Free Dancing With Mortality by Mark McKay

and
the drummer delivered a great solo to back it up.
    The bar was in a side street off Temple Bar. For a Wednesday
and so late the place was well frequented, with a mixture of Irish, Europeans
and Americans. When they entered she’d immediately gone across to greet the
band, and he’d warily found his way to a small corner table next to the
kitchen. He knew it was stupid to be in a public place, but right now it seemed
preferable to the four walls of his cheap hotel. The lighting was dim, the room
was smoky and humming, and no one showed the least interest in him. He wouldn’t
stay long.
    One hour and two beers later, she joined him, glass of wine
in hand.
    ‘Hardly traditional Irish,’ he said.
    ‘Not tonight. Did you like it?’ Her earlier reserve had
gone. She seemed quietly exhilarated by the music she’d helped create.
    ‘I liked you.’
    She didn’t reply immediately. She took a sip of wine then
stared at the table for a while. When she looked up at him her face seemed
determined and sad.
    ‘I want to explain something. I had an older sister, Monika.
She was ten years older. She called me the “Mauer Mädchen”, which means the
“Wall Maiden”, because I was born the day they started the Berlin Wall. And
also because I used to stand in her way when I thought she was going to do
something crazy. I was younger, but I always thought it was my job to look
after her. She was always doing crazy things.’ She stared into the space over
his shoulder.
    ‘Go on.’ He sensed her distress, but she obviously needed to
say this.
    ‘She became a communist when she was 20. Always going to
protests, and writing for some underground magazine. Anyway, in 1972 Baader
Meinhof put a bomb in the US Army barracks in Heidelberg. It killed a lot of
people. Monika was arrested. They knew about her from the communist stuff, but
she wasn’t involved. The police beat her up badly. She was released later on.
We thought she was ok, but a few days after we got her home she died. It was a
blood clot in her brain. The police would not take responsibility.’
    She picked up the wine glass and took a long drink. Michael
sat in stunned silence.
    ‘Since then I don’t care for the police very much. I still
miss my sister. But I’m telling you this because I want you to understand why I
said nothing about you. Not that I approve of what you do either, if what they
tell me about you is correct.’
    ‘I’m sorry about your sister. I don’t know what they told
you, but I fight for a cause.’
    ‘I hope your conscience is clear then.’
    She stood up and went to the bar. A minute later she
returned with wine for her and a beer for him. Neither of them ventured another
word. The pianist was doing a slow solo number while the bass player and
drummer chatted over a drink nearby. Whirls of smoke drifted in and out of the
stage lighting. The bar was starting to empty, and Michael realised it was well
past midnight.
    Sabine finished her wine. She had her chair turned away from
him with its back against the wall. She turned her head towards him.
    ‘I’m working a late shift tomorrow. Will you take me home
please?’
    He gazed into the cool hazel eyes then drained his glass.
‘Alright. Let’s go.’
    They took a taxi. On the journey she leaned her body against
him, head on his shoulder. Her free arm cradled the saxophone case, and she
closed her eyes. He looked at her face in repose, wondering how she managed to
shift so easily between the distress he’d seen in the bar and the serene
stillness he saw now. She was a conundrum, one minute distant and disapproving,
and then the next unexpectedly vulnerable and intimate. He looked out the
window at the houses rushing by and let his mind wander.
    ‘Will you come in for a while?’ she asked as the taxi drew
to a halt.
    He didn’t need to deliberate. ‘Yes, ok.’
    She lived in a tiny one bedroom flat, right under a dental
surgery.
    ‘It’s very small, but I like it,’ she said, leading