by Marc Levy
“My apologies. Anyway, it wasn’t anything important. I have good news for you, though. I was going to call you tonight to tell you: pack your bags for Somalia. I got the green light.”
“Oh, that’s fantastic!” exclaimed Thomas. “I’ll come back to Berlin and get a move on ASAP.”
“There’s no need. Stay in Rome. I’ll take care of the flight, and I can ship you all the other documents express. I’ll get them to you by morning.”
“Why don’t I just come by, so we can talk in person before I—”
“No, no, no. Trust me. We’ve waited long enough to get the necessary authorizations. There’s no time to lose. Your flight for Africa leaves Fiumicino Airport late tomorrow afternoon. I’ll call you tomorrow morning with the details.”
“Everything okay?” asked Thomas. “You sound a little weird.”
“Everything’s fine. You know me. I’m just excited for you, and bummed I can’t be with you for a celebratory drink.”
“Well, I don’t know how to thank you, Jürgen. I guess I’ll just have to win a Pulitzer and help you land that editorial director gig!”
Thomas hung up. Knapp peered out the window just as Julia crossed the lobby and exited, trailed by the older man with her. He turned around behind his desk and put the receiver back in its cradle.
17.
Thomas joined Marina, who sat waiting for him at the top of the Spanish Steps. The Piazza di Spagna was crowded with tourists.
“So did you manage to get through to him?” Marina asked.
Thomas avoided making eye contact. “Come on, there are too many people here. I can barely breathe. Let’s do a little window-shopping. Maybe we can snag you that shawl you liked with all the colors.”
Marina slid her sunglasses down to the tip of her nose and rose to her feet without a word.
“Hey! Wrong way. The store’s back over there,” Thomas shouted after her as she abruptly headed down the steps toward the fountain.
“I’m not going to any store. You can forget that scarf.”
Thomas ran after her and managed to catch up with her at the bottom of the steps.
“You were in love with it yesterday!”
“That was yesterday. Today, I don’t want it anymore. Women are fickle, you know. And men are idiots.”
“What is your problem?” asked Thomas.
“My problem is that if you really want to give me a present, you should have chosen it yourself, wrapped it up nicely, and hidden it as a surprise. That’s called being attentive. A rare quality, one that women are very fond of, although it takes a lot more than that to get a woman to marry you.”
“All right, slow down, I’m sorry. I thought it would make you happy.”
“Well, it backfired. Any gift meant as a bribe, hoping I’d say ‘fine’ and forgive you—”
“Hold up! What do I need to be forgiven for?”
“Like you don’t know! Careful, Pinocchio, or your nose will start growing. Let’s celebrate your departure for Somalia, instead of fighting. That’s what he told you just now on the phone, isn’t it? Well, you’d better take me someplace very nice tonight, mister, I can tell you that much . . .”
Marina started walking again, ending any discussion of the matter.
Julia got out of the taxi and followed Anthony through the hotel’s revolving door.
“There’s got to be some sort of solution here. That Thomas of yours didn’t vanish into thin air. He’s out there somewhere; we just have to find him. It’s simply a matter of patience.”
“We can’t wait that long. Twenty-four hours, by my count. We have tomorrow, then Saturday we fly back. Or did you forget?”
“I’m the one whose days are numbered, Julia. You have your whole life ahead of you. If you want to see this thing through to the end, you might need to take a trip back to Berlin on your own. But at least this trip of ours got you closer to making peace with the city. Not half bad, I’d say.”
“Not half bad? That’s why you dragged me all the way here? For a clear conscience?”
“Look at it any way you want to. Given the chance, I’d probably do it all the same, so I can’t really make much of an apology. But let’s make an effort this time, and not fight about it. You’d be surprised by just how much you can accomplish in a single day.”
Julia looked away. She brushed her hand against Anthony’s. He seemed to hesitate a moment, then turned away and crossed the lobby.
“I’m afraid I can’t join you this evening,” he told his daughter as they stood waiting for the elevator to arrive. “I hope you’re not mad, but I’m feeling pretty tired. Perhaps best to recharge my batteries, conserve energy for tomorrow. Strange, but in this case, I do mean that quite literally . . .”
“Sure, rest up. I’m exhausted, too. I think I’ll just order room service. We can meet up for breakfast. I’ll come have it in your room, if you like.”
“That sounds wonderful,” said Anthony with a smile.
The elevator took them upstairs. Julia got out first and waved to her father as the doors slid shut. Hovering out in the hallway, she watched as the red numbers on the screen continued upward, signaling Anthony’s ascent.
As soon as she got back to her room, Julia ran a steaming-hot bath and emptied two little bottles of bath oils into it. She returned to the bedroom and ordered a fruit salad and a bowl of cereal from room service. After the call, she turned on the TV hanging on the wall across from the bed. She left her clothes in the bedroom and slipped into the warmth of her bath.
Knapp inspected himself in the mirror one last time, adjusted his tie, and left the bathroom. At eight o’clock sharp, the photo exhibition he had organized under the direction of the cultural ministry would open at Berlin’s Museum of Photography. The project had required a considerable amount of extra work, but the investment of time had been well worth it; the exhibition would help his promotion and the advancement of his career. Assuming the evening was a success, and his colleagues gave the exhibition glowing reviews in print the next day, it wouldn’t be long before he moved into the large glass office at the entrance of the newsroom. Knapp glanced up at the clock in the front hall of the building. He had fifteen minutes, more than enough time to cross Pariser Platz on foot and be in place at the bottom of the steps to welcome the minister and the television cameras on the red carpet.
Adam crumpled the plastic sandwich wrapper into a ball and aimed for a trash can under one of the lampposts in the park. His shot went wide, and he rose with a sigh to recover the greasy wad of cellophane. As he neared the lawn, a squirrel lifted its head and stood on its hind legs.
“Sorry, pal,” said Adam, “I don’t have any peanuts in my pockets, and Julia’s out of town. Looks like we both got dumped.”
The little animal peered at him, bobbing its head along with each word Adam spoke.
“I don’t think squirrels are big fans of cold cuts, but what the hell,” he said, flicking a morsel of ham that had slipped out from between the two pieces of bread.
The rodent snubbed Adam’s offering and scampered up a tree. A woman jogging past stopped to observe the scene.
“Wow. You talk to the squirrels, too? Isn’t it amazing how they come up and just wiggle their sweet little faces at you?”
“Yeah . . . it’s really something.” Adam mumbled, at a loss for more to say on the subject of the ratlike creatures.
With that, he tossed his sandwich in the trash and shuffled off with his hands shoved in his pockets.
A knock sounded at the door. Julia grabbed a washcloth and wiped off her face mask. She stepped out of the tub, grabbing a robe off the hook on the bathroom door and slipping it on. She crossed the bedroom and let the waiter in, asking him to leave the tray on the bed. She took out some bills from her purse and slipped them next to the check, signing the receipt and handing it back to the waiter. As soon as he had gone, she got under the covers and started picking at the cereal. Remote control in hand, she flipped through the channel
s in search of any show not in German.
She flipped past three Spanish shows, a Swiss channel, and then two French ones. The war coverage on CNN was a no-go (too violent), the stock market report on Bloomberg was boring and incomprehensible (she was terrible at math), and a game show on the local station really rubbed her the wrong way (the female host seemed vulgar). She started over from the beginning.
Knapp stood on his tiptoes for a view of the motorcade as it pulled up. A man nearby tried to step in front of him, but Knapp defended his position and put him back in his place with a firm elbow. If the guy wanted a better spot, he should have arrived earlier. A bodyguard opened the car door, and the minister stepped out into a swarm of cameras. Side by side with the exhibition’s curator, Knapp stepped forward and bowed to welcome the high-ranking government representative, then escorted him straight onto the red carpet.
Julia browsed the rest of the room service menu. After devouring her meal down to a single raisin and a couple of seeds, she was torn between a slice of chocolate cake, a strudel, pancakes, or the club sandwich. She twisted to get a better view of her stomach and hips, and what she saw made her toss the menu straight across the room. The news report playing in the background showed footage of a glamorous art opening. Celebrities in evening wear walked down a red carpet, with the ever-constant glint of flashbulbs lighting their way. A long, elegant gown worn by a famous actress or singer, probably from Berlin, attracted Julia’s attention. The screen was overflowing with luxury, every face picture perfect and wholly unfamiliar to her eyes. All but one . . .
Julia leaped to her feet with a jolt, knocking over the room service tray in the process, and stepped in closer to the TV. As the man walked down the carpet, Julia was sure she knew his face, certain she recognized that telltale grin as the camera zoomed in on him, only to pan away toward the columns of the Brandenburg Gate.
“That handsome son of a bitch!” exclaimed Julia as she ran to the bathroom.
The concierge assured her that the art opening in question could be nowhere other than at the Stiftung Brandenburger. Even among Berlin’s recent architectural wonders, the building stood out as one of the very newest. The front steps had a perfect view of the Brandenburg Gate. The Tagesspiegel had undoubtedly organized the gala Julia had seen on television. He assured Miss Walsh there was no need to hurry, however. The major photojournalism exhibition would run through the anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall, still a good five months away. If she wished, he could easily procure two invitations for her tomorrow, once the exhibition was open to the public. But Julia insisted—what she needed was an evening dress, right here, right now.
“It’s nearly nine o’clock at night, Miss Walsh!”
Julia dumped her purse out on the counter and started frantically sorting through its contents. There were dollars, euros, spare coins, even an old deutsche mark that she had carried around with her for ages. She took off her watch, tossed it in, and pushed the entire pile forward with both hands, like a gambling addict desperate to stay in the game.
“Find me a dress. It can be red, purple, yellow, anything, as long as it’s long! Don’t make me beg.”
The concierge arched an eyebrow, perplexed. But he was a slave to his sense of duty. This was Mr. Walsh’s daughter, and she needed his help. Then he got an idea . . .
“Sweep that mess back into your purse and follow me,” he said, leading Julia to a storage room.
Even under the dim light, the gown looked magnificent. Julia’s eyes went wide as he handed it to her, explaining that it belonged to a client staying in suite 1206. It had arrived a little while earlier, straight from the designer, but luckily for Julia, it was already too late to disturb the countess. Of course, even the slightest damage to the dress was an absolute impossibility. And like Cinderella, Julia would have to bring the dress back before the stroke of midnight.
He left her alone to change, suggesting she leave her clothes on the hanger.
Julia undressed and slid into the delicate fabric with the utmost care. There was no mirror for her to check how she looked. The best she could do was to squint at her reflection on a metal support pillar, but the cylinder left her so distorted that it defeated the purpose. She let down her hair and blindly applied her makeup. She left behind her purse, pants, and sweater, then scurried her way back down the shadowy hallway toward the lobby.
The concierge motioned her in to have a look at herself in a mirror hanging on the wall behind him. She glided toward it without making a peep, only to be blocked by the concierge before she could even get a view.
“No, no, no,” he said, as Julia ducked and bobbed to sneak a peek. “Hold still, will you?”
He plucked a tissue from a drawer and dabbed softly at a spot with smudged lipstick.
“There. Now you’re ready for your close-up,” he concluded, standing aside.
Julia had never seen such a magnificent dress. Suddenly the haute couture she had lusted after in New York’s storefront windows lost all its allure. This was something else entirely.
“I don’t know how to thank you!” she murmured, dumbstruck.
“Too bad the designer can’t see you in it; I’m sure you put the countess to shame,” he said, smiling. “I’ve called you a car, which will accompany you to the exhibition, then wait nearby until you’re ready to come back here.”
“I could have hailed a taxi.”
“In a gown like that? I hope you’re joking. Think of the car as both your carriage and my insurance policy. Don’t forget: midnight, Cinderella! And, of course, do enjoy yourself, Miss Walsh,” said the concierge as he led her toward the limousine.
When they were outside, Julia stood on her tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek.
“Just one last thing, Miss Walsh.”
“Sure.”
“Don’t lift up the bottom of the dress like that again. Luckily it’s long enough that this can be our little secret, but I wouldn’t recommend letting anyone else get a look at those espadrilles.”
The waiter set down a shared plate of antipasti on the table. Thomas served Marina a few grilled vegetables.
“Mind telling me why you’re wearing sunglasses in a restaurant with barely enough light to read the menu?”
“Because,” answered Marina.
“Thank you for the detailed explanation,” replied Thomas mockingly.
“It’s because I don’t want you to see the look in my eyes.”
“What do you mean? What look?”
“The look.”
“Sorry. I’m trying here, but I have to tell you: I don’t understand a word you’re saying.”
“I’m talking about the look that a man can see in a woman’s eyes when she feels comfortable around him.”
“I wasn’t aware that was a specific look. And what’s wrong with me seeing it?”
“Soon as you see it, you’ll start thinking about the best way to dump me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Thomas, a man who tries to cure his loneliness with a simple no-strings-attached relationship—the type who’s always ready to sweet-talk, but would never make a real declaration of love—a man like that lives in fear of the day his woman starts giving him the look.”
“But what exactly is the look?”
“It’s the look that makes you think she has fallen madly in love with you, and now she wants more. Stupid things: vacation plans, or any plans at all, really! And if she makes the mistake of even smiling in the vicinity of a baby carriage, the whole thing is dead on arrival.”
“And that’s the look you’re hiding behind those sunglasses?”
“Don’t be so full of yourself. My eyes hurt, that’s all. Did you really think I was saying I—”
“Well, there has to be some reason you brought all of this up, Marina.”
“When are you planning to tell me that you’re leaving for Somalia? After your tiramisu?”
“Who said I was going to order tiramisu?”
“In the two years we’ve worked together, I’ve learned your habits.”
Marina pushed her sunglasses down to the tip of her nose, then let them simply fall straight onto her plate.
“Fine. I’m leaving tomorrow. But I just found out about it.”
“Leaving tomorrow for Berlin?”
“No, Knapp’s sending me straight to Mogadishu from here.”
“He’s kept you waiting for three months. And now, after all that time, he just snaps his fingers and you jump on a flight?”
“It saves an entire day. We’ve already lost enough time as it is.”
“He’s the one who made you lose time, and you’re the one doing him a favor. He needs you for his precious promotion, but you don’t need him to turn out top-notch journalism. With your talent, you could win a prize for a shot of a dog taking a piss on a fire hydrant.”
“What’s your point?”
“Stand up for yourself, Thomas. Stop spending your life running away from the people who love you, and actually confront them. Take me, for instance. Tell me that I’m boring you with my ranting, that we’re lovers and nothing more, and that it’s not my place to lecture you. And Knapp—tell him you’re not running to Somalia until you stop at home, pack a suitcase, and give your friends a hug goodbye. After all, you don’t even know when you’ll be back!”
“You know? Maybe you’re right.”
Thomas picked up his cell phone.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m sending a text to Knapp, telling him to buy me a ticket that leaves from Berlin on Saturday.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“Fine. Then do I finally get to see the look?”
“Maybe . . . if you’re lucky.”
The limousine pulled to a stop at the end of the red carpet. Julia contorted herself to keep her shoes hidden as she stepped out of the car and approached the steps. No sooner had she reached the top than a group of photographers started snapping away at her.
