seen her in a while. Four, five days, maybe a week. Some of the girls went home for Christmas, or tried to, the trains are a mess. Maybe she did, too. I know where Boyd put her up if that’s any help.’
    â€˜Please.’ Pavel passed over a second