He had her down simply as Magda (cellist).

It was a pity he’d had to hear people in his suite rather than in a separate room. But the Palasthotel was heavily booked and there hadn’t been another room available, or so his secretary had told him. At least there was plenty of space. His suite was pretty large with old-fashioned high ceilings. There was, strangely, even a grand piano.

Someone knocked.

“Herein. Die Tür ist offen.”

The door opened revealing a slender, strikingly lovely young woman with a large cello case. She was of medium height with long dark hair lustrously cascading over her shoulders and down her back. The little black dress she was wearing was sleeveless and clung effortlessly to her shapely form. Strange, he thought. She didn’t get that in East Berlin.

“Mr Jacobs?” she enquired, breaking into his reverie.

“Komm herein. Bitte mach es dir bequem.”

“I speak English,” she countered.

“OK. Take your time. There’s no hurry. There’s no-one after you.”

Part of his responsibility was to do his best to keep candidates calm. It was pointless people playing below par just because they were nervous. It’d be different if they were auditioning for a solo spot, but this was an orchestral audition and orchestral players, on the whole, weren’t nervous.

“Are you from Berlin?” he asked, sitting down at the piano. “I have so few details.”

She dug into her bag and handed him a sheet of paper. Magdalena Schneider, he read, followed by an address, phone number and short resumé.

“Schneider. That’s ‘Taylor’ in English, isn’t it?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Clearly, her command of English was good.

She bent down to open the cello case, took out the instrument, bending down again to rest it on its side. She removed the bow from the case and tightened the horsehair. Catching his eye, she smiled.

He looked up from the papers on the piano stand and returned the smile. Goodness, he thought to himself, she really is gorgeous.

She now had his full attention as she bent down a third time to pick up a block of rosin, registering for the first time that the dress she was wearing was exceptionally short. What was all this bending down, he thought, recalling a subliminal awareness of her earlier behaviour?

She looked at him quizzically. “Which chair?” 

“Take your pick,” he replied, pointing at the row of three chairs to one side. “Everyone likes something different. Whichever suits you.”

Grabbing her cello by the neck, she sat on the first, wiggling her bottom interrogatively before repeating the performance on the second. The third was facing Jacobs who by now began to get an inkling of what was afoot. She duly sat on the third chair and repeated the bottom wiggling routine, spreading her knees to accommodate the cello briefly revealing the unmistakable fact that the only underwear she had on was a skimpy suspender belt attached to the sheer black stockings she was wearing.

Jacobs blinked. This was a bit of a first. He was no novice to women coming on to him but not at an audition. That she was playing games was obvious but with what in mind? She must surely realise that if she succeeded in seducing him, there was no way he could credibly offer her a job. Plenty would; he could name names. But times were changing. The casting couch was no longer the automatic prerogative of the artistic director. He could just imagine . . .

“Excuse me,” she broke in. “May I start?”

“Of course.” He pulled himself together. “What would you like to play?”

“Some Bach, I think” and she sailed without further ado into the Prelude to Bach’s C major Cello Suite.

Jacobs was transfixed. Whatever she was or was not wearing, whatever game she was playing, Magdalena Schneider could play the cello.

The movement was short but long enough for Jacobs to consider his dilemma. The sexual chemistry between them was self-evident. She knew it and she knew he knew it too. He shifted on his chair to accommodate the changing topography below his waist. He had to take care. He was in East Berlin and this was the Palasthotel, a hard currency establishment from which the local populace was barred and a fabled happy hunting ground for the Stasi. He could assume the room was wired for sound and that there would be at least one camera in place. It was the perfect honey trap. Circulation of compromising photographs or film would ruin his career and the threat of revelation could well have him dancing to the Stasi’s tune.

He looked up. She had stopped playing and was looking straight into his eyes, holding the instrument on its pin to one side giving him an unimpeded view up her skirt.  The invitation was glisteningly evident.

Mustering every ounce of self-discipline, he asked what she wished to play next.

“Haydn’s C major Concerto, first movement.” She handed him the piano part and, opening it, he picked up the orchestral opening a couple of bars before the cello entry.

Again she sailed in and the performance was spectacular. There was no other word for it. Under other circumstances, he would have given the matter no further thought and offered her the vacant position on the spot. But how could he, particularly if he succumbed to what was rapidly turning into an almost obsessive need. He had visions of kneeling in front of her, cello to one side, head buried under her skirt as she sat, legs apart and stretched out in front of her.  With every fibre of his body, he wanted to breathe in her musky perfume. He could see himself, tongue inside her furrow . . .

But he had a more pressing need. As soon as she had finished playing the concerto, he would have to get up, walk over to her, place a book of orchestral repertoire excerpts on the music stand and get her to sight-read the passages he selected. How could he possibly do so without revealing that he had the most massive erection? He looked down. Although by no means overly endowed, his broad six-inch penis capped with an engorged glans was already all too clearly visible and visible in graphic detail.

The music stopped.

“Thank you, Fräulein. That was lovely. You are a fine cellist. Now we must see how you get on with a bit of sight-reading.”

He got to his feet, monstrously priapic. Her eyes opened wide in response; her hand flew to her open mouth. Tears welled in her eyes.

“Es tut mir leid, Herr Jacobs, I’m so sorry, so very sorry.”

He put his finger to his lips. Her anguished response to his predicament made him realise their only option was to play their situation straight down the line. If, as he now surmised, she was probably a reluctant participant in the planned trap, she was in as much danger as he was. Their only hope was to continue with the audition, for it to reach a natural conclusion, for them to shake hands and for him to tell her he would be in touch. She would have failed in her attempted seduction, but it would be all too clear from any film being made that she’d given it her best shot. He just hoped that would be sufficient.

The only problem was that the very last thing he wanted to do was to play it straight. Standing right next to her, breathing in the very real natural perfume he had only minutes before conjured in his mind, simply served to intensify his arousal. But he placed the book of orchestral excerpts on the stand and indicated the passage he’d like her to play. While she was playing, he leant close as if reading the music and quietly explained his plan.  She nodded and continued to play.

Five minutes later they were finished.

“Danke Fäulein. Das war sehr schön. Ich werde in Kontakt bleiben.” Adding, sotto voce. “Not another word.”

She nodded, packed up quickly without bending down, and extended her hand. He took it, squeezed it gently and lifted it briefly to his lips, just another courtly Englishman. She turned and left.