37. The kiss

Thirty minutes later, I was waiting for Jasmilla at the Five Goats. I had offered to meet her and lend her some moral support, an offer she had gratefully accepted — although somehow she still managed to be late, not that I minded. The manuscript was abandoned in my office, I could finish it in the morning.

I felt a curious sense of anticipation. Of course, I was sorry that the Professor had fired her, but I felt flattered that she had chosen me to talk to when she was upset. And I felt already on the telephone the situation had given us a new closeness. I was looking forward to playing the role of confidante. And who knew where all that pent-up emotion might lead?

She looked fabulous when she finally turned up, and I realized she had spent time getting ready — a good sign. Her make-up was perfect and she was wearing a tight black polo neck.
“I’m so glad to see you,” she said, giving me a kiss on the cheek — which I found more exciting than ever. For some reason I just knew that something was going to happen.

She sat down and I poured her a glass of the wine I had ordered in anticipation. My hand brushed against hers as we chinked glasses. “To sorrows drowned,” I proposed.

I listened as she told me the whole sorry tale again. It did sound like the Professor had been mean to her, which I still couldn’t understand. He was normally so polite and I thought he really liked Jasmilla. It must be the stress from over-work, I thought, and felt guilty for refusing to help him the last time he asked.

As we spoke, Jasmilla gradually cheered up — a function more likely of the wine than my consoling presence. Soon she was re-telling the story again, this time as comedy rather than tragedy, imitating the way the Professor had spoken to her. I remember finding it intensely amusing at the time, although I’m no longer sure why it was so funny.

Then we decided we were hungry, so Jasmilla had a word with Herr Speck, the owner. Soon two steaming plates of spaghetti appeared, even though no one else in the place was eating and there was no menu. It tasted delicious and we ordered another bottle of wine to go with it. That bottle got finished too and another was ordered. Or possibly it appeared of its own accord, courtesy of Herr Speck — my recollections of that part of the evening are hazy, although I do remember we were both in high spirits and getting on famously.

Then Jasmilla mentioned a bottle of vodka which she had at home, which someone had just sent her and which was the most special kind of vodka available, for reasons which now escape me. We decided it would be a capital idea if we went back to hers to try out the vodka, even though spirits were frankly the last thing we needed, we were already so drunk. Somehow the bill got settled without any money appearing to change hands (I remember shaking Herr Speck by the hand and thanking him effusively and at length) and we walked back to Jasmilla’s flat, linking arms.

There, we sat in her kitchen, which had a beautiful view of the TV Tower and Berlin rooftops. Jasmilla produced the vodka from her fridge and poured it out into souvenir shot glasses from St. Petersburg. For some reason I insisted that she teach me some Russian, and we began repeating phrases together. At some point — and I no longer have any idea how this happened — my hand ended up on her thigh, and soon after that she was sitting on my lap and we were kissing.

I had been anticipating this moment for so long that at first it seemed natural, as if it was something we did every Thursday night. Then I remembered how special this moment was, and how amazing it was that I was actually kissing Jasmilla. Then I started worrying that if I was thinking too much then I might not be kissing well — I didn’t want her to be dissatisfied with my kissing — so I paid more attention to my technique. Finally I stopped thinking and began to enjoy the experience for what it was.

Then Jasmilla suggested we get into bed, which we did. There we continued kissing until, tired and drunk, we both fell asleep.