I lived in pre and post fall-of-the-wall Berlin in the nineties, a wild, exciting, vibrant, eclectic and multi everything city full of life, love and sex, if you knew where to look. On one memorable occasion it came looking for me. I lived alone in a nice rooftop apartment on Berlinerstrasse in Wilmersdorf. My love life took a turn for the worse when my girlfriend met another man whose voice made her melt, apparently. But my sex life was fine. I worked for an airline which employed a constantly recharged supply of young women aged nineteen or more. I had recently enjoyed my forty-third birthday with a party at a local restaurant. About twenty of us enjoyed good food, good beer, some wine and a cigar. I managed to persuade one of the girls, Isabel, to accompany me back to my place for a long, slow, not too energetic but ultimately satisfying bout of abandoned sex. She surprised me with her ability to deep-throat me, something her demure and somewhat reserved demeanour would never have suggested. After a quick fuck in the shower, she left the next morning, working later that day on a trip to Munich and back.

I sat with a coffee on my rooftop terrace, enjoying the warm spring sunshine, wearing just my pants. I got a text message from a colleague telling me he had a friend whose girlfriend wanted to improve her English. The friend hailed from Moscow, his girlfriend from Saint Petersberg. I had met them once before at a party in Mitte but only for a minute or two in among the throng of drinking party-goers.

I called my colleague and asked him about the guy. I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to get involved with Russians! Most of the stories I had heard about them involved crime of one form or another. He assured me he was a straight up guy and his girlfriend was a real sweetie. I recalled a petite, blonde with angelic features, looking like a less than confident teenager. My colleague, Tony, told me she turned twenty three a few weeks previously. I told Tony to call them and pass on my number. I would arrange a time to meet them and find out exactly what they needed from me.

Next day, Max called me and we arranged to meet at my local bar in Wilmersdorf, close to my apartment, Badenscherhof. I arrived at the appointed time to meet them, seated at a table near the front window. We shook hands and Max introduced me to Carola. Her handshake went almost unnoticed, her cool grip felt so delicate in my hand. The bar-girl, Maria, brought me a Guinness, knowing me well from my regular and frequent visits.

Max and I chatted for a few minutes about nothing in particular until he said,

“So, Carola needs to learn English. Her German is as good as her Russian but we have a lot of English friends and she gets left out when we meet them. So can you help her? I hear you have been teaching a few others. I hear good things. I can pay you well. What do you charge for an hour?”

“I have been charging thirty marks for a two hour lesson, if that’s okay with you. Before we make a deal, I need to know if I can teach Carola.”

I turned to her and said,

“Carola, my name is Greg. What is your name?”

She looked at the table in front of her. Max said something to her in Russian. She looked up and almost smiled.

“Me Carola. How are you do?”

“How old are you, Carola?”

Again, she looked at the table. Max spoke again, visibly frustrated. She withdrew into her shell even further.

“Max, can you get us all another drink?”

Max went to the bar. I spoke quietly.

“I want to help you, Carola but you have to speak to me to allow me to assess where to begin with your lessons. So, how old are you?”

“I twenty-six.”

“Tony told me you were twenty-three. Never mind.”

“Yes, twenty-three are right. Sorry. Me wrong.”

“Listen, don’t be afraid to be wrong. No more saying sorry, okay? I can teach you. When do you want to come for your first lesson?”

“Max, him say.”

Max returned with the drinks. He sat and I said,

“I can help, for sure. When do you want her to come for her first lesson. I live almost next door, number 145. I have three days off starting on Monday so I’m happy with any time then.”

“How about Monday at ten? I’ll drop her off on my way to the bar in Wedding. I have to go and do an inspection and check the books, make sure they’re not stealing from me! She can find her own way home. So you want to do two hour lessons? That’s fine. How do we pay you the fifty marks then?”

I didn’t correct him. I assumed he was prone to showing off his wealth and didn’t want to say anything to upset him or more importantly, Carola. She looked as if a stiff breeze might carry her away.

“After each lesson is best. Just give her the money. So, Max, what is it you do? Do you own the bar in Wedding?”

“I own four, that one, one in Mitte and two more in Charlottenburg. What do you do?”

“I’m flying for Air Berlin out of Tegel.”

We talked and drank for another thirty-five minutes. In all that time Carola never spoke a word. They left to meet some friends at a little after nine. I stayed and ate a pasta dish and drank another Guinness before having an early night. I did not have high hopes that our first lesson would achieve very much. How wrong that prediction turned out to be!

Chapter 2

The weekend flew by, literally, with trips to Hannover, Hamburg, Frankfurt and on Sunday, to Palma and back. Sunday afternoon I played golf and in the evening spent a pleasant couple of hours with two friends in the Badenscherhof once more. Monday dawned overcast with some drizzle. I ate a slow breakfast and watched the news on BBC World. Nothing too dramatic to upset the equilibrium, I decided. I opened the laptop at nine and pulled up my prepared lessons. I had taught several people, mainly flight attendants in the five years I had been in Berlin. I had managed to have sex with all of them bar one, the girlfriend of my best friend, Rafael. I had a feeling that Carola would be out of bounds. Max seemed nice enough but owning four bars in Berlin did not come easy. I needed to be wary of him.

Five to ten and my door-buzzer buzzed. Right on time. I spoke into the microphone,

“Seventh floor, tun right. Door will be open.”

I heard Max translate my instructions before he said, ‘Ciao!’ and evidently left her alone. I waited by the door, holding it open. Carola emerged from the elevator, tiny, frail looking, wrapped in a waterproof jacket with a waxed cloth hat, black jeans and mittens. She carried a large leather shoulder bag, bulging with goodness knows what. I ushered her in and closed the door. The lock engaged automatically. I showed her into the living room and the dining table set with the laptop and two chairs side-by-side. I took her jacket and hung it on a spare chair, dripping a little onto the stone floor. I held the left one for her and she sat down.

“Would you like anything to drink? Tea, coffee, water, maybe?”

“Water very nice.”

I poured two glasses from the jug in the fridge and sat next to her, handing over the water. She sipped, almost as if she thought it might be hot. Her long, slender fingers tapered to fine pints, touching as she held the glass with both hands. She looked at my screen saver, a series of elegant models in lingerie and underwear hovered for five seconds each. She studied them as if waiting for one she might recognise. I made a mental note to change the screen saver when she’d gone. I drank my water and turned to her,

“So, Carola. We will begin at the beginning. The verb, to be. Okay, simple stuff. I am a man. My name is Greg. You are a woman, your name is Carola. Your boyfriend is a man. His name is Max. I am, you are, he is. First, second and third person singular. Okay so far?”

Carola nodded, continuing to sip her water.

“So, Carola, who am I?”

She studied my face, her eyes roaming all over it for several seconds as if seeking the answer on my skin. Her beautiful pale gray eyes mesmerised me, drawing me into her personal space, no, inviting me in, unabashed, tempting me with her gentle smile.

“I am a man. My name is Greg.” she said, almost at a whisper.

She spoke as if she wanted to contemplate the words, to savour them, to remember them as her first line of English prose, to be cherished. She smiled and put the glass on the table. She held up her hand and pointed at the ceiling.

“Need toilet, please, Teacher.”

“Through there on the right.” I pointed at the door to the hall.

I watched her retreating figure, now wearing just her tight jeans and close fitting T-shirt. Her figure curved in all the right places, but everything she displayed showed as a miniature of a grown woman. I guessed she weighed about forty kilos, maybe forty-two. She stood around four feet ten in her two inch boots. She carried her shoulder bag in her hand and disappeared through the door.