by Sofie Cramer
Lisbeth gets up out of her chair and leans over Clara, who sits there confused and waits for whatever else her grandmother might have to say.
“Honey, you have two options: Either you believe in goodness and the unexplainable, or you don’t. Think hard about which makes you feel better!” Now Lisbeth raises her eyebrows and nods, signaling to Clara that it’s her turn to speak.
Clara hesitates. After a brief silence she says: “You’re right. All this suffering just has to have some deeper purpose. I want to believe in the good in this world. Otherwise I’d just have to give up.”
sven
All right, listen, I need your help.”
“Good morning to you, too. Why yes, thank you, I did have a nice weekend. How sweet of you to ask,” Hilke teases her colleague, shaking her head sarcastically as she walks into the office in a rush. “What’s up? Trouble with Breiding?”
“No, new info from Lilime.” Sven doesn’t know whether to look forward to Hilke’s reaction or dread it.
“What? Really?” Hilke cries. She suddenly looks wide awake. “Well, come on, out with it. What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Oooooh, you’re driving me nuts. Why is it always like pulling teeth trying to get you to tell me something?”
“I just did a little research because I was bored.”
“And?”
“That’s it. There wasn’t a whole lot I could turn up. I only know that she apparently lives in a city with an Italian restaurant that’s owned by someone named Beppo and has a type of pizza on its menu called Diavola.”
“Oh, yum.”
“You’ve heard of it?”
“Yeah, super-delicious, really spicy, and flavorful. It’s Martin’s favorite kind of pizza.”
“It’s Lilime’s lost love’s favorite, too.”
“Okay, and what else?” asks Hilke, who is still staring at him eagerly across the desk.
“That’s it—nothing else. According to the internet there are forty-five restaurants in forty different cities in Germany owned by someone named Giuseppe. And I know that at least three of these have a Pizza Diavola on the menu.”
“Why Giuseppe? Oh right, from Beppo, got it. And what else besides that?”
“Nothing!”
“Well, what about Hamburg? Is Hamburg one of the cities? I think there’s a Giuseppe who works at the pizzeria around the corner from us.”
“You see? That just proves how low the chances are of tracking down this one Italian guy out of the hundreds of Giuseppes out there, not to mention how hard it would be to identify Lilime even if I did.”
Hilke drops onto her chair. She’s silent for a moment. “Okay, Sven, be honest now. Why don’t you just call her?” she asks, wearing that typical smug grin of hers.
Sven grimaces and rolls his eyes.
“Fine, not a good idea. But what if I call her again? Under a different pretext?” Hilke has an innocent look on her face, like a child who’s hatching some scheme.
“No. That’s dumb. What are you going to say to her? That you’ve dialed the wrong number again, but you would still like to know her name?”
“I could also call and just hang up as soon as she answers. She might say her name right when she picks up.”
“All she says when she picks up is ‘Hello.’ It—”
“Oh, no way!!! So now you finally admit it. You’ve totally spoken to her! And you want me to think you’re not one bit interested in her . . . the nerve!”
“I have not spoken to her!” Sven has to think fast—how is he going to get himself out of this one? “But this is definitely the kind of person who only ever answers with ‘Hello’ or ‘Yes?’ ”
“Well, I’d say it is worth a try. What’s the number again?”
Sven reads off Lilime’s number—half reluctant, half excited to see if anything useful comes out of this juvenile, half-baked scheme.
But Hilke already has the receiver pressed to her ear and is dialing the number. “Oh God, I’m so nervous! It’s ringing!” she whispers conspiratorially.
“I know,” Sven says, amused—he can’t help knowing; his colleague put it on speaker.
“Yes?” The sound fills the room.
“Um, South German Lottery, good day, Ms. . . . uh, am I speaking with . . . ,” Hilke glances at Sven, pleading for help. She looks pretty out of her depth; Sven immediately feels embarrassed for her. If he could he would run out of the room. But there’s clearly no going back now. He gestures with a shrug at the poster hanging on the closed door—a cartoon showing Angela Merkel and Condoleezza Rice testing each other’s strength in an arm-wrestling match.
Hilke continues: “Am I speaking with Rice, er, Reis, Cornelia Reis?”
“No,” the voice on the other end of the line answers politely.
“I have some good news for you. You have been selected from a pool of five hundred candidates to take part in our free sweepstakes—”
“Not interested!” the voice interrupts, sounding a bit annoyed now. “My name’s not Reis and I’m not dumb enough to get involved in this silly nonsense. You must have the wrong number.”
“My apologies, Ms. . . . uh, what is your name, if I may ask?”
“No, you may not ask!”
“Fair enough. It would be in your interest though to let us update your information, because then you would be able to participate in our complimentary, zero-obligation—”
The voice, getting louder now, interrupts Hilke again.
“How can you sleep at night knowing you have such an obnoxious job? If I were in your shoes, I’d rather clean floors for a living! I’m hanging up now!”
Hilke’s face is beet red. She stares at the receiver, stunned, as if it might hold some clue to what just happened.
Sven leans back in his chair with a big grin on his face, folds his hands behind his head, and says smugly: “Now that’s what I call a successful interview. We should have gotten our interns in here to watch!”
Hilke makes a vague sound then shoots Sven a furious look.
“I don’t know what your deal is! Now we know at least that Lilime’s name isn’t Cornelia, that she probably doesn’t work at a call center, and on top of that that she’s neither gullible nor dim-witted.” Hilke grins proudly.
“Yeah, crazy!” Sven fires back. “I have to get to the conference room. I’ll be sure to tell everyone about your innovative new research technique.”
Hilke grabs her mouse pad and flings it at Sven. She doesn’t even come close to hitting him, though, and he just grins back silently.
Sven walks out shaking his head. He badly needs some fresh air and decides to go for a walk along the Elbe after the meeting.
* * *
• • •
A few days later, a giant ship is visible on the horizon. Sven is surprised, because he didn’t see anything in the papers today about this huge rust bucket docking in the harbor.
Then again, he hasn’t been reading the obligatory daily papers with particular care of late. He should be conscientiously poring over the leading news sources and checking all the international business papers for tips on new topics, but all he wants to do is scan the culture pages and the classifieds for art exhibitions and Italian restaurants, anything that might lead him to Lilime. Even here, walking along the Grosse Elbstrasse, he catches himself scanning every storefront for signs of Italian cuisine.
Some days, when he’s out running, he’ll even go out of his way or slow down to get a better look. Whenever he does this it throws off his rhythm and he ends up mad at himself afterward because he can no longer objectively measure whether or not he’s improved his time on his six-mile route. It’s all too clear to him how much he’s neglected his training. He’s fallen way behind, especially when it comes to swimming. Between now and next spring, when he plans to com
pete in his first triathlon, he’ll need a lot of sessions at the pool.
But by this point the case of the mysterious Lilime has become something like a real hobby. It’s like a detective game or a logic exercise, where with the help of some clever reasoning you narrow the options down till you’re left with only one possible solution.
This week, though, there hasn’t been much in the way of clues. Somebody named Niklas is really into Lilime’s paintings and something’s going on that has her thinking about going freelance out of necessity—that’s all Sven has learned from the two texts he’s received in the past few days, and nothing aside from that.
As the ship gets closer, Sven starts thinking about what kind of work Lilime might do. If she’s thinking about setting out on her own and doing something with painting, that could mean she studied art or works as a teacher. But what teacher would willingly give up the security and benefits that come with a government job? Maybe one who is totally unloved and harassed by colleagues and students alike because she wears weird wool skirts and reeks of sweat.
Sven winces. No, that doesn’t seem like her. He can’t really explain it, but he gets the feeling that Lilime is the exact opposite of boring or unattractive. Her texts convey so much sensitivity and liveliness. She must have a rich, well-rounded personality. No doubt she’s really pretty and at an age where, sure, she’s invested a fair amount into her career, but on the other hand she’s still got enough spark left to finally realize her potential and start doing her own thing.
If the situation that’s forcing her to act is market related, then that would mean she’s bound to work for some company on a salary basis. Something hip, like maybe she does layout at a publishing house or comes up with designs for a fashion company.
Suddenly Sven is reminded of a good friend of Fiona’s. A while ago she’d asked him for some tax advice because she wanted to start her own studio. The company she worked for had gone bankrupt, so she was now unemployed and was trying to start her own business with the help of start-up subsidies from the employment office.
At the time Sven wasn’t able to do more than give her a few names of people she could get in touch with. But through her story he had hit upon a trend of lots of young and highly qualified people making a virtue of necessity and daring to make the leap into working freelance or starting their own businesses. Sven had done some research and compiled a ton of data on the subject, which met with quick approval at the editorial meeting. Breiding wanted to make a big thing of it. But then other topics had taken priority. Now, though, Sven thinks, in light of the global financial crisis, he could dust the idea off and propose it again.
Maybe he could also use it as a way to get in touch with Lilime. He could interview her or write a profile on her, presenting her as someone who was representative of a large number of workers.
Sven quickens his pace a little. The ship is only about a quarter mile away at this point.
That’s it, thinks Sven. That’s how I’ll meet Lilime! Now he has a legit and completely innocent reason to get in touch with her!
Suddenly the ship’s horn blares, loud and deep, and Sven is jolted out of his reverie. As if an alarm clock had gone off, he turns around and starts heading back to the office, taking long strides as he walks along the Elbe.
clara
What a shitty Friday! And it had gotten off to such a good start.
Furious, Clara stares out the window of her office, not looking at anything in particular. Niklas can be such a giant asshole! Inside Clara is seething with rage, and she’s glad that Antje isn’t at her desk at the moment. She mustn’t let anything show for now. Everyone else will learn the dire news soon enough. She would never have thought that the agency was in such bad shape.
What am I supposed to do now? Clara asks herself softly. A thousand thoughts are running through her head all at once. Maybe she should have just taken that ridiculous call from the shameless lottery lady as a sign and gone for broke! After all, she’s going to need all the money she can get soon enough.
“Try to look at this as a positive thing, Clara. You have so much potential. Use it!” Her boss’s words are still ringing in her ears. The thing is, what pisses Clara off isn’t what Niklas was trying to tell her—it was the way he went about it.
He’d tried to act all sweet as he told her she was being laid off and to pitch the whole thing as if it were a piece of sensationally good news.
If only I’d never shown him the photos of my paintings, thinks Clara, and she sinks back in her desk chair. She’s been staring at her monitor for hours now. The screensaver shows images of cosmic objects, alternating one after another—stars, Mars, the moon.
She just has to talk to someone.
Katja!
Clara speed-dials Katja’s number and hopes that Antje doesn’t come back to their shared office all too soon.
“Hey, babe! What’s up?”
“Did I wake you up? You sound so quiet.”
“No, I’m at a conference,” whispers Katja.
“Oh, shit. Well, just give me a call back later.”
“No, it’s okay. It’s totally boring anyway. I just can’t leave or else I’ll draw attention to myself. But I can listen, I’ve got my earbuds in. So go ahead, shoot!”
“Okay, I’ll try to make it quick: I’m going to be out of a job soon!”
“What?” Katja cries so loudly that her cover is sure to be blown. “Sorry,” Clara hears her friend saying. “Yes, I know this is a conference. But this is an emergency!”
“Oh God,” says Clara.
“ ‘Oh God’ is right!” Katja says, lowering her voice again. “So what happened?”
“Niklas suggested that I leave. Our main competition outpitched us and lured away one of our most important clients.”
“Shit,” whispers Katja. “So what now?”
“No idea. I guess I’ll go clean floors . . .”
“Ugh, babe. Don’t talk like that. Everybody knows how great you are. Niklas just wants to get rid of you because you’re his highest-paid employee—which is criminal, by the way, with that joke they call your salary and all the unpaid overtime you put in.” Katja is beginning to sound suspiciously loud again.
“Yeah, but I believe him when he says he doesn’t have a choice. And he’s just putting it out there for now. I mean, I’ve been here longer than anyone else. For that reason alone he wouldn’t just send me packing to balance the payroll—only if I see it as an opportunity.”
“Was that his neat little way of putting it?”
“Well, I mean, I showed Niklas my paintings the other day. And he says I should do more with my talent than just sit at a computer all day.”
“Mmm, well, I’ve long been of the opinion that you should finally get yourself out of that snoozefest of a company. Will you be home tonight? I’ll come by and we’ll do some brainstorming, okay? Right now though I’ve gotta go. I’m not exactly making any friends here . . .”
“Yes, I’ll be home. Thanks, Katja. See you tonight!” Clara says, somewhat relieved, and realizes with surprise that she’s been whispering this whole time, too.
* * *
• • •
Clara’s hands are shaking as she walks into Beppo’s restaurant that night. She tried to talk Katja out of this idea, but her friend said it was time to stop avoiding the places she’d gone to in the past.
But maybe this feeling of uneasiness is simply due to the fact that she hasn’t been here in what feels like an eternity. She’s afraid of seeing something that will plunge her back in a deep hole and erase all the progress she’s made recently.
The blow she was dealt today was huge. Suddenly she’s looking at the prospect of being without a steady income, and the very thought of it has her so distressed that she’s afraid that the tender new courage to face life that she’s felt in the past few weeks could give way t
o another bout of depression. But maybe some of Katja’s energy and optimism will rub off on her.
Her friend is late again—typical—leaving Clara to read the menu front and back over and over again, even though she has zero appetite.
How many times had she and Ben sat here sharing a plate of antipasti? They’d always fought over the one piece of pepperoni in the middle—only to share it in the end, fair and square. Usually Clara was so full after that that Ben had to scarf down both entrées by himself.
Maybe Grandma and Katja really are right, thinks Clara as she keeps impatiently glancing over at the entrance. Somehow she has to try to make the best of things. Even if she’s never going to sit at this table with Ben again, she still has to try to keep all the familiar objects, moments, and places in her heart—like Beppo’s restaurant. She should create new memories that don’t hurt, memories that feel good. She has to have new experiences that are positive, so that her head can stop constantly dividing her life into a Before and After.
Just as Beppo is stopping by again to ask if there’s anything he can do or bring for her while she waits, Katja comes rushing through the door.
“Sorry, babe. I was just in the car this whole time stuck on a phone call.”
“With a young, handsome man, eh?!” Beppo asks playfully, and without actually waiting for an answer he marches back off to the kitchen.
Katja stares after him, confused, then she’s finally there for Clara.
After two bottles of prosecco Katja’s love life and Clara’s prospects of a professional rebirth are looking quite a bit rosier.
Beppo, too, proves happy to have the opportunity to help Clara out. Right there on the spot he offers to let her exhibit her paintings at the restaurant—its walls are hers, he says; she may do with them what she pleases.
“Bella!” Beppo cries out with delight as he clears the plates. “Even if you just made scribbles, I’d do anything for you. But your paintings are magnificent, darling. My customers are gonna love you!”
