Ping – a text. Tamara! Our first contact since the bondage session she so masterfully set up.
Pics show u likd it. My man Ron & rigger more attentive to yr wellbeing than fcking artists yes? Overt & honest D/s. Fab.
I shoot off my answer.
Yes, very fab. Plannin return to UK. Yu still require live-in maid?
Bugger. Soz. Jus movd in wid sick father, ex astronaut, 86, Guernsey. Cancer, prognos 6 mths, cd b 2 yrs, he fights! I love my dad. Precious time. My needs 2nd place.
Despondent homeward tram-ride through Prenzlauerberg‘s autumnal September night. My evening booking has been in an old-established Wohngemeinschaft – a commune of anarchist artists with a fabled historical link to Bader-Meinhof – in a squatted former bread factory near Hackescher Markt. Their “studio” is the cellar – unheated, damp, gothic, mausoleum-esque – whose white-tiled vaulted caverns stretch labyrinthine under the railway…
I turned blue with cold, but that lot were too up themselves to notice. I hate my life.
Aldi Supermarkt on the ground floor of Ilka’s building offers a procrastinatory distraction. I pick up the cheap Sonderangebot champagne – the cause of my belly’s repulsive bulge. Mentally I revisit the Cafe Dezember’s specially-equipped basement. Suspended on a handmade rope from the 19th century ceiling I slowly spin. Helpless. Ecstatic.
Finally I drag myself up the stairs to Ilka’s apartment. To Ilka.
‘I’m sorry I ever came to Berlin.’
‘You’d stay with that weird photographer woman?…’
‘Be honest, Ilka: it hasn’t worked out. This second attempt.’
‘…the one who barely speaks!’
‘I’m not managing to write here.’
‘You don’t know anything about her…’
‘Bel and I get on very well. We made all those film shorts together.’
‘You think she’s got undiagnosed Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.’
‘We’ve all got our issues. Look – I’m not doing anything here.’
‘You are! You’ve been modelling!’
‘I’m not writing.’
‘But you’ve only been here three months.’ Ilka pulls off her coat and hat, sets down her briefcase, slumps at the kitchen table. ‘You’d be running away again.’
‘I’m losing sight of my raison d’etre. It’s making me scared. And I’m getting fat.’
‘So anyway… I’ll be sleeping on the sofa tonight.’ I hate myself for upsetting her. ‘Want some champagne? There’s an opened one in the fridge.’
I realise I haven’t even acknowledged Bel’s text.
SHANGHAI HERE I COME more details pls!
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