The Favorite Game

My grandmother, Jeanne, descendant of another, more famous girl of that name, lived with her family on the Atlantic coast west of Bordeaux.

Jeanne was ten years old when the war came to her village. When the soldiers rounded up all the Jews, including their parents, Jeanne and her sister had escaped by hiding in the secret tunnels beneath their house. Later they would hide in the cellar of an abandoned house in the winter town. During that harsh winter of 40/41, they almost starved, but survived by stealing from wherever, catching fish from the lagoon early in the mornings.

When spring came, they were eventually discovered. A young German, barely eighteen, on patrol in that area, stumbled across their hiding place whilst chasing a stray cat. Naturally, Jeanne was scared that they would be held captive, maybe even tortured. Her sister Isabelle, five years older, had other ideas. She teased and flirted with Franz, the young soldier from Bavaria, until he decided that the two sisters would be his secret. He brought them food, shared cigarettes with Isabelle, and declared himself a free man.

Jeanne watched from the shadows as Franz kissed her sister, drew her closer, holding her tight, pulling her skirt up. She listened to the sounds of their bodies from the next room where her sister screamed as she reached orgasm.

Often they played their favorite game – the soldier and the whore. Franz was a soldier on leave from the front, Isabelle his Jewish whore. That was fine, as long as Franz played along. Until the day he turned his attention to the now twelve year old Jeanne.

London, 70 years later. The tall German Felix looks quite the part in his father’s Nazi uniform. Ella, in a bright red dress, dark stockings, and heavy make up, is a convincing whore. The favorite game hasn’t changed, just the players.

Felix has Ella in a vice like grip, one arm encircling her waist whilst he slowly peels away her garments - revealing the flesh of her bosom, her navel, the softness of her thighs, the curly hairs over her moist vagina. Now he enters, fiercely driving his monstrous shaft between her legs, Ella screaming as he does so. Felix slaps her across the face, shouting – bitch, lesbian, whore, filthy Jew scum.

Ella tries to think of something, but the only face that comes to mind is that of young Jeanne.

Irish eyes

London dark and eerie. Urge to leave this strange land. But where for out there romeo?

Have a message here on my blog from poliphilus. Long time since we last met in cyber world. Laziness, yes, I empathise with that. And the wish to communicate also strong. This blog is my preferred method nowadays. LT too full of stalking horses.

So here I am. Poesie du midi. Where did he get the idea I was having a good time in London? I feel like an outsider in this alien landscape full of miserable people in a city of darkness .

I met Mr Grey fox on the train to Waterloo. It turns out he’s my brief. Life is full of coincidences, surely you knew that. As for the photo, its Sandrine ok? But which one, I leave you to guess. The prize for getting it right is another blog entry.

I get another message, from Helene. She ran into Felix at the Berlinale, and says he’s on his way to London. No doubt expecting something from Ella, in return for the flat. But Helene has invited me to join her in Italy, for the fashion show. The same hotel on Lake Como, she says. It’s tempting, but not until I’ve paid my dues to the kraut. [But then I think, hang on, his immediate ancestor invaded my country and tried to exterminate us Jews. Maybe I don’t owe him at all. ]

Monday I’m back on the rush hour train, another appointment with Mr Grey fox. This item I’m early, and hang around in reception until he shows. He has a female with him, a redhead whom he introduces as Miss Kelly. He mutters some vagueness about her command of French, and leaves us alone.

The female is pretty, in her twenties I’d guess, pale, slim and businesslike in her black shirt and jacket. She doesn’t smile, just offers her hand.
Dana Kelly, she says, I’ll be taking your case.
I detect the merest hint of an Irish lilt there.
Why, is all I can muster. I mean why isn’t Mr fox?
He’s too busy right now. And I’m bilingual, which he isn't.
I wonder what she tastes like, I’m thinking.
Okay, shall we get down to business, she asks.
I nod, and follow her along a corridor into another office.
She puts on a pair of specs and I suddenly feel hot. I feel the urge to strip naked and kiss her. But instead I listen to her soft Irish accent, the words floating over me. I watch her lips moving but don't hear the sound.

Let's assume you're innocent, she's saying.
It's a bit complicated, I tell her, due to my psychiatric problems.
She asks me to elaborate.
I tell her that my shrink, Gerhard, diagnosed my condition as schizophrenia.
Split personality?
Exactly. So, one the one hand, there's sweet Ella, childlike, naive, Ella. But then there's also Sandrine.
Who is Sandrine?
My late mother. She kind of haunts me. And sometimes takes over. She's jealous, manipulative, and kind of mad.
How does this affect your case?
Well, the thing is, although Ella absolutely didn't kill Francine, its always possible that Sandrine got jealous and.....
Dana raises an eyebrow. Then her mobile interrupts the conversation. She glances at her watch.
Then she terminates our meeting.

I wonder if she even believed any of it.

L'homme du train

Are you sitting comfortably? Well I am. I’m sitting on the 8:22 to Waterloo in fact, opposite a grey-haired guy in a grey suit who seems intent on his newspaper despite the occasional sly glance at my [lets face it] shapely legs. Today those legs are encased in dark stockings, the kind that hook into suspender belt and feed male erotic fantasies. I’m only guessing but I reckon the grey man is having an erotic fantasy about me between Clapham and Waterloo.

I’m checking my watch and the time is 835 as we reach our destination. Should be enough time for me to plough through the throng of morning commuters and cross the bridge for my 9am appointment. I’m due to meet Samuel Fox, partner in the law firm of Matheson fox - don’t bother looking him up because that’s not his real name. See I changed the names to protect the innocent, apart from my name of course. Fox has been recommended by my dear friend sir Alistair and soon I shall be at the door of his offices in Lincoln’s Inn.

The gent opposite is now torn between perusing his copy of the Times and the cleavage of the young French woman whose knees are almost touching his. The frog [for it is I, who else] stretches her legs and accidentally touches the grey mans knee. He recoils and mutters a taut sorry before retreating behind his paper once more. I yawn and stretch my arms wide heaving my bosom quite nicely I thought. Then the train finishes and were out and I’m marching briskly onto the platform . I’m in no hurry though – so what if I’m late I’m sure Fox will still see me even if he’s busy .

in fact when I arrive its 915 so fashionably late in my book. The stiff upper lip woman on reception repeats my name into the phone twice then I’m ushered into the inner sanctum of Matheson Fox, a rather posh high-ceilinged affair with plush sofas, and brings me a coffee while I’m waiting for the man. I flick absently through an old copy of Time out and check my mobile messages. Then a tall man in a grey suit breezes into the room hand outstretched. I recognise him instantly of course - the guy from the train. He smiles
Samuel fox and you must be ms krantz. Hhave we met before?
Not exactly I say we were on the same train this morning
He chuckles and strokes his chin thoughtfully. Small world eh. He checks his watch.
I can let you have five minutes he says, then I’m off to court busy schedule today but imp sure we can squeeze you in .
He lounges on the sofa and crosses his legs.
So what is it you do for a living ms krantz - apart from teasing men on trains that is
I work for my cousin I say he has a vineyard in the luberon. Dyou know the village of menerbes by any chance?
He nods of course the peter mayle book how wonderful so what brings you to England business or pleasure
well our business is import export but that’s not why I’m here
Yes I gather you’ve had some trouble with your police in France.
I stare at him for a moment. They think I killed my cousin in law etienne’s wife Good lord says the grey fox. Well you don’t look like a murderess I must say on the other hand
No I didn’t kill her nut I did give her the ammunition
ah and what might that have been
A quantity of dope mister fox
right well I trust they didn’t catch you red handed
There’s no actual evidence I say but I was the last person to see her alive and I did supply the drugs
So its not totally clear-cut – and you’re a friend of Alistair’s . Tell me how did you two meet?
I stare at him wondering how indiscreet I should be. I used to be his mistress, I say.
Mr grey fox chuckles once more. Well, well, naughty old Alistair.
He checks his watch again. Look I’m going to be late . it was nice meeting you ms krantz.
He stands up and I follow. We shake hands once more.
Its Ella I say as in Fitzgerald.
Charming he says id be delighted to take your case of course, as a favour to an old friend. Alistair and I were at Oxford you know
That’s nice. I’m guessing he means the university.
Look which hotel are you staying at miss - Ella.
Actually I’m staying at a friends apartment in Battersea. Falcon wharf
That sounds expensive.
Oh he’s not charging me.
Sounds like a very good friend. Look ill need to go through some details with you. How about a spot of lunch later – on the firm of course.
How could I refuse.