Three and a Half Minutes

by Caroline Fyffe

  “So. Where are we going?” he asked in a pleasant voice.

  His unexpected question startled her. All her defenses flashed on alert. “The Enkplatz station.” She had a general idea where the Enkplatz station was, but nothing concrete.

  “This way,” he said over his shoulder as he started off.

  Two blocks from the school, they came to the station. Branwell fed a couple of euros into a tall ticket machine and when the ticket popped out, he handed it to her. “You owe me,” he said, repeating the process. They proceeded to the platform to wait for the train’s arrival.

  This was a good time to try to talk. He seemed receptive for the first time. “Branwell, I’m sorry you got sucked into this.”

  “Not a problem,” he answered, casually glancing at his watch.

  She chose her words carefully. “But I thought you couldn’t stand me. After what happened on the plane.”

  “That?” he said in surprise. “Don’t be silly. Accidents happen.”

  A flicker of apprehension wiggled through her. What was this all about? Something was not right. She preferred knowing who her enemies were.

  When the train arrived they boarded, sat in silence, and in a handful of minutes were at the third stop, where they got off. There were shops and boutiques everywhere and many interesting things to see. A man stood in the doorway of an art gallery and motioned for Camille to come inside. Camille looked at her directions. “We want Rosenbursen Straße,” she said.

  Branwell glanced left and then right. “Not sure where that is. I’ll go ask.” He strode over to the open-air farmers market and disappeared into the crowd.

  Camille looked at her watch. It was already nine twenty-five. The square teemed with people. She wished Branwell would hurry. When ten minutes had passed, she knew he wasn’t coming back. Fine. I’ll go it alone—like I’d planned in the first place.

  “Can you tell me where the medical center is?” Camille asked the first woman she saw.

  The woman shook her head. “Ich spreche kein English.”

  Camille tried again. “Können Sie mir…mir,” she struggled with the words, “S-sagen wo das Medical Center ist…bitte?”

  Now the woman smiled. “Ja. Gehen Sie rechts auf Hollandstraße und dann links um die Ecke.”

  Camille caught some of her directions but must have looked confused because the woman now employed the universal language known by all. She pointed.

  “Hollandstraße,” she said again, jabbing at the air.

  Camille thanked her and hustled in that direction. On her route, she came to a bridge that crossed the Danube. Halfway across, she paused and gazed at the fairy tale-like city beyond. It was breathtaking. She wanted to see it—drink it in. The river hurried past, unimpressed with her presence, winding and lapping its banks.

  Slowly, a sensation slid through her body and a shiver traced up her spine. Someone was watching her. Her skin grew prickly and the cold air seemed suddenly constricting. Branwell. She was sure. He was back in the crowd thinking just how funny and clever he was.

  The nurse called Camille into the examination area five minutes after she’d signed in at the office window. Straight off the cover of some fashion magazine, Daniela, as her nametag said, placed a thermometer into Camille’s mouth with a showy display of her long nails, beautifully manicured in French white. She took Camille’s blood pressure and pulse without saying a word, and entered the data into a razor-thin laptop, after which she left Camille sitting on the end of the examination table to wait for the doctor.

  Dr. Williamson was very nice. The exam took forty minutes and he finished by giving Camille a good report. Everything looked as it should. She need not come back until next month unless she had some sort of problem. He gave her his private phone number just in case, with an invitation to call him anytime, day or night.

  By the time Camille exited, the sun had disappeared behind some clouds, putting a chill in the air. She took her power bar from her backpack and took a bite.

  Before leaving the office, the receptionist had explained where Camille needed to go to catch the train back to Michaelerplatz. She glanced up the street. Was Branwell still around? Perhaps he’d gone back to class without her. She wasn’t anxious anymore, more perturbed at him than anything. It was only a few blocks to the U-Bahn station so she started to walk.

  The lunch crowd was out in force, cramming quaint cafés and eateries everywhere. People jammed the walkways and congested the streets. Businessmen in Armani suits sat drinking martinis, and businesswomen sipped mineral water while talking on cell phones that never seemed to leave their ears. It was chaotic.

  Purposely, Camille steered clear of the most crowded areas, skirting the hustle and bustle. She veered onto a winding street with a tiny shop that reminded her of Chocolate Blossoms. It was darling and resembled something straight from the pages of a children’s storybook. Since she was in the candy business herself, curiosity won out.

  A silver bell tinkled as she stepped inside. A sparkling glass display case greeted her, filled with every kind of confection, surely delectable enough to please the most finely honed palate while their artistic beauty would satisfy the most discerning eye. Camille felt a pang of nostalgia for Chocolate Blossoms when the scent of warm milk chocolate wafted from the back room, where something was cooking.

  A voice greeted her. “Grüß Gott.”

  Camille had thought she was alone in the shop. She looked around. “Oh, Grüß Gott,” she replied, spotting a small woman wavering precariously off the side of a wall-sliding ladder as she restocked a highly placed shelf. She smiled broadly at Camille and hurried down.

  “Can you please recommend something special?” Camille asked.

  “Yes. Die Mozart-Kugeln are our specialty.” Her eyes gleamed passionately. “You may try one.” The woman reached into the case, took out a foil-wrapped ball, and handed it to Camille.

  Camille unwrapped it and took a small bite. Her senses exploded in a rainbow of tastes the likes of which she’d never experienced before. “Delicious.”

  “Natürlich. The famous Mozart-Kugeln are made with only the finest of Schokolade. The center is pistachio marzipan and has a hazelnut nugget. You like?”

  Camille couldn’t speak yet. She was still in euphoria. Finally she said, “I love it. I’ve never tasted anything quite like it in all my life.”

  “Ja, that is what most people tell me.”

  “I will take a small gift bag, please.”

  Camille made it back to Michaelerplatz without too many problems. She was curious as to what Herr Christove would say when she showed up without Branwell. She didn’t care that Branwell had gone off and left her, she was capable of navigating on her own; it was just such a weird thing for him to do. Ignoring her because he didn’t like her was one thing, but actually disobeying Herr Christove was quite another.

  She hurried up the steps to the school feeling comfortable and at ease. She was happy about her prognosis. The doctor wanted her to just keep on doing what she’d been doing for the last few weeks, but most importantly she was to avoid all stressful situations.

  Class was in session when she rounded the corner of the hallway and went into the room. Herr Christove’s face lit up when he saw her.

  “So, you are back,” he said. “How did it go? Did you have a nice lunch?”

  Camille was about to answer when a voice behind her said, “We had no trouble finding it. And we lunched at Sardino’s.”

  Stunned, Camille spun around. She had not heard him approach. Branwell was not two feet behind her. He towered over her, making the back of her neck prickle. How could he? She glanced down at his big feet to see he wore soft-soled shoes. She stared at him in disbelief. What was his game?

  “Camille?”

  She turned back to Herr Christove at a loss.

  He looked worried. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “Yes,” she sputtered. “I’m fine.”

  “Is something bothering you?�
�� Concern was written all over his face.

  She glanced up at Branwell. “No. Nothing.”

  “You are sure?” His look said he didn’t believe her. “Well, I am glad you are back safe and sound.”

  They took their seats and began working on the paper Herr Christove handed them, but Camille couldn’t concentrate on the vocabulary lesson before her. She couldn’t decide if she should say anything to Herr Christove or not. He knew Branwell—and seemed to be his friend. It was her word against his. Branwell could just say he went off shopping and then lost her accidentally. She knew better. She’d felt his stare on the bridge.

  “Mrs. Ashland, could I speak with you for a moment,” Herr Christove called.

  Camille approached his desk. He had one of her papers lying on his desk. He motioned for her to take a seat in the chair facing him with her back to the students.

  He began in a quiet voice. “I want to thank you for spending the day with Branwell. I should have told you this earlier, but he’s the son of the prime minister of England. Don’t let that bother you, though. They like to keep his identity quiet for security purposes, you understand. I know he’s kind of a different young man, so I appreciate your kindness toward him. His uncle is a benefactor to this school and serves on the board.”

  Branwell really was the prime minister’s son. Stephen Turner had almost said that on the plane. In jest, she’d thought at the time. Sometimes truth really was stranger than fiction. “I see,” was all she could manage to get out.

  He looked at her questionably. “That won’t be a problem, will it?”

  “Is there a problem?” Branwell said, from behind her.

  Chapter Ten

  “This is a private conversation, Branwell,” Herr Christove said in a flat voice. Camille noticed the instructor’s mouth harden and pleasant expression vanish.

  “Sorry,” Branwell said politely. “I thought I heard you say there was a problem with something. I wanted to help if I could.”

  Herr Christove stared up at Branwell from his desk, his gaze steady over his steepled fingers. “It’s nothing that concerns you.”

  Camille wanted to laugh. Branwell was afraid she was going to snitch on him, tell Herr Christove about his shenanigans. Well, she should. It would serve the egotistical brat right.

  She forced herself to turn around and look at Branwell. His eyes were dark, unreadable. “No worries, Branwell,” she said. “It’s not always about you.”

  “Fine then. I’m just trying to be accommodating,” he said with a shrug.

  Herr Christove watched him go back to his desk, a perplexed expression on his face. “You’re sure everything is all right?”

  She nodded. Felt empowered. She weighed Branwell’s audacity. Was his interruption his way of warning her not to say anything? His boldness was creepy. He was far more connected with the school and Herr Christove than she’d previously thought.

  An hour later, Günther put his lesson planner away in the top drawer of his desk and stood. “I’m ending class a little earlier than usual today. Put your papers on my desk as you leave. This evening, go over the conversations I gave you yesterday. There will be a quiz tomorrow.” He walked over to the windows and glanced out before twisting the blinds closed.

  “As most of you know, today is Ash Wednesday,” he continued. “For those who are interested, I’m walking over to St. Elizabeth’s Church. You are welcome to join me.” He shrugged into his coat as the students prepared to leave.

  He held up his hand. “I’m sorry. One more thing. Tomorrow evening we will meet at Spatzennest, Sparrow’s Nest. It’s not fancy, but is known for its classic Viennese cuisine. We’ll gather at six for before-dinner refreshments. It’s a good way to get acquainted with each other. If you don’t feel like it, that’s fine. It’s not mandatory—but you will be sorry if you miss.” He grinned.

  Scott Wilkins, Timm Zalzamaci, and Lena Eezer left immediately. Branwell and Stena talked quietly and exited the door. Mrs. Ashland still sat at her desk as she looked through her backpack. After she found what she was looking for, she approached with something in her hand.

  “I forgot about this. It’s a small thank-you for letting me off the hook today.”

  He glanced at the bag of Mozart-Kugeln. “Thank you so much. I really like these.”

  She smiled warmly. “You’re welcome.”

  “Are you coming along?” He watched her face as she considered the idea. “Are you Catholic?”

  “Uh, yes.”

  Mark Marslino, Angie Dirabelle, and Konrad Larroux brushed past, talking animatedly about the dinner at Spatzennest. Hanna Lodyard and Niclas Shiollière stood back, and he presumed they were waiting.

  “I am, but I haven’t been practicing for a very long time.”

  “Good. All the better reason to come now since we are beginning Lent.” He could see by her expression she was torn. “It’s okay. Come.”

  She shrugged. “All right. I just hope the walls don’t cave in on me.”

  He couldn’t help the happiness her decision caused him. “And it’s a nice, brisk walk, I’m sure you’ll like it.”

  “It’s not the church next door?”

  He shook his head.

  “Why not?”

  “You’ll see. Hanna and Niclas, you are coming along too?”

  “Oui, Herr Christove,” Hanna Lodyard replied. She was a seventeen-year-old Frenchwoman from Clermont-Ferrand, in the region of Auvergne. Her layered dark brown hair, merry brown eyes, and engaging smile were captivating.

  Niclas, nineteen, and also from France, gave Camille and Günther a cool nod. Günther could see a romance in the making as sure as the day was long. “This is a fine group. Let us depart.” Günther stepped aside, and with a wave of his arm ushered the three through the doorway. He locked the door, slipped his key back into his pants pocket, and they started down the gigantic hallway, four across.

  Niclas and Hanna were making eyes at each other and laughing as they exited the building, descending the flagstone steps. At the bottom a man waited, watching their approach with interest. A ball cap covered his dark hair, a computer case slung across his shoulder, and a cup of coffee in his hand.

  The man stepped forward as they were about to pass. “Camille.”

  Surprised, Camille jerked her attention away from Günther, who was explaining to them how Michaelerplatz got its name.

  “Stephen. Hello.” She paused and greeted him with a friendly grasp of her hand.

  “Hi. I was waiting for you. How’s it going?” His gaze took in the foursome and landed on Günther.

  “Very well. Let me introduce you to my instructor. Herr Christove, this is Stephen Turner. We were seated next to each other on our flight from Heathrow to Vienna.” She looked to the teenagers. “This is Hanna and Niclas, students also.” The teenagers, who were now holding hands, nodded.

  “Pleasure to meet you.” He glanced around the group of faces and returned to Camille. “And I was afraid you’d be lonely not knowing anyone in Vienna,” he said jokingly.

  “Not to worry,” Günther assured him. “She has many friends already, and has captivated the whole class with her American charm.”

  Camille’s eyes grew wide and her face began to darken in color at his familiarity.

  Stephen shifted his weight to his other leg, then straightened. “I can see that.”

  Stephen Turner was not going to give up easily. Niclas and Hanna were already walking away in the direction of St. Elizabeth’s, bored with the adults’ conversation.

  “We’re on our way to St. Elizabeth’s,” Camille told him. “For Ash Wednesday. Would you like to join us?”

  He glanced at his watch and then repositioned the cap on his head. “Think I’ll pass this time, but thanks. You go on, I’ll catch you later.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you later.”

  Günther watched Stephen as he crossed the square, upsetting a flock of pigeons hunting for crumbs in front of a café. They caught up w
ith Hanna and Niclas who were waiting for them on the corner.

  “Now where?” Hanna asked.

  Günther rounded the corner. “This way. We have a couple of blocks to go.”

  He took out his phone and punched in a number.

  “Hallo, it’s Günther,” he said as they walked.

  Camille could hear a very happy female voice on the other end talking away in German.

  He barked out a laugh, making the teens giggle. “Ja, und Sasha?” He responded to the woman on the other end of the line, laughing again.

  “Hold on, Camille wants to talk with you.” He handed the phone to Camille.

  “It’s Helene.”

  Camille explained to Helene that she would be home later than normal and not to worry about her. After a friendly conversation, she hung up and handed the phone back to him. “Thanks. I would have forgotten.”

  He folded the phone and slipped it into his inside coat pocket. “Helene and I are old friends. Her sister and I were sweethearts, back in gymnasium, our equivalent to America’s high school. We’ve stayed in contact on and off throughout the years. She and Wolfgang host a student for the academy every term. They added that cozy second-floor addition specifically for that purpose.” They crossed the empty street in the middle of the block and turned into an alley. “Do you like it?”

  “What? The room? Oh, yes, very much.”

  He grinned, the smile going all the way up into his eyes. “I helped them build it,” he said proudly.

  “You’re a carpenter, too?” she replied in surprise.

  “No, not really.” He smiled at her look of pleasure. “Come on, we’re here.” The four went up the steps to St. Elizabeth’s and Günther opened the door for the group to enter.

  The interior of St. Elizabeth’s blushed ambient illumination cast from two rows of chandeliers. It was a gorgeous church, very old, with a personality of charming elegance. There were two side altars, each with its own giant fresco, one of the Transfiguration and one of Mary, Queen of Heaven. A bevy of saints adorning the walls gazed down on the carved pews. Stained glass windows glittered in a multitude of colors and the ceiling, as most churches of old, had cherubim and other angels portrayed everywhere.