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The door to the Emcee’s dressing room wasn’t latched and it creaked open when Sally pushed on it. The room was a mess of costumes draped over every surface. Some were relatively new, most had been mended and restitched and resized and repurposed so many times it was hard to tell how they started. Sally had always thought there was a macabre poetry in the way the Kit Kat club accumulated beautiful things and used them long past their prime. Nothing wasted. She wondered now if it was cruelty or kindness? Is it worse to be discarded and forgotten, or used up until there is nothing left?
In the center of the chaos, The Emcee was reclined back in an ancient chair in front of the equally ancient vanity. He was shirtless and motionless. One suspender had fallen off his shoulder and was caught loosely in the crook of his elbow. A nearly finished bottle sat in front of him, reflected back in the mirror. His eyes were closed. He could have been asleep. He also could have been dead.
Sally took a step into the room, concerned that the latter might be true and uncomfortable with the way that possibility made her breath catch. The Emcee was one of the first people she’d met in Berlin, but after so much time she didn’t even know his real name. He was just The Emcee. The face of the Kit Kat club. Both chaos and constant.
“This is the part where you come back.” He said just before she could call out to him. His words were slurred, but he said them in English so he couldn’t have been that far gone. Sally jumped. Startled, relieved, then annoyed. He turned his head so he was looking at her, eyes only half open. He looked a mess. Makeup smeared to black lines and patches of faded pinks and dull greys. Most of the foundation on his cheeks had been rubbed off and were flushed red from the drink.
She remembered when he was beautiful. When she’d thought he was the most beautiful person she’d ever seen. A shiny beacon of light in a world with too many shadows. An invitation. A home. Now he was just one of the shadows and she refused to let it break her heart.
“Because you need me.” She said, trying to project as much confidence as she could. The club needed her. That was why she’d come back after so long. Not the other way around. If she could make him believe it, maybe she would believe it.
He snorted a laugh. It was an ugly sound. Bitter and mocking. “If you like.” He pulled himself upright in the chair and reached for the bottle without looking at it. He wasn’t looking at her either, but past her, eyes unfocused. “If you need to be needed.”
“I don’t!” She snapped. “I didn’t need to come back. I don’t need you. I could go anywhere! I could go...”
“I know.” The Emcee said, cutting her off. “This is the tragedy.” He took a swig from the bottle and held it out to her like a peace offering. She stared at it. She hated him when he got like this. When he laughed at his own riddles and talked like he knew something the rest of the world didn’t.
“I’m pregnant." She said, like those words would protect her from something. He turned his head to the side slightly and didn’t withdraw the offer. Waiting. A beat later she closed the distance between them and snatched the bottle from his hand. He leaned back again and watched as she drank. It was foul stuff. Cheap gin that made no effort to be anything it wasn’t. It burned the whole way down. At least she could blame it for the tears in her eyes.
“It’s all gone wrong.” She said it softly, looking down at the bottle.
“It always does. That’s why you always come back.” Now his gaze focused on her.
“Why do you talk like that?” The anger came on sharp to chase away the sadness and pity. Whether it was pity for herself or him she wasn’t sure. ”Like you’re so God damned smart! What even are you? A sad drunk clown in a second rate night club? A lonely ghost of a man?”
“A mild and most bewildered little shade.” He recited in a sing-song voice. She rolled her eyes and lifted the bottle to take another drink, but The Emcee suddenly reached forward and snatched it from her. The movement was so quick she gasped. He shouldn’t have been able to move that fast, drunk as he was. She half expected him to stumble into her and she braced for it. Instead he slid back into the chair and smirked. She scowled at him. He finished the last of the terrible drink in one swallow.
“Should I tell you to go with him? To America?” He asked. He tossed the bottle behind him and it hit the ground with a clang but didn’t break. Sally’s anger parted for confusion and surprise. How could he know about Cliff wanting to leave with her? She’d come straight there from their fight about it and she hadn’t spoken to anyone.
“Did Cliff…what did Cliff tell you?” Cliff’s idea of them leaving together had seemed so sudden, but had he been planning it all along without telling her? Had he called the club ahead of her to tell them she was leaving? As it was already decided?
“Should I tell you he would love you and you would be happy together?” The Emcee asked, ignoring her question. “That he knows what is best for you? That you’d be a good wife? A good mother? I can tell you that if you want me to.”
Sally laughed far too loud in spite of herself. In spite of it not being at all funny. “Do I believe you if you say it? Since you know everything.”
“I could make you believe it.” The Emcee said matter-a-factly. “You did once.” Then he let out a little giggle and put a hand over his mouth. It was like a mischievous child that had been caught and laughed not because he thought his transgressions were funny, but because he knew punishment would soon be coming. A child laughing to keep from crying. To keep from being afraid. “I shouldn’t have said that.” He leaned in and whispered.
“What does that even mean?” She demanded, anger giving way to frustration. He raised his eyes so they met hers. For a moment his face was serious and something close to genuine. He lowered his hand and parted his lips slightly. There was something he clearly wanted to say, but it was stuck. He closed his mouth again and pressed his lips together. Sally noticed for the first time how sad his eyes were. Too sad for one man and one life. Had they always been like that? Had she been too self absorbed to notice?
“It doesn’t matter.” As quick as the walls had come down they lifted again and he gave a dismissive wave of his hand. He leaned back and closed his eyes again. “Go or stay. I don’t care much.”
“Fuck you!” Her facade of anger returned as quick as his indifference. He was playing with her. He had to be. Just like every man who thought she was just some silly girl to use and then dismiss. “Fuck you!” She said again, yelling now. “I should just go with him! Of course you don’t care! You don’t care about anything! At least Cliff loves me! He cares about me!” She turned towards the door and started to leave. Just before she made it to the hallways she turned back around. She’d planned on volleying another round of insults his way for good measure, but when she saw him she stopped.
His eyes were open again and he was looking at her, silently crying. She wouldn’t have noticed if not for the way his tears cut through the remnants of already ruined makeup. He let out a little gasp and turned away from her towards the ceiling, clearly not expecting her to turn back around.
“Em.” All her anger towards him dissipated and she realized with childish embarrassment it had never been him she was angry at. She also realized that in all the time she’d known him she’d never seen him cry.
“I’m sorry.” He whispered. Apologizing was another thing she’d see him do. “I never get it right. Not once.”
“Goodness sakes.” She walked back towards him, intending to comfort him but by the time she closed the distance she was crying too. He opened his arms and she fell onto his lap and buried her face into his shoulder. She curled up against him and he held her. They didn't speak. They didn't need to. His chest was warm against her and he smelled of sweat and cigarettes and cheap gin but in that moment all she wanted was to hide in his embrace forever.
Sally knew it couldn’t last forever, but he held her like that for a long time. As long as she needed him to.
When she’d finally cried herself out, she couldn’t guess at how much time had passed. He lightened his grip on her when she pushed to sit up. She slid off his lap and sat across from him on the Vanity. Sally wiped her face with her hands and looked at him. He’d stopped crying at some point too, but his eyes were red and the tear stains were still there. His expression was far away and impossible to read.
“Let me fix your makeup,” she said. Sally imagined her own makeup wasn’t much better, but she wasn’t ready to look at herself yet. One tragedy at a time.
He gave a slight nod that she took as agreement. She found a towel and container of makeup remover and started wiping his face clean. She tried to be gentle as she moved around his swollen eyes and red cheeks. He sat still and quiet. As strange as everything that had passed between them was, the silence felt familiar and comfortable.
She used to do his make-up before shows sometimes, when she saw him struggling to keep his hands steady. She’d never asked if it was because of nerves or drink or drugs or some combination of the three, just took the brush with a light hearted joke and sat across from him like how she was now.
Once the makeup was removed Sally took a moment to look at him. He looked older than she remembered. Too thin and too pale, but at a glance he could be just about any man you’d pass on a Berlin street. Comically ordinary for someone Sally had seen transform into a hundred different characters. Under it all he was just a man and Sally realized how much she’d missed him.
“He didn’t even ask me.” Sally said finally, as she began doing his makeup. His eyes were closed and she was thankful for it. “He didn’t ask if I wanted to go with him. If I wanted to go to America and be his perfect little wife and meet his perfect little mother. He just told me we were going. Like I’m his to take.”
“Men.” The Emcee said, breaking his silence. The side of his mouth curled up in the hint of a smile.
“I’m beginning to think I don’t have much use for them.” She said with a long, suffering sigh. He laughed and then she laughed and soon they were both laughing so hard she had to stop until they’d both gotten themself under control.
She’d heard him laugh in so many ways but rarely did it feel genuine. Sally remembered laughing with him on mornings they’d watch the sun come up on the roof of the club. When she’d first come to Berlin she could always count on him to be awake on nights she couldn’t bear to be alone with her thoughts. Sometimes they’d make love to pass the time, but he never asked for more than she wanted to give and never took what wasn’t offered. Sometimes they’d just sit on the roof with a bottle of Gin and talk and laugh about nothing for hours. It struck her as strange that she didn’t think of him as a lover or even a friend. He was probably the most worthy of both titles she’d ever known. Certainly more worthy than anyone before Cliff.
She felt suddenly guilty at how easily she’d started avoiding The Emcee when Max’s jealousy became apparent. She’d told herself it was to protect him, after all he worked for Max too, but deep down Sally knew she’d barely considered him or his feelings. Then when Cliff came around she’d just up and left without so much as a goodbye.
“I’m sorry.” She said. She’d never heard The Emcee apologize before today, but she also couldn’t remember the last time she’d apologized and really meant it.
“Don’t waste apologies on me.”
“I think you’re the only one I really owe one too.” Then she laughed again. “Well, that’s not true. But you’re the only one I want to apologize to.” He smiled but said nothing else.
“Are you afraid?” Sally asked after another long silence between them. “About what’s going on? The riots and the demonstrations and all those men in the club now? Cliff seems to think it’s the end of the world.”
“It is.” He said it so casually Sally thought either he misunderstood the question or she’d heard him wrong. “But the world is a funny thing. Even when it ends it keeps going. Just a matter of who’s left behind.”
She considered this. She thought about what Frauline Schneider had said and everything that had happened in the last few months. Cliff thought she didn't understand or care about what was going on but she did. She felt the storm coming.
“Should I go with him?” Sally asked. “Tell me honestly. It would be safer, surely.”
“Safer.” He agreed after a moment’s compilation. “You could play the part for a while. But it wouldn’t be you.”
“I’m not sure I know who I am anymore. I’m not sure I’ve ever known.” She was nearly done by then. She decided to keep it simple, whites and reds and blacks now sharp and clean on his face. In a moment of impulse, she painted a small heart on his cheek, then swept a few stray hairs behind his ears. The Emcee opened his eyes. She gave a satisfied nod at her work. Aside from his eyes, which still held that sadness she knew she could never unsee, he was the face of the Kit Kat club once again. Maybe that was the secret, she thought. Maybe everyone was just playing a part.
“You know who you are,” He took her hand and kissed it, light enough that his freshly painted red lipstick didn’t come off on it. He stood, still holding her hand loosely in his and leaned in close to whisper “You don’t need anyone else to write your story, Sally. Not him or any other man. You are more than the stories people tell about you.”
The words cut through her and she felt them taking hold inside her heart. She’d always love the idea of someone writing a story about her. It was what had drawn her to Cliff. The idea that he would write her as someone people would want to read about. That she would be remembered. After all if no one remembers you, what's even the point?
“Why are you so sad?” She asked. To her surprise, he answered.
“Because all that’s left of me is the story. And I’ve never quite managed a happy ending.” He winked and started to pull away but she held his hand tight and refused to let him go.
“I don’t understand.” She whispered, shaking her head. “Who are you really?” He pushed his lips together and again seemed stuck on an answer he couldn’t give. Then his eyes lowered and he looked off to the side and behind her. Sally drew her eyebrows in confusion for a moment, then turned and followed his gaze. It was fixed on a wooden box sitting against the mirror. It was red and there was a keyhole in it. Sally thought it strange she hadn’t noticed it there before.
She turned back to him and when she did she saw his free hand extended towards her. In it was a small brass key. His face twisted into a mischievous smile. Daring her to take it. When she did everything that had passed between them felt like a dream.
“Thank you Sally.” He let go of her hand and she let him this time. In one fluid motion he spun away from her and grabbed his suit jacket off the hook next to the mirror. Sally watched him from the vanity, feeling the weight of the key in her hand. As he reached the door he turned back, leaning casually on the frame with the jacket draped over his shoulder. He was The Emcee once again. The soul that sold such beautiful lies.
He gestured towards the costumes around the room. “If you decide to stay, wear whatever you like. Sing whatever you like. After all, who am I to tell The Toast of Mayfair what to do?” Then he blew her a kiss and was gone.
Sally looked down at the object in her hand. One end was twisted into a heart. She turned it, examining it from all angles before she looked back over at the box. It was still there, key hole still waiting.
“Who are you?”
Sally slid the key into the keyhole. It fought for a moment, but after some maneuvering it turned and she heard the mechanism inside release. The top popped open a crack and she pushed it up the rest of the way. Black velvet lined the inside of it, but most of the space was taken up by a notebook. The leather binding was so faded with age it was almost grey. There was writing on the front cover but it sat down in the shadows and she couldn’t read what it said. Slowly, she reached in and lifted it out of the box. Some of the pages were loose and she was careful to hold it together when she angled it towards the dim light to read the flowery cursive on the cover.
“I shall come back without fanfaronade
Of wailing wind and graveyard panoply;
But, trembling, slip from cool Eternity—
A mild and most bewildered little shade.“
Sally ran her fingers across the words. They were deep in the leather. At first she thought they might have been carved in with a knife but then she realized they’d simply been written into the cover over and over until they were imprinted. She recognized the lines. The Emcee had told her it was his favorite poem once when absinthe had made them both a bit too honest. He often recited poetry, usually in German or French and usually dirty, but this one was different. She’d made a joke about it. So dark and melancholy. And by an American besides! Hardly what she’d expected from him.
Now she didn’t know what to expect.
She carefully cracked open the book. The rest of the poem was written on the inside cover, that same look as if it had been traced over and over.
I shall not make sepulchral midnight raid,
But softly come where I had longed to be
In April twilight’s unsung melody,
And I, not you, shall be the one afraid.
Strange, that from lovely dreamings of the dead
I shall come back to you, who hurt me most.
You may not feel my hand upon your head,
I’ll be so new and inexpert a ghost.
Perhaps you will not know that I am near,—
And that will break my ghostly heart, my dear.
She read the poem over a few times before turning the page. It lost some of its flowery form by the last few lines, the spacing of it growing more erratic as it went on. At the very bottom was a series of short lines. Like one might use to mark days in a prison in the movies. They covered the last inch of the page below the poem.
Now even more confused, she began flipping through the journal. The rest of the pages were handwritten in messy German and Sally could only decipher a few words here and there. He’d often teased her about how she couldn’t be bothered to learn how to read German when she’d picked up speaking it in a matter of months. “I didn’t come to Berlin to read.” She’d told him with a dismissive laugh. “If I’d wanted to read I’d have stayed at boarding school!” Another thing that seemed so childish in retrospect.
She was about to give up and put it back when something strange caught her attention. She turned back pages and then skipping forward to confirm what she was seeing. She might not have been able to follow the words, but she understood the dates written at the start of every block of text. The first entry was December of 1929, just before new years. The dates and entries were sporadic. Some only a sentence or two, sometimes rambling on for pages. There would be clusters of entries all happening within a couple days, then months before the next ones.
That wasn’t the odd part. What was odd was that the dates continued on past the present. 1931, 1932, 1933. Then toward the end of 1933 there was a page with just one sentence on it. Large and simple enough for Sally to understand.
“What have I done?”
Sally turned to the next page and gasped. The date started back over at 1929. The same date the first page had started with. Sally flipped back and forth, thinking that must be a mistake. Some kind of code maybe? A joke?
In the next set of writings the entries were much longer, but this time they only lasted until 1932. There was no break this time, 1932 just ended and went back to 1929.
The third set was similar in the length of the entries, but this one stopped only a few days in the future. She could make out the last words to that group as well.
“I’m sorry! Make it stop! I‘m so sorry”
The page after that was dated back to the beginning again, and again it was a page with only three words.
“No more! Please!”
The bottom of that page was jagged and black, as if someone had tried to burn it. Only that page though, and it didn’t look to have made it more than a few millimeters. She turned to the next page. Three more words took up the top third of the page.
“I understand now.”
After that the entries generally got shorter, usually just a few sentences every few months. The longest span of time lasted until as late as 1934 before starting over but most stopped sometime in 1933. And it went like that, over and over until the journal ran out of pages.
At the end of the book she arrived at a postcard and a folded sheet of paper. The postcard was slightly faded and had “Greeting’s from Pennsylvania!” written on the back in blocky letters interspersed with pictures of buildings and statues and picturesque gardens. The colors were washed out and faded and it looked almost as old as the book. She turned it to the other side and though she shouldn’t have been surprised by anything at this point she put a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out. It was her handwriting, but there was no way she could have written it. For one thing, she didn’t remember writing it. For another, even though it looked like it had been written decades ago, it was dated two months in the future.
“My dearest friend,
The boat was dreadfully boring, but we made it to America. It’s not what I expected.
Cliff insisted we marry in Paris, so I suppose I’m his now.
I miss you terribly. I wish I didn’t.
Give everyone my love
-Sally
“You did once” The Emcee had said.
Trembling, she unfolded the paper that had been tucked with it. Unlike the book and the postcard it seemed new. The paper was still crisp and the ink dark and slightly shiny. It was a letter addressed to her. The writing wasn’t as flowery as the poem had been, but it was written in English with care given to making it legible. Part of her wanted to put it back in the book and close it forever. Run from whatever game this was. But she knew she couldn’t. She couldn't hide anymore.
My Dearest, Sally
I only told you to go with him once. I thought you would be safe with him, even if he doesn't deserve you. Cliff writes in his book that you leave him a few months after you wrote to me and eventually die trying to get to Hollywood. I try to protect you every time and it always goes wrong. And in every timeline Cliff writes about you but it's never the story you deserve. For this I am sorry.
I let them come here. Opened the doors and let death march in. I betrayed those who trusted me. My own kind. Lovers and friends. I told myself I did it to protect the club but the truth is I was selfish and afraid. I thought I could save myself. I was a fool. In the end they came for me too.
Then I came back.
The first time I thought I was being given a second chance. I could fight. I could make people believe what I had seen Germany become and somehow stop it. I could save everyone this time.
I was once again a fool. I was not here for redemption.
Again and again I came back and it became clear it did not matter what I did. Fight or run or hide or rant like a madman, it never mattered. The path varied but the end was always the same. In the end it all burns.
Eventually I accepted I am not here to make amends. This is my damnation. A fitting punishment for my betrayal. To see the same terrible days play out over and over with no power to stop it. So now I play my part each time around. A Jester to make the people laugh when the night is darkest. It is not much, but it's all that's left of me. I don’t even remember my name.
I am at the end of my journal. I do not know if that matters, but the book is the only thing that remembers when I come back. Perhaps there will be a new one waiting for me next time. Perhaps this is truly the end. It is funny, even though I have prayed for the end for so long, I am afraid.
You likely think I'm mad and you wouldn't be wrong. But if this is the end, I wanted to tell you the truth of what I am at least once. And tell you that I love you. I love you fiercely every time. Perhaps my love is what dooms you every time and for that I am sorry. I am selfish to the end it would seem.
But perhaps in telling you this you are free to tell your own story, whatever you want that story to be. You can save yourself. I hope you do.
Love always, every time,
-Your Emcee
Sally put down the letter and for the first time looked at her reflection in the mirror. She expected to see herself looking a blotchy mess, fresh tears again falling, but what she saw instead made her gasp. A different face looked back at her. It was a woman, decades older than her. No one she knew yet but still someone she recognized. Her hair was cut short and she wore a jacket and shirt like a man might wear. A woman who still wore green nail polish and never thought she should have to explain anything. A woman who saw the world Sally tried so hard to ignore and tried to make better. A woman who outlived the story.
Then as quickly as she appeared the woman was gone and Sally was alone.
************************
“Did you really think I would leave without saying goodbye?”
The Emcee was smoking in the alley behind the club and he turned around to see Sally behind him. Her face was painted and she wore a black dress under her fur coat. In spite of himself, he smiled. The show would be starting soon.
“You’ve done it before.” He said, offering her his cigarette. She took it and inhaled.
“Well, not this time.” She slipped her arm around his waist. He was still shirtless and he leaned into her warmth. “And anyway I’m not leaving you yet. The show must go on, after all.”
The Emcee raised an eyebrow.
“Is it all true?” She asked.
He shrugged. “As true as anything is.”
“We’ve got time, right? Tonight at least?”
The Emcee nodded. Sally kissed him on the cheek just below the heart she'd painted.
“Then I’ll stay. Just for tonight.”