0 comments/ 10081 views/ 0 favorites Rakehells By: RetMarut (the conclusion to "Marianne, a Friend from Germany") After making love to Marianne Witmershaus, Ian Abercrombie always pondered her level of satisfaction. Did they fuck because she somehow still believed that after nearly 20 years her debt to him needed maintaining? Or was the exertion between them refraction of her husband's infidelities? Marianne told him the couple had fallen out of love. They now shared "friendship." An "arrangement." She made it sound adult. Though often misplaced, who could truly parcel and ladle ardor at will? Last of all, if she felt obligated to Abercrombie, did Marianne derive full measures of pleasure with him? Or did skillful faking and his male vanity willfully delude him? It didn't help Marianne took lovers half his age. Men she acquired, used, then discarded in utilitarian fashion. Abercrombie remained her sole constant. He recalled his own 20s. That vigor then seemed endless now. Abercrombie laughed to himself. Other women he could screw and his conscience stayed vacant. Sexing Marianne mixed physical release with mental somersaults. Every night of her visit they fucked. Still supple in his hands Marianne never flagged in responding to him. He could take her, abase her if so desired minus complaint. Both were aware of their unspoken compact. While the thought might've crossed his mind, both also knew he would never degrade her. Despite the eye-opening dicey situations she'd led him into, Abercrombie ultimately respected her. Marianne had nerves macho men should've envied. Better, she extended a sort of priceless loyalty. Somehow Abercrombie was still awake. Marianne lay heavily against him, her regular breathing shallow upon his chest. After he'd exhausted them, gaining that shy sated smile bestowed only when her partner had melted her into that favorite mysterious state, Marianne dropped off to sleep. Years ago, visits ago, Abercrombie asked how she'd appropriated the renowned male habit. Drowsily, she answered, "Marriage." He one-word tell all begged further questions. A bachelor, Abercrombie never knew where to begin. Unlike Marianne, post-coital mania charged through him. Not just from being with her. Almost any woman. The act left him playful in a tactile manner. He enjoyed post-play banter, kissing, squeezing and caressing. Sometimes such behavior surprised the woman. He'd lain with more than his fair share of partners who'd previously served as flesh and blood fuck dolls; accustomed to being pounded, happy reciprocation confused them. Abercrombie's bedside clock read hours yet before dawn. He and Marianne lay entwined on a lake of churned sheets, their activity and closeness heating this mild night. Over the years, across her visits, they'd developed a pattern. Eventually his nervous energy abated and he joined her in sleep. The following day Marianne would wake first, bathe, then prepare him breakfast. Coffee aroma more than rattling pots and pans woke him. For a man who considered coffee and Danish a well-balanced meal, Marianne's kitchen wizardry astonished. Owing to her, Abercrombie had devoured "American breakfasts" late into afternoons. This diligence sprung from their first time together. During that 1989 summer week, Abercrombie patronized Marianne's club twice. She let him monopolize her time. Once again there were questions about Boston. Tactlessly, she named a man. This Polish surname struck vague chords. The then reporter was more aware of the Pole's organization. In a general sense. Abercrombie's answers mollified her slightly. When she wasn't posing onstage or culling the light midweek punters for those who might've accepted her perfunctory suggestions of amusement, Marianne sat beside him. She was of two minds. The first paid mechanical obeisance to him. She complimented him, squeezed his forearms, wrapped her fingers among his, stroked the insides of his thighs, and mustered less chilly expressions. Marianne ruminated in the second mind. These calculations erupted on her face. Naturally Abercrombie wondered about her motives. Curiosity alone didn't allow him to accompany her into some unknown part of Hamburg. Having seen her without a stitch enough, the American felt at an advantage. Away from the Reeperbahn, street lamps struggled against gloomy nighttime sidewalks. Her hard sole shoes scraped pavement. Theirs strides were long, shortening blocks to the apartment. All along the way Marianne latched onto his arm as if she verged on convincing herself of Abercrombie's essential value. To her. Wherever that might lead. Steps took them to a narrow walkup's third floor. Except for their footfalls and the stairwell's light timer clacking, her building was still. The stairwell light switched off just as Marianne's key sawed into the lock. Irregularly spaced ankle-high socket lamps pushed into the apartment's dark. Umber puddles kept him from bashing furniture legs as well as guided him to her bedroom. There, Marianne snapped on a bedside lamp whose feeble lumens equaled those of the wall sockets. A large bed dominated the small room. One bulky bureau and vanity table further constricted those four walls. Abercrombie assumed her closet doubled as an armoire. She lacked space to stand a television. A radio-cassette player crowded her other bedside table beneath another lamp. "Cozy," he said. It was too dark to notice whether she rolled her eyes in response. After Marianne got out of her shoes, she brushed by him to raise the window then draw heavy curtains. Preliminaries finished, Marianne undressed. Ordinarily this ought have incited Abercrombie. Yet having seen her naked already, coolly naked at that, blunted his eagerness. Fortunately for them her appreciation of him erased his unintentional slight. Marianne's hands had roamed across his torso and extremities at the club. Clothing, light and loose as the fabrics were, nevertheless obscured. When she pulled off his polo shirt Marianne took notice. With Abercrombie's slacks and boxers kicked side somewhere near his shoes and socks, even the room's dim light failed concealing the peculiar hunger in Marianne's eyes. If at 19 she hadn't already been so practiced, Marianne might've gasped from anticipation. A purposely pursued active lifestyle would keep him bulked up and buff into his 40s. Or so he hoped then at 30. She approached him deliberately. Brief as their acquaintance was, he saw a measure of hesitancy. Her hand reached out to his face. Fingers grazed along his cheek, lips, throat, into his broad chest's hairy meadow, down the Main Street of faultless stomach, poked through his pubic grove, where her tender grip rapidly turned his cock turgid. Abercrombie grabbed and easily pulled her against him. Had she doubts, resistance, they fled in his strong embrace. From knees to mouths their bodies pressed together. Marianne's lips and tongue were far livelier than he suspected. He thought she'd have been one of those frosty women who required thawing out before their kisses became heated. Especially if they had vulnerabilities needing cover as long as possible. He took her to bed. Ancient springs and timbers squealed and shrieked beneath their every motion. He pulled himself off her mouth, lapping then nuzzling both ample breasts. What Marianne enjoyed better than his sucking her nipples were fingers exploring her labia. Faster than Abercrombie expected Marianne became moist. While rhythmically clamping his fingers in her secret recess, Marianne reached into a bedside drawer. She extracted a foil encased Pariser. Opening it, freeing the rubber, stuttered her beat. She nodded. Abercrombie understood her message. He shifted, allowing her space to affix the sheath. The johnny bag was tight. Nor did it cover as much as he was accustomed. Abercrombie dismissed minor dismay when she disregarded the bad fit altogether. Wide open thighs received him. Between Marianne's wetness and her generous slit, Abercrombie drove himself in easily. Long thick legs wrapped themselves behind his own. He tried using his forearms for support but her mushy mattress gave him no platform. Her hands skipped between his back and waist, forever a beat slower than his strokes. The farther he pumped the more delightful her low aching sighs. At times Abercrombie was deliberate, other times ragged. Just to hear the change in her cadence. Somewhere close to climax, hers, Marianne surprised him. She determined the new notes; their emphasis and length. Marianne jammed fingers in his ass crack. He seized from this rude burrowing, nearly propelling himself through her. His new depth clenched her body and scrunched her face. Sighs strangled in her throat. Her goosing made him come harder than usual. Also sooner than he wanted. For the longest time afterward Abercrombie's semi-rigid cock lingered in her. The last guest at a great party who desired to prolong the evening's merriment. She cradled him between legs flat upon the bed. Abercrombie angled himself so that much of his bulk shifted off her. They remained silent. Searching looks and little kisses got their respective points across. Sleep overtook both. Abercrombie awoke face down, alone, submerged in pillows. Daylight spilled past curtain edges. He roused himself into sitting position. Rough carpet instead of wood or linoleum met his feet. Reflexively he checked his wrist for the time. His wrist was bare. He must've forgotten he'd removed his watch before bed. Before Marianne. His eyes adjusted. Among the women's things on the vanity sat his watch, wallet and passport. He reached over and fumbled with his wallet. In the billfold cash and cards remained unmolested. Items atop the vanity trembled from his tossed leather's landing. In the vanity's seat Marianne had folded and stacked his clothes. Beneath the seat his shoes. Aligned. Her neatness amused him. He'd always found gathering his clothes after such initial couplings forced good reminiscences. Something about strewn clothing clicked with random ardor. Abercrombie stood, walked stiffly to the bedroom door. He stretched before opening it and stepping into the hallway. Percolating coffee teased his nose. Towards the apartment's rear Armed Forces Network Radio as well as kitchen noises greeted his ears. He detoured into the bathroom before entering the source of activity. Flaccid as he was, the rubber still encased him. The stubborn thing off, a relievedly long piss followed that valiant latex into the toilet. Emptied to the last drop, Abercrombie padded into the bright clean kitchen. Marianne heard his footsteps. She stood above the stove, where slices of ham were beginning to sizzle in a skillet. Between rear burners a bowl held two eggs. Coffee fogged the glass pot. The domestic scene gladdened him almost as much as last night's sex. He closed behind Marianne and wrapped arms around her waist. He smothered the nape of her neck in kisses and ground his pelvis against her denim-covered ass. In English, he asked, "All this for me?" "Must be. You Americans don't know muesli," she replied. Abercrombie lifted his hands and gently palmed tits. Beneath her short-sleeved blouse some dessous marvel elevated then projected what his mouth recalled as soft and succulent. Marianne twitched her ass sideways. The rubbing stirred his cock along her denim's rear seam. He absently wondered whether he'd get a pre-brunch blowjob. A rattling newspaper derailed his thought. Marianne heard it too. She looked over her shoulder at him. He was familiar with the grin on her face. A social lapse had been committed. The grin prelude to rectifying it. She said, "Please meet mother." Abercrombie followed her sightline to the kitchen table. Located where it was he might've seen it peripherally had he not been so intent on Marianne and food. Sitting at the table Frau Witmershaus. She acted unperturbed. She had been reading the paper. Mention of her name lifted her eyes off newsprint onto him. Perhaps she had watched him traipse in and spoon her daughter. However, until acknowledged the older woman might've been considered an observant piece of furniture. The guest played it straight. A wise and worldly face gave her allure. He guessed she was on 40's other side. In the part which smart men still found interesting. One saw she passed her build onto Marianne. He peeled himself off Frau Witmershaus' daughter and presented himself. Had she been a typical American mother, mere awkwardness would've been his least problem. His nakedness, in the kitchen of all places, ought have prompted reactions running the gamut from hastily averted eyes or unnecessary embarrassment to shrieks. Followed by swoons. Assuming Frau Witmershaus aware of Marianne's promiscuity, he also assumed such meetings occurred more frequently than not. Besides, the mother behaved like she'd seen plenty of live ones! In German, Marianne introduced him. She added he was the Ami from an earlier discourse. Frau Witmershaus replied, "You said he was fit. Fit!? This slab of meat is quite a specimen!" Abercrombie took steps toward Frau Witmershaus and extended a hand. She looked him up and down so hard he wondered how she hadn't licked her lips. Her handshake meant business. She didn't let it linger, though. Frau Witmershaus said, "I think I see what caused all that racket last night. Big and circumcised! Where do you find them? And how can you tell with their pants on?" Marianne laughed. Abercrombie smiled timidly enough not to reveal his proficiency. The daughter must've neglected sharing that. Otherwise mother might've been practiced a tad more circumspection. Frau Witmershaus folded the paper, left it on the table and stood. A fuller version of her daughter, certainly. More to get lost in. She grabbed her purse off the table. After another leer, she jokingly cautioned Marianne against cracking the plaster downstairs. Frau Witmershaus was leaving to see her mother, the daughter's grandmother, in the altersheim. Marianne bade her own mother to convey her love. A mother-daughter peck on the cheek, maybe the older woman intentionally brushing Abercrombie hard, and she departed. While Marianne busied herself over the stove, Abercrombie sat himself at the table. He picked up the newspaper and started skimming the front page. Unrest in the East. The ominous kind harkening back to 1953, 56 or 68. Although the new Soviet leader Gorbachev intimated being a different kind of Russian despot, how long until he resorted to the tried and true of sending tanks to crush all foment roiling the Eastern Bloc? Deciding not to spoil this afternoon with likely confrontation elsewhere, Abercrombie instead reverted focus on Marianne. "You listen to AFN radio?" he said. "All they play is weak cheese tunes." Marianne brought the coffee pot, cup and saucer to the table. While filling his cup she answered. "Yes. The music is insipid. I listen for the jockeys. Their accents. Words they use. I read somewhere foreigners in America watch soap operas for the same reason." Abercrombie granted that was true. She continued. "I studied, I took English in school. All very formal. Distant. Like listening to the BBC. Proper. Plumy. American English is quick and warm. Because I like that it's easier to learn. To speak and improve." Marianne returned to the stove. Asking how he wanted his eggs, she cracked and fried them. He watered his coffee with cream and sugar. The condiments surprised him. Common as they were in the States, he'd become inured to requesting them there in Europe. Was this available for all Witmershaus guests or did they share an American affectation? Abercrombie sipped his coffee. Despite the additions it was still a large expresso. If he wasn't awake before ... She set a healthy plate in front of him. Buttered toast crowded hand-sliced ham and two eggs sunnyside-up. From his left he unfurled utensils wrapped in a cloth napkin. Marianne sat across from Abercrombie, watching him clean his plate. Among mouthfuls, he said, "Your mom handled, uh, the strange naked man in her kitchen well. Better than any mother I can think of. Especially my own." "Strange naked men anywhere outside of closed doors doesn't happen often here," Marianne said, grinning. "Not often enough. It helped you're handsome. Also, she likes men still. Or men still find her attractive. They chase her. She's only 42. Still active." Abercrombie nodded. "That's good to be." Plate cleaned, cup emptied, Marianne refilled the latter without his asking. Steam rising above the brim again, Marianne resumed her seat. Abercrombie chose this moment to broach remuneration. After all, he figured, she'd come across last night and put out further with brunch this afternoon. He hoped to exhibit enough tact in crossing her palm and not be crass in doing it. Abercrombie could've been as offensive as he wished. Any suggestion of marks for pleasures rendered and received insulted her. But good. Stone replaced Marianne's warm demeanor. Cool fervor hardened her voice. "I should pour coffee in your lap. The night before I told you I'm not a prostitute. I'm a businesswoman. We were together because I thought we could enjoy our company. A whore, Ian, would've fucked you in an alley, not cooked you food." He retreated miles. He offered sincere apology. His effort gradually pacified her. Nearly returned to Marianne's good graces, she requested a favor. How could he refuse? "It's very simple, really," she said. "We must see a man." The man to see was Marianne's boss Lothar. Sexed, well-rested, fed, later showered (she even produced a new spare toothbrush), Abercrombie prayed she wasn't dragging him into some dispute which might evolve into an international incident. An embarrassing one at that. The sort which would've caught his newsroom colleagues' attention. Though most of them had trouble differentiating Kenya from Kansas, they were able to manifest great amounts of malice when it came to demolishing another's career. Yet Abercrombie was beholden to Marianne. She had obliged him to walk her walk. Daylight painted her eyes the same hue Impressionists used for shadows cast on snow. He thought the vampire hours she kept ought have given her skin pallor. Rather under an afternoon sun a warm tone enhanced her flawless complexion. Resolute as she appeared, natural light softened her features. A cleaning crew aired out the club. Marianne exchanged morose greetings with the staff. Abercrombie followed her down a circular stairway into the establishment's dark bowels. She led them to one of several doors marked "Privat." Knuckles rapped the sanctum's door. They barged in without invitation. By his name, Lothar, and the image it conjured, the boss wasn't much. Actually he might've been considered a lot. A lot of suet Abercrombie finally decided. Watery blue eyes looked out from a round head. Under oily blond curls a nose mashed onto his face. Lothar had blubbery lips. He reminded Abercrombie of a 50-year-old who started letting himself go at 20. Fat rolls tumbled beneath Lothar's tight button down, where they doubtlessly lopped over his belt and padded his ass. Cocaine lines chopped and reflected on the mirror blotting his desk lost their importance when he saw who crowded the doorway behind Marianne. Abercrombie reflexively closed the door. Lothar's mouth gaped. Below a furrowed brow his eyes widened. He stressed his seat further by leaning back. Lothar's obvious question would sound the same in any language. Marianne gave her demand. "Lothar, we need a new arrangement. Your 'bite' leaves me crumbs. I work harder for you than I do for myself! And as you see, I have a man now. He likes nice things. I like giving him nice things. How can I keep him happy when you snatch so much from me? A better arrangement will make him happy." Rakehells If her German simpering fully failed persuading Lothar, Abercrombie's approaching his desk and looming large, scowling before him, improved her case. Lothar rolled eyes off her onto "her man." Unctuousness greased Abercrombie's German. "Even coke addled this should be easy to understand. Make her happy, keep me happy. Because I have no need to be unpleasant. To anybody. So I'm pretty sure you'll agree the fees, the charges, whatever, whatever you call your percentage, are exorbitant for this girl. We both know you can manage just as well with less from her, no?" Lothar nodded. Words picked and spoken carefully, he said, "She's one of the club's best earners! No! The best earner! Of course the club, um, gratuity, can be, will be, reduced. Immediately!" Satisfied, Abercrombie stepped back. The space relaxed Lothar. Peace assured, he offered his new best friend a line or two. His menacing guest declined. He glanced at Marianne who looked at him in admiration. "No, it's all yours," Abercrombie said. "Maybe you keep doing enough of that shit and you'll start pushing the buffet table back sooner." The distinctly American reference confused Lothar. Marianne tried snickering discretely. Deal done, Abercrombie trailed her out. They ascended swifter than they descended. She hurled herself into the sunlight. When Marianne turned and faced him, he saw girlish relief. She babbled momentarily about her victory's ease. Her joy faded slowly. They strolled. Finally gathering herself, Marianne said, "I have you to thank. He wouldn't have crumbled without you!" She tangled arms around Abercrombie's shoulders. Marianne fed him a soul kiss an excitable new lover could've mistaken as a declaration of eternal devotion. The busy sidewalk's passersby were careful not to jostle them. When this public display ran out of steam, she slipped off him. He hadn't quite matched her enthusiasm. Her new chagrin matched his current skepticism. They resumed walking. She asked if he were angry with her. "You never quibble with success," Abercrombie said. "But you might've given me a heads-up." "A what?" "Warning." "'Heads-up,'" Marianne repeated to herself before filing it. Then to him: "You didn't seem bothered." "A lot of my college bar tabs got paid through summer construction jobs. I probably learned more useful things about people and life doing that than I learned in school. Writing for a newspaper certainly confirms that. Anyway, I got the gist between you and Lothar pretty quick. Um, I figured it out." She wheedled him. "But weren't you the slightest bit afraid?" Abercrombie shook his head and explained. "If your boss had a gun, us busting in would've made him produce it. If it had been the cops, somebody upstairs would've yelled alerting him of a raid. A sudden entry like ours could only usually mean a ripoff. No gun, no worry. But what about you?" "What about me?" "Aren't you worried about a double cross?" he asked. "Maybe make you an example?" Marianne laughed. "Lothar is just another soft German man. Inside as well as outside. He's tough on women, but men ... Millions like him are the result of our grandfathers being so badly beaten. The pacifism, the almost total aversion of man-to-man confrontation is humiliating. Germany doesn't have men. It has male sheep. Neutered male sheep. Another docile generation of them. You being who you are scared Lothar good. Besides, he'll recoup any shortfall off the other girls." He laughed at her easy cynicism. Nonetheless she was right. "I should be shocked," Abercrombie said, "but I'm a newspaperman." Marianne suggested they return to her apartment. He countered. "My hotel is closer." Abercrombie alone crammed his room. Adding Marianne made it a closet. Disdain of his meager lodging clear, she said nothing disparaging. He didn't trouble himself closing the curtain. During his European travels and encounters, Abercrombie had developed a theory about Old World privacy, exhibitionism, voyeurism, and ostentation. Paul Lowery, former classmate, friend, his London host, might find merit in the visitor's musings. Or he could regard it as "nutty shit." Marianne and Abercrombie quickly stripped. The bed was a narrow single, one not meant for two big amorous adults. Moreover reclining on it would've discomforted her. A thin mattress stretched across an unyielding oak platform. Having applied latex to his cock, Abercrombie sat cross-legged on the bed. Marianne sat on his lap facing him. Her legs circled his waist. He rushed through foreplay and didn't fill her as smoothly as the previous night. Her little grunts accompanied his insertion as well as her advantage-seeking hip shifts. Eventually they aligned for pleasure. Marianne clutched Abercrombie in dual embraces: arms around his neck, feet hooked and pressed against his lower back. Although this ride wasn't as violent, his angle and her weight compensated. Confined motion, narrow range, the small space let Marianne do a curious thing. Lips buried in his neck as he plowed her, she whispered, sighed, profuse thanks. At first he mistook her gesture as acknowledgement of his prowess. However, once her tears wet that side of his face he realized Marianne's gratitude came from his having assisted in reducing Lothar's "bite." The two hadn't talked exact percentages but to prompt this response Abercrombie assumed the amount more than beer and gas money. A platitude poised on the tip of his tongue. Instead, Abercrombie held Marianne tighter. Receiving indulgence required no words. Beyond this interlude, one he saw as casual despite his level of involvement, Abercrombie wouldn't see Marianne again for years. Assured that Lothar no longer posed a threat, he begged off attending her workplace his last night in Hamburg. He cited the next day's early train departure. Which was true. But Brussels, not London, was his destination. There, he and Lowery were to meet and carouse through the weekend. That last Hamburg night Marianne occupied his thoughts. Smallness aside, his hotel ran a bar whose outdoor seating provided prime people-watching vantages. Located across from the city's main train terminal allowed diverse humanity to engage his interest. This and cold beer after delicious cold beer did little to dislodge her from his mind. In Brussels he sketched the situation for Lowery. Blank swaths in the telling let his friend believe she'd been nothing than an easy lay. That suited Abercrombie. He'd come to Europe for culture and on-the-fly sex, not complications. Months later back at his newsroom desk Marianne wrote him. Her letter lacked any heart tugs or guilt twinges. Its sobriety reminded him of a business letter. She asked questions she hoped he could clarify. All focused on the Polish man living in Boston. Throughout the next several years every piece of their sporadic correspondence referenced that man. When the former Eastern Bloc archives cracked open, her inquiries sharpened. Five years into their exchange, a surprise. She announced a visit. Boston particularly intrigued her. Rather than guide, she requested him as her traveling partner. Marianne even volunteered to catch all his expenses. She arrived during the winter, the off-season. Outside of New York, Abercrombie preferred Montreal in February than Boston. But she insisted. Why not. He had the vacation time. Besides, journalism was disillusioning him more and more. The trivial and emphasis on the bottom line were steadily edging out vital news anyway. Foremost, though, the man she fixated on, the Pole. What was his story? How did Marianne fit? Abercrombie succumbed to inquisitiveness. She'd improved yet remained much the same through five distant years. More womanly and sure at 24; however, just as assertive. Now, though, serene calculations hid behind the sex Marianne dispensed. Where she'd been unbridled before, the additional years taught her how to award favors for best advantage. In 1989 she faked cool. In 1994 she was in control. New York didn't dazzle her. She wasn't blasé but preoccupied. Some genuine interest flared when their rail travel took them east of New Haven. There urban America yielded to the iron grays of the Sound and sky above it, the frozen marsh grasses, compact Coastal New England towns. Entering Providence smothered this spark. Instead of booking a chain hotel room, he reserved one at Boston's newest boutique address. On Newbury Street. Should the place suffer from fatal twee there were blocks of therapeutic shopping close-by. Most importantly, the Pole was just a short walk away in Back Bay. Actually two attached town houses quartered the Pole's foundation. The man, now deep in his 70s, mentored an organization which once served post-war displaced persons. These days it labored to keep memories current. Or so its public relations boilerplate stated. Between that, microfilm and microfiche study, Abercrombie compiled then sent Marianne a dossier. On the whole his efforts said much yet revealed gaps. The kind of omissions that glared. Abercrombie's extensive credentials eased an appointment with the benefactor himself. Doubtlessly his request roused no suspicions. Probably jubilation. A New York reporter! Another chance to tell, sell, burnish the story. Who knew? Maybe even one more chance to chastise about letting history fade. How hoary! He shared his speculation with Marianne. Grinning thinly, she said, "Maybe we will bring him up to date." The Pole's office windows stared over Storrow Drive onto the Charles across into Cambridge. Abercrombie imagined during those warm months how pleasant it must've been to watch scullers ply the river. The Pole's pictures did him justice. In the right light, standing at right the angle, Abercrombie assumed his eyes twinkled above the kindly smile. His dentures, as well as the now snowy pile of blond pomade which added inches to his stature, gleamed off every wall in grin and grips with potentates and presidents. Few of whom knew precisely why the Pole was exalted, but knew exactly the personal value of sharing his sheen. Joining Marianne and Abercrombie in the man's office, his sole child, a daughter. The reporter judged the women as contemporaries. The Pole had married as late as reproductively possible. The foundation's PR alluded to his hard work having been limned by harder playing during the 50s, 60s and 70s. Looking at the Pole's daughter, Abercrombie saw one primped, pampered, plush, innocent, voluptuous brunette. Her father's reputation, the probity sustaining it, opened any door she breathed upon. She wasn't merely delicate. She'd been doted upon and sheltered. In spite of such disadvantage, the daughter nevertheless emitted a quiet fierce pride in her father. The kind which would turn feral if the old man came under threat. Abercrombie glanced at Marianne who also assessed the Pole's child. Something approaching pity waved across the German's face. Marianne likely considered the other woman an incomplete adult. Unlike the visitors, the daughter had never needed to make her way. Nor extract herself from some "situation." Or known the indescribable elation of creating one's own accomplishments. Were that Marianne's summarization, then she regarded the daughter as a waste of life. He was sure the German barely registered with the other woman. The daughter was ordinarily elegant, while Marianne, although turned out demurely, still looked hard and cheap by comparison. Effusive handshakes all around then the Pole settled behind one of the Sun King's misplaced desk. Abercrombie, Marianne, the daughter, each sat in chairs exceeding the reporter's annual salary. Pleasantries ladled, the Pole interrupted Abercrombie's questioning. Instead he seized on Marianne's nationality. He asked which newspaper carried her byline. "Even though your generation bears no responsibility, it's good today's Germans don't forget," the Pole said. Marianne grimaced at his sloshing sagacity. Half of Abercrombie wanted her to relate to them how she entertained in goosebumps -- just to witness their eye-popping. Marianne wasn't playing. "It's good not to forget," she said, "but it's better to learn." Marianne uttered names she'd never mentioned before. The surnames smacked of long ago titled German prosperity. Each first name a lovingly or jokingly given diminutive. Especially the female ones. As she gave the litany, the Pole lost his muzzy glow. She destroyed his complacency altogether. His body stiffened and his face grew rigid. Marianne didn't smile. In German she did ask whether his daughter spoke the language. The pole's German harsh, he said, "No! The little fool is a thorough American. She only bleats English." "Good," Marianne said. "We must conduct business. I don't want your precious darling hurt ... if I can help it." "What sort of pretenses brought you here, slut!?" "In the depths of human vice I believe sluts are still a rung above devious peasants, you pig-dick fuck. I can still smell cow shit on your ankles." "Why don't I take my peasant foot and kick your Kraut cunt out onto the street, bitch!?" "Because that would prompt the worst sort of publicity. After all this time do you really want all these Americans you've fooled so long, so badly, truly seeing who you are? And how about precious over there? Your time is short. Do you really want to leave her as the daughter of a ...?" Three sets of eyes shied upon the Pole's daughter. The German being spoken baffled her good. While the Pole seethed, Marianne turned to Abercrombie. She asked him if he remembered what they'd discussed. Marianne's maternal side originated in Prussia. Or what had been Prussia. After the Red Army steeped the region in German blood, eradicating centuries old towns and villages, the new Poland's western border subsumed history and heritage. Until this erasure her maternal family consisted of low-rank nobility. Their name carried the "von." With total defeat, the fortunate escapes of too few, the survivors were merely grateful to occupy their skins. Before insanity and subsequent conflagration, the Pole had labored on manors near the maternal homestead. Common knowledge circulated that the nobles hedged their bets on the Third Reich's longevity. Although laws prohibited wealth from fleeing Germany, the well-born, the well-connected evaded such hurdles. Who knew how many hundreds of millions of Reichmarks seeped into foreign accounts? All the account holders or their beneficiaries had to do was survive the war. With the conflict's cessation and loosening of travel restrictions, a modicum of pre-war life might resume. That was once foreign accounts were rescued and new money provided succor. These were prudent plans. But who could've foreseen the Red Army's savagery? It's lust for complete revenge negated all the old rules. Mercy was no longer a component of warfare. His nationality spared the Pole. The Russians simply thirsted to kill Germans. Also the Poles were useful. They hated Germans with nearly equal bile. The lumpen proletariat readily informed on its former masters. The Red Army denuded Prussia of Germans. The Poles watched from relative safety yet only a few could work it to their advantage. In that fraught time between roundups, retribution, rapes, looting and mass murder, some scavenged what remained. The smarter ones left the silverware to the red conquerors. Instead they scoured the smoking ruins, sought inroads to accessible and convertible foreign funds. Wily fellows like the Pole went farther. Post-war chaos presented opportunity. On the surface his displaced persons organization smelled legitimate. Endemic confusion and misery, his apparent help alleviating such, kept him from beneath any loupe's scrutiny. He used access to myriad relief organizations to ascertain whether those missing jibed with dead lists. Such matches greatly reduced chances of rightful claimants skewing his robberies. Or as he saw it interfering with his pocketing found money. Spelling out the benefits to pliant Swiss bankers was catnip. How many could refuse making use of "abandoned property"? Banking ethics only precluded thievery from live customers. The dead couldn't audit nor complain. The stories Marianne's grandmother told the child stuck. These grew and followed her into adulthood. The Pole's name, his activities, the evasions, piqued Marianne. Trawling, sifting, waiting, persevering, and finally dumb luck personified by meeting Abercrombie one otherwise nothing night conspired to form this moment in the Pole's office. Marianne's German returned them to the present, 1994. "That you raised no objection verifies the contention." The Pole shrugged. "I needn't dispute fanciful conjecture." He turned to Abercrombie. "Young man, how did you get dragged into this? Did this whore open her creamy white thighs and invite you poke her dripping Kraut snatch until you passed out? Just fuck her at will?" "Oh," Abercrombie said, "absolutely." Marianne disregarded the Pole's insults. "Your scheme, its execution, the whole stealing in plain sight, I must admit was daring. Extremely clever. Right up to the point where it affected my family." "Her great-grandfather's account remained viable thanks to grandma making it past the Elbe," Abercrombie said. "You walked off with funds from an active balance. No matter how you explain it, that's larceny." Marianne spoke to the Pole. "I'm not here to cry vengeance or seek my own retribution. Those people caused lifetimes of grief. They were punished for it. All my sympathies lie with their victims. Neither am I here to demand some outrageous amount of hush money. I'm a businesswoman. I just want what's ours." She flitted eyes between the two men. In English, Marianne said, "I want we should wet our beaks. Just a taste, not the whole chunk." Her sudden English burst after the German torrent provoked mixed reactions. The Pole's daughter was glad for the brief inclusion. As did Abercrombie, the Pole recognized and, despite the circumstances, appreciated her allusion. He smirked. Resuming German, Marianne added, "In perpetuity." The Pole soured. She continued. "Naturally you're debating whether to dismiss us. Take your chances. You have banked decades of good will to call on. On the other hand, I have based this intrusion on a simple old woman's tricky memory. Piecemeal research. My own unshakable convictions. On the surface I must concede your superior position. However, you must concede mine is enough to urge somebody with more resources to begin a detailed search. You of all people know how righteous and indignant these Americans can get. Especially over moral matters." She let the Pole digest her last statement. Then she concluded. "You haven't long left. You've created quite a legacy. It should keep shining your name long after your bones are dust. Dredging up your past will tarnish that. You won't be here to defend yourself. Would you have your daughter do that? I'm sure she'd be a ferocious advocate -- as far as that goes. But really, your daughter? She'd be a mouse among tigers. She has soft hands, a weak grip and can't even file her own nails. That's who'd you trust to protect your memory?" The Pole's face passed through every permutation from defiance to dismay before surrendering. He sighed then composed himself. Feigning cheer and benevolence, the Pole directed English towards his daughter. "Darling, wondrous news. Fraulein Witmershaus brings us an exceptional request from Germany. I'll explain it over dinner. In the meantime get our legal people. Our disbursements will need amending." An imitation of his kindliest, crinkliest smile lifted the Pole's face. Instead of twinkling, light glinted off his eyes. The act nonetheless jarred his boob child into motion. She left them to obey his command. Rakehells Her gone, his face dropped. Tone severe, he addressed Abercrombie. "What sort of story will this produce?" Even as he heard the Pole, knowing Marianne had coaxed him under inadmissible duress, the reporter acknowledged that this post-war skullduggery would never be filed. Perhaps fictionalized it might someday see print. Of course then there'd only be surmounting an editor regarding the denouement's palatability. Abercrombie said, "Any article resulting from our interview will be entirely appropriate and suitable to all agreements you and Fraulein Witmershaus reach." "Excellent!" the Pole said. "And I expect never to see or hear of either of you again. Good day!" Marianne bounded into the late cold afternoon. She'd barely buttoned her overcoat. Abercrombie doubted she felt any discomfort. She was a gleeful dozen steps ahead before noticing him laggard from her side. A slow pivot, hers, and she tried reading his attitude. Above his heavy dress coat and scarf Abercrombie was bemused. He slowly joined her. They then ambled along the sidewalk. An irrepressible grin brightened her face throughout their next steps. "You caught him at the right time," he said. "We caught him at the right time," she replied. "Five years ago I bet he had plenty of fuck-you steel still in his spine. Enough to out-brazen you. Enough to call and raise your bluff." "Today I wasn't bluffing," Marianne said. Abercrombie scoffed. "Today you played at the high-roller table with chump change. You bet your ass you were bluffing." Marianne shrugged. "Doesn't matter. How you play doesn't matter. Just so you win." He let that slide. She continued. "I'll be able to move oma into a better home. Muti can start enjoying life now. Oh, she has no complaints but I know she feels shorted. Especially after my father deserted us. Fuck him. Weaklings only get bags of shit. Dried shit at that!" "What about yourself? What do you get?" She answered immediately. "Peace of mind. Satisfaction. I don't know. I'll figure it out." Abercrombie didn't bother asking whether this the happiest moment of her life. Instead he tacked backwards. "If he'd called your bluff, he would've had us thrown out. Maybe even arrested. For you I'm sure he would've insisted on immediate deportation. Me, well, me he likely would've spared no effort in ruining. Did any of that occur to you?" They proceeded several steps in silence. He stopped and she did likewise one step beyond. His last question removed her grin. He looked into her hardened face. "Yes," Marianne said, "I considered all that ... None of it mattered in the least." Abercrombie paused, shook his head. Such self-absorption made him laugh. She let him know where she stood. That was better than soothing him through false or flimsy justification. His laughter lightened her face. He moved towards Marianne and slid an arm around her waist. She snuggled against him. They started walking again. "Harsh as it is, Marianne, you have a brutal relationship with the truth. Whatever you do never lose it." "You know," she said, "I was thinking. Perhaps next time I visit America I may be able to afford to buy you something nice." -30-