by Hill, Roxann
“Papa, look who I have!” Emma yelled.
The man stood up. He was tall, broad shouldered with narrow hips, and he wore some sort of Norwegian sweater and faded jeans. He smiled at his daughter as he wiped his grease-smeared hands on a towel.
Striking features, blond hair, dark-blue eyes . . . any ordinary woman would have found him very attractive. But I was immune to such primitive manly attributes.
After a moment, he noticed me. He didn’t seem at all surprised by my bizarre appearance.
“Salut,” he said. Naturally, he had a deep, soft voice.
“Hello,” I said.
“You’re German?” Now he seemed surprised.
“Yes.” I brushed my damp hair away from my forehead.
“Papa, this is my friend,” Emma said. “She’s sad, because she’s traveling on foot.”
“On foot?” he repeated. “In this weather?”
I wanted to explain, but Emma spoke first. “We have a big car. I promised her that she could come with us.”
“You promised her?”
“No,” I heard myself say. “She was only trying to console me.”
“Aha,” the man said, clearly understanding the situation.
“I lost my bag with my money and documents. But it’ll be sent to me in Geneva. My taxi driver ditched me, and I’m not particularly good at hitchhiking. So I’ve been walking.”
“We can drive her to the airport. Can’t we, Papa?” Emma pled.
“You want to go to Geneva?” the man confirmed.
I nodded. “To the airport.”
“That’s quite a big detour for us, Emma.”
“That’s OK. You said Christmas is in five days. We’ll be back in Berlin in time.”
“You’re from Berlin?” I asked, astonished.
“Yes,” he said. “By the way, my name is David Rottmann. You’ve already met my daughter, Emma.” He extended his hand.
I grasped it even though it wasn’t entirely clean. “My name is Krämer. Michelle Krämer.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” He briefly held in his breath. “Well, if you like, you can get your things.”
“You mean you’ll take me?”
He shrugged, and a winning smile drifted over his face.
“Like she said, it’ll be Christmas soon. And Emma’s wish is that we take you to Geneva. I’ve already gotten my present.” He knocked on the fender of the car behind him. “How can I deny her anything?”
“We’re taking Michelle to Geneva! We’re taking Michelle to Ge-neeva!” Emma sang. She grabbed my hand and walked me back to the rest stop, where my suitcases and that Swiss woman’s Prada bag still stood.
I gathered my things and made my way to the restroom with Emma. However, this presented a problem. The use of sanitary facilities was not free of charge. And I had no money. A turnstile prevented adults from entering without paying. Next to the gate was a small opening for children, through which Emma was able to slip. I realized that I could, too. First, I awkwardly pushed my bags through. Then I got down on all fours and followed—perhaps not so elegantly.
Emma, at least, found my maneuver cool.
A woman behind me seemed to be complaining about my effrontery in French.
“Oh, shut up,” I yelled at her, heading to the spacious mother-child stall with Emma.
I took off my ski jacket and the coat underneath it. I carefully folded that coat—a Dior—and stowed it in one of the suitcases. My boots were ruined. My socks were wet. I found replacements in my other bag. I chose Louis Vuitton booties with relatively flat heels and plain D & G jeans. Emma proved to have surprisingly good taste during this operation, advising me on each item of clothing. We had fun despite the tight quarters and unappealing ambiance.
At last, I was finished.
I quickly styled my hair in the mirror above the sink and managed to refresh my eyeliner and mascara. As I did, Emma used my lipstick. After we’d removed all traces of it from the tiles and her face, we were ready to go.
As for the sad remnants of my Louboutin boots and the wet socks, I tossed them into the garbage can.
The turnstile didn’t require money on the way out. Emma was disappointed that we didn’t have to sneak through the small opening again.
When we got back to the parking lot, Emma’s father had shut the hood and was trying to sweep the snow off the car with a small broom. As he noticed us, his glance fell upon me, and he froze in place for a moment. That happened to me constantly. I was undeniably good-looking and had an effect on all men, regardless of whether they were educated, intelligent, and wealthy—like Valentin—or not.
“There you are,” he said, not very wittily, before nervously resuming his work with the broom.
Now it was my turn to stare, dumbfounded. The vehicle that had appeared under the protective coat of snow was large, ancient, and completely rusted. What turned me off the most about the hunk of rust was its dreadful color: a loud, kitschy pink. Totally offensive.
Emma’s father registered the change in my expression. “You’re flabbergasted,” he said. “You’ve never seen such a jewel.”
I had a sarcastic response on the tip of my tongue, but then I remembered the endless kilometers I’d just walked and managed a careful nod.
“Impressive,” I said. “I’ve never come across anything like it.” And that was the pure truth.
“It’s a 1973 Citroën DS 23 IE Pallas,” he said proudly.
I sighed on the inside. Maybe the guy couldn’t afford a decent car and had to depend on this old wreck. I certainly didn’t want to expose him in front of his daughter. In the end, I had to get to Geneva. So I played along.
“Great,” I said. “How fast does it go?”
“It’s not quite at its peak right now, but it can handle a good ninety kilometers an hour.”
With my mouth agape, it was a few seconds before I managed to respond, “Cool.”
“Is that your luggage?”
I nodded.
He opened the creaky trunk and then grabbed the suitcases, lifting them as though they were as light as a feather. From up close, I realized that he couldn’t be much older than I was. Maximum five, six years. But certainly considerably younger than Valentin. Younger and less mature.
He stowed my bags and struggled with the hatch of the trunk, which wouldn’t close at first. Once the latch shut with a click, he straightened his back and shot a victorious glance my way. “You see? A genuine classic!”
Emma opened the passenger door and waved me in.
No pleasant surprise awaited me. Burst-open leather seats, dashboard full of cracks, a stuffy odor, worn-out seat belts.
Emma’s father tilted the driver’s seat forward, and Emma crawled into the backseat. “Go, Papa!” she called out. “Show Michelle how great our car drives!”
He looked at me. “Keep your fingers crossed for it to start.”
“I’ll do that, Mr. Rottmann,” I said, smiling boldly.
He pumped the gas pedal. The engine sounded like an asthmatic tractor. A rocking motion passed through the car, followed by a tremor and a loud explosion. And then, as if touched by a magic wand, we were set into motion.
“Yahoo! We’re moving!” Emma cried. Her father seemed exuberantly happy, too.
“Papa, Papa,” she said, “now show her our radio! Michelle has to hear it.”
“The radio in here still functions, Mr. Rottmann?”
Emma’s father grinned. “Please, just call me David. And, yeah, the odometer is broken, and the rev counter is stuck on 8,000 revolutions. But the old radio works impeccably.” He pushed one of the half-broken small knobs.
And, by some miracle, a singer cawed out of the speaker. The sound was hollow and without depth, as though it was blaring through a tin can.
Of course I recogni
zed the song immediately. It was George Michael’s “Last Christmas.”
6
The engine sputtered, wheezed, and then exploded. A black cloud of soot briefly wrapped itself around us as we stopped—directly in front of the Geneva airport’s entrance. The snowfall had also ceased as abruptly as it had begun. The last rays of the sun now bestowed a golden light. A shimmer of hope.
A policeman who’d seen our decidedly pathetic entrance approached from the sidewalk. He stood next to the car and rotated his index finger.
With some difficulty, David rolled down the window and stuck out his head, and the two spoke for a while in French.
The policeman straightened his back, tipped his hat, and ambled away.
“You speak French?” I asked.
David smiled apologetically. “A little. I know I must sound horrible, but it’s enough to make myself understood. I’m sure you speak much better than I do.”
“I speak German,” I said condescendingly. “German, the language of poets and thinkers.”
“Lack of education is also a form of education,” David rebutted with a twinkle in his eyes.
The arrogant little upstart! He didn’t even own a decent car. He toured around the region with his kid while other people worked, and he wanted to tell me about culture?
“Well,” I said, “one can clearly see how far your so-called education has gotten you.”
I was out of the car before he could even respond. I didn’t need an argument right now. An airplane and my future were waiting.
David stepped out of the car, too. “I’d accompany you, but my car is parked illegally. I need to be gone when the friendly policeman returns—otherwise he’ll change his attitude and write me a ticket.”
“We certainly don’t want that,” I quipped. David walked around the junker, and together we hauled my luggage out of the trunk. He tried to close it, but it remained slightly ajar. Evidently, the lock no longer worked.
Emma stood a bit apart from us. And as I gathered myself to walk into the foyer with my bags, I noticed her reddened eyes. Truthfully, I didn’t have time for such sentimentality. But, nevertheless, I bent down and rested my arm on her shoulders. She threw herself on me and held me tight.
“Oh,” I said, “you shouldn’t be sad.”
She hugged me even tighter.
Carefully, I pushed her away, swept her brown locks from her face, and tickled her chin. She laughed.
“I’ll call you when I’m back in Berlin,” I lied. “I just need to get home urgently—to take care of something very important. You understand that, right?”
Emma silently nodded. Her father walked over and hoisted her up. She leaned on his chest without letting me out of her sight.
“Well, then, Michelle, I wish you lots of luck,” David said, “and that everything goes as you hope it will.”
He extended his free hand and I quickly shook it. Then I waved farewell to Emma, grabbed my suitcases, and hurried into the airport terminal.
7
I made a beeline for the information desk, which was staffed by a young man—so young, I’d be surprised if he’d even finished his training. Dark suit, hair fastidiously styled with gel to distract from his acne, and clearly in over his head. Just great!
“Sir,” I said, “I’m Ms. Krämer. Ms. Michelle Krämer.”
The engaging smile on his face faded and was replaced by an expression of utter cluelessness. From the name tag on his lapel, I knew he was Swiss with a German name. At least he’d be able to minimally understand me.
“Mr. Meyer,” I said very slowly and clearly, “I . . . am . . . Ms. Krämer.”
He blinked several times and said, “I got as much the first time you said it.”
“Wonderful. Really wonderful,” I responded. “So, I’m just in from Chamonix. My bag was stolen there. With my documents and my passport. The Hotel Grand Royal got ahold of it for me and sent it you.”
He appeared to be thinking hard and then said, “Oh! The Hotel Grand Royal!”
I nodded. “Even you remember now. So, it’s clear what you should do. Reach under your counter, pull out my Prada bag, and hand it over. Then we’ll all be perfectly happy.”
It was done. I was saved. My bag had arrived, and with it my old life would return. The nightmare was finally over.
But Mr. Meyer paused. A look of embarrassment appeared upon his face.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “You’re not even capable of giving me my bag? What do you get paid for? Catching dust in a suit?” I lifted the Prada imposter and held it right in front of his nose. “Do you see? This is a handbag. Mine looks exactly like it. So hurry up, I don’t have all day. Chop-chop!”
His arms sank and he remained speechless.
“Don’t just stand there. Say something!” I barked.
“The Grand Royal Hotel did get in touch earlier. But—”
“But what?”
“They were unable to find the bag.” He tapped on his keyboard and looked at his monitor. “They wish you lots of luck on your trip home, and they are certain that the woman who mixed up your bags will contact you immediately. They’d also be pleased to have the honor of hosting you again and to have you recommend the hotel to your friends and acquaintances.”
“And you’re reading this off your screen?” I said, completely flustered.
“This is the e-mail that we received from them. I’d be happy to print it out for you.”
“No, thank you,” I said. “But tell me one thing: How am I supposed to get to a critical meeting in Berlin today without having a passport, credit card, or a single cent in cash in my possession? Who will compensate me for that?”
My voice got increasingly louder. I’d bent forward and grabbed Mr. Meyer by his lapels. Now his face was just a few centimeters from mine. “Who will see to it that order replaces the absolute chaos my life has become? You, perhaps, with your acne?”
Mr. Meyer pulled away and took a step back. Speechless, he lifted his trembling hand and pointed toward the ticket counter. “Your airline will certainly have information. Go over to them and give them your details.”
“And then I can fly back home?”
Mr. Meyer lifted his hands in a helpless gesture.
I could have really let him have it, but I simply didn’t have the energy to argue with a pubescent trainee. Instead, I grabbed hold of my suitcases and stormed over to the airline counter.
The woman behind it was around fifty and wearing a ridiculous blue-and-white suit like the ones stewardesses wore. To boot, her uniform must have gotten tighter over the course of the years. Now she looked like an overstuffed liverwurst whose skin might burst open at any moment.
Presumably, this poor wretch had been banished to the floor because she’d always gotten stuck while pushing the meal cart.
She was on the phone. “Beate, I’ll tell you one thing,” she said. “The spices are important. The eggs are important. And do you know the most important thing when trying to bake really good Christmas cookies?” She paused dramatically, sat down on a swivel chair, and said in a conspiratorial tone, “The secret to good Christmas baking is butter. Butter and more butter.”
I banged my Prada bag on the counter, but the bimbo didn’t even bother to look up. She lifted her finger in my direction and kept speaking into the receiver. “No, no. Right, not margarine! No way. That will completely corrupt the taste!”
Since I didn’t know what else to do, I used both hands to beat the counter like a drum. Slowly and quietly, then quickly and violently. My hands started to hurt.
Fatso tried to ignore me at first. She shut her ear with her hand and continued to yap. She moved her mouth—but because of my loud drumming, I couldn’t hear what she was saying. Based on the aggravated look she shot me, I guessed it was nothing nice. With exaggerated slowness, she hung up the p
hone, sighed, and stood up.
“Are you through with your important conversation?” I demanded.
She narrowed her eyes at me and nodded.
“And you’re also sure, absolutely sure, that you can give me your undivided attention?”
Again, she nodded.
“That’s fantastic. A service-oriented employee, who, amidst all of her personal obligations, still finds the time to take care of her customers. Really sensational!”
She opened her mouth, closed it again, and finally said, “How can I be of help?”
“Be of help,” I repeated. “That’s the motto of the hour. My name is Krämer. Someone stole the confirmation of my e-ticket for Flight A-375 from Geneva to Berlin.”
The counter-woman took a pencil and scratched her head with it absentmindedly.
“Uh-huh,” she said. “The one thirty flight.” The corners of her mouth twitched, as though she were trying to form at least a hint of a smile. “Nothing’s happening with that. It was canceled due to bad weather. I can put you on the next flight. There are still two empty seats.”
“And when does that take off?”
She blinked. “At seven fifty p.m.”
“So I can still check in?” I asked, feeling hopeful.
Again, that indeterminate facial expression. “But of course. Your name is Krämer, right?”
“Right. Michelle . . . I mean Michaela Krämer.”
“We’ll have that in a second.” She sat back down in the swivel chair, which groaned under her weight. Her fat hands pounded on the keyboard. The printer whirred. She took out the paper and stood up again.
“And here is your ticket.” She pushed it toward me.
I nearly had it in my fingers when she pulled it back, as quick as lightning.
“What’s happened now?” I said.
“I need your passport.”
“You need my what?”
