The Autumn Castle Read Free

around his shoulders, “I like your painting. Nearly finished, is it?”
    “Nearly.”
    “You must be so proud of him, Christine,” Gerda said, smiling her Cheshire-cat smile.
    “Yes, I am.”
    Fabiyan leaned down and handed Christine a beer. She sipped it gratefully, then rested it on the scarred table. If she were
     to be totally honest, she didn’t think much of anybody’s art in the hotel. All those abstract, impenetrable shapes and images.
     It baffled her far more than it delighted her. But she was perfectly willing to admit she wasn’t an expert and she hadn’t
     the faintest idea about what artists felt or intended, even after four years with Jude.
    Pete, who sat next to her, pointed at her beer and said, “Did you know that Germans drink around 127 liters of beer per person
     per year?”
    “No, I did not know that.” Christine smiled. She was discovering that Pete had an endless store of facts and figures. He had
     been lauded as a genius since he was twelve, and perhaps that meant he had never outgrown some of his adolescent obsessions.
    “It’s topped only by the Czechs, who drink 160 liters.”
    “What’s that in pints, Pete?” Jude asked.
    Pete looked skyward briefly, did the math, then returned with, “About 336.”
    Jude doubled over with laughter, deep lines arrowing out from his eyes. She loved his smile, the gorgeous changeability of
     his expression. His face settled smooth again as he got serious about the business of lighting a cigarette.
    “I don’t know how many liters they piss every day though,” Pete added in a solemn tone.
    Gerda, as she did so often, looked at Pete with an expression bordering on alarm. She hadn’t caught the rhythms of his humor
     yet. Jude glanced across at Christine and winked; she felt herself smile and blush like a teenager. She downed more beer and
     began to shed the day’s despondency.
    The first band finished and the second came on—Duke Ellington in thick German accents. Christine grew drunk but Gerda was
     always drunker. Sometime around two a.m., while Pete, Jude, and Fabiyan were making enthusiastic conversation with Sparky,
     the club owner, Gerda pulled Christine down next to her on the sofa.
    “Here, here,” she said, trying to shove a lit cigarette in Christine’s mouth.
    “No, really. I’ll be sick.”
    “You’re the luckiest girl in the world,” Gerda said, reaching for her drink and missing by at least six inches. “Oops.”
    “Yeah, I know.” Christine and Gerda had had this conversation before. Gerda had a big crush on Jude, but then, Gerda had a
     big crush on every second man she met.
    “He’s so beautiful. Why couldn’t he turn up on my doorstep?” Then Gerda laughed, because that was exactly how Christine had
     met Jude. He had been sitting on the stairs in front of her West Twenty-third Street home, trying to read a badly drawn map
     directing him to a gallery party.
    “Don’t despair. You and Garth might work things out,” Christine said.
    Garth was Gerda’s husband back in Stockholm. He had refused to come with her to Berlin. Gerda was shaking her head. “No, never.
     You just keep your eye on Jude, Miss Starlight. I’ll steal him the first opportunity I get.”
    “You’d better not. I don’t know where I’d find another one just like him.”
    Gerda waved her hand dismissively. “Impossible, of course. He’d never look at another woman.”
    Christine knew this was true. Her silly jealousies had so often been directed at a paintbrush, never at a person. But it was
     nice to hear someone else say it. “Do you think so?”
    “Darling, he’s always got his hands all over you. He never lets you out of his sight. It’s damn frustrating. Look at my tits,
     they’re wonderful—not like your tiny little things—but he’s never looked at them once.”
    Christine laughed loudly, then said, “Well, thank you for being so reassuring. You know, he’s so gorgeous, and with the age
     difference and all . .