by Dora Heldt
Lost in thought, Christine let her gaze wander across the yard. Old Frau Nissen had worked as a teacher her whole life and almost always lived alone. There was something years back, about a daughter who had died, but she couldn’t recall the details now. From what she remembered of Inge’s past comments, Frau Nissen had taken lots of little trips, played bridge, and had gone for lunch in Café Vienna every other day. Apparently she had always sat at the same table by the window, ordered the dish of the day, and read the papers while she was eating. From front to back. Then, after two hours, she would set off again. There.
She looked back at her aunt, who was staring toward the backyard gate in dismay.
“Oh great, just what I needed.”
Heinz was by the fence, clumsily trying to balance his bicycle against it. Christine turned back to Inge.
“Is the thing with Frau Nissen connected to you wanting to change your life?”
“Not now, your father’s coming.”
Having spotted them both, Heinz raised his hand in greeting and walked over. Inge pulled herself upright and let out a resigned sigh.
“Hello, you two! I just happened to be passing and saw Christine’s car. How are you both?” Heinz sat down next to his sister and looked at her keenly. “You still look a little pale. Is everything okay? Do you want to talk about it?”
“Dad, I…”
“Christine, I’m talking to my sister. Go and see what Petra’s doing. You always used to hang out together.”
“Christine used to babysit her, you mean, when she was eighteen and Petra was two,” Inge said impatiently. “And what do you mean, you just happened to be passing by? Do you go to the bakery via Kampen now or something? What do you want?”
Her dad laid a hand on his sister’s shoulder. “Inge, I just wanted to know what was wrong yesterday. You were so terribly…how shall I put it? Well, different in any case.”
“Dad, the word you’re looking for is smashed.”
“Christine! You’re a fine one to talk. And you do not talk about your aunt like that.”
“I—”
“Now you’re—”
“Christine! Heinz!” Inge snapped at the two of them. “That’s enough. I didn’t even drink that much. I just couldn’t handle that cocktail, that’s all. It went straight to my head. And besides, I was excited, because…well, because of Till and his mother and everything. It doesn’t matter. But you certainly don’t need to make all this fuss, for heaven’s sake! I don’t want to hear another word about it. I’m going to take a shower now, and then I’m going to Wenningstedt to meet someone.”
“Who?” Heinz stood up, looking at his little sister with his most kind-hearted expression.
“No one you know.” Inge pushed her brother aside. “I’ll call you later.”
She walked briskly over to the house without so much as a backward glance.
“Did she tell you anything?” Heinz asked.
“No, Dad,” Christine answered instinctively. She had the feeling that mentioning Frau Nissen would only confuse things further. Her father stared down and shook his head, baffled.
“I just don’t understand her, and I have a funny feeling about this. Something’s happened. Why won’t she talk to me about it?”
“She will, eventually. I’m starting to think we’re all making a mountain out of a molehill. Just wait and see what happens.” Christine laid the washcloth back on the chaise and smoothed down her pullover. “I’m going home now to see what Johann’s doing. We are supposed to be on vacation together, after all.”
Heinz sank down slowly onto the chaise cushion and leaned over, picking to pieces one blade of grass after the other between his fingers.
He didn’t notice that his sister was watching him from the upstairs window. It made Inge feel sorry for him somehow, the way he sat there looking so agitated and worried. He had always been a worrywart. Inge had hated that about him, even as a child. It was impossible to reassure her big brother. Once, when she had had a horse-riding lesson, he had stood on the railings around the enclosure and closed his eyes every time the horse moved. Inge had pleaded with him to stop it, saying that he was making her a laughingstock. Heinz had apologized—but carried on regardless. She was twelve at the time, and he, twenty-one. Or there was the time she had taken her driving test. Heinz was married to Charlotte by then, and Christine was a baby. During one of her driving lessons, Inge had suddenly noticed her brother’s red Chrysler Alpine in the rearview mirror, following her across the entire town. When pressed, he had explained, “Inge, it’s just in case you have any questions about the highway system. Then I’ll know where you’ve driven. And I was out anyway, so I wasn’t going out of my way.” Her girlfriends had always envied her for having a much older big brother, and one who took such an interest in her life, but they had no idea.
Inge flung the window open and leaned out on the windowsill. Heinz looked up, startled.
“Why are you still here?”
Her brother stood up slowly, dropped his bunch of grass, and came closer to the house.
“I was just thinking…I could drive you to your meeting.”
“In your basket?”
“Sorry?”
Inge took a deep breath, exasperated. “You came by bike. And I have to go all the way to Wenningstedt.”
“Oh. Right. Never mind then. Christine could have driven you, but she’s already left. How annoying.” He took his cap off, ran his fingers through his hair, and put it back on. “Really annoying, in fact.”
Inge forced herself to stare at the blooming wild roses and take a deep breath for a moment before she answered. After all, he was her brother.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take a taxi. And it’s best if you go back home anyway. I thought you wanted to spend time getting to know Christine’s boyfriend.”
Heinz shook his head. “I already know him. And taxis are expensive here.”
“That’s enough now, Heinz! I have to get ready. See you later.”
With one last forlorn look, Heinz turned around and walked slowly over to his bike. Relieved, Inge shut the window. She would talk to her family properly soon, but first she had to figure what she was going to do next.
Chapter 11
* * *
Christine glanced at the clock as she started the car’s engine. She had been with Petra and Inge for two hours, and she had completely lost track of time. Feeling guilty, she took her cell phone from her pocket and called Johann’s number. It went straight to voice mail; he had turned his cell off. Christine put the car into reverse, pulled out of the parking lot, and drove off.
It was already the fourth day of their vacation, which left another ten days before Christine would be back to her day-to-day routine in Hamburg and Johann back to his in Bremen. The days they spent together always went by much more quickly than the ones in between. Christine had lived alone for the last five years. The first two years after her divorce had been tumultuous; she’d had two love affairs and one or two flings, all while trying to maintain her independence and single lifestyle. She liked things the way they were: her apartment, her friends, the freedom to change her plans at a moment’s notice if someone called or popped by. No obligations, no arrangements, no compromises. Sure, sometimes she had to contend with a cold bed in winter, an empty fridge, and lonely Saturday nights with frozen pizza and a rerun of some TV crime series which she had seen so many times she could almost recite the dialogue. But there were certainly worse ways to live, and—if she thought back to her marriage—far worse ways.
When she had met Johann in Norderney last summer, she’d fallen for him with an intensity she hadn’t experienced since she was a teenager. Trembling knees, a flushed face, a pounding heart, and full-on adolescent behavior. It had been incredible. It still was, for that matter. And the best thing—besides Johann himself, of course—was that she hadn’t needed to change a thing. Her fabulously arranged life stayed fabulous, except that her bed was warm in winter more often
and the fridge was mostly full. And Saturday evenings were now Johann evenings. They spent one weekend in Bremen, and the next in Hamburg. Everything was good. Or, she had thought everything was. But a few weeks ago, Johann had asked her how much longer she wanted them to have a long-distance relationship. Christine’s answer—“At least two hundred years”—hadn’t amused him. He had told her that all the driving back and forth was starting to get irritating, that he was getting too old to talk about all the important things by phone and then suppress any contentious topics at the weekend, just because it was supposed to be their “special time.” Christine had pretended she didn’t know what he meant by contentious topics, saying that everything was fine just the way it was. Johann had looked at her intensely, but he didn’t push the conversation any further.
She stopped at a red light. A middle-aged couple was standing on the pavement nearby. The woman was shouting at the man, and he was waving his hands in an irritated fashion. She grabbed his elbow, and he ripped his arm away harshly.
Christine shuddered and turned her concentration back to the traffic lights. She didn’t want to end up like that. How awful. She wanted to look forward to seeing Johann, to yearn for him. She was absolutely convinced that wasn’t possible when you lived together. How could it be? Yearning didn’t just build up in six or eight hours from morning to evening day after day. She had done all that before, and it hadn’t worked—and her ex-husband, Bernd, had ended up cheating on her with her best friend.
Besides, she hated change. She got that from her father. After she had found out about the affair, Christine had hated having to turn her life upside down. She hadn’t wanted to move into a new apartment with unfamiliar furniture; she hadn’t wanted a new address and telephone number, nor a new car license plate, new haircut, and new dentist. She had just wanted everything to stay as it was—minus the philanderer. But that hadn’t been possible. With hindsight, she had to admit that everything, without exception, had turned out for the better. But it had still been demanding to uproot herself, and that’s why she didn’t want any more change. Not in this lifetime.
The light turned green, and Christine drove on. With Johann, thankfully, nothing had ever been complicated. They arranged things very well, speaking on the phone every day and seeing each other every weekend. And both their jobs allowed them a generous amount of vacation time. Right at the beginning of their relationship, Christine had spent a few days in Bremen. Johann had to work at the time, but they had seen each other every evening. Then they had done the same thing two months later in Hamburg. It was wonderful to spend time together, but Christine had been a little bit relieved to get her apartment back to herself again. A one-bedroom apartment was a pretty tight squeeze with two people living in it. Anyway, now they were here together with the never-ending horizon of sea and sky, and she was determined that their vacation be a wonderful one.
Passing the turnoff sign for Kampen, she started to speed up. A car coming toward her from the opposite direction flashed its lights. A red Beetle—Anika. She was alone in the car, and she waved as she passed. Christine waved back and immediately wondered where she was coming from. From List…from meeting Johann? Christine shook her head vigorously and turned the car radio up. Boy, she was really going over the top. The last few weeks at work had been very demanding. She was exhausted, on edge, and moody. She really needed this vacation and time with Johann, but she didn’t want to talk about their relationship—just wanted to be in it without the distractions of work and commuting. It would sort itself out somehow. And she certainly didn’t want to listen to other people’s problems, much less have to solve them. Most of all, she didn’t want any new ones.
When she got back, Johann was lying out on a chaise in the backyard with his book on his chest and his knees propped up. He pushed his sunglasses up, and his dark brown eyes twinkled as Christine came over.
“Well? Is everything sorted?”
She sat at the foot of the chaise, kissed him on the knee, and rested her forehead against it for a moment. “Oh, I think it’s all just hot air,” she answered, straightening up. “Aunt Inge is definitely out of sorts, but it could be because Frau Nissen died. She was her old teacher, and they were close friends. That must be on her mind.”
Johann swung his legs from the chaise, shifted to sit next to Christine, and put an arm around her. “See, I told you she’d open up to you when she was ready.”
Christine reached for his hand and entwined her fingers with his. “We weren’t able to talk much. First she was asleep with a washcloth on her face, and then my dad turned up.”
Johann laughed. “What a pair! Shall I get changed now? And then we’ll take off, just the two of us?”
Christine looked at him and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. She kissed him. “That’s a wonderful idea. Be quick.”
Chapter 12
* * *
The red hat. Inge gently stroked the silk ribbon wound around the crown. She had never had a designer hat before; she had always been the bobble-hat type. The wool hats with their cheery pom-poms were cheap, they kept the ears warm, and they fit her; Inge had an unusually large head for a woman. Years ago, on trips to the mainland, she and her friend Maria used to go to the big department stores in Flensburg or Husum to mess around in the hat sections. The hats had always looked like they were made for Maria, but they had never fit Inge, perching on the top of her head and falling off at the slightest movement. Maria, of course, had enjoyed these expeditions, but Inge always ended up frustrated.
In Bad Oeynhausen, she had told Renate about this while they had been drinking champagne. Inge couldn’t remember how it had come up, but somehow they had gotten onto the subject of how they had pictured their futures back when they were young women. Inge had told Renate that she had always pictured herself being really chic, in long black dresses with big, fabulous hats. Yet, in real life, she had never ventured beyond a fleece ski hat. Renate had said she thought hats would definitely suit Inge and that a hat was a way of announcing your identity to the world. She had added that Inge had been Frau Müller in a bobble hat for long enough—it was time to conquer new frontiers, to dive in headfirst, as it were! Inge had been impressed by her little speech. They had gone to a milliner the very next day, who had made this red hat for Inge to Renate’s exact specifications. It was Renate’s present to her new friend and, at the same time, a symbol of Inge living her life to the fullest.
Inge pulled up the zipper on her yellow dress. She would have preferred to buy a black one, but Renate had talked her out of it. “At your age, the only place you should wear black is to a funeral. Pick something bright and colorful.”
She put the hat on carefully, not wanting to ruin her hairdo. She was sure this was a lucky hat. She applied her lipstick—which matched the color of her hat—took one last glance in the mirror, and reached for her handbag.
“All right then, Inge, it’s time.”
She couldn’t help giggling at herself for talking out loud. And because she was happy.
Two hours later, she stood on Boysenstrasse, turning around to look at the house from which she had just emerged. He stood at the upstairs window and raised his hand to wave. Inge waved back jauntily. He really was very handsome, and his green shirt brought out the color of his eyes. Technically speaking, Inge didn’t like colorful shirts; Walter only ever wore white or blue-and-white striped ones. You would never find a green shirt in his wardrobe. Inge could hear his voice in her head: I’m not a parrot.
But Mark was very different than Walter. He cared about fashion and grooming, and he wore a subtle, spicy cologne. He was sure to have a whole load of colorful shirts in his closet. Granted, he was fifteen years younger than Walter. But Walter wouldn’t even have worn a colorful shirt in his early fifties. Not that any of that mattered now.
Inge shook away the thoughts of her husband and, after one last glance up at the window, set off down the street. Before heading back to Kampen, she wanted to have ano
ther quick look in the boutique along the beach promenade. Maybe she should buy herself something else in yellow. It seems she was the colorful type after all, even though she would never have thought it in recent years. Mark had looked at her admiringly and had said she looked years younger in the dress, that he could hardly believe how well yellow suited her. Inge had taken her hat off nonchalantly, crossed her legs, and felt very attractive. After that, everything had been wonderful…
Inge walked by as crowds of people sat outside Gosch restaurant, feasting on scampi, fish rolls, and wine. Their glasses clinked as toasts were made, which conflicted with an incessant noise that confused Inge until she realized it wasn’t coming from the tables, but from her handbag. Her cell phone was ringing. She stopped, rummaged around for it, and looked at the display.
“Hello, Walter. I can’t call you back from the landline. I’m out at the moment.” She started to walk on, expecting him to hang up right away.
“Oh, Inge, there’s no need to call me back from Petra’s. I just wanted to hear how you were.”
“But you normally say it’s too expensive to call a cell phone from the landline. Has something happened?”
Walter’s tone was reassuring. “No, everything’s fine. Pia just asked how long you were staying on Sylt and why I wasn’t allowed to come too.”
Inge sat down on a walled edge of a flowerbed, away from the crowd of people. “And what did you tell her?” She could just picture his pained expression.
“What did I tell her? Well, that her mother is a bit stressed after the spa, and that I made a bit of a mistake with the whole diabetics’ evening thing, and you just wanted to take a few days’ vacation. And that I was too busy to come. That’s what I told her. I didn’t want the child to worry.”
“Walter! The child is forty years old. I’m sure she’s not worried.”
