"Postpone them."

She crossed the room, closing on an oblong mirror. Earlier she had left a slight bruise on his shoulder. Now she noticed traces of skin beneath her nails.

"Where would I live?"

"Wherever you like."

"Perhaps the Friedrichstrasse . . ." She picked up a hairbrush and slumped to a chair. He had also left her faintly bruised. "When would we leave?"

"Tomorrow, perhaps the day after."

"By train?"

"By sea."

"What if you can't get me an engagement at the Winter Garden?"

"Then you'll dance at the Metropole." He got out of bed and went to her, put his hands on her shoulders. "Margaretha, I want you with me."

She put down the hairbrush, resting her elbows on the dressing table. His reflection in the mirror seemed more captivating than her own. "I'll need to send for a few things in Paris. I couldn't possibly manage on what I've got."

He bent and kissed her gently on the neck.

"And I'll need a studio, a large studio."

"You shall have it."

"And a pianist. I must have a pianist."

He bent to kiss her again, whispered: "I shall hire you a complete orchestra if you so desire."

She would also speak of Berlin as a fantasy that somehow demanded fulfillment. Although they arrived by ship from Vigo, via Hamburg, she would maintain that she had entered the city through Rudolph Spangler's blue-gray eyes. She would talk about her reception at the docks, and the newspaper articles that followed.

And yes, she lived on the Friedrichstrasse, with a view of apple trees above a wall. And yes, she signed a contract to perform at the Metropole. But apart from everything else these were still mostly romantic days. He continued to lavish her with gifts, some expensive. She was also said to have cost him a small fortune in clothing, what with winter furs from Saint Petersburg, and there were gambling debts. Spangler's only concern, or so it seemed, was whether or not she was happy.

Was she?

There is a letter from that winter in Berlin: four more handwritten pages from Zelle to Nicholas Gray. Berlin, she wrote, was somber, with continual rain and dark skies. There was, though, music in the evenings all along the Tauentzienstrasse. "I often read in the afternoons . . . Shelley, Balzac and others you'll remember. We hope to go north in April, perhaps as far as the Baltic."

Next there were a few brief paragraphs concerning her professional success, and another passing reference to Spangler. Perhaps between the lines he might have sensed a trace of dissatisfaction, but it was subtle. Then, almost as an afterthought, she invited Gray to visit her in Berlin. There was no indication of sexual desire, nothing even faintly suggestive. Merely, it seemed that she wanted a friend, someone to talk to while Spangler was engaged. Someone to keep her company through the bad time. Surely he understood. After all, he always had.

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen