The Former Dominatrix

This morning I hailed a cab from Tegel Airport in Berlin, treating myself to a quick ride home. I was in an unholy mood after 17 hours of travel. I hardly ever sleep on planes – watching TV and movies is too alluring – but I always pay for it when I arrive.

My taxi driver was the rare female driver, with thick dark hair, blue eyeshadow, and a strong Berliner accent. I fended off her small-talk attempts about the weather and new construction sites and shut my eyes. But I was in that miserable purgatory of sleep deprivation, where you’re so exhausted nothing works. I opened my eyes and asked the driver if she could shut the window. Then, feeling rude, I made a banal comment about the bad weather.

The weather in Berlin was better when she was a kid, she said. In March it was always 20 degrees (68 degrees Farenheit). After the first three warm days in a row, she and her sisters were allowed to take their stockings off. Come to think of it, she said, everything was better before. People took care of each other… Berlin was one of the freest places on earth. I had blue hair before anyone else did, she finished, and I had the feeling she meant anyone on the planet.

She asked what I did and I said I was a writer. People are always telling me I should write a book, she said. About living in an enclave within a walled city (I didn’t know what enclave she was talking about). Or all the years I worked as a dominatrix. She said this as casually any other person would have mentioned a passing affinity for folk music.

So why did you stop? I asked.

The East German girls drove down prices when the Wall fell, she said. And then the nature of the work changed, too. I never slept with anyone. I didn’t sell my body. It was about giving orders, turning my clients into slaves. Mostly high-powered executives. Or people who were abused as kids.

Her blue eyeshadow looked different after this revelation. As a cab driver, she had seemed very accommodating and nearly apologetic, but I caught a glimmer of the whip wielder in her for the rest of the ride.

Her tale reminded me of how many people actively consider the story they would write, what their books would be about. It’s too bad, really, that everyone isn’t forced to write their book, the way we have to get drivers licenses or passports. But, just as she admitted to me, she didn’t want to write, she just knew she had good material. What makes someone a good storyteller? Is it how well they know the story and themselves? Or is it that the story has a kernel in it that incessantly evades them, forces them to tell it over and over? I felt like the former dominatrix belonged to the latter.