by Alex Flinn
He smiled at me, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners, and said, “Splendid idea. But select two of those.”
I laughed. “You must be very hungry.”
He laughed in return. “Something like that.”
So I helped him select two pears that were a bit riper, that lightly caved in at my touch, and I tried not to notice how my heart caved in at his glance and at the thought of him leaving, going off in one direction while I traveled in another.
He stayed with me while I selected my own meager groceries. I had no money for treats like pears, but I bought beans and potatoes, boring things, and counted my coins to afford those. There would be no penny for my book fund today.
When we left the stall, again slowly, he pulled one pear, then another, from the bag. “For the walk home.” He held out the larger one to me.
“Oh, I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.”
“Nonsense. It is only a pear. Think of it as payment for the help you have given me.”
I thought I had not helped him at all. Anyone could tell when a piece of fruit was ripe or rotten.
And that is when I realized, yes, anyone could. I looked up at his handsome, smiling face. Anyone could. He could. He had asked for help because he wanted to talk to me.
This was quite a turn of events.
“Of course.” I plucked the fruit from his hand. “I was rude. I would very much enjoy a pear.”
This was true. It had been a long time since I had had one, but the young man tempted me more. Where was he from? Why had I never seen him before? I knew all the young men around here. They were all dull. Someday, I would marry one of them and have dull babies who would grow to adulthood and have dull babies of their own. But I had not yet singled out the one—nor had one singled me out. I would have noticed this young man, had he been there. He was anything but dull.
“Thank you.” I sniffed the pear’s aroma. “For the pear.”
His teeth were straight and white like the fence posts in front of the church. “Thank you again for your kind guidance. Might I walk you home?”
I hesitated just long enough to appear demure.
“It is darkening,” he said, unnecessarily. “I have kept you too long. I would blame myself if you got lost or . . . worse.”
I knew I would not get lost on the path I had taken hundreds of times. Still, it was not an effort to lie. This was not an instance where I wished to appear competent. No, I needed to be fragile like a delicate wildflower, ill suited to walking alone at dusk.
“All right,” I said.
“Allow me to take your bags as well.”
I handed over my satchel, and again, his skin touched mine. The moon was visible, a crescent moon like a frog’s eye, peeking out of the murky water. At first, there were sounds of the closing market, merchants and boxes, children and chickens. Then they all faded into the distance and there were only our footsteps and the music of the twilight, a breeze, crickets, and nothing else save my own breath.
And his voice.
“I don’t . . . I don’t suppose you’ll tell me your name.”
“Cornelia,” I said before I wondered if it was improper to introduce myself to a stranger. Probably no less proper than walking with one. I had waded into the river. I might as well swim.
“And you?”
It took him a second to answer, but finally, he said, “Karl,” and at that moment, the moonlight streamed through the trees, and I saw his smile. “Do you come to town often?”
“Only on Thursdays, to market, and Sundays, for church. Other days, I’m too busy. My father runs the mill, and since I am the only daughter left at home, all the housework falls to me, the cooking and cleaning and caring for the animals.”
I stopped. I was talking too much. I sounded like a drudge. Why did I think he would be interested in my work? What man would be? Certainly not a man as handsome as this one. Maybe someone seeking a good scullery maid.
Or a wife.
“I am sorry to be so dull.”
He laughed. “You’re not dull. I like to hear what other people do.”
“Other people?” A breeze riffled across my arms, and I shivered.
“People who aren’t me. What of your mother? Does she not help with the chores?”
“No. She died when I was little.”
“Ah, that is something we have in common then. My mother is also gone. She died when I was a baby. I do not remember her.”
I felt a stab of pity for him. I yearned to take his hand, not merely because he was so handsome (I told myself) but because I genuinely sympathized with the poor, motherless boy he had been. Instead, I said, “I am sorry. My mother and I, we were great friends. I cannot imagine growing up without her, even though I did not have her long.”
“What was she like?” Karl paused in his walking and looked at me. I thought I should keep going, should get home, and yet I wanted to stop. It had been so long since I had talked to anyone, at least about anything, except to Father, about whether we needed more chicken feed, or to my sister, asking if I could watch her baby for the day. Karl seemed actually interested in hearing me. But perhaps he was merely being polite.
But why would such a beautiful young man even be polite to me?
“Mama.” I pictured her, in her bed, the feather pillow atop her face to block the noise and light. “She was always sickly. I never remember her being well. I suppose I should not complain about the work, for my sisters had all the work before me, and they had to care for me. And care for her.”
“They are gone now, married?”
“Yes. Sometimes, when they were out at market, and Mama and I were alone, I would crawl into bed beside her, and she would sing to me. She also taught me how to read.”
“You can read?” He sounded surprised.
“Yes. Can you not?”
“Of course I can. But I’m . . .” He hesitated, and I heard his unspoken words. I’m a man. You’re a girl. But he said, “I’m a student. I do little other than read. I would think you would not have time to read.”
“Father says I do not. But Mama taught me, for it was the one thing we shared, and now I read every night to remember her. I only own two books, but one of them is the Bible, so it takes a long while to read.”
He smiled. “And what is the other?”
I felt my face get warm, and I looked away. “You will think it silly.”
“Try me.”
“It is called Exciting Stories, and it is a book of stories that are . . . well . . .”
“Exciting?”
“Exactly,” I whispered. “I know it sounds like a waste of time, but nothing exciting has ever happened to me.” Until today. “Each day has been exactly like the one before, except when Mama died, which was bad, or when my sisters married, which was good for them but merely a big party and a lot of work for me. And then more work when they left.”
He nodded. “I understand. Nothing very exciting happens in my life either.” He drew in a deep breath.
“But how is that possible? You’re a student.” I did not know what students did, exactly, having never been to school. But I had seen the group of buildings, the university, and I pictured young men, all learning from books and from one another, and then going out into the world to accomplish things and lead lives that had nothing to do with mine.
“Yes.” He nodded. “I know I am lucky, but like you, I do the same things all day, and they are exactly what someone else—everyone else—expects of me. I have started to go to the market and talk to people, just so I can see how they live.”
I nodded, understanding. I wanted so much to touch him but, of course, I didn’t. Still, he was so near I could almost feel the warmth of him, anyway, could almost imagine how his hand would feel, clasped in mine.
I could not give in to it. In fact, I had to get home. It was dark, long past the time when Father would be expecting dinner. I had put soup on the fire. Still, he would wonder and disapprove.
“We should wal
k,” I said.
“Of course. But I like talking to you. Can you keep talking? Maybe tell me one of the stories from that book. Is there one you know by heart?”
“Of course. I know all of them by heart.” I began to walk, though slowly. “I have read them so many times.”
“Then please?”
I thought about which one to tell, and finally, I settled on one about a sailor who fell in love with a mermaid.
“There once was a sailor who was very lonely out at sea. The other sailors had loves at home, but he didn’t, so he would sing sad songs all his days. Then, one day, he saw a mermaid on the rocks. She also sang a sad song, and soon, they sang together. They fell in love, but of course, they could not be together, for she had to live underwater while he could only breathe air.
“The sailor was very sad, even sadder than he had been before. Now that he had known love, he could not live without it. So one night, he tied an anchor to his leg and plunged into the ocean. The mermaid saw him, and she rescued him. She dragged him down to her watery kingdom where they lived happily, under the sea.”
We were close to home when I finished. I could hear the Isar, lovely and cold, a bit like the ocean with the mermaid. I looked down, afraid he would think my tale too simple. But he said, “That was lovely. It has been a long time since anyone has told me a story like that.”
“But you read all day.”
“Only boring history, stories of kings and queens.”
“Kings and queens are fascinating. I would love to be a queen.”
“You think you would, but kings and queens accomplish little. They are born to their position and have little power and less sense.”
I did not think this true, but I said, “But you must read about military leaders too, people who accomplish a great deal. I was reading a book today at the bookseller’s, a history book. It was so fascinating I wished I could have it.”
“Yes. I like those books better. Most people don’t.” He looked down at me. “You are a very smart young woman.”
“I love to read history, all the things that happened to other people, better people than myself.”
“Did you think your story was happy, or sad?” he asked. “The one you told me?”
“Mama thought it was happy, but I was never sure. I didn’t know if the sailor was magically able to breathe underwater, or if he died.”
“Exactly. Perhaps that was why he could breathe, because he was in heaven.”
“I have thought about it a great deal, and I think it is happy either way. If he lived, they were happily frolicking under the ocean, and if he died, he didn’t know any better.”
“A poet said ignorance is bliss.” His hand brushed mine as he said it, his soft, soft hand.
We had reached the clearing by my house, and I stopped walking again. I could not take him closer. I didn’t know the poet to whom he referred, but I knew what he meant, ignorance is bliss. It meant one could be happier not knowing the truth.
“Yes, bliss,” I said. “You cannot come closer. My father can’t know a man walked me home.”
I held my breath. If I was quiet, I could almost hear the animals in the barn, awaiting their feeding. My father would be angry that I was so late.
Was it all a dream? Had I jumped into the ocean myself?
“Cornelia?” Karl touched my arm. It was just a brush, like a breeze through the autumn leaves, but it brought me back to reality.
“Yes?”
“Can I see you again?”
I so wanted to.
“Only on Thursday. That is the day I go out to market.”
“What time do you go? Can we meet early so we can spend the day together?”
“Yes.” The moment was so beautiful, the river in the distance and his handsome face before me. “I spend the day there. We could meet at the bookseller’s stall.”
“Cornelia!” The voice was unmistakably my father’s. He said something else I couldn’t make out, but he sounded annoyed.
“I have to go.”
“I will be there at noon,” Karl said.
“Cornelia! Is that you?” My father again.
“Coming, Father!” To Karl, I said, “I have to go.” I started to walk away.
He grabbed my hand up in his. “Wait!”
And then he pressed it to his lips. They were so warm and even softer than his hands. He rubbed my fingers against them, warming them.
Finally, he released my hand.
I ran to the house, where my father scolded me for dawdling, scolded me for being a silly girl, scolded me for the stew that had gone dry and burned on the bottom. But I did not hear half of it nor did I care. I was going to see him again! He had kissed my hand! It was my first kiss, but I did not mean for it to be my last.
But the next morning, I woke wondering if I had imagined the whole thing. It was insane, someone finding me like that, someone so beautiful. There was no way to prove it had happened, either, no brand upon my skin where his lips had grazed it. I mended Father’s pants, my Friday chore, and cleaned the chicken coop, all the while searching for evidence, but I had none, not even a pear, for I had eaten that. Love was invisible, intangible. Maybe it wasn’t real.
Yet when I returned from the chickens, I found upon the doorstep a package, wrapped in brown paper, tied with a red ribbon. My name was written neatly in an unfamiliar hand.
I opened it. It was a book. The book, The Complete History of Europe. I ran outside to look for whoever had brought it. There was no one, only a light rustling in the trees and the continued rushing of the river.
2
As one might imagine, it was difficult to wait until Thursday—Thursday!—to see him again. The only thing that kept me from looking for Karl before then was the simple fact that I knew nothing about him. I knew not the name of the university at which he studied. I knew not where he slept at night, though imagining him in bed filled me with a sort of tingly feeling I had never felt before. I did not even know his last name.
It was for the best. Had I known any of it, I might have sought him out—and made a fool of myself. As it was, I did not do my work, at least not much of it. Our dinners that week were overcooked meats and potatoes, all forgotten as I fantasized about Karl or lost myself in the book, reading about the battles of Napoleon or the wives of Henry VIII. But at least I put forth the appearance of work.
Time passed slowly, but eventually, it did pass, as time always does. Finally, Thursday arrived! I left my house at daybreak and arrived at the bookseller’s stall quite early. I walked past the lady bookseller brazenly. She could not kick me out, for I had someplace to go. But the little man ran up to me.
“Miss, you are well?”
“I have no money this week either,” I said, heading him off. I did not need him following me around. “I am only meeting someone here. I will be gone soon.”
“No, no.” He shook his head. “It is all right. I know you love the books as I do. Being around them enriches the soul.” He paused, awaiting my reply.
“What?” I looked around, searching for Karl, but it was too early.
“I only wondered if you had, perhaps, done any reading this week?” He looked over his shoulder, probably to see if the bookseller was watching him.
I smiled despite my annoyance, thinking of the book, the secret book which, even now, resided under my pillow. I knew it was none of this funny boy’s business. Still, I could not resist the urge to say, “In fact, I have. I have a new book of history, and it is wonderful.”
His grin was wide, revealing his crooked teeth. “Really? I would love to know more about this book you enjoyed so much. Where did you get it?”
Ah—I saw what he was about. He thought I had read their books for free, then purchased elsewhere. “Oh, oh, no, it was a gift . . . from a friend.”
“I see.” His gray eyes shone. “So tell me what you thought about it, please, for I so seldom meet a young lady who loves books as you do.”
He was s
o strange. I was about to answer him, just to make him stop talking to me, when a long shadow appeared. I turned, then looked up. “Karl, it is you! You are here!”
“Indeed, I am.” Karl reached out to me, then realized it would be inappropriate to take my hand in public. Instead, he shook the young man’s hand. “You work here?”
The young man’s countenance had changed entirely. His brows were knitted together. “Yes.”
“A fine establishment,” Karl said, “and one my Cornelia likes a great deal.” Through a crack in the stall’s curtains, a ray of sunlight streamed and glinted off Karl’s beautiful hair.
“Yes,” I said, noting how he said my Cornelia. “I was just telling this young man about the wonderful book I received this week.”
“You have a new book?” Karl feigned surprise. “Then you will have to tell me about it—over the picnic lunch I brought.” Karl swung his arm, and I saw that he held a hamper. Its contents were concealed by a blanket, but I could see a loaf of bread and the neck of a wine bottle.
“I have been waiting to tell you about it!” I said.
“Then let us go.”
I had gone a few steps before I thought to bid the young clerk good-bye. But when I looked back, he had already trudged away.
Karl and I went to the little wood across from the market, and Karl spread out a red-and-black plaid blanket. I wished I had thought to bring a picnic, to show Karl my wifely skills, for I was an excellent baker. “I will bring the picnic next time. But let me help you unpack now.”
I peered at the basket’s contents and was rather amazed at their elegance. Besides the bread and wine, there was a clove-studded ham and a hunk of cheese wrapped in wax, some lovely cookies, and two of the most beautiful pears I had ever seen. But most incredible of all were the service plates, thin as eggshells, and forks and knives that gleamed silver, and glasses that sparkled like diamonds. It all seemed too fine for a poor student. Perhaps Karl was rich! I laid it all out prettily, but then I was too excited to eat. Or maybe too nervous. What if food fell from my mouth? What if crumbs sullied my dress? What if the cheese made my breath stink? I nibbled at the bread and the ham, sampled a bit of cookie, as daintily as I could, but mostly, I stared at Karl. His shoulders were so broad that they blocked the view of the market. To cover up what I was not eating, I talked of the book, proud that I could remember which of Henry’s wives had been executed (Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard) and which Catherine and Anne he had, fortunately, divorced (Catherine of Aragon and Anne of Cleves). Karl listened—and ate—with equally rapt attention, asking me questions that I happily answered. At one point, he said, “And where did you say you got this wonderful book, my lambkin? A week ago, you had only the Bible and a storybook. Now you are a wealth of information.”
