Ilsa

I spoke to several men every day—conventionally attractive, professional, fit enough but not obsessive about it. The way that some play Candy Crush or Wordle, I monitored the number next to the little heart icon, lying down in bed or on the train. I’d never even bought a lotto ticket before, but I imagined it must be like checking the latest MegaMillions jackpot. At a certain point, the number ceded into total abstraction, into a plane of unreality. That in theory it could be mine was pretty much all that mattered. 

       After roughly a dozen or so exchanges, one of these men reliably suggested meeting for a drink. A vodka soda, please, and another. Back at their apartments, they’d then tell me, you have the most incredible body, no seriously I mean it. Sometimes they’d get more specific: the pleasant surprise at the reveal of my upper back tattoo, how it curved with my spine, or the color of my toenails when I unexpectedly stuffed my feet into their mouths, that it was actually really endearing when I’d tried to hold hands. If they wanted, I let them hit me, pull my hair, press on my windpipe until I pleaded with them to stop, tell me the only thing I was good for was being a receptacle for their cum while shoving me facedown into a silk pillowcase, the more menacing and unfeeling the better. That turned me on the most. And on the brink of finishing, they trembled, collapsed, and reached around for my waist, panting, skin dewy, I love fucking you so much. If only someone would say those words in another order, but they never did. One time I did the math and figured my going rate was probably around $75. $30 if I had an early morning. 

       Almost a year ago, I phoned to tell my university dean father, a formality more than anything, that I had decided to move back to the States. I lied and said it was for a job offer I couldn’t turn down. We hadn’t seen each other much in the last few years. Congratulations, that’s my girl. But won’t you miss your life over there?

       I wasn’t able to bring myself to say aloud that those reminders of our, Adam and mine’s, now stillborn future were asphyxiating: walking by the cafe we used to pass our Sunday mornings at together, the awkward biweekly handoff of Tank, our rescue pitbull, during which I attempted to covertly scan for evidence of my replacement—rearranged furniture, clothes left behind, an unfamiliar scent—in our, or rather my, former home. Briefly I was tempted to say to my father, because of you, I was born predisposed to blowing up my life, what little of it I felt remained by then. So in a way, this is all your fault.

       A few months after moving, I received a message from F—, an art dealer from Cologne, 15 years older than me with no good photos of his face. He, too, was a new arrival to the city. I liked that he also seemed out of place. He told me he acquired a major client, a wealthy businessman whose family’s country estate was right outside the city limits. I agreed to meet him for drinks the next evening. 

       The pink cursive neon signage in the window display read It’s wine o’clock somewhere. F— was waiting inside for me at the bar. It’s Franz, reaching for a side hug. He reminded me instantly of a large chihuahua—slightly bulging eyes darting back and forth, voice quivering—like Nemo, the spotted white chihuahua that lived on our old street. Whenever we ran into Nemo on a walk, Tank would go berserk and then we’d have to apologize to Nemo’s owner, whom I loathed, the smugness oozing from every pore seemingly insinuating it was my character implicated in Tank’s lack of self-control, or perhaps I was just projecting some latent insecurities, as my old therapist Lin might have coldly remarked. No, you’d agree if you could have seen her yourself, I’m not projecting anything. 

       Franz mentioned he had separated from his second wife at the beginning of the year and wasn’t looking for anything serious at the moment, fine by me. And following a couple hours of pleasant, standard fare conversation—about work, our impressions of the city and the neighborhoods we liked and disliked, Europe, our aging parents—and two bottles of cabernet franc, his choice, he asked if I wanted to come back to his, it was around the corner. Sure, why not. My Wednesday, Thursday, and Sunday nights usually went like this, though never Fridays or Saturdays, which were slots kept open for girls these men liked more, were more sure of, or actual friends.

       For a new arrival, a recently divorced man, no less, I was taken aback by how much stuff Franz owned—dozens of cardboard boxes, canvases leaning against the foyer wall, sculptures encased in translucent plastic sheaths, books and catalogues piled up in haphazard stacks. Apologies for the mess, I’m having a lot of the work shipped here while I look for a suitable office space. I swayed awkwardly among all the stuff, unsure where to put my bag and coat down to avoid adding to the clutter. I have a proposition. I only ask because something tells me you might be interested. May I? I nodded. I was convinced I had seen almost everything. He held out his hand and led me down the hall into the other room, a makeshift office. He opened the large oak trunk in the corner. Inside was an assortment of silk ties and ropes. 

       One of the first things I had done when I moved in was to have load-bearing hooks installed. Naturally I told them they needed to be able to support a significant amount of weight—some works are intended to be hung from the ceiling, and my client, potential clients, may want to come take a look. But what they’re also for, except that I haven’t had much luck finding a suitable partner, is to hold up a body. My mouth dropped open instinctively. He smiled gently and continued.

      Could you please take off your clothes? I slipped off my skirt and tights, undid the little opalescent buttons on my blouse. Standing on the soft Persian rug in my underwear, hands folded over my bare chest, I noticed a framed photo on the shelf of a younger and healthier-looking Franz with someone, presumably his brother, atop a mountain. I recognized it from his profile. It was the only photo of him I'd seen in the entire apartment. Okay, I’m done. He turned to look: Everything. Unusually self-conscious, I removed the final barrier, which I placed onto the heap of clothes on the floor. Franz meanwhile had begun slowly removing thick coils of rope from the trunk. He climbed up a step ladder and hooked them from the ceiling. Positioned from the right angle below, it might have looked like he was performing a routine lightbulb change. Franz then descended and looped one end around my wrists. He spun me around and pulled me close, as if in a dance, and raised my right leg by the ankle, testing to see how far he could go before I cried out for him to stop. Ah, you’re quite flexible, excellent, but please let me know if at any point it starts getting too uncomfortable. I mentioned that in my youth I once dreamt of being a professional ballerina, but in the end it proved too punishing. Even still, my muscles had retained much of their strength and slenderness. Franz’s fingers trembled as he tied some more intricate knots. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, catching the harsh glow of the overhead nipple light. He was still fully clothed. 

       After what must have been at least an hour—it was hard to tell with all the wine and blood rushing to my head—I was suspended midair, legs bent behind and above my head. Rope pressed into flesh. I wondered how long the imprint would last. I thought of my old roommate Kelly, who used to call her bruises grace. I called it strategic amnesia, or being stupid. In our early twenties, she fell hard and fast for a 41-year-old bartender whose occupational hazard often turned to violence. Each time I spent countless hours soothing her on the couch, handing her tissues to wipe away globs of snot, just for her to run straight back into his arms once he repeated I’m sorry baby I promise I will never do this again enough times. With age, I felt like I had begun to understand Kelly a little better. 

       Franz paced around slowly, more so scrutinizing his handiwork than my splayed out, naked body. So do you usually fuck people like this? He glanced directly at me for the first time. Well, depending on the configurations of the body, but I see that totally separate, an aperitif, no, that’s not right. I mean, yes, we can if you want. I do have a bed. He paused. But not tonight, I think. I’m quite tired and I’m sure you must be as well by now. I’ll call a car for you. It’s late. I was, in fact, quite tired, but mostly confused. He undid the knots and let me down carefully—another 20 minutes at least—and ushered me to the front door. He hesitated, before planting a light kiss on my cheek. Good night. It was lovely to meet you. 

       On the car ride back to my sublet on the other side of town, I looked out at the passing streets of this still foreign city with its millions of faceless inhabitants, the glow of lights emanating from distant windows each signaling a different life that mine might collide with tomorrow or run parallel along for years without knowing. I thought of Adam and of the lackluster, predictable sex that characterized the latter half of our relationship. If we forgot to close the bedroom door, Tank always tried to butt his way into bed between us. Although it had been over a year by now, I found myself still missing it. 

       The next morning, I checked the notifications on my phone: My old friend Zoe sent the dates she was planning to be in town; my aunt sent several articles about the benefits of taking zinc supplements; two missed calls from unknown numbers marked “SPAM LIKELY”; A— liked you; Z— liked you; T— liked you; A— sent you a message; C— liked you; your package will be delivered tonight; HR from my old job asking if I had decided on a return to work date. I clicked on the little ‘x’, and all my obligations, attachments, disappeared into thin air. I remembered the events of last night and thought of Franz. And as if conjuring his presence: 

       Last night was fun. Thinking of you, let’s meet again soon. xx F 

       I debated whether to delay my response to avoid appearing overly eager, but a few minutes I replied: 

       Yes, would love to 

       when? 

    I went back to Franz’s apartment several days later. In preparation, I shaved my entire body and purchased a new perfume, something sweet and floral with musky base notes, the man at the store told me, which I sprayed liberally on my dress and wrists and behind my ears. Franz opened the door, wearing a thin white T-shirt with an apron. I realized I hadn’t gotten a good look at his body since the whole time before he had been wearing a sweater. Now with his arms exposed, I could tell he was quite thin, verging on frail even. I’m almost finished cooking, you’re just in time. Franz sat across from me at the tulip table, sipping a glass of wine, fiddling with the stem. You’re not going to have any? I asked. No, I’m not very hungry, but please, enjoy. I also, he reddened, only have one set of utensils. I was planning to get more soon, but haven’t found the time… 

       I finished the steak, keeping in mind to pace my chewing, and he cleared the table. Compared to the rest of the place, the kitchen, all white with brand new appliances, was pristine. The manufacturer’s film on the oven and microwave hadn’t even been removed. Come, he reached for my hand and led me toward the living room. I want to discuss something with you. Since the last time, some of the boxes had been unpacked and the books were pushed over to the wall. 

       I haven’t slept with anyone since my wife. In the couple times that I’ve tried, let’s say, it didn’t go the way that I imagined. For that matter, I rarely see anyone beyond the first date. He gently squeezed my thigh. It might take me some time, but I don’t want to make any promises I can’t keep. I understand if that’s disappointing, and if you were looking for some other type of arrangement. But I do enjoy your company, and you are very lovely to look at. The words poured out without cessation, but Franz’s eyes flitted back and forth, averting my steady gaze. I thought for a bit. That’s okay with me. 

       He leaned back and released his grip. Freed from the weight of his confession, Franz appeared to regain confidence. Do you care to watch a film with me tonight? I’ve been wanting to revisit Casablanca. I hadn’t seen it before, though my mother used to always reference it. 

       He pulled me in tighter and stroked my shoulder softly with his thumb. You smell nice. And once again I found my body yielding to the needs of another, only not in the way I knew so well. Still, I was happy to oblige. Franz switched the TV on and dimmed the lights. I think I dozed off toward the end, as Ingrid Bergman’s bleary-eyed Ilsa bids a final farewell to Rick and walks off into the dense airport fog with Lazlo, her first love. 

       The morning sunlight was streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows when I awoke, through which you could see the whole expanse of the city below beginning anew. I was covered with an expensive-feeling wool blanket and with a throw pillow tucked beneath my head. On the coffee table, Franz had left out a glass of water and a note, saying that he needed to get an early start on work, but that I was welcome to stay as long as I liked, and that the front door automatically locked on the way out. With Adam most mornings I also woke up in bed alone, as he relished his sunrise runs, though he always came back in time for us to have coffee and breakfast together before the day started. Franz’s intimations of kindness were disarming. Was he really so different from the rest of them?

        The trees began to shed, I unpacked my winter clothes, Franz and I continued to see each other. During this time, I made a few new friends through mutual connections and a run club in the nearby park, which initially I signed up for begrudgingly. Who knew that consistent exercise made you feel less shitty. My new friends kept me company, and the less time I spent alone, the better. In the evenings, we drank and ate at various establishments where the food exclusively came in the form of small plates. I started doing pottery with one of them and even got pretty good at handbuilding. In the day, I read; I studied the map, explored the city on foot, and visited nearly every museum. One time I cried in the wing with all the Impressionist paintings upon seeing the real-life version of a certain Monet on loan. Years ago, Adam and I had argued about where to hang its reproduction in our flat, a fight that ended with a broken glass and that in hindsight was about a lot of things that weren’t the print itself. 

       I spent most Friday nights into Saturday and occasionally even into Sunday with Franz. He tied me up. We watched old black-and-white movies. He cooked. I ate. We never left his place. I didn’t question it—or him. After a couple months, I paused my various accounts and stopped talking to other men. We still hadn’t fucked, but by that point, I had made peace with the possibility that we might not. Then Zoe visited for a week and slept on my couch. It was nice. I took her to all the places that were helping me forget I’d ever lived any other way. 

    One evening near Christmastime, I was with Franz when there came a knock on his door. He momentarily turned over his shoulder, but quickly resumed explaining a story from his childhood, about a particularly unforgiving grade school teacher back home in Germany. A minute later, banging. A disgruntled neighbor coming to complain about Ella Fitzgerald on his hi-fi system? 

       Open the door! A feminine voice. Franz got up. I froze. Someone he had been seeing that he had failed to mention? His ex-wife? Franz peered through the peephole and cracked the door open. Standing in the hallway was a young girl, 12 or 13, holding an oversized duffel bag, tiny snowflakes resting atop her long, dark hair. Before Franz could say anything, she ducked beneath his outstretched arm into the entrance of the apartment, where she almost immediately spotted me and we locked eyes. I’ll never forget that look—the loss of innocence. Every illusion about Franz, our relationship, I had entertained over the past few months instantly cleared. 

       My mother adored Adam and was convinced that we would get married, in part because she said he was nothing like my father, who left us around the time I was starting high school. Per their custodial agreement, the summer after the divorce I flew to stay with him at his spacious new campus house, which had more rooms than one person could conceivably ever use. One day while he was driving me to the dance studio where I enrolled in a summer ballet intensive, he said there was someone he wanted me to meet. The relationship wasn’t explicitly explained, but it wasn’t necessary. 

       He probably thought I had gone to bed after she—Asian like my mother, only a decade younger—came over and we all had dinner, but I caught a glimpse from the stairwell of the two of them bowled over in laughter in the kitchen. I don't think I had ever seen him like that before. That night, though I only realized years later as a consequence of Lin’s psychoanalytic prodding, killed whatever reconciliation fantasy I had temporarily harbored. I never said anything about it to either of my parents, but I spent the remainder of the summer so, so angry at him for replacing her so quickly, for leaving me to be the sole witness to her grief. Me, who fed her, cleaned the house, and cashed his checks while she wasted away in bed for months hardly speaking a word to anyone. 

       Adam and I flew back to the States for the funeral. My father showed up arm in arm with his new wife, and suddenly I was a kid again in that big empty house. Adam held me tightly as the shock transmuted to rage, which eventually cooled to heaving sobs in the cemetery parking lot. If Adam were here now, he would have held me; my mother would have told me to run. She often said getting involved with an older man was her mistake. But neither were. Only Franz—I can explain, I can explain, he pleaded—and the fog outside, waiting.