“Isn’t that what it’s usually about?” said Isabelle cynically. “Maybe now you can understand why I’m not always whispering declarations of love in his ear.”
Jo nodded. “And you’ve kept this to yourself all this time?”
“Who was I supposed to tell?” said Isabelle bitterly. “Clara? She would have just looked at me all horrified with her doe eyes and uttered some platitude or another. Someone from school who’d pass it on to Irene in an instant?” Isabelle took Josephine’s hand and said, “Not a word to anyone, not even Adrian if you happen to run into him. Is that clear?”
Josephine averted her gaze. She and Adrian had arranged to go cycling the next morning.
“Do you swear you won’t breathe a word?” Isabelle repeated insistently. Then she began to sob again. “It’s far too late for the truth.” The desperation lingered deep in her eyes as she said, “Father wants us to marry this autumn.”
Josephine lay awake deep into the night. For years, she had looked up to Isabelle, admired her for her lifestyle, perhaps even envied her a little for it. Their beautiful house, the servants. The elegant parents. The wealth. Her own bicycle even when she was still just a girl. How had Jo not seen that it was just a gilded cage? Poor Isabelle . . .
And what did all of it mean for her? How was she supposed to see Adrian now? She couldn’t talk about the situation with him; she had promised Isabelle she wouldn’t. She would simply have to wait and see whether he confided in her, too.
In any case, had anything really changed? Adrian’s and Isabelle’s wedding was still planned for autumn. Even if a miracle happened and their plans collapsed, Adrian was the son of a major industrialist, and she was a silly little goose who didn’t even know that one had to register a business. She surely had better things to do than chasing illusions of love!
A guarantor . . . Would Oskar Reutter ever do something like that for her? I really should put the business first, she thought before she fell asleep.
A few houses away, another young woman could not sleep. How much longer will Gerhard sit at his desk and work on his treatise? Clara wondered, as the clock in the living room struck midnight. On an impulse, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and went downstairs to fetch him.
“Listen to this!” he said when he saw her standing in the doorway.
“From ‘Women and Cycling: A Medical Perspective.’ Just listen: ‘Society, it would seem, is content to sit back and watch the immoral goings-on of increasing numbers of viragoes on two wheels, and thus to complacently accept the spread of this most unwomanly of affectations. It is high time that we, as men of medicine, speak out against this state of affairs. For the riding of bicycles has consequences for women so serious that one can only warn against the practice in the strongest of terms. Let us start with the way a cyclist crouches atop a bicycle, in a position so unseemly for a woman. Who, after all—with the wind rushing about one’s ears—gives a thought to the danger of serious accumulations of blood forming in the pelvic regions? Menstrual complaints, an absence of bleeding, or excessively painful periods are only a few of the many possible ramifications. Or let us take the hunched posture of a woman on a bicycle, which is not dissimilar to the arched back of a cat. The fear of pitching headlong over the handlebars results in such a frenzy of adrenaline that she imperils not only her own health but also that of her unborn children! Who would be surprised to find that such a neglectful attitude to one’s health might well diminish a woman’s procreative ability? Forgotten is the very reason for which God created women: to bear children. Most certainly not to ride a bicycle . . .’ ”
How zealously his eyes shone! Gerhard had read so quickly that small threads of spittle had gathered in the corners of his mouth. As Clara listened to her husband’s rant, she found herself fighting a growing nausea. Her knees trembled, and she felt like squatting on the floor. But decency prohibited her from doing so. Stand up! Stand straight! a strident voice inside her ordered.
“Very interesting,” she said, her voice hoarse, when he had finished. “What . . . what do you have in mind with that?”
A tight smile played on Gerhard’s lips as he said, “For some weeks now, I have been exchanging letters with a number of my colleagues. They have also been working on various pamphlets of their own, all denouncing women riding bicycles. We will be submitting our work to different Berlin newspapers. It is high time that the public found out the truth. One thing I will say to you here and now, my dear”—he fixed her with his avid eyes—“the days of that women’s cycling club are numbered. I will see to it personally!”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Early 1896
“Look here, all of it handmade! And the frame, too—also handcrafted. Of particular note are the mudguards, wrought one hundred percent by hand.” The pride in Carl Marschütz’s voice was unmistakable as he presented his firm’s best bicycle. The machine, set up on a stand of polished steel, gleamed in the bright light of the salesroom. “As Nuremberg’s first bicycle factory, we have an enviable reputation for quality. But as the son of the founder of the EWB, I’m sure you know perfectly well what I’m talking about.”
Adrian nodded tensely. He had been on his feet since well before dawn, and he had only reached the Velocipedfabrik Marschütz & Co. in Nuremberg at two in the afternoon after a strenuous train journey. On Adrian’s arrival, Carl Marschütz had scurried excitedly across the snowy yard to meet him. Adrian was both amazed and thrilled to discover that Carl was only a few years older than Adrian himself and had already built a successful bicycle manufacturing company.
“Do you know what the people call our machines? Hercules bicycles. I love it! What do you think, should I market them officially by that name?”
“Naming a bicycle after one of the heroes of Greek mythology . . . Wouldn’t that be a little over the top?” Adrian asked, squinting a little.
“Not at all! After all, a bicycle is something very special.”
Adrian took a deep breath to keep his impatience in check. Something very special—he couldn’t bear to hear that one more time! “But if your bicycles are so popular, you must have some interest in producing far more of them,” he said. For him, this was the crux of the matter.
Carl Marschütz looked appreciatively at his guest. “I can see that you have a true entrepreneurial spirit. Yes, in fact, we have plans to do just that. To be honest, I think about practically nothing other than how we can produce economical bicycles for the masses.”
Adrian looked at his counterpart with interest. Perhaps his journey had been worthwhile after all . . .
“Come with me. I would be happy to show you our factory.” Marschütz led Adrian from the showroom out into a large hall where several dozen men were busy assembling bicycles. The place smelled of rubber and lubricants, beer and sweat, and the men talked loudly as they worked. Adrian smiled—what a change from the sterile production rooms of the EWB!
“We’ve increased our production from a hundred machines in the first year to four hundred last year,” said Marschütz, putting an immediate damper on Adrian’s enthusiasm.
“Is there anything to stop you from increasing that to four thousand? This place would certainly be big enough . . . and I’m sure that mass production like that would lead to considerable savings in manufacturing costs.”
Carl Marschütz furrowed his brow. “I can’t say I’m sure. Producing a bicycle takes quite a number of specialists. Trained men want to be well paid and that costs money.”
“You could buy larger machines and produce many of the parts by machine.”
The man shook his head, horrified at the thought. “Building a bicycle with machines? That might work for aprons or pots and pans, but not for something as exclusive as a bicycle. How could I possibly present that to my customers?”
Another dead end! thought Adrian as he made his way back to the train station. It was a bleak winter’s afternoon, and a cold east wind blew among the bare trees. Adrian buttoned his over
coat all the way up and wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck.
It was not the first such call he had made. Previously, he had paid a visit to the Fahrradfabrik Dürkopp & Co., which promoted itself as having the first “series production” of bicycles in the world, in Bielefeld. The company had previously specialized in sewing machines, and this in itself had struck Adrian as promising; certainly they would be familiar with effective industrial production methods. But when he arrived, Adrian had seen that a great deal of manual labor went into the machines they produced. Too much, in Adrian’s opinion. The bicycles, accordingly, were of the highest quality but also extremely expensive. Was I mistaken, or was one of the bicycles called “Diana”? he wondered as he waited for his train. What was this new fashion, naming bicycles like that? Wouldn’t mythologizing the bicycles that way distance the broader layers of society from bicycles even more?
A light snow had begun to fall. The train station at Nuremberg felt desolate, squalid. Adrian was relieved when the train finally pulled in. He looked for an empty compartment, leaned back into the soft upholstery, and looked out the window at the colorless landscape, the afternoon already moving toward night. Adrian closed his eyes and let his mind wander.
“A bicycle for less than a hundred marks. Why don’t you find out if there’s a producer who can make that happen? Then your dream of a bicycle business for the common man won’t forever remain a dream,” Josephine had said to him, a look of challenge in her eyes. That had been in May of the previous year.
He had not felt up to the task at first. Where was he supposed to start? And how? But then, in the fall, he had gathered his courage. The wedding had been postponed yet again—this time Isabelle had had a severe case of flu. Now, whenever his work at the EWB allowed, he went off for a day, sometimes two, to do research. The first thing he discovered was that bicycle factories were shooting up like mushrooms all over the empire. Many factories and workshops already involved in producing hardware and rubber goods had turned to making bicycles on the side. They could smell the profits the field offered. But there were also factories that were dedicated exclusively to making bicycles. Adrian had gathered the addresses of these companies and then he had started to visit them. But he never went anywhere on Wednesdays! Because every Wednesday, well before dawn, he and Josephine went out cycling, and their outings had become sacred to him.
His research had so far proven both heartening and depressing. Bicycle production in Germany was increasing enormously from one year to the next. But prices remained high. Some of the producers simply had no interest in seeing the prices come down. Others bridled at the idea of machine production.
“This isn’t America. Machines don’t take work away from people here,” the manufacturer in Mannheim had told him in a disdainful voice. Adrian had snorted softly—that’s why the poor in America could afford a bicycle.
His thoughts turned to Josephine. But did he really want to think about her now? No, too complicated. He forced his thoughts back to his factory visits.
Everywhere he went, he had been met with a friendly reception. “You’re the son of Gottlieb Neumann?” the factory owner in Mannheim had asked. The man had then asked whether Adrian’s father was thinking about entering the bicycle market, to which Adrian could only, regretfully, say no. “Then why are you here?” the man had asked him.
What was he supposed to say? Adrian sighed. That he was looking for a way to be independent? That he no longer wanted to be ordered around by his father?
Never, not one single time, had Adrian voiced his dream of being able to sell low-cost bicycles. Why should he? The whole world assumed that he would gladly fill the role of his father’s successor. No one had any idea that he derived no pleasure from his work at the EWB. No one except Josephine. But that he considered selling bicycles to be his mission in life was something that he had so far kept even from her. He didn’t want to rant to her about vague, abstract plans. He wanted to have something to show for himself, something to impress her with. She ought to be able to look up to him and say, “Well done!”
Well done? So far, the entire undertaking had been a failure from start to finish . . . From that perspective, at least, it was good that he had kept his mouth shut.
Adrian gazed out with empty eyes at the forests and farmlands. It was nearly dark. The fir trees seemed grim and threatening, and a swarm of hungry rooks wheeled above a field in the last gleams of day, hoping to discover a starving mouse or something else edible.
What now? Was his dream at an end? And was it the end of a future with the woman he loved and treasured and wanted to spend his life with, and to hell with what the rest of the world thought?
The end of his dream . . . The thought terrified him. He reached up and loosened his tie. But the sense of anxiety, the feeling that he could not breathe, remained.
The fact was, his life was not his own. A few visits to bicycle factories did not change that. He was fooling himself, and his efforts were ridiculous. At twenty-four, he had nothing to show anyone except his degree. Even his apartment was not his.
He had to act, and he had to act soon, or there would be no more chance to escape. After the last postponement, a new wedding date had been set for Maundy Thursday, just before Easter. But he had no intention of standing at the altar with Isabelle, then or on any other day. The thought of being bound forever to a woman he didn’t love—and who did not love him!—was unbearable.
Josephine . . . It was to her that he wanted to declare his love! He wanted to take her in his arms, kiss her, stroke her hair, and press his lips to the skin at the base of her neck. He wanted her to look up to him. He wanted to be able to say to her, Here I am and here I’ll stay, at your side. If you’ll have me.
Instead, all they had were their secret bicycle outings. Occasional touches as accidental as that of a falling autumn leaf. Hasty glances from beneath lowered eyelids—glances that could be read any number of ways. All of it completely harmless, right? Two cycling acquaintances out training together. Was a life together even possible? Or were they simply too different?
Adrian sighed deeply. He would probably have to give up his plan of doing business with German bicycle manufacturers. But he had another plan in mind as well. One that was just as daring, and just as promising. But whether he possessed the courage to see it through, he did not know.
Instead of walking the twenty minutes from the station to his city apartment, as he normally would have, Adrian took a cab. He had had enough for one day and just wanted to get home and relax.
But that was not to be. When he opened the heavy wood-paneled front door to the building, he saw a figure crouching at the top of the stairs in front of the door to his apartment.
“Isabelle! What are you doing here?”
She was pale, and she’d obviously cried her eyes dry. She followed him silently into his apartment—something she had never done before.
“Let’s go into the sitting room. Has something happened? Say something, how can I help you?” Adrian said as he helped her out of her fur coat.
“I can say what I have to say here,” Isabelle said brusquely, buttoning her coat instead of unbuttoning it. A moment before she had looked so vulnerable, but now her eyes turned hard.
“All anyone ever talks about at home is the wedding. Guest lists, the wedding dress, the menu, the ceremony in the church. It’s driving me mad!”
“Do you think I’m happy about it? Damn it, why didn’t we think about how we’d get ourselves out of this mess back then?”
“Back then? I don’t care about back then! You have to do something now. I can’t manage this all on my own. I want to have my freedom back, and the sooner the better. If I ever marry, it will be for love! Not because our fathers signed a pawn ticket. And while we’re on the subject . . .” Her face was full of hate and her eyes bored into Adrian as she went on. “It was your father who profited most from our engagement. That makes it your job to put an end to this! And in such a way that I
get out of it in one piece, with my reputation intact. I expect a plan from you, and soon. If I don’t get it, I’ll throw myself under a train, and you’ll be to blame. How do you think that will feel, Adrian Neumann?”
As Adrian watched her leave, he wondered whether some whim of fate had sent his fiancée there that day, of all days. On the very day he himself was pondering his future so deeply.
He slipped off his boots, slung them toward the wardrobe. In the kitchen, he poured himself a glass of wine. But instead of going into the sitting room and making himself comfortable in one of the large leather armchairs, he sat down at the kitchen table and drank it all in one large swig.
A bitter laugh escaped his throat.
The question of whether he had enough courage for his second plan was now utterly moot. He had no other choice. He had to act.
Josephine smiled as she pulled a yellow cardigan out of Frieda’s wardrobe. Her old friend had called it her daffodil cardigan and always had taken it out promptly on the first of March. The first of March was still a week away, but on the spur of the moment, Josephine decided to invoke Frieda’s spring ritual early. The sweater perfectly suited the dark-brown skirt and blouse she had recently bought for herself. Oskar Reutter had talked her into buying them when she had dropped in to visit him shortly after the New Year. He had told her that she shouldn’t just work all the time, that she ought to treat herself to something nice now and then. After all, she was a young woman with a successful business—and as her guarantor, checking the monthly accounts, he knew exactly how well. Did Josephine realize that she was already quite a well-to-do young woman? Jo had laughed and told him no, she hadn’t really been aware of that, then added that she was far more afraid that the situation might change. In the end, she had only bought the outfit because Mr. Reutter had offered her a special discount.
Now, though, looking at herself in the mirror, she was pleased. No doubt the other members of the club would dress up today as well.
While the World Is Still Asleep (The Century Trilogy Book 1) Page 30
