My brief career as a smoking model

"It's so good to see you again, Sara. Can I take you out for a drink? Let's go somewhere. Then I'll explain everything."

Clouds of smoke came out with the words when I answered:

"I'm not getting into that car with you. And I'm not having drinks with you. Last time I ended up in a bed with your hands on my boobs. Remember? I want answers here and now. We can sit over there."

I pointed to the bench where I had been waiting.

"Okay, Sara. As you wish."

Resignedly he followed me to the bench. My cigarette was smoked down to the filter so I used it to light another from the Camel pack. Daniel Hartwig watched this closely.

"Still smoking the same brand, are you?" he remarked.

I exhaled smoke without commenting.

He continued:

"First of all, Sara, there was no client. I was spending my dad's money. I paid you."

"Why?"

"I was fascinated by you when I first saw you jogging at the lake. I knew I wanted you. So I gave you this fake business card that I used to try to impress women. The number of my burner phone was on it."

"So you're not a professional photographer?"

"No. Never. I was a spoiled boy who was used to getting what I wanted."

"But your pictures were fine."

"I'm interested in photography. But I'm an amateur, Sara."

"You fooled me."

"Yes. That was the whole idea."

"What about these... the cigarettes." I held up my pack of Camel Blue. "Why did I have to smoke?"

Daniel Hartwig smiled:

"I'm glad you stuck with Camel Blue. They suit you well."

I ignored what could have been interpreted as a compliment and watched him inquisitively. He continued:

"I obviously have this thing for women who smoke. I really like it. It turns me on."

"You have a smoking fetish?"

"Yes. I guess that's the technical term. Anyway, when I first saw you, I hoped you were a smoker. I invited you on the trip to Sylt..."

"Which you said was a professional assignment..."

"Yes. You wouldn't have come if I had just invited you, would you?"

"No."

"On our way out of Hamburg that Monday morning I hoped you would light a cigarette. But you didn't. I asked you if you smoked. You said no. Remember?"

"No. I don't remember that."

"But I did. Then I knew I had to come up with something. Otherwise the whole trip would be a failure."

"So you were only interested in me if I became a smoker."

"Yes."

"But you didn't smoke yourself?"

"No. I have never smoked. I still don't."

I shook my head in disbelief. What a jerk. He continued:

"So I came up with the story about the mysterious client who only wanted pictures of you if you could smoke..."

"...convincingly," I completed his sentence.

"Right."

"And that bodypaint thing?"

"Oh. That was a spontaneous idea I got right there when I saw this bodypaint guy..."

"Dirk," I interjected, taking a deep hit from my cigarette.

"Right... Dirk. You remember. Honestly it... turned me on to see you walk around topless, smoking cigarettes and being admired by all the other men. And knowing you were hired to do as I told you."

"You're sick in your head, Daniel Hartwig. You know that?" I said, exhaling a bit of smoke with each word.

"Maybe I am," he admitted.

"And then you made money uploading my pictures on some jerk-off websites."

"I never made a cent, Sara. I admit I shared a few of the best pictures with others."

"And videos..."

"Yes. A couple of videos too. But I did it for free."

"How generous of you!"

"Believe me. I have enough money. I don't need to sell the pictures. The only person who made money here is you. By the way, did you ever tell the Finanzamt about the 6000 €, Sara?"

I took another deep inhale while wondering about my answer to that uncomfortable question.

"Well, no. Actually not," I then said, exhaling a plume of smoke.

There was a brief silence. Then I continued:

"How do you think I feel about it? Knowing that men all over the world can find my pictures online and use them to masturbate?"

"I hope you feel flattered. You're very beautiful. And they're good pictures."

"Flattered??? Imagine I go to... let's say a job interview. And the employer has found these pictures of me."

"I'd hire you on the spot, Sara!"

"Oh, I'm sure you would. I'm not going to discuss this with you any further," I concluded, butting out my cigarette on the ground and blowing out the last smoke.

"How did you find me, Sara?" Daniel Hartwig asked.

"I didn't. I saw you by accident earlier today here in the car park. I decided to wait for you."

"What were you doing here? I hope you're not ill, Sara?"

"No. Why? Oh no. I work here. I'm a nurse."

"Oh. A nurse. That's nice!"

"Don't tell me you also have a fetish for nurses in sexy uniforms."

"I might have, actually. But never mind," he smiled.

"Too bad I've changed to T-shirt and jeans then," I said sharply.

"You still look very pretty, Sara."

Again I made a point of not reacting to his attempt to charm me with his ridiculous compliments.

"What about you? Why are you here?"

"Well... I'm ill. I have cancer. In my testicles. I could die."

"Oh."

That shut me up for a moment. The nurse came up in me.

"It will comfort you to know that testicular cancer is one of the least mortal forms of cancer. And I know that from experience. I work at the cancer center."

"I'm coming in for surgery tomorrow."

"Surgery? So they're taking out a testicle? Or some lymph nodes?"

"They're taking out both testicles, Sara."

"I see. Who's doing the surgery?"

"It's a doctor Meinhardt. Is he any good?"

"He's one of the best. You're in good hands."

"I though so. He told me my chances are good."

"I'm glad to hear that."

There was an awkward silence as the focus of our conversation had suddenly changed. I'm really used to talk to people about their very serious illnesses. But in this context it felt somehow embarrassing. I looked at the display of my phone to get an excuse to get away from the situation:

"Oh. Half past four. I've got to run."

I put my cigarettes and my phone into my bag.

"Can I give you a lift?"Daniel Hartwig asked and got to his feet.

"No thanks. I have my bike over there. Good luck with your surgery!"

"Thank you!"

"It was good to... finally talk to you," I said, extending my right hand.

"I'm so glad we met, Sara!" he said and took my hand.

While holding on to it for too long he continued:

"Can I ask you one more thing?"

"Yes," I said, withdrawing my hand from his sweatty grip.

"Would you... Could I... just take a few pictures of you with my phone while you smoke another cigarette, Sara? I mean just here in the car park in the clothes you're wearing?"

I was speechless for a few seconds which gave him a chance to continue:

"You know... They're taking out my testicles tomorrow. And I don't know what I'll be able to do after the operation. So I'd like some pictures of you for tonight. I can pay you."

"Pay me? You haven't understood anything, have you? What makes you think that I'd make you take as much of a passport photo of me? Ever?"

"1000 €?" he offered.

"Fuck you, Daniel Hartwig!"

"I guess that's a no then?" he asked in disappointment.

"You bet it is! And you know what? As a health care professional I may wish you a swift recovery from you illness. But on a more personal note and as a woman I'd like to add that it's a good thing that doctor Meinhardt is cutting of your balls tomorrow. That way you're going to stop producing testosterone and I hopefully you'll completely lose interest in pictures of me or other women smoking. Please delete all my pictures and start concentrating on other things. Maybe even get a life!"

With those words I turned around and walked toward the bicycle rack.

Wednesday, May 13^th, 2020. HafenCity Hamburg.

My ex had our modest VW during the weeks when he also had our daughter so I parked my bicycle outside the refurbished warehouse, put on my face mask and found the right button on the large entry phone panel at the main entrance.

I took the elevator to the 7^th floor to the Law Offices of Schulz & Hoffmann and was met at the reception by a secretary who made me feel terribly underdressed in my T-shirt, jeans and sneakers. Even her face mask seemed more elegant than mine.

"Frau Cremers? Please follow me. Frau Doktor Hoffmann is expecting you."

German academics really like referring to themselves as Doktor -- also outside the medical profession.

At a safe distance of two meters I followed the secretary into a large conference room with a long table made of dark tropical timber. On the table there was a large removal box. And at the far end of the table an elegant middle-aged lady was getting up, waving at me from a safe distance, as the secretary closed the door behind me.

"Frau Cremers?" she said. "I'm Doktor Sigrid Hoffmann. Please sit down."

She pointed to a chair at my end of the table.

"Nice to meet you," I said politely and sat down in front of some papers, a bottle of Gerolsteiner water and a bottle of hand sanitizer.

"I'm the executor of the estate of Daniel Hartwig."

"Yes. It said in the letter."

"Were you close with Herr Hartwig?"

"Me? No. We hardly knew each other. I used to work for him many years ago. But we weren't close. Not at all."

"Oh!"

Sigrid Hoffmann seemed surprised. I went on:

"I met him by accident last summer. I was so sorry to hear that he had cancer. But I thought he had a good chance of survival."

"You work in the health care sector, I believe?"

"Yes. I'm a nurse at the Eppendorf clinic."

"You must be busy these days."

"Yes. It's quite exhausting."

"It was not the cancer that killed Mr Hartwig. In connection with his treatment he took some immunosuppressant drugs and back in March he contracted Covid 19. And from there I'm afraid it went very fast. He died on Good Friday and the funeral was kept extremely small. The family regrets that they were unable to invite you and his other friends."

"That's okay. We weren't exactly friends, Daniel Hartwig and I."

"I see. Anyway it's up to me to execute his will and he left you the content of that box. And something else that doesn't fit into the box."

"Okay?"

"Would you like to open the box, Frau Cremers?"

"Yes."

"Please do!"

I cleaned my hands with the sanitizser, got up and walked to the box at the centre of the table and opened it. It contained around 20 framed enlargements in A3 size of photos of me on Sylt. I laid out the pictures one by one on the table.

There I was in in full bodypaint front of a group of drooling testosterone bombs on the promenade of Westerland. There was a picture of bodypainted 19-year-old Sara, cigarette in mouth, at the wheel of the open BMW, a picture of me in front of blooming heather and one from the top of the Hörnum lighthouse.

Sigrid Hoffmann got up from her chair and approached me, still keeping a safe distance, to have a look at the pictures herself as I continued to lay them out in front of me.

"He was a very good photographer," she commented.

"I guess so," I admitted.

"And I had the distinct impression that the two of you were together at some point."

"No. Not at all. He just hired me as a model for a few days many years ago. We had a strictly professional relation."

"I know this is none of my business... But I think Mr Hartwig must have liked you. He had these pictures on the walls of his penthouse appartment, you know."

"No. I didn't know."

"Were you friends with him?"

Sigrid Hoffmann pointed to the Tatort detective whose name I keep forgetting and who died a couple of years ago. In the picture he pulls me close and whispers something into my ear while I'm laughing hysterically. My white tits and red nipples are featured prominently in the large picture.

"No. Not at all. We just met that once and spoke for maybe a quarter of an hour."

"I see. He was a great actor."

"Yes."

Having laid out all the pictures I dived into the box and took out the six expensive summer dresses Daniel Hartwig had brought with him to Sylt. And three pairs of high heels. I recognized the pair I had worn when I twisted my ankle and noticed that the broken strap was repaired without a trace of the accident.

"I think this will be a nice supplement for your wardrobe, Frau Cremers. Don't you think?"

"They're very nice. But this was my size when I was 19. I'm not sure I can squeeze myself into these any more. I've had a child since then."

"Come on, Frau Cremers! You have such a slim figure. I'm sure that's doable."

I didn't comment on that but looked into the box again. I took out some piece of computer equipment and put it on the table.

"What is this?" I asked.

"According to my list it's an external hard drive containing 5436 photographs and 14 video clips recorded on the island of Sylt on July 12^th to 15^th 2004."

"I see. And Daniel Hartwig wants me to have this?"

"Yes. But there is something more in the box."

"Oh. It looks empty."

"Please take a close look, Frau Cremers!"

I bent forward and found an 1970s car key with the letters "BMW" on it, one that I'd held in my hand before.

"The car is parked in a garage nearby. My secretary will tell you the exact location. You can pick up the car as soon as it's registered in your name and the insurance is in order."

"So Daniel Hartwig left me his BMW?"

"Yes. According to his will."

"Will I have to pay a lot of inheritance tax?"

"Mr Hartwig has instructed me to arrange that your inheritance tax is paid out of the estate. I just need you to sign the papers that are laid out in front of your chair."

I sat down and read the papers carefully before I signed them. I pushed them in Sigrid Hoffmann's direction. She inspected them and seemed satisfied.

"My secretary will be glad to help you carry the box to your car."

"Actually... I'm on my bicycle. So for now I'll just take the hard drive, the dresses and the shoes in my backpack and a shopping bag. I'll pick up the framed picktures when I get the car."

"As you wish, Frau Cremers."

I packed my bags and pocketed the key to my new vintage BMW 2002 Cabriolet.

Then I applied more hand sanitizer and waved goodbye to Sigrid Hoffmann.

I turned in the door:

"One last question: When did Daniel Hartwig write this will where he leaves me his beloved car?"

Sigrid Hoffmann returned to her papers at the end of the table.

"Let me check!"

She turned a page and said:

"Quite recently... Less than a year ago. Friday, August 16^th, 2019, it says."

"Okay. Thank you. And bye!"

Sigrid Hoffmann's secretary took me back to the elevator and told me the location of the car in the parking garage. She asked me to call her when I'd registered and insured the car properly. We waved goodbye as the elevator doors were closing.

I spent that evening trying on the dresses (and deciding to go on a diet), looking through 5436 photographs and 14 video clips on my computer screen, smoking the occasional cigarette and looking forward to driving my vintage BMW convertible. All the while I was thinking back to four significant days on the island of Sylt almost 16 years ago.