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On their first anniversary, back at the same spot, equally out of the blue, he would admit, “Yes, of course, I was.”
She laughed at him. She had, of course, known.
Back in the President, supplies of food, coffee, and other liquid refreshment were delivered to the vast mahogany writing desk in her suite.
This was a novel experience for both of them. Johan was not used to spending the next day, never mind three days, with a conquest, though he hardly saw Lorelei as a conquest—more as a monumental work in progress.
For Lorelei, this was the first time since her husband had perished that she had slept with a man. A woman, yes, but not a man.
These details had come to light as Johan had gradually wound down over the days to talk at ease with her and had become almost himself. As his nerves had dissipated, Lorelei had found him increasingly charming, funny, and intelligent. She had laughed.
It would be twelve months, however, before she actually realized that Johan had not been circumcised, for she would never see anything but a turgid member. In her presence it would always be thus. They say the Queen of England perceives and therefore believes that the world smells of fresh paint, for there is always some poor sod twenty yards in front of her with a brush and a large pot, slapping it on at velocity. So it was (sort of) with Lorelei and Johan.
* * *
Srna was to have accompanied Lorelei back to Vienna, but he had gone back one day earlier than planned (but only once he was convinced that Lorelei had wanted to stay in Sarajevo). Always the gent, Srna reassured her that none of this would be mentioned in Austria. She trusted him implicitly. He had prepaid her departure with a bank draft from the American embassy, allowing her to simply stroll and saunter out of the President as she wished. This she knew how to do.
Johan accompanied her to the station and threatened to get on the train with her. She joked and called him “a stupid boy,” though she was confident that he could be groomed—and that soon they would share a great love (which, according to the hyperbolic Cartwright, was “to make Krakatoa look like an abbey candle”).
The train door closed, the whistle blew, and she was gone, to the north.
Moreover, the Lord said, because the daughters of Zion are haughty, and walk with stretched-forth necks and wanton eyes, walking and mincing as they go, and making a tinkling with their feet.
—Isaiah 3:1
June 16, 1913
Johan lay horizontal on his favorite window ledge in his chambers, with a hefty Egyptian cushion behind his bulbous head, soaking in volume three of the Kama Sutra. The sun turned his face a soft brown.
Three slow, light, effeminate knocks landed on his door. It was not the day for the cleaner to mop his floors. Johan jumped down and glided gently to open the door. He was met by a vision of shocking-pink cuffs, pale skin, thinning reddish hair, and bulging green eyes.
The Count stood five foot eight in his stacked-heeled, perpetually new shoes. He was just months from his fortieth birthday, and his most time-consuming pastime, aside from learning Eastern religions, was attempting to maintain his youth. Sadly for him, his hedonistic lifestyle did not dovetail with his efforts. (“My ying is outweighing my yang again,” he said.) This did not stop his being pampered by an array of bemused stylists and fledgling pedicurists more suited to Cleopatra than a Teutonic twentieth-century count.
The visitor held out an elevated and angled hand.
“The Fifteenth Count of Kaunitz. I think it’s fifteen. To the rescue.”
Johan had hardly expected this when he had written to royalty for help.
Johan held out a hand to shake in the normal fashion. For a few seconds, neither moved, and an impasse looked inevitable. They met in the middle.
“Johan Thoms, but then I guess you know that.” Johan showed neither airs nor graces, allowing Kaunitz not an inch in his attempt to foist his lofty social position upon him. “A pleasure to meet you, and a bit of a surprise.”
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