She describes the dumbfounded expressions on the faces of the vice squad when she went there to register as the occupant of one of the whorehouses on the Reeperbahn, tells how one of them jumped up to offer her a chair, tells of the respect with which they took down her particulars, the dignity with which they repeated her name, birthdate, and previous addresses. And then the glances: each one a potential customer. She describes the spontaneous camaraderie of the girls who resolutely embrace the calling of whore and the envy and resentment of the others who have arrived at this point from desperation or carelessness. And she chooses her customers too, but seldom turns one down because she doesn’t like him: professional ethics. She has no right to be picky, makes her choice based only on the desired specialties. And so she became Grand Mistress of the Order of Sadomasochists. Hardly ever sits in the window to lure customers anymore. Works mostly to order. By arrangement. She took me on because none of the other girls were free. We got into conversation thanks to her lightning-fast recognition of my intentions. First reluctant reaction: Let’s get down to business! Don’t waste my time. But then immediately relented once the financial arrangements were taken care of. “It’s not just my physique that’s for sale. I’m well paid for fantasies and sensitive to the psychological needs of my customers.” Maybe it was my understanding of her motives that won her over: the principle of fun. That’s how our cold friendship became close. I don’t need to pump her. She knows my curiosity is germ-free. We both enjoy ourselves.

And she is wonderfully discreet. Never a personal question. What I tell her—or could tell her—about myself wouldn’t be compensation or an exchange of confessions. Our subject is the world of her experience. She examines it with me and through me with the same detachment and observational interest. We are most amused when one of her regular customers is at the next table in the swank restaurant I’ve taken her to—ideally with his wife and children—and is on pins and needles fearing she will expose him.

Her bearing is similar to Christa’s: slim and straight as a reed. In Christa’s case, to appreciate it fully you have to see her in dressage. Gisela has a freer stride. For the rest, it’s still an ironclad rule that I have to pay every time I want to sleep with her. I think it would be easier to borrow money from her than to talk her into a free fuck.

• • •

The stars have turned senile . . .