Watching news footage of recent Trump rallies, am reminded of folks who visited my novel The Devil’s Mistress. Meet three of them in the following short extract: a young man, a young woman and a grandmother. Also meet the grandmother’s pet dog:
The boy was beside the car, leaning back on his heels, slightly crouched, urinating up at the windshield. He directed the copious yellow stream back and forth with his hand. When he saw me looking at him with distaste, he rocked farther back and directed the stream onto the hood of the car. I know where are more souvenirs, he barked, thumping his stumpy penis on my rear view mirror, then pushing it back inside his trousers.
He told me where to go. Shortly we were on the main road speeding in fourth gear toward the border. I punched the Blaupunkt the whole time. We skirted the mountains. Rivers threaded into the horizon, homey chalets with red-colored geraniums in window boxes dotted the terrain. At Chiemsee I was forced to slow. On the water, steamers crossed. In rhwm women dressed as brides, their veils waving in the wind.
We followed the A-11 east past Rosenheim then north until I could see the Olympic tower. After passing Siemens, BMW, and the Hellabrunn Zoo, he told me to veer into the outskirts of München where he directed me to a dingy wine bar.
The place smelled like carrion. The girl had a shaved head. The two circled around each other in play, then the boy began to throw tiny darts into the girl’s cyclamen-colored genital opening until I couldn’t distinguish whether they were dancing or copulating, and both their bodies were glistening wet.
When she walked toward me, I saw a snail ornately tattooed on both sides of her head. Her nostrils were pierced. Also her septum, nipples, and clit-hood. The area was entirely shaved. On her pubis, another ornate snail. Radiating away from her pubis, whitish scars in the form of widening circles that gave her a kind of striping. The word Helix was branded across the back of each hand in ornate lettering.
When I left with her, he held a stein of beer in one hand, and was waving his erection at her with the other.
Outside, she draped a green bomber jacket across her shoulders and directed me to the center of München. She gave me instructions: Meet Grossmutter—Frau Monalisa Hochschmidt—across from the Richard Strauss fountain.
I followed the instructions: I parked the car and crossed over to look at the fountain, admired the dramatic scenes sculpted along the shaft and the veil of falling water that revealed—then hid—the operatic scenes depicted from Salomé. I crossed back and found a table in the Pschorr Brewery. Because I was watching for fatty foods, I ordered a plate of radish from the cold menu.
The waiter told me, The cutting of it by free hand depends on a stiletto, a good ability to judge by the eye, and a calm hand. It is better that you cut the radish before drinking your second mug of beer.
With this he unfolded a long list of beers. We have one-hundred forty to choose from, he said.
But I was happy with ordinary light beer.
The waiter cut one radish into a perfect rose, the other into a gnome’s head.
The woman finally arrived. She had skin loose around her lips. She was unwilling to sit down but took me by VW Golf to a terraced housing development on the outskirts of München. Her yard had a gravel path, red geraniums in pots. It was fenced and protected by a growling mongrel of indeterminate origin at the end of a short chain. Black leaves were heaped in piles.
With Gutmütigkeit, I drew her out:
I didn’t need to prod any more.
I jog every day, she told me. My feet impacting the ground has kept my bone density from decreasing. In the last years I’ve run thirty-six thousand kilometers. I still wear weights for resistance …
She didn’t notice my waning curiosity and spoke in a monotonous skip-a-long………