by Dora Heldt
He made his way around the car to hug his daughter, but not without casting a quick glance at the front wheels first.
“Come here, sweetheart. Oh, let me give you a big hug! It’s been such a long time since you were last here.”
Wrapped in her father’s embrace, Christine looked over at Johann, who was being greeted almost as heartily by her mother. Heinz leaned close to Christine, lifted her chin with his finger, and gave her an appraising look. “So? Are you happy? Is he treating you well?”
At least he had said it quietly.
“Yes, Dad, everything’s wonderful. But listen, we want to…Oh, never mind. I’m just really looking forward to our time here. Johann needs to relax though. He’s had a lot of stress recently, and he needs some peace and quiet, okay?”
Her father spread out his arms. “Well, he can have it. Why did you say it like that? You can make yourselves at home here, and you’ll have your peace and quiet in the loft. It’ll just be the two of you up there.”
“I know, Dad. We can go out to dinner together now and again too.”
“Why? Mom’ll be cooking anyway, so you can just eat with us every night.”
“Dad! Like I just said…now and again. Not every day. We don’t want to put you to any trouble.”
“Well, we’ll see. Come on then. Mom made soup. And there’s coffee and cake for later.”
After coffee, Johann had to make some phone calls. Heinz went into the garden, and Christine helped her mother with the washing up. They’d used the good bowls and cutlery, and it was against the house rules for them to go in the dishwasher.
“So how are you?” Charlotte made a start on polishing the soup spoons. “I mean, how’s it all going with Johann?”
Christine had been wondering when the right moment would be to mention the surprise meeting on the train station platform.
“Great…Listen, did you know Aunt Inge is on Sylt?” Anything was better than a mother-daughter interrogation about Christine’s love life.
“Nonsense. Aunt Inge is away at a spa in Bad Oeynhausen. She goes every year at this time. You know that.”
“Well, apparently not this year. We ran into her earlier at the train station. She was wearing a red hat, she had loads of luggage, and she looked different—more fashionable, and like she’d lost weight.”
“You must have gotten her confused with someone else. Dad talked to Uncle Walter on the phone this morning, about our taxes, and I’m sure he would have said something if Inge was here on Sylt without him.”
“But we spoke to her and gave her a lift to Petra’s.”
Charlotte rested her dish towel on the sink and looked at her daughter in confusion. “Which Petra?”
Christine picked up the towel and carried on with the drying. “Her old friend Hanne’s daughter. She’s about forty years old and rents out a vacation apartment in Kampen.”
Her mother snorted. “I know that. But what’s Inge doing there? She always stays with us.”
“Well, we’re here. Maybe she knew that.”
“How could she have? Walter told us that she was still at the spa. He would have known if she was coming to Sylt. Maybe he got confused. I hope he’s not going senile.”
Christine tossed the last spoon into the drawer and hung up the dish towel. “She’ll probably come by eventually anyway, so you can ask her yourself.”
“Something doesn’t add up.” Lost in thought, Charlotte mopped up a drop of water on the counter. “I hope nothing’s wrong.”
At that moment, Johann came down the stairs and gave Christine a sly smile. All thoughts of her parents, her aunt’s oddball behavior, and the image of poor Uncle Walter, stabbed to death, suddenly vanished. After all, she still had a two-week vacation with this wonderful man ahead of her.
He stood in front of her. “You’re blushing,” he said. “I like that I can still make you blush.”
She kissed him and whispered, “Come on. I’ll show you the beach. Let’s go for a drive.”
If she had known then what the next two weeks had in store, she would have stayed on the beach with him the entire time. Rain or shine.
Chapter 2
* * *
Kampen, May
Dear Renate,
You’ll never guess what I’ve done!
You were so right. Walter didn’t change in the slightest while I was away at the spa. And to think I expected him to look after himself for just those four weeks. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays he ate with our neighbors; Tuesdays and Fridays with Pia’s school friend Jutta; and on the weekend he bought himself a hot dog at the soccer game and ate frozen food. And it’s not like he wouldn’t have time to cook now that he’s retired, but he spends all his time on his computer, doing people’s tax returns for free!
So, the last straw was on Thursday. He came up to me and said he knew I’d always wanted to go to a reading or to the theater, and that he’d gotten hold of some tickets for an interesting talk. He told me to get my best clothes on and that he was planning to take me out for a tipple afterward. (He actually said that, a tipple!) That was fine with me, since I had something important I wanted to discuss with him, and it seemed a very good opportunity to do so. (I’ll tell you soon what that was; it’s not so easy to explain in a letter.)
But I’ll come back to the point. Renate, I swear, if there hadn’t been so many witnesses in the room, I would have killed him right there and then. It turns out I got all gussied up to go to the local health center for a talk about diabetes! Walter has been going on about how he’s always so intensely thirsty, and how he thinks he might be suffering from late-onset diabetes. He told me to make sure I paid attention, because he was sure he had it. There was a buffet afterward, and my dear “diabetic” husband scarfed down four sandwiches. It seems he didn’t like the dinner I’d made him—a delicious salad with avocados and sprouts—but that’s nothing new really. I slave away in the kitchen for two hours to try out a new recipe, and his royal highness just eats sandwiches or soccer stadium hot dogs instead!
And then the “tipple”! Two beers in Jürgen’s corner pub. It has Sky TV, as he pointed out, and there was a program on about soccer. I was so angry with him! And, yet, he didn’t even notice.
I spoke to him the next morning, but I don’t think he noticed that either. He went off to the doctor instead. He was complaining about how his legs always feel heavy, and his friend Günther has been diagnosed with thrombosis. After Walter came back, all he could talk about was Günther and his thrombosis, and the fact that the doctor must be mistaken (he hadn’t found anything—no surprise there). I told him that the heavy legs were probably due to his late-onset diabetes, and he was pretty excited about that idea. So now he wants to do a glucose test.
By that point, I’d had enough. I told him I don’t want to carry on living like this and that I was going away for a while to think things through. And do you know what he said? “But, Inge, diabetes isn’t a mental illness. It’s not that bad.”
I told him he was already mentally ill, and packed my suitcase. And because I don’t want my big brother, Heinz, worrying about me and putting his nose in my business, I’ve rented a vacation apartment for the next few weeks with Petra, the daughter of an old friend. I got a discount too.
So, my dear, I can picture you laughing as you read this. I’m really pleased that we met at the spa and that you opened my eyes for me. As I swore to you: I’m not going to spend the next twenty years sitting on the sofa with Walter, watching sports and folk music shows, and eating liverwurst with gherkins. Not me!
Instead, I’m going off to treat myself to a lovely lunch. Then, I’m going over to see my brother and sister-in-law to get all the explaining out of the way. By the way, I ran into my niece Christine here. She has a new boyfriend. They’re both in their midforties and were making out on the train platform like two teenagers. It makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Putting yourself through that nonsense all over again. And she was so happily divorced too.
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br /> So, my dear Renate, I’ll keep you posted.
Lots of love,
Your Inge
P.S. Oh, and I almost forgot to say, I wore the hat you bought me on the journey. I’m sure it will bring me luck.
Inge glanced over the letter one last time before folding it and sliding it into the addressed envelope. She nodded contentedly and put the cap back on her elegant, engraved fountain pen. Walter had given it to her for her sixtieth birthday. She had been delighted with it at the time, but she hadn’t seen things clearly back then. Renate had been horrified when she had showed it to her.
“A fountain pen. Wonderful! That’s an office supply item, so I’m sure he got it tax-free. He should have gotten you a ring. Or a trip somewhere lovely. But a pen? No, my dear, you deserve better than that.”
But Inge really loved writing with the pen. That’s why she still liked the present four years later. Sighing, Renate had replied that she should at least acknowledge the humiliation it represented.
Renate! Inge stuck a postage stamp onto the letter and checked the address. They had struck up a conversation on the very first day at Bad Oeynhausen, out in the parking lot. Inge had been waving good-bye to Walter, who had insisted on dropping her off. She knew that Walter’s caring gesture had had something to do with the fact that Pia had left her Audi TT with them while she had flown off on a vacation with her boyfriend. Walter had pointed out to his daughter that a car like that needed to be driven now and again to keep it running nicely. So Pia, somewhat hesitantly, had handed over the keys and papers to him. “But just short journeys, Dad, and don’t change gear so roughly, okay? And remember to put premium gas in, even though it costs more!” Of course, he then gave her a lecture about the high expense and gas taxes, but Pia was already used to that. As Inge watched her husband drive off—the roof down, his gray hair blowing in the wind—Renate had come over and stood next to her.
“Nice car.”
“Yes,” said Inge politely, cringing at the sound of the gearbox scraping.
She turned around to face the woman and immediately forgot what she was about to say. Renate was magnificent. At least, that was the first expression that came to Inge’s mind. She was at least five foot ten and very curvaceous, what some might call “Rubenesque,” with an ample bosom. Her long red hair—tousled, but intentionally so—was dyed, for sure, but by an excellent colorist. And she was wearing a dark crimson dress with silver patterns (more of an oversized caftan), with her Indian-style jewelry glistening in the sun. Speechless, Inge stared at her for a few moments, then pulled herself together and held out her hand.
“Hi, I’m Inge Müller. Are you staying in this hotel too? I come here for a detox every year, and it’s that time again.” With an embarrassed laugh, she grabbed hold of her love handles, but then let her hand drop again when she realized that Renate had about twice as much. Despite having a little more around the hips than years ago, Inge still looked very good for her sixty-four years. Her bobbed blonde hair was showing more and more gray strands, but she was fairly fit, albeit hiding her figure beneath neutral-colored, conservative clothes. “Oh, I mean…”
Renate leaned over to Inge. “I’m Renate von Graf, and I come here every year too. A bit of yoga, a few trips to the sauna, you know—all the things we women do to make our souls sing. To bring our bodies and minds into harmony, to defy the world, and all the men in it.”
Inge looked a little uncertain. “Defy them? The men?”
A knowing look spread over Renate’s powdered face. “Ah, I see, you might need a little mental detox.” She linked arms with Inge and pulled her toward the hotel entrance. “My dear, I don’t think it’s a coincidence that we’ve met here. I can sense that we’re kindred spirits, and that we’re going to have a lot of fun over the next few weeks. Now, take your time unpacking your things, and when you’re ready, just knock on my door, and we’ll have a little drink.”
The “little drink” turned out to be a whole bottle of champagne. Inge was amazed at the pace with which her new friend could chatter and drink. She was ten years younger than Inge, had no children, and was divorced from a dentist.
“You know, I worked as a receptionist in Werner’s practice for two days a week, kept the house and garden together, cooked for his golfing friends, organized our vacations, and what was his way of thanking me? He slept with his assistant.”
Inge had taken Renate’s hand sympathetically. “That’s awful. What did you do?”
Renate tucked a strand of hair behind her ear nonchalantly. “I got the house and the car, and the dear old dentist is paying through his teeth. And so he should—it was all his fault. So now he’s suffering.”
She smiled smugly and knocked back more champagne.
Inge sealed the envelope and put it in her handbag. Instead of daydreaming, she should be getting changed. The food at the restaurant she was planning to go to was sure to cost more than currywurst and chips in Jürgen’s corner bar. Walter would have a fit if he knew. Inge stretched her back and looked at herself in the mirror. She imagined Walter standing next to her with a shocked expression on his face.
That’s fine, my love. I’m sure you’d have a fit, but I’m about to order myself something delicious for at least thirty euros.
And if she had an espresso afterward, too, she would blow almost thirty-five euros. She laughed softly to herself. It felt good. It was just a shame that Walter wouldn’t know about it. But she could tell her brother, Heinz. He loved getting worked up about that kind of thing.
Heinz wasn’t as much of a tightwad as Walter when it came to money, but he could never bring himself to look at the bill in restaurants. He would wait for it to come, then give Charlotte or his children his wallet and go off to the bathroom. No one was allowed to tell him what the bill came to; otherwise, he would get grumpy. But he still liked going to restaurants, regardless.
In contrast, Walter recalculated every item on the bill, checked the tax, and then asked Inge what it would have cost if they’d cooked it themselves. “Just approximately, not down to the cent. About twenty euros?” If she nodded he would contentedly confirm, “Well, we can splurge now and then. I guess. I’ll have another Pils.”
If they all went out for dinner together, Heinz would stay in the bathroom long enough for Walter to have folded the bill neatly into his wallet.
Thinking about Heinz brought Christine to mind. She was her favorite niece, even if she was in danger of becoming more and more like her father. For instance, there was the way she’d looked when Inge had said she wanted to change her life—complete horror. Johann wasn’t so bad, a bit too much gray hair perhaps, but what could you expect of a man nearing the end of his forties? And for Christine, was a long-distance relationship a bit too demanding at her age? Constantly having to travel, even if it was only from Hamburg to Bremen. But Christine was probably happy to have found a man at all after the collapse of her marriage. Inge had always thought Bernd was unsuitable, right from the start, but then no one had asked her. He had always seemed so full of himself, and she had never been able to figure out what Christine saw in him. But this Johann Thiess seemed like a nice guy. And very laid-back, too, which was good—he would need to be. Christine got worked up so quickly; she got that from Heinz. Neither of them had steady nerves.
Inge put on her new white trousers and unbuttoned the top button of her red blouse.
“You need to wear more color, darling,” Renate had said in the boutique in Bad Oeynhausen. “It makes your life more colorful too.”
The hair spray swirled through the air and made her hairdo shine. Inge put the red hat on and looked at herself in the mirror. “Perfect,” she said. “Inge, for your age, you look terrific. You’ll take everyone by surprise.”
Chapter 3
* * *
Johann and Christine were just brushing the sand from their feet on the steps leading up to the house when the taxi stopped in front of the drive. Heinz stood in the doorway and leaned forward.<
br />
“It really is her. It’s Inge. But what’s that on her head?”
“It’s a hat, Heinz.” Charlotte squeezed past Heinz and walked out toward the taxi. “Come on.”
Heinz walked slowly down the steps.
“A hat. Why is she wearing that? Is she posh now or what?”
Johann was taking great pains to suppress his laughter. Christine gave him a nudge.
“Go on, show her you’re not after my money. Be charming!”
“I’ll do my best.” He kissed the back of her neck, which attracted an amused look from Aunt Inge. He then strode quickly over to the taxi, where he pulled his wallet out of his jeans to pay.
Aunt Inge nodded contentedly at her niece. “He’s not so bad, your young man.”
“Aunt Inge!”
“Well, stay well clear of miserly men, my dear. I can tell you a thing or two about them. Shall we go into the backyard? It’s best if you all come right away; then I won’t have to tell the story three times over.”
She walked jauntily out ahead of them, the others following her bobbing red hat. They then waited patiently until Aunt Inge finally settled on the third lawn chair she had tested out.
“Right then. This is a good spot. After a certain age you have to be careful in the sun. If not, you get punished by wrinkles.”
Charlotte, who was just about to sit down, paused mid-motion and pulled her chair a little more into the shade. “Oh, really? Since when have you been worried about that? You used to lie out in the sun for hours on end,” Charlotte countered.
