Haus of Babylon

Lola Lindz awaited the crackle of the gramophone needle and posed under the glaring spotlight. The drunken patrons in the erotic Haus of Babylon hollered as the frenzied jazz beats began. The blue-eyed woman carried her body sensually, as though her flesh smouldered. Lola danced, her sharp black bob bouncing wildly.

Now that the earth had turned away from the sun, the cosmopolitan melting pot of the Weimar Republic had awakened hungry with sordid desire.

When the music ceased, Lola joined the club crowd, the bar in full swing. The dim scarlet lights illuminated silhouettes of aggressive punters vying for drinks. Behind Lola’s heavily charcoaled eyes, she was repulsed by the inexhaustible variety of nocturnal sexual indulgences to be had by paying customers. She suppressed a lurch of disgust in her throat by downing an abandoned glass of liquor beside her.

Lola approached a gentleman client who had arranged an experience with Rosemarie, another of the club’s escorts. He was spread out on a sunken lounge with hunchbacked twins Helga and Hilda perched upon his lap. Lola recalled seeing his face on the cover of magazines, credited as one of the wealthiest producers in the film industry at Universum Film-Aktien Gesellschaft. She stepped towards the three of them with a practiced method of looking squarely at them yet avoiding their eyes.

“Mister Jackson Miller?” she said in accented English.

He was a rotund, straw-haired man of about seventy with a drooped mouth and beady arrogant eyes. He leered at Lola’s body, licking his lips.

“It’s in the air, the Berlin luft,” Miller proclaimed in a worldly sort of way. “Alkaline from the swamps that invigorates us to pursue our natural carnal cravings.”

Helga and Hilda, hungry vultures in matching garish yellow fringe dresses, responded with squawking laughter. They hadn’t understood a word the American said.

Lola ignored Miller’s comment and yanked the twins up by their bony elbows. “Gehen, er ist hier für Rosemarie.” Go, he is here for Rosemarie. Despite their feathers being ruffled, they nodded, blowing Miller sloppy-sounding kisses as they moved to hunt new prey.

Miller dug around the lining of his jacket and threw a couple of crumpled reichsmarks at Helga and Hilda as they disappeared into the darkness. In Miller’s pocket, Lola caught sight of a rolled wad of notes, thick as a beer bottle, wrapped in a single rubber band.

“You have just taken my heuschrecke-looking entrées away,” Miller waved in the direction the twins had gone. “Will the main course be worth it?”

Lola flushed with anger but reminded herself that this beast was the rarest of opportunities. She decided to treat him as though they were old lovers and knelt between his legs. “Your appetite will be satisfied,” her velvet purr promised. “She’s exquisite.”

“She’s Berlin’s youngest …” his meaty hands dug into his thighs, “and looks exactly like you?”

Lola throat felt dry. “Yes.”

“A beautiful flower about to bloom,” he chimed. Rosemarie was pure, so he’d agreed to an excessive price of one-hundred American dollars.

Her eyes became fixated on Miller’s jacket, knowing there was far more than one-hundred dollars that he could spare. “You will pay us the money to sail to Australia?”

He laughed immoderately and repeated her question aloud. “That place is nothing but criminals and black slaves.” Miller lifted Lola’s chin with sour smelling fingers, their eyes met. “I could put you in the pictures like Marlene Dietrich.” The loose skin under his chin wobbled. “You go to the pictures?”

Lola pulled away, but her speech sounded like sultry notes playing in the night. “A wheelbarrow of reichsmark barely buys a newspaper.”

Miller’s pleased grin revealed yellow teeth. “If you’re a good girl, I’ll take you one day.”

Promising Rosemarie to Miller for his pleasure created acid guilt in Lola’s stomach. She rose, unsteady on her stilettos. “Please make your way to the penthouse.”

When he’d lumbered up the stairs, Lola slipped backstage to find Rosemarie huddled with her friend Gisela, who was a Münzis, pregnant escort. They sat in a shadowed corner bordered by dusty sandbags. Ropes leading up to the rafters surrounded them like puppet strings.

“Lola, don’t do this.” Gisela’s dirty chiffon dress stretched tight over her belly, her bristly red hair sticking out at odd angles.

Lola reached into her brassiere for her small black journal which logged all her regular clients. “Our husbands didn’t return from the war.” Flicking through the worn pages, she realised even if she slept with hundreds of men, it would never be enough. “Now I sell my dignity for less than a loaf of bread, and you’ve had so many men you’re carrying a stranger’s baby.”

Gisela lifted Rosemarie to her feet by her frail twelve-year-old hips. Rosie wore a replica of Lola’s skimpy performance outfit, her blonde strands of doll-like hair roughly tucked under a black wig. “This is the fate of my unborn child, mein Freund.”

“What choice is there?” Lola shut the journal in anger.

Rosemarie’s blue eyes were plastered in black shadow, making her look like a racoon. She looked upon Lola in hope. “This man will give us money to leave forever?”

“That was the agreement.” Lola didn’t quite believe her own words.

“I’ll do it,” Rosie announced, courageous beyond her years. She tugged at her ill-fitting costume with shaking hands. The heavy red curtains muffled the chaotic jazz music beyond.

Lola collapsed to her knees.

Gisela abruptly came to life. “My mother used to say,” her eyes darted between Lola and Rosie, “‘most männer, fellas, cheat you every time’.”

Lola was reminded of Miller’s evasiveness to pay them. The weight of trading Rosie’s innocence for Berlin’s debauchery pressed on her. She spoke to no one in particular. “It’s time we cheated them.”

“How?” Gisela’s hopelessness radiated from her entire body.

Lola thought of the money roll. “Come with me.”

***

The decadent penthouse was all dark wood and peeling cherry-painted walls. Miller waited on the four-poster bed, naked except for loose discoloured underwear and black socks held up by garters. Lola entered as a domina, wearing black leather and suspenders.

Miller frowned. “Where is she, your doppelgänger?”

“I wish to show my gratitude for your generosity.” Lola’s voice was creamy, but her eyes searched for his jacket.

He cocked an eyebrow. “Then I will have her?”

A shimmy. “Of course.”

There it was, a sports coat, tossed over a tuffet.

“Very well.” Miller rearranged himself. His heavy body sunk into the old mattress.

Lola crawled onto the bed. “Shall we arrange payment?”

“Businesswoman aye?” a throaty laugh. “I only ever come here with the clothes on my back and a tab at the bar.” A moist wink. “Can’t be too careful.”

Cheat you every time, she thought. Lola grabbed his wrists, but he snatched them away with a Cheshire cat grin.

“I will settle our debt tomorrow when my assistant pays the haus,” Miller blinked sweat from his eyes. “Only if I’m completely gratified by your services.”

Outside on the fire escape, there were glimpses of wiry ginger hair. Lola knew it was time.

She fanned herself. “It’s hot in here.”

Using calculated movements that matched the fluidity of her dances, Lola’s lithe legs strutted to the window. A flick of her wrist unlatched the lock and she tipped at her hips to push the frames open. In one smooth motion, Lola performed a balanced twirl and scooped up the jacket.

“Don’t touch that!” Miller tossed his body around, reminiscent of a beached sea creature.

Lola flung the jacket aside. It landed on the open windowsill. She raised her palms as though being robbed. “Schatz, just moving it so it doesn’t get,” she bit her lip, “dirty.” Her hand moved to the gramophone turntable beside her. “Music?” Claire Waldoff’s “Es gibt nur ein Berlin” wailed from the sound horn.

Lola prowled her way onto the bed and straddled Miller. She pulled him close to her breasts. “You’ve been frech, naughty,” she pointed to the floor. “Down to be punished.”

Face flushed and panting, Miller managed to get on all fours. Lola crossed the room to retrieve a hard paddle from a set of drawers near the window. She risked a glance at the fire escape.

Gisela was slumped cross-legged on the cold metal with all the coat’s pockets pulled inside out. Their eyes met, and Gisela’s wilted face told Lola they were empty-handed.

“I knew you’d seen that cash.”

Lola spun, and Miller broke her nose with his open hand.

The room became a dazed concoction of blurred colours and metallic tastes. A second blow whipped Lola’s neck back.

She thudded to the floor, a limp rag doll.

Miller ripped down curtains, overturned furniture. Glass smashed. Gisela’s strangled cry cut through the throbbing dullness. Miller’s wheezing worsened as he dragged Lola back onto the bed. “Where’s my twenty-grand?” he demanded.

“Where’s Gisela?” She opened her eyes to Miller towering over her, the tufts of hair on his balding head unruly.

“I pushed your tramp accomplice down the fire escape.” He held the paddle above his head. “Tell me where you stashed my money.”

He swung to strike.

Lola gurgled, a cross between choking and crying.

“Get off her!” someone squealed.

Rosemarie had appeared at the foot of the bed, pointing a gun too large for her small hands.

“Ah, the beautiful Rose.” Miller edged closer with outstretched sausage fingers. “I see you have found my pistol.”

“Leave!” Rosie’s voice had conviction, but the weapon made a chattering sound as it trembled between her fingers.

“I can’t,” Miller whispered. “Your hure of a partner here stole from me.”

“And men like you take everything from us,” Rosemarie spat.

“Whores!” Miller lunged forward with the paddle.

Grunts and screams filled the air. A shot was fired.

Lola leaped from the bed and tried to orientate herself, head spinning, vision blurred.

When her eyesight cleared, she saw Miller, gun in hand, Rosemarie staring down the barrel. Lola threw herself onto him like a soldier covering a live grenade.

“Rosemarie!” she screamed, “geh die Feuerleiter hinunter!” Go down the fire escape.

Another bullet exploded.

Lola and Miller hit the floor.

A hush fell over the room. The flailing curtains came to rest. The dust floated and settled. The room inhaled a cold breeze. The music stopped.

Gradually, time awakened. Miller had vanished into the night, as though he had never been there. The party beyond the penthouse climaxed.

“Mutter.” Mother. Lola realised Rosemarie’s hands were brushing her hair, Gisela appeared beside her.

“You’re here?” Lola’s voice was hoarse. “I thought he-”

“No, I caught myself before I fell. I went to get help.” Gisela’s face hardened. “No one would come.”

“I snuck in behind you when you came in, and hid under the bed,” Rosemarie said with pride. “This must have rolled under there.” She held up the roll of money, twenty thousand American dollars.

Lola laughed, but it was excruciating. Gisela helped Lola sit up, and Lola saw the bullet wound in her abdomen.

“A fitting penance,” Lola reasoned.

Gisela sighed. “We’ll leave tonight. I promise you, I’ll find a better place for our mädchen, away from the sins of Berlin.”

“Tut mir leid Rosie, so sorry.” Lola reached for her daughter.

Rosie’s smile was laced with heartache. She grabbed Lola’s hands.

Lola foolishly hoped that Rosie would never grow to resent her.

Gisela’s nose wrinkled, but she remained stoic. “We must go, take the money in case Miller returns.”

Rosemarie kissed her mother’s cheeks, touched her face, little bloodied fingerprints staining Lola’s skin. When Gisela carried her away, Lola was left with the image of Rosie’s arms reaching for her.

As Lola lay there alone, fading, she heard hearty laughter and glasses clinking beyond the penthouse walls.

Gisela had been right. No help would come for her.

As the blood bloomed on the wooden floor, Lola’s black journal was stained red.