Free The Sleepwalkers by Paul Grossman

girl clearly knew how to dish out as well as she got. Of all the many hundreds of cafés in Berlin, the one he’d most
not
want to be seen with someone like her was the Romanische. Not that it was fashionable or even terribly expensive, but it was just the sort of place everyone was sure to know him. “Okay then,” he said. “Come.”
    Luckily for them it was practically around the corner, because the moment they began walking, the sky opened up with an absolutely frigid rain. “You saved me from a miserable fate!” Paula cried, holding her hands over her head as they passed below the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church. The enormous bells overhead began pealing five o’clock. Willi took her arm as they darted amid traffic across the Breitscheidplatz.
    On one of the busiest corners of Berlin-West, with its multiple rooms of high-arched ceilings and countless comfortable wicker chairs, an intoxicating blend of coffees enriching its already rarefied air, the Romanisches Café was home to Berlin’s many artistic and intellectual giants. Not that Willi belonged to this crowd certainly. But Fritz did. The journalist and distant relative of the ex-kaiser was best friends with positively everyonehere. And positively everyone knew Fritz’s oldest friend, his war pal/lifesaver, formerly the Detektiv, now the great
Kinderfresser
catcher, Willi.
    Max Reinhardt, the illustrious theatrical impresario, and Bertolt Brecht, the brilliant young playwright, in his trademark black leather cap, both looked up from their table and waved hellos, noticing with curiosity the Boot Girl Willi’d brought along. Thomas Mann, Germany’s most famous modern novelist, rose to shake Willi’s hand and was introduced with fascination to his companion. And who else could that head of wildly orbiting hair have belonged to other than the most famous German of all, Albert Einstein, who put down his newspaper long enough to grab Willi’s sleeve and whisper intensely, “I’ve decided to leave for America, Willi. Right after New Year. This climate’s getting menacing. You ought to consider going, too, while the going’s still good.”
    Willi squeezed the great scientist’s hand and wished him all the luck in the world.
    The moment he and Paula got a table, he felt a hard slap against his back.
    “You old dog.” Fritz grabbed his shoulder, shaking him with manly approval. Running a finger up and down his mustache, Fritz took in Paula from head to purple toes. “And here I thought you were languishing away in loneliness.”
    Willi was about to explain, but the girl cut him off.
    “Paula.” She held out her demi-gloved hands. “
Enchanté.
Sorry to have kept this such a state secret, but now that we’re certain, we can tell the whole world. Inspektor . . . what’s your name again,
Liebchen
? Willi. Willi and I are going to be wed!”
    Fritz stared as if she were positively mad, the long dueling scar across his cheek flaming bright red as he burst out laughing. “You old dog,” he reiterated, wagging a gleeful finger at Willi.
    Backing away, Fritz pretended to dial and mouthed vociferously, “Call me, bloody hound, you!”
    Paula and Willi looked at each other.
    “Sorry.” She shrugged, barely bothering to suppress her delight. “You must admit it was funny though.”
    It was hard to tell exactly how pretty she was under all her makeup, although Willi suspected it was more than she let on. Her figure however made her face almost irrelevant. At least for business purposes. The fulsome breasts beneath her men’s shirt pushed up hard against the white cotton, straining the buttons almost to the breaking point. Where the shirt ended, the curves of her thighs made the black silk shorts sparkle, the inch of rosy white flesh peeking out before the garter almost irresistible. And those legs—Willi noticed her slowly crossing them under the table—surely the Great Gustave’s Ideal.
    When their orders arrived, she dug into her Black Forest cake as