Marina walks barefoot, holding her shoes in one hand. “Stay sober,” she says. “This place—dogs and devils. You will see.” She steps delicately around a puddle of some evil-looking brown liquid.
Rau Klub’s zombie carcass of a building is a massive old factory made of brick, the holes where its windows used to be pulsing pink and blue, pink and blue. We pick our way across a weedy yard toward the entrance, stepping over bottles and crumbling chunks of masonry. “Careful of needles,” Marina calls out.
I’m freezing in the short dress she loaned me, which comes complete with a cutout for almost my entire back, and it’s hard to walk in the cheap shoes she made me buy, tacky heels made of plastic. But Marina says I look hot, and so she’s not surprised at all when the bouncer spots us in a line of maybe two hundred freezing club kids and motions for us to come to the front.
Lights strafe the bodies of the crowd on the main floor, piercing through the haze of smoke and steam. The machine-gun rhythm from the amps pushes at my chest. I’d been to clubs before, in Moscow, sneaking out with the other diplomats’ kids, but that was for fun. Now I’m here to work, and Rau Klub feels like a dystopian-futuristic version of the party on the Titanic after all the lifeboats have left.
Following Marina up a wide metal staircase, I see just how vast the place is. I’m not sure what used to be manufactured here, but it was something big. Rusty metal tanks rise up along one wall, and a web of pipes snakes across the ceiling. Bodies are everywhere, squeezed together in a single, squirming mass. The music reaches a crescendo, and on cue, a thousand police whistles blow at once and glow sticks appear in the air, waving frantically as if to signal a rescue plane passing overhead.
There’s another bouncer at the top of the stairs, an obese guy in a beret who greets Marina in Russian. He steps aside and nods for us to enter.
A slightly quieter, slightly less crowded version of the world downstairs spreads out before us. Toothy smiles glow like cartoon Cheshire cats in the blue and pink light, and shining eyes follow us newcomers into the room. Men recline in banquettes, attended to by women in short skirts and pretend smiles. My, aren’t you just the cleverest and handsomest and richest man in the world!
A gunshot pops, and I nearly jump out of my skin, but instead of screams, I hear peals of laughter from a table in the back where a man in a cuff-linked shirt and loosened tie is spraying his harem of six teenage girls with champagne bought with bonus money.
Marina orders two ginger ales at the bar. Never drink alcohol on the job, she tells me, just pretend to. I remember Yael’s speech about tactical awareness. Not so different, the prostitute’s dangers and the spy’s. Thirty euros is what the two drinks come to. Thirty euros for two sodas. But at least the prices have thinned the herd, and Marina is able to find two empty bar stools.
“Read the crowd. Best not to make your move right away.” She looks up and smiles at some of the men as they pass. “Then pick out your mark. I’ll take the wallet; you get the watch.” This said so drily I wonder if she’s joking.
A kid in a leather jacket who looks vaguely like a famous actor is drinking vodka with his bros and singing songs in drunken German. Marina nods in his direction. “A soccer player from Munich. He tips well, but his mates are assholes. You’ll be lucky if they pay you.”
“You know them?”
“Them specifically? No. But you learn the species quick.”
“How about that one?” I point out a guy of about sixty with gray hair down to his shoulders. He’s dolled up in torn jeans and a bright paisley shirt, and lecturing a slender, model-gorgeous black woman of about twenty-five, who’s picking at an olive in a martini glass as if there’s a hair on it.
Marina squints and nods. “Profitable. Likes giving jewelry. That sparkling shit around the African’s neck ain’t glass.” She leans in confidentially. “All you need to do is listen to him cry like a baby about how he’s getting old and his kids are all drug addicts and nothing matters anyway.”
It’s a fascinating world, this club, and Marina is an expert guide. We go through a few more—the visiting businessman chatting up a pretty young guy, the peacocks in suits and sunglasses, manes carefully slicked.
At the top of the stairs, four men appear, and the Russian bouncer scrambles to get the rope out of their way. Their laughter is loud and comes out in sharp, high-pitched brays. Bullies’ laughter. Shoving and punching each other with every step, they stumble across the floor to a table with a sign on it that says RESERVIERT. Everyone in the room looks at them before quickly looking away. Track pants. Untucked silk shirts. Puma sneakers.
Marina nudges me. “See the tattoos?”
I study their arms where their sleeves are pushed up. Same as in the photos of Gunther and Lukas.
“So what species are these?” I ask.
“Schl?gertypen,” Marina grunts. Typical thugs. “That means money and pain. First you get one, then the other.”
A swelling of fear in my stomach, but it’s time to go to work. I push back the stool and stand.
Marina’s hand clasps my wrist. “You said just a look. Don’t be an idiot.”
I smile at her. “Just going to the bathroom.”
As I cross the room, I feel Marina’s eyes on me, protective but wondering how much protecting I’m really worth. For the benefit of the boys, I put a little swish in my walk, but feel like a five-year-old in mommy’s heels and so give it up after a few steps. It’s enough, though; they notice. As I pass their booth and head to the bathroom at the far end, I hear one of them gush, “Feine Schlampe.”
Fine slut/bitch/whore, it means, but I would know the meaning even if I didn’t understand German. The tone of it is clear enough. I keep walking, ignoring them—making a show of ignoring them—and disappear into the restroom.
At the row of sinks, two blonds are snorting coke off the porcelain edge. Two more club girls linger in front of the mirrors, arguing while they adjust their skirts and hoist up their boobs and glance hatefully at each other. On a stool against the wall sits an elderly woman, round and swollen, handing out towels. She stares ahead blindly, seeing nothing.
The fear and adrenaline rise inside me, and sweat begins to blister from my forehead. The old woman hands me a towel, and I drop a one-euro coin into the basket next to her. I mop my forehead and stare into the mirror, trying on a few smiles for the boys.
It’s showtime. I steady myself and march out, back toward Marina. One of the Schl?gertypen gets up to follow me over. Marina rolls her eyes when she sees him and pulls her clutch into her lap.
I sit down again, and the boy puts one arm around me, the other around Marina. “Was geht ab?” he says. What’s up?
“Verpiss dich,” I sneer, my Russian accent as thick as I can make it. Piss off.