While the World Is Still Asleep (The Century Trilogy Book 1)

by Petra Durst-Benning

  “With all due respect to a glass of champagne, you can’t deny that a healthy and regular lifestyle is a prerequisite for a successful cyclist,” Luise responded. “I’ll tell you what you need to build up the endurance for track riding: ten hours of sleep a night, healthy food and lots of different types of food, a short siesta every day to let your body recuperate, and a short walk to relax the muscles. That’s the only way to go around the track for hours on end.”

  Josephine—who had gone to bed at midnight, gotten up at six, lived on potato soup for days, and had an aching back from bending over her workbench—nodded miserably.

  “What is that all about?” she asked, picking up a magazine she had noticed a few minutes earlier.

  Her distraction worked, for Luise said, “That’s the Draisena, the first magazine for women cyclists. That issue came out yesterday, hot off the press in Dresden. I’ve only flipped through it once, and I’m quite impressed.”

  “Does it have photographs and illustrations?” Chloé asked, snatching the magazine out of Jo’s hand.

  Jo looked over Chloé’s shoulder while she leafed through the magazine. There were no photographs but quite a few illustrations, many of them very funny.

  “The Cycling Woman in the Eyes of Society” was the headline of one article. In its subheading, the writer posed the question: “Will the industrialist’s wife and her cook soon be riding side by side?” The text was accompanied by a caricatured illustration in which a finely attired high-society woman was pedaling along beside her fat cook.

  Luise laughed. “If Isabelle saw that . . .”

  “Or Irene,” Chloé added.

  A few pages later, they found the article “Fresh Air and Light Exercise Bring Health to Every Cycling Woman.” The magazine was filled with countless advertisements trumpeting women’s bicycles, cycling capes, dog whips, raincoats, and cyclists’ provisions.

  “Cyclists’ provisions—what is that supposed to mean?” Jo asked with a giggle. Perhaps Oskar Reutter should be carrying those instead of cigars.

  Luise raised her eyebrows. “It’s a very serious matter, my dear. Anyone who cycles for any length of time has to eat the right food. Nuts, dried fruit, cookies—food that renews your strength.”

  Josephine nodded, impressed.

  Chloé turned the page. “What’s this? ‘Racing—An Illness Spreading Among Cycling Women.’ ” she read aloud, glowering. “It looks as if Draisena has something against women’s races. That’s a shame . . .”

  “Maybe it’s just that one writer,” Luise said, sounding hopeful.

  Josephine shrugged. “Everyone has the right to an opinion. It’s surprising enough that there’s a magazine just for us.”

  A little while later, she saw him after all. Dressed in a black suit and gleaming black top hat, with a leather portfolio under one arm, he looked like a stranger to her. Adrian’s expression was grim, his eyes distracted. He saw her just as he was walking out.

  “Josephine . . .”

  “It doesn’t look as if you’ve come here to ride,” she said, her voice faltering a little.

  “My father is receiving an honorary title at the City Palace soon. The emperor is naming him to the commerce council. My father put me on the list of speakers, and I cleverly left my notes here in my locker. I’m just here to pick them up.” He frowned as if he had toothache.

  An honorary title. The commerce council. The emperor. And Isabelle at Adrian’s side, surely dressed in layer upon layer of the finest lace.

  Josephine took a reluctant step back.

  Adrian went over and removed a chestnut leaf from the spokes of her bicycle. “Looks like you’ve tried the Roadster out on the track. How did it go?”

  Josephine suddenly felt like crying, but she pulled herself together. “The Roadster was just fine. But, I . . . I have no stamina!”

  “Then we should do what we can to see that you get some. How about going for a ride again next week—while the world is still asleep?”

  Jo hesitated.

  “Say yes,” Adrian whispered, suddenly stroking her cheek. His face was so close to hers that she could feel his breath on her skin. Warm and sweet. “Please say yes. Knowing I’m going to see you again will make this evening easier to bear. You don’t know how much I would rather be with you . . .”

  An hour later, it began to rain, and it didn’t stop all weekend. The days felt long and the nights even longer. Outside was cool, inside chilly, but Josephine felt no desire to light the fire. She had no interest in doing anything! She paced back and forth like a tiger locked in a cage, unsure what to do with herself. She would have had more than enough work but knew she shouldn’t start hammering away in the workshop on a church holiday.

  She eventually attempted to distract herself by reading through the pile of old newspapers as she sat bundled on the sofa in the old crocheted blanket with the cat curled beside her. She would have felt a great deal lonelier still if she hadn’t had that one sentence to warm her heart.

  “You don’t know how much I would rather be with you . . .”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “The staircase alone! It was designed by the famous architect Schinkel, and the walls, the floor, and the ceiling are all made of cream-colored marble with a tinge of pink.” Isabelle could hardly contain her excitement. Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks were flushed, and she looked prettier than ever. “The salon where the ceremony itself took place was all decked out in a princely red—no, an imperial red!—unlike anything you’ve ever seen.”

  Josephine nodded. She was using a foul-smelling but extremely effective paste to give Oskar Reutter’s iron chest a final polish. She was eager to finish it up because her first bicycle had just been brought in for repairs! It belonged to one of the women in the club, and she wanted a basket attached and a buckled mudguard straightened. Josephine could hardly wait to get started on it.

  “And the evening dresses . . . I have never, ever seen so much silk and lace in one place. The empress . . .”

  Isabelle had been talking incessantly since she arrived an hour earlier with a fragrant yeast cake. Josephine had stopped working and made them both a cup of tea. While she sipped her tea and ate cake, everything in her was screaming: I don’t want to hear this! After half an hour, Jo became so restless that she stood up to get back to work. But instead of leaving, as Jo had hoped she would, Isabelle had followed her into the workshop, where she had blithely continued chattering.

  “There was nothing to eat, though, unfortunately. I nearly starved to death! But I don’t think the guests could have eaten a bite because they were all in such awe of the emperor. Adrian’s father was so puffed up with pride at his new honorary title that he wouldn’t have had any room in his paunch anyway.”

  Just then, the doorbell rang and a man stepped inside. Josephine was just polishing the blackened base of the chest, and her forehead was damp from the exertion. She swept her sticky hair out of her face and made an effort to put on a friendly smile. “Can I help you?”

  “Josephine Schmied?” The man wore a gray suit and had a mustache like the emperor’s.

  “Yes.” She watched as the visitor placed his briefcase on her workbench.

  “Are you the owner?”

  “Yes. Why?” Jo and Isabelle glanced at one another. What did the man want? Who was he?

  “Johann Schmolke, from the Chamber of Trades. It has been brought to my attention that you are operating a craftsman’s establishment here, without being in possession of the requisite qualifications. Your papers, please!” The man held out his hand to her.

  “What papers? What qualifications?”

  “Business registration, tax books, trade certification,” the man rattled off. “And in your case, I would also like to see papers demonstrating your legal capacity.” He looked her over from head to foot. “Are you even of legal age?”

  “Of course,” said Jo. “But what—”

  “Would you be so kind as to show us your papers firs
t, Mr. Schmolke?” Isabelle said. “After all, anybody could walk in here and say he was from the Chamber of Trades.” Her tone was friendly but firm.

  While the man fumbled indignantly in his pockets, Josephine thought frantically. She didn’t have any of the things the man had asked for! What could she do? She peered nervously at the identity card the man held under her nose. Damn it! He really was from the Chamber of Trades.

  “What kind of operation do you run here, exactly? I see a forge, I see tools . . . Is this a smithy? A metalworking shop? A plumbing business? I have never heard of a . . . woman being involved in any of those professions!” He gestured toward a few metal pipes.

  Jo took a deep breath. Stay friendly and don’t lose your nerve now, she told herself.

  “My gosh, I am not doing anything like the work of a skilled tradesman here. All I do is fix a few small things that people have broken. Or that have broken all by themselves, just because they’re old.”

  Isabelle stepped forward. “It’s like this: Miss Schmied is a great help to clumsy people like me. Not ten minutes ago, I tore open my skirt on the garden fence, and Miss Schmied has promised to sew it up for me. That’s really very kind of her, don’t you think? I pay her a few pennies for the service and have one less thing to worry about.”

  Miss Schmied! Josephine could barely suppress a smile. She had some idea what Isabelle was up to and was certain that she had not torn her skirt more than a few seconds ago. Hoping that the man would drop his interrogation when faced with their “women’s affairs,” she quickly brought out Frieda’s old basket of wool from behind the workbench.

  “Sometimes I even have to crochet or knit a few rows, just imagine!” She giggled childishly.

  The man pushed out his bottom lip doubtfully and his mustache twitched. “I see. Your work consists primarily of handicrafts. But how is it then that this workshop is so well equipped?” He whacked the forge lightly with his walking stick, and the forge rang metallically.

  Josephine lowered her eyes and tried to make her voice sound sad. “All of it was left behind by my poor departed . . .” Her poor departed who? She searched helplessly for the appropriate word. She had neither known Frieda’s husband well nor liked him very much.

  “God rest his soul,” said Isabelle helpfully.

  The man twirled at his mustache. “So, repairs and sewing. It would seem I have been sent here on the basis of false assumptions. I see no infringement of the trade regulations.” He sounded almost regretful. “If you would show me your business registration and proof of payment of taxes—I’m sure it can’t be much—then I will leave you in peace.” For the first time since his arrival, he granted her something resembling a smile.

  “Business registration . . .” Josephine writhed like an eel. “Well . . .”

  “I can’t believe it!” Isabelle nearly shouted, once the man was gone again. “You open your workshop and forget to register it? And you don’t even pay taxes?”

  Josephine could have sunk through the floor, she felt so ashamed. On the one hand, she was grateful that Isabelle was there. Who knows whether she would have been able to keep the man at bay on her own? On the other, it rankled her that Moritz Herrenhus’s daughter had seen her fail so miserably.

  “I only opened my doors two weeks ago! And there were so many other things to take care of that . . . that . . .” Helplessly, she gave it up. “I would have gotten around to it eventually,” she added rather lamely.

  “Oh, I’m sure. What now? The man will be back in two weeks, and you have to produce a guarantor. Where do you think you’ll come up with one of those?”

  What business is it of yours? Jo felt like screaming. Instead, she said quietly, “I don’t know.”

  The officer from the Chamber of Trades had been quite upset. “Considering your immaturity and obvious inexperience in business matters, I find it appropriate that a man stand as guarantor for you and keep an eye on you,” he had said.

  Who would do such a thing for her? And why was a guarantor even necessary? She should have asked him that but had felt too intimidated. “I hope this isn’t the beginning of the end,” she murmured.

  “You’re not going to throw in the towel that fast, I hope! Should I ask Adrian?” said Isabelle in a more placating tone.

  “God, no!” said Josephine, looking sharply at her friend. “Don’t you dare say a word to anyone at the club about how stupid I’ve been.”

  Isabelle waved it off. “Adrian would certainly help you out. That’s his thing, you know. He’d much rather improve the lot of all the world’s factory workers, but if I ask him nicely, I’m sure he’d help you, too.”

  It was suddenly all too much for Jo: Isabelle’s stories about the City Palace, which had left Jo with a dull sense of not belonging. The unnerving visit from the official. The question of who had reported her to the Chamber of Trades. Her anger at her own naïveté.

  “Why do you speak that way about your fiancé? I may not be as worldly and clever as you, and I’ll never be invited to the Imperial Court, but there’s one thing I do know: if I had a fiancé, I would never talk about him like that!” She took the filthy rag and threw it at her friend, leaving a drab smear on Isabelle’s skirt.

  Isabelle looked at her in surprise. But then the old, mocking lines reappeared at the corners of her mouth.

  “What do you know about love? Nothing, that’s what. Not a thing!”

  Josephine recoiled as if bitten by a snake. Isabelle was right. Just one more thing that showed how stupid and inexperienced Josephine was. All she “knew” about love had come from the young women in prison. But their boasting and coarse descriptions of what happened between a man and a woman had nothing to do with love. Love . . . Didn’t that mean a mutual admiration on some higher plane? That you appreciated each other, listened to each other, understood each other without words? That you had shared interests or could at least be enthusiastic about what the other cared about? That you longed for the one you loved and could not wait to see him again? Just like she and . . .

  Josephine placed her hand over her heart as the realization struck her.

  Had she already been in love for some time? Oh God, if that were true—

  “And you know nothing about me, either,” Isabelle snapped, dragging Josephine out of her thoughts. “But instead of asking how I am and what’s going on with me, you draw your own conclusions and judge me. Some friend you are!”

  Isabelle had never before shed tears in front of Jo. Isabelle could be moody and haughty, but most of the time, she only showed the world her happier side. It had never occurred to Jo that it might all be an act. Isabelle had everything anyone could wish for, didn’t she?

  At once ashamed and helpless, Jo could only stand and look at Isabelle, who had collapsed sobbing onto the bench, her head buried in her arms. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that,” she said. If only she’d kept her mouth shut. But a moment later, Isabelle threw herself into Josephine’s arms.

  “You don’t know how terrible it all is!” she sobbed into Josephine’s breast. “I can’t take it much longer. If something doesn’t happen soon, I’m going to kill myself!”

  They went into the house arm in arm. Isabelle let Jo lead her to the sofa and wrap her up in the old woolen blanket. Frieda’s cat jumped up onto Isabelle’s lap, as if she sensed the young woman’s need for warmth. Josephine went into the kitchen and made more tea.

  With her hands wrapped securely around her teacup, Isabelle began to speak. Hesitantly at first—as if, looking back, she found it hard to believe the whole story herself—she told Josephine about the deal Moritz Herrenhus had made with Gottlieb Neumann, and about what Adrian and she had decided to do in return.

  “Your engagement is a sham? You’ve spent the last few years only acting like you’re in love?”

  Faced with Jo’s surprise, Isabelle managed a small smile. “If you look at it that way, we’ve done a pretty good job, haven’t we? Don’t get me wrong. I like Adrian a
lot; he’s a wonderful man, smart, handsome . . .” She shrugged. “But he’s not the man I want to spend the rest of my life with. I don’t love him,” she said bluntly.

  So many questions shot through Jo’s head that she didn’t know where to begin. “What about him?” she finally said, holding her breath.

  “We’ve probably only succeeded at our game for this long because there are no feelings involved on either side.”

  No feelings. Adrian wasn’t Isabelle’s. He didn’t love her. Still, they were engaged . . . Josephine shook her head as if to free it from the mess of cobwebs snaring her thoughts. Was it possible for happiness to make you dizzy?

  “And no one has ever caught on? In all this time?”

  “People only see what they want to see. Father was in seventh heaven. For the first time in my life I felt I was good enough in his eyes, and for the first time in years, he left me in peace! Adrian and I just had to turn up together occasionally at official functions. And we’re both at the cycle club a lot. But we pursue our own interests there and rarely actually see each other. From the very start, it was clear that we would have to play our little game to the point of an engagement. Our fathers wanted to see rings.” The diamond sparkled when Isabelle held up her hand. “It worked. Father gave Gottlieb Neumann the loan he needed, and the EWB was saved. Adrian was a hero in his father’s eyes. And I finally had some peace.”

  “It was all about saving a company? About money?” Jo asked.