The day has served us well. Robert and I have indulged in pork knuckle and sauerkraut after buying postcards at the Museum Berggruen. We've received illicit massages from Saudi debutantes after many twenty euro cocktails in the swanky lobby bar of our hotel. We've had lovely talks about modernism making its return, all before being told by our concierge that Jansen Bar should provide a decent night cap. We venture out into the rain, Saudi girls in tow.
Robert and I put out our cigarettes beneath a green awning and follow them into Jansen Bar with wobbly knees. It's a weekday in September. The weather is cold and the city is dead. There are others here, but few.
We look around and take a lap, considering the posterior room. We decide to sit down at the bar and shake out the night cold like dogs fresh from their baths. And soon after we settle into the menu, we find ourselves once again solemn in a bar in Berlin.
I know another cocktail will take me from happy to sick. Robert on the other hand hasn't been chain smoking Camel Blues. He's been dipping his pinky into a miniature jar, rubbing fine powder onto his teeth when no one's looking, or escaping into the men's room for a line. He's been wild. I've been nervous. My girl, Zariyah, ever since telling her I was of Iraqi background, has been rubbing my head wildly, speaking sweet Arabic sayings directly in my ear, a little too loudly, making me wince. This has Robert laughing and the bartender concerned.
I understand about one in five words. I order a cocktail that resembles a Manhattan but there's truffle in it. It's strong and unpleasant. I have a tongue in my ear. I'm solemn because life, like this Jansen bar cocktail, can be overwhelming.
I'm elated about something, though. It's because I've witnessed Robert's infidelity. His secret grants me leverage. He has no choice to be loyal to me now, to not meddle with Mr. King's investment in my paintings. I wonder if he'll quit trying to be Mr. King's main bitch once we're back in New York.
"The art world can be cruel," I tell Zariyah.
"The cocktail is delicious," I tell the bartender.
Robert's having a whiskey sour. Perhaps this was all a part of his plan. To get closer. To get me laid. He pays for my cocktail and get's us another round. This time, I opt for a simple vodka martini. Slightly dry with a twist. Perhaps I misread him. He's still manipulating, though he should be more careful than to woo me in lovely German bars such as Jansen. He sees my bad animal and yet can't keep himself leashed. It's always the rabid that get euthanized. read more