We meet other people strolling, whom I greet politely with a nod. Pious citizens of Pyrmont, apparently, for they try their best not to bat an eye at us. Town's residents familiar with the reputation of the masked ladies from the castle. Milena cringes a little.
"Clearly people who should read the New Testament again," I say. "Are you religious?"
"Raised in the faith all right. Didn't you notice the angel in my painting?"
"Sure, but the female figure in the foreground captured most of my attention. Religious symbolism doesn't mean you prefer life after death. Shacking up with the capricious Almighty for eternity doesn't sound like good times to me. To you?"
She grins. "No, it doesn't. Well, I believe in being good to your fellow man and trying to make the best of it. For yourself and for others. Faith provides a moral basis that allows people to live together in peace."
"That's why I'm such an immoral dog," I say.
"It's not that bad, I think. Not everyone needs religion to attain their ethics. It helps, though." She grins at a private joke, hesitates for a moment, but decides not to share it. I keep my biting comments to myself. For some prelates, I hope hell does indeed exist. "I won't deny that the Church and its minions shaped my ideas of right and wrong," I say, keeping it neutral.
"Like most people, probably," she says. "Our parents raised us with it. I like to visit churches, even outside of services. They're often beautiful, filled with works of art, created with love and attention over many years by nameless artisans. I love the peace and quiet there." Again, that hesitation before she continues. "It puts me in a mood where I can be at ease with myself. Or during Mass, the singing. To disappear into the crowd for a moment and perform beautiful music together." She glances at me before lowering her gaze. Caught, despite her mask. Something about churches moves her, but she won't share. "And you? Do you still believe in anything?" she asks after a brief silence.
Perhaps I can give her a push in the right direction, and I choose my words carefully.
"I certainly don't believe in a sadistic supreme being, who created us with desires, and then issued rules forbidding us to give in to them," I say, which gains me a shocked stare. I am right. Too right, because she routinely steers the conversation in a different direction.
"Rules are necessary, aren't they? How else can you live with others? Even in your brothel, there are rules and laws. Doesn't your staff do as you say?"
I give in and let it rest for now. Besides, she brings one of my hobbyhorses into play. "I pay the 'staff' to give up the liberties they would enjoy as guests. For me, liberty isn't being free of sin, but being free to sin. Sin as decreed by the Church, that is, because I'm not against morals enabling peaceful society. You only need three rules: be honest, try not to harm others and clean up your mess. I know from experience it's hard enough to abide by those. All other rules serve only one purpose: keeping the local potentate in the saddle by exploiting fear. Fear of the unknown, fought with superstition or by cultivating nationalism and xenophobia. And fear of yourself by imposing laws and morals contrary to your nature. The hatred and frustration that you sow with this fear will always lead to a devastating harvest of envy, lust, pride, anger, gluttony, and greed. War."
"The six deadly sins? Shouldn't there be seven?"
With a sigh, I gaze into the distance. "The seventh is committed by those who let it happen. Nobles, administrators and church fathers too lazy to find a better solution. I'm not talking about your husband or other diplomats I know, because they do try. But no matter how much quiet diplomacy you throw at it, I'm afraid it's procrastination." I try to read her eyes behind the mask. "Sorry, this is your day off. Not a day to suffer my lecture in politics and ethics."
With a smile, she reassures me. "Don't worry. I don't mind knowing the man behind the sadist a little better. It's nice to know that reducing me to a needy slave is not your only passion." She presses herself against me with her arm around my waist.
I chuckle. "Now you are selling me short. I also enjoy other fine arts."
"Yeah, as long as the subjects get you excited, right?" she says and grabs my crotch with her free hand.
I catch my breath and she lets go of me. "I can't deny part of my collection touches me there. During our journey, there will be ample time for other entertainment, though."
"Not too much time, I hope?" she asks. "Where will the journey take us?"
"That remains a surprise." We have arrived at the large entrance door of the bathhouse. "Well then, do you dare to enter the lion's den?"
-----
I kiss you goodbye and enter the bathhouse. I don't want you to see me as an anxious prude. Besides, I need the leisure time provided by the spa. Time to think about what I want when this month is over.
In the changing room, I hesitate again. Most of yesterday's traces are gone, but any initiate knows what my collar implies, and there are only initiates here today. I decide to wear a bathrobe and see what happens. I leave my mask behind, it would only make me stand out more than I already do. A face red like a tomato it is.
When I enter the large central room with the swimming pool, it's empty. Voices carry from the Turkish bath. Men and women together? It shouldn't surprise me. I walk to the entrance and secretly listen to animated conversations about everyday things. Everyday things for them, at least. A customer who couldn't get it up. The ointment to use if they fucked you anally too roughly. A discussion about the best way to give someone a blowjob. But also about normal things: the poor summer weather, the upcoming tour and dance exercises they apparently have to do.
"You must be the new one," says someone behind me. I'm startled. Blushing even harder, I turn around, caught. A naked young woman with short hair smiles at me kindly. "Don't worry, we won't eat you," she assures me. I am speechless. If Yvette perceives me as a goddess, I wonder in which class she puts this lady. She asks if I already have a name and I stammer 'Lara'. She introduces herself as Alice. I can't help smiling. Yvette was right. You don't have a clue about sizes if this is the Alice whose dresses I'm supposed to share.
"Come, I'll introduce you to the others," she says as if we've known each other for years and she takes my hand to lead me inside. If I don't feel like talking, I don't have to, she says; after all, we're here for our relaxation. Astonished, I allow myself to be led. I am not into women, but this lady could make me reconsider. She looks familiar, as if I've met her before. A salon in Berlin? I cannot place her, and she doesn't seem to recognise me from elsewhere either.
My introduction is embarrassing. I'm blushing like there is no tomorrow, but because of the steam everybody is, and I'm relieved I don't stand out. At least they don't react to it. I disrobe, take a seat, and the conversation continues where it left off. It's a motley crew of mainly women and a few men. Thick, thin, tall, short, red, brown and blonde. Or bald, like one man. There is even an African, his dark skin decorated with scars as symbols. But mostly ordinary people. Also, a greater variety of ages than I expected. I am certainly not the oldest here.
I see what you mean with everyone being beautiful in their own way. Nobody here is forced to pretend something they aren't. It gives them a self-assurance that makes them attractive. Alice is right. The conversations are personal and sometimes involve intimate details, but only if you indicate you want to talk about it. Like with Yvette. It's the etiquette in this company. There is some banter, but it's never mean.
I don't know all the phrases, but I get a picture of daily life in your brothel. It's not all pleasant. They have enough to complain about, but you obviously take care of your staff. No one gives the impression to be a forced member of your household.
