Text for You

by Sofie Cramer

  Sven would so like to know how she’s going to manage to take control of her circumstances. Even if he knows as good as nothing about her relationship with this mysterious Ben, he still suspects that in her texts, and in her paintings for sure, Clara is expressing what she feels.

  The few times he talked to people on the street to ask about a painter he was looking for named Clara, he remained very guarded. It seemed strange to him, as if he were afraid of getting even one step closer to the real Clara.

  But even after three hours he hadn’t really gotten any closer to finding her. No trace of a young, talented painter named Clara. Finally Sven went to a bar and found a table.

  There were indeed a great many similar-looking establishments lined up one after the other in the narrow streets. Sven thought this place called Cheers looked particularly inviting somehow. He ordered a steak and a pilsner and sat reading the regional paper with interest. He thought maybe chance would send him a clue.

  But chance waited until about an hour and a half later, when he was headed back home, driving out of the city and toward the highway, frustrated. He came to a stop at a big intersection where he was supposed to turn left. He was just considering whether he should maybe take a different route when he heard his phone go off—he’d gotten a text.

  Thank you again for leading me to Castello. I’m going to make the best of my birthday—just like you did last year, I promise! L.

  Sven almost hollered for joy. His trip to Lüneburg hadn’t been for nothing! He would go find this Castello place right away.

  At the same moment the light turned green. Grinning, he told himself that it was a sign and drove off. At the next gas station he made a quick stop and asked for directions to the restaurant.

  And sure enough, after another thirty minutes of twists and turns he saw a sign on the right side of the road. Above a wooden gate were the words “Castello—Fine Italian Wine and Cuisine.” The lights weren’t on, so Sven slowed down, which immediately earned him a barrage of honks from the car behind him. Normally Sven would have flown off the handle and cursed the driver out. But he was so happy to have made this discovery that he let the guy pass without complaint and reverently followed the very long driveway that led to Castello.

  With heart pounding he drove right up to the parking lot and immediately saw that the restaurant was closed. But the feeling that he was in the right place was so captivating that he wasn’t willing to let this dampen his spirits.

  He turned off the engine and walked up to the front door to look for the restaurant’s hours. Closed Mondays. Typical, thought Sven.

  On the wall to the left of the front door was a glass case in which part of the menu could be seen. Only a feeble bit of light from the street reached the little box, and Sven had a hard time reading the menu inside. But not only did he see there was a Pizza Diavola on the menu, he also found the owners’ names: Giuseppe and Marina Ventorino. Giuseppe could well be Beppo. Sven silently rejoiced.

  He tried to get a look through the small windows. As far as he could tell there were indeed a few paintings on the walls inside the restaurant, but they weren’t moon paintings. Still, now he knew where he could look for Clara next.

  Calm and contented, he started heading back to Hamburg. A big smile came to his face when, as he was searching through different radio stations, he suddenly heard the song “Wish You Were Here” by Pink Floyd. He sang along at the top of his lungs—and in the best of moods.

  * * *

  • • •

  “Are you done yet?”

  This is now the fourth time Hilke has asked him this annoying question. Finally he wrenches his gaze from the cranes in the harbor and turns to his colleague, who is nervously rummaging in her purse—she can’t find her car keys.

  “Admit it,” she whines, “you hid my keys so that you can go to Lüneburg without me. Right?”

  Sven gives his colleague an admonitory look and frowns. Actually he still has to finish writing an important email, but all day long he’s had a hard time concentrating. Though he’s trying to hide his nervousness, it feels like anyone could tell how worked up he is from a distance of thirty feet.

  In just a moment he and his colleague are going to drive to Lüneburg and have dinner at Castello. Sven hopes to use the opportunity to learn more about Clara from the proprietor. On the phone this afternoon Giuseppe Ventorino didn’t seem at all surprised that a journalist would be interested in paintings that hadn’t even gone on view yet. He was more than happy to provide information, saying that the young artist had kindly agreed to make her thoroughly well-executed work available for public viewing, starting this weekend. He grew so effusive as he spoke about the bella ragazza and her paintings that Sven couldn’t help thinking that the chatty chef didn’t just have an eye out for nice ways to decorate his bare walls; he must also have a tidy commission coming to him if the paintings sold well.

  “There, found ’em. Let’s go!” Hilke says in a tone of voice that makes her sound like an army drill sergeant.

  “You’re driving me nuts! Can I please finish this email to the finance minister?” Sven snarls back in the same tone. But Hilke doesn’t seem one bit fazed.

  Just twenty minutes later, they’re turning off the A1 and merging onto the A250, Lüneburg bound. Sven couldn’t be happier that Hilke has been on the phone the whole time. She’s attempting to mollify her mother-in-law after she and her son butted heads at dinner last night. What Sven is less pleased about is the fact that Hilke is doing this without a hands-free device and while driving at what feels like a hundred miles per hour.

  Here the opportunity has finally presented itself for him to find out more about the mysterious Clara, and just before accomplishing his aim, he’s probably going to die a horrible death—or at least he will if Hilke keeps driving like a maniac. He gestures at her, trying to get her to slow down a bit. But she seems to be in even more of a hurry to get there than he is.

  Hilke is too curious for her own good, Sven thinks. Naturally she also got to experience the phone call with Beppo in real time. But Sven has to admit that it’s a big help to have her come along with him this evening. Even if he might not get answers to all of his questions, he’ll at least be one step closer to finding Clara.

  And if nothing else, thanks to Beppo he now knows that Clara’s last name is Sommerfeld. And if the guy from the Lüneburg city hall could have just made an exception instead of getting so pissy about it, Sven would also know her address or at least her date of birth by now. Unfortunately the internet didn’t provide any useful information either, to say nothing of a photo.

  So Clara is still faceless. What Sven would like to do now is to swap ideas with Hilke, to speculate on whether she might be a blonde or a brunette, thin or curvy, attractive or plain.

  But he figures he’d better hold off. Hilke is off the phone now at least, but every time a car pulls out in front of them Sven is stepping on an imaginary brake pedal in the passenger seat and getting ever more tense. Not that Hilke lets this bother her; she remains intent on getting her Opel from one Hanseatic city to another in record time.

  “Are you really hungry, is that why you’re in such a hurry?” Sven asks carefully.

  “Haha! I’m so worked up I couldn’t eat a single bite right now,” Hilke replies.

  “Well, we’re going to have to eat something. We can’t just walk in there like a couple of TV detectives, ask a few uncomfortable questions, and then leave,” he says.

  “So I think it’s the next exit” is Hilke’s only reply.

  Sven is starting to feel a bit queasy. There’s a lump in his throat. What if by chance Clara happens to be there? he asks himself. A situation like that would really be more than he could handle, not least because he’s got Hilke with him, who keeps constantly teasing him and telling him he’s like a teenager who’s about to say “I love you” for the first t
ime.

  When they finally turn into the restaurant’s driveway and Sven sees the illuminated sign, his heart gives a little leap. All the embarrassment that he feels with Hilke around always staring at him with her X-ray eyes gives way to extreme excitement.

  They park in front of the building, and the sight of the entrance already seems strangely familiar to Sven.

  Gallantly he holds the door open for Hilke, follows her into the restaurant, and walks right up to a short, fat man who looks just as Sven had imagined Beppo would look on the telephone.

  “Good evening. I have a reservation.”

  “Un momento, please!” says the man and nods at an attractive waitress who with her light blond hair looks anything but Italian.

  “Hello, good evening,” she says politely. “You reserved a table?”

  “Yes, under the name Lehmann.”

  She looks at a little book, crosses out an entry, and says: “Come with me; it’s just through here. Or would you rather sit outside on the terrace?”

  “No!” Hilke and Sven say at the same time and both give each other an annoyed look.

  From the front room they now proceed into a stylishly decorated, cozy dining room with ten or so tables, about half of which are occupied. On the other side of the hallway voices and laughter can be heard; it sounds like a larger party. There must be several more rooms in addition to this one, thinks Sven, plus the seats outside.

  Somewhat awkwardly, he lets the waitress take his jacket after she’s taken Hilke’s, and he sits down in the chair opposite his colleague. As the friendly waitress lights candles and asks if she might offer them an aperitif, he looks around, searching. No sign of Clara’s paintings anywhere. But unlike last night the walls are all bare. There are only a few small framed mirrors hanging on one side of the room with tall white candles burning on pretty metal holders to the left and right of them. And on the opposite wall there are what is clearly a very old clock and two framed Monet prints hanging between the front windows.

  Hilke seems to catch on to Sven’s disappointment. She turns to the waitress, who is just handing each of them a menu, and asks baldly: “Tell me, I’ve heard that there are supposed to be paintings by a young artist on view here soon.”

  The woman smiles and answers: “Yes, Clara Sommerfeld. They’re really beautiful pieces. The exhibit isn’t officially open yet, but a few paintings are already up in our private dining room.”

  “Ah, thanks. Could we maybe take a look at them?” Clara asks with a stunningly friendly smile. And Sven is worried that she might just jump up to go see them right now.

  “Mmm, I imagine so. At the moment though we’ve got a private party in there. Would you mind waiting a bit?”

  “Sure—if that’s not going to be too much torture for you!” Hilke whispers smugly to Sven and flashes a gleefully malicious grin.

  Sven sneaks a look at the menu.

  The next grin adorns Hilke’s face when, a short while later, she orders a wine spritzer, carpaccio, and for her main course a Pizza Diavola. Sven feels a bit overwhelmed and hastily orders the mixed antipasti plate, filet of beef with gorgonzola, a pilsner, and a whiskey.

  Hilke looks at him with surprise. Although Sven feels the need to explain the whiskey, he declines to—it would only make this whole scene even more unpleasant. He’s feverishly thinking about how he might steer the conversation back to work or some other innocuous subject when Hilke jumps up, flashes another grin, and says, “I’m off to the ladies’!”

  Sven shakes his head. He can scarcely believe that he’s putting himself through this. He looks around the restaurant again, and in spite of himself, little by little, something like a pleasant mood seems to take hold deep inside him. Clara must have good taste, he thinks, if this is her favorite spot. The thought that she was here a short time ago to hang up her paintings even brings a dreamy little smile to his lips. Suddenly he feels like a little boy just before Christmas morning, so excited about his gifts that he can hardly bear it.

  After what feels like forever, Hilke comes back to the table.

  “Amazing! So cool. I knew it. The woman’s got talent!”

  “You didn’t actually go in there!” Sven cries angrily and feels like crawling under his chair.

  “Now don’t be so uptight. Nobody noticed.”

  “And? Are the paintings really okay?” Sven asks, unable to hide his curiosity.

  “Oh yeah. The colors alone! Totally balanced. I’d hang a painting like that in my apartment in a second. Or in the office, so I can actually look at something nice for a change,” Hilke replies and blows Sven a kiss just to rub it in.

  Before Sven can respond, the waitress comes back to the table with their drinks, plus some bread and butter.

  “To a successful evening!” Hilke says smugly. She raises her wine spritzer to clink glasses with Sven and then adds a threat: “God help you if you don’t make anything of it!”

  * * *

  • • •

  After the appetizer Sven excuses himself and goes to the bathroom, but even though Hilke has kept urging him nonstop to go take a peek in the next room already, he stands in the hallway for a long time, indecisive. Only when Beppo comes hurrying past does he awake from his lethargy.

  “Excuse me. Do you know the artist whose work is on display in the next room personally?”

  “Sì, sì, signore! Clara Sommerfeld, a young and very promising talent. We’ve even had reporters calling to ask about her!” Beppo says, his chest swelling with pride. He could be talking about his own daughter.

  Sven clears his throat and hesitates to let Beppo know it was he who called. “Um, yes. I’m also a journalist and I’d like to meet the young lady sometime.”

  The Italian looks at him in surprise, eyes him for a second, and then says with a big grin, “Of course I can’t just give you her number. But you could meet her here if you like. On Saturday, I will have the honor of spoiling her with my humble cuisine.” Beppo keeps grinning his friendly grin and looks at his guest expectantly.

  Sven doesn’t really know how to respond; his thoughts are already on this weekend.

  Beppo goes on in his friendly way. “Maybe it’s best you leave me your number. Then I’ll be glad to pass it on to Signorina Sommerfeld.”

  “Sounds good,” Sven quickly replies. He reaches in his back pocket for his wallet and pulls out a business card. He hands it to Beppo and, hoping to avoid any doubt, adds, “I’m a business journalist and right now I’m working on an article about young artists. It would be nice if you could let Miss Sommerfeld know that there’s a bit of a rush.”

  When Sven comes back to the table, Hilke is looking at him with eyes wide, waiting to hear an explanation. Clearly from where she was sitting she was perfectly placed to observe his conversation with Beppo.

  “Well, what do you have to say for yourself?”

  “About what?” Sven grins.

  “I’m gonna snap that neck of yours like a twig!” Hilke threatens. “Don’t you think the paintings are out of this world?”

  “I never went in there. But I did see to it that our nice rotund Italian friend passes along my card.” He leans back, satisfied, while Hilke stares at him in exasperation.

  “And now you’re just going to do what, sit on your hands and wait?”

  “No, I’m going to drink beer and wait.” Sven reaches for his pilsner, raises his glass, and toasts his colleague without a word.

  Hilke rolls her eyes, glances quickly to her left and right, and then hisses in a tone that brooks no further discussion: “I just have one thing to tell you. I’m not leaving here until you’ve gone and looked at those great paintings!”

  But only after they’ve eaten does Sven hazard another attempt. The private dining room has long since emptied out and all the lights have been turned off. But there’s still so much light shining into t
he room from the bar area that he ventures a few steps inside. Right away he’s surprised at both the size of the paintings and how many of them there are. He guesses there must be more than twenty of them.

  Stepping gingerly, he walks up to the first painting on the wall to his left. Even in the half-darkened room the full, deep red that extends over the entire surface of the painting seems to really shine. The silvery, shimmering moon immediately catches his eye, standing out against the background, strangely luminescent, and radiating something mysterious and yet very peaceful. A few inches below the canvas is a little label: “Blood Moon, 220 €.”

  Sven’s gaze drifts down to the bottom right edge of the painting, where a white signature is visible. He takes another step closer, now he can read it. It says only “Clara S.”—but the style that shows in the lettering brings a smile to Sven’s lips.

  clara

  Typical, thinks Clara as her birthday guests take their seats around the large table. Everyone’s on time, just not Katja. Amused, Clara wonders if her friend’s lateness could have anything to do with the two big surprises she mentioned.

  Clara hasn’t felt this good, this all-around content, for a long time. She looks around the room with a smile and is thankful to have all the people she loves with her. Her mother and her partner Reinhard, Lisbeth and Willy, Bea, and Dorothea—even Ben’s mother is here; Dorothea had managed to convince her to accept Clara’s invitation, and Clara is truly glad to finally be seeing the two of them on a joyous occasion again. Today she’ll be showing her best paintings, full of joy and pride, and even Ben seems to be present somehow.