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The Emcee offers her a shot of gin and a chance to use his lipstick before every show. Sometimes she appreciates the lipstick more than the gin - with the inflation rising it's getting harder to find good lipstick out there, after all, and the Emcee always seems to find fresh makeup in the most remarkable shades Sally's ever seen. Nobody knows his secret, not even Max, and every time she asks he just pats her once on the cheek and twice on the ass instead of answering.
Tonight she knocks back the shot and wraps an arm around his waist, relishing the alcohol loosening her limbs. Outside the curtains, the musicians warm up over the chatter of the crowd. "Here, read my tea leaves for me, darling," she says, brandishing her empty glass at him. "What does it say?"
The Emcee's eyes darken. He has this look, sometimes - something old and beautiful and hot and cold all at once, something that makes her feel more naked than she's ever been for any lover. He's good at being still when the moment is right and it'll draw him the most applause, but she's never felt him quite as still as he cups her chin under his hand and smiles mirthlessly at her.
But maybe she's just imagining things. He kisses her soundly - another pre-show tradition, as wet and hot as the taste of the gin. In the dressing room mirror, their lips are the same shade of deep blood red when he pulls away.
He doesn't tell her a future then, but she swears she can hear his voice in her ear right before the curtain opens. Take a good look at Table Seven tonight," it says from across the stage. "I think you'll have a marvelous time with that one."
A week in Berlin, and Cliff still isn't quite used to dancing with whoever he likes. Sally's always an enthusiastic partner, of course, whirling around like a tornado and stepping on his toes in a delightfully painful way. But now she's backstage getting ready for her next number, and while there are quite a number of beautiful laughing men around, some old instinct still holds him in his seat. It's Berlin, he tells himself. Nothing matters in Berlin.
Over the ringing telephones and the brassy music, a whisper - "Care to dance?"
Cliff does fly out of his seat then, but that's more shock than anything. Who knew it was even possible to whisper in the Kit Kat Klub? When he leaps up he falls directly into the Emcee's chest, who smiles and holds Cliff's shoulders to steady him.
Cliff knows the Emcee sometimes calls audience members up to join a dance or a skit, but this isn't like that. The Emcee's come to Cliff instead, standing close enough so that Cliff can feel his solid grip and see the places where his makeup's sweated off. It sure doesn't make the man feel more ordinary - no, it's the opposite, like a god coming to whisper "be not afraid". He wonders if this is what he was supposed to feel like as an altar boy summoned to the communion rail.
The Emcee's arms slide from his shoulders to wrap around the back of his neck. When his fingers find Cliff's skin, a strange tingle starts, like the Emcee's opened up a new set of nerves connecting himself and Cliff together. "So," he asks again, "care to dance?"
"Of course I will," Cliff says. "Nothing matters in Berlin." The Emcee's smile curls at that, but he leads Cliff to the dance floor anyway.
He has had many names and titles and forms, but he is fond of the newest ones: Confrencier, compere, host. He supposes he could add "proprieter" to the list - Max's name is on the title, but Max has already paid generously him with body and soul for the club - but he likes his current role better. He welcomes Berlin into the club like a king gathers in his vassals for a feast. He is a gracious host, and his guests provide him with sustenance in return. He soaks in their vice and their pleasure as he dances onstage and off, and when they wander out of the club, he flits among the parties afterward and drinks in their energy the way they drink cheap gin. Only a place as desperate as Berlin could have such hedonism.
In his own realm, he introduces two young firecrackers just to see what sparks they make together. Somewhere across Berlin, blood spatters. Sometimes he can almost taste the blood that's coming. Too bad that blood drawn from hate isn't a taste he likes. Much better to draw others into his domain, where they have no troubles and the only blood is that deliciously shooting through fast-beating hearts (or, sometimes, at the end of carefully-wielded whip). For now, the cold and hunger and fear outside is just making his patrons dance faster and harder in his club.
The young writer left this morning. It would be in his own best interests to go, too, now that the world is almost over. But instead he put on his costume for another night and pours a new shot of gin for Sally. Besides, what world could he live in but one on the edge? And nowhere in the world lay as close to the edge as Berlin.