“I can’t believe we’re really here, can you?” I looked around at the wood paneling, the old ornaments on the narrow shelf that ran all the way around the room at about head height. “I woke up this morning and it took me the longest time to remember I was in Lake Sebastian. After all these years.”
“Tomorrow, we’ll make it around the lake. Are you finished?” he asked, holding out his hand. I handed him back the cup and saucer.
“I’d better get up and get dressed. I’ll have to do my hair,” I said, stretching my legs out under the warm covers.
Christian carried the china over to the table. “I know. You don’t frighten me. I’ll wait. I have eaten enough cookies to hold me.
Again, I was struck with a terrible nervousness about what lay in store for me with this man. He stood next to the round table, towering over it in his boots, tall and handsome, as he picked up the last cookie and popped the entire thing into his mouth. I leaned back into the pillows, my hands folded on the covers, wondering if he would just gobble me up like that too. I didn’t want to leave the bed. Nor did I want to be left alone, but I also didn’t want to change with him in the room. But most of all, I wanted tonight to be over. What if he was sorry? What if he was only marrying me out of pity, or duty, or for . . .
“I’ll meet you downstairs, all right?” he said, picking up the tray, interrupting my panicked thoughts. “You look very pretty in that bed.”
“I’ll be out in a second,” I said, flushing bright red. He grinned at me and went out.
I got myself out of the safety of the bed and into my clothes. I brushed and brushed my hair and gathered it back with combs. I looked chic, but very pale. My stomach was aflutter with nerves and tea and I knew I wouldn’t be able to eat anything. I had never been so nervous. You’re ridiculous, I told myself and went down to dinner.
OUR ROOM WAS warm from the porcelain stove in the corner when we went up after dinner. It was easy to undress, although my hands shook so hard I could barely manage my buttons and I thought the lump of nervousness and apprehension in my throat would strangle me. Christian moved around the room going about his routine. When he left the room, I got my brush and stood in front of the stove to brush my hair, watching the blurry reflection of my arm move up and down in its glossy surface.
Christian came back into the room and moved quietly around, busy at some task, until he stood behind me. I turned. He was naked except for his open shirt and his skin glowed in the dim lamp light, the shirt hiding and not hiding the curves and planes of his body.
I had never seen a naked grown man and the sight of him, so beautiful, so different, was the most desirable, most frightening thing I’d ever seen.
“You’re beautiful,” I whispered.
He reached a hand for me and slowly, dreamily, I took it. He drew me to him and kissed me sweetly on my cheek.
“Shall I leave you alone?” he whispered. I felt myself sway toward him and I shook my head. He laughed softly and started to push my robe off my shoulders but I, with both hands, suddenly held the top where it was. He paused, then shrugged off his shirt.
“You too,” he said. “It’s only fair.”
I let my hands drop and the robe followed with a whisper of fabric against fabric. Carefully, he unhooked my bra, then knelt and undid my garters, slowly rolling down my stockings and, telling me to steady myself on him, took them off.
I ran my hand across his shoulder, feeling the skin, the bone, the smooth warm muscle. Kneeling on one knee in front of me, he put a hand on either side of my hips, smiled up at me, and pushed down my final garment.
He stood, his hands gliding along my shoulders, my arms, my hips. “My wife,” he said in English, then repeated the words in German. “I always knew this would happen.”
“You didn’t,” I said softly.
“I did, from the moment you came into my room that afternoon when I was supposed to be taking a nap, remember?” I shook my head. “Yes, you do. I was naked, remember? We were six, I think.”
I started to laugh, as the memory came to me, of him jumping up and down on his bed, like a skinny, golden imp. “I remember,” I said. “I remember.”
“You slammed the door and ran away.”
“Yes.” His hands were warm and soft and moving on my bare skin.
“Will you run away now?” he whispered.
“No,” I said. “No, I won’t.” And very, very carefully, I leaned forward and laid my cheek against his bare chest, then turned my face so that I could breathe him in, my open mouth hungry for him. Our bodies weren’t touching, not yet, but I knew, with a rush of happiness, that this night would be as different from that awful June afternoon as I wanted and needed it to be.
DOES GLASS CONDUCT HEAT?
THE SECRET MEADOW looked so different in its winter guise, covered with of snow, that I hardly recognized it. We paused under the deep dark-green trees, almost black, against the white-and-gray world. Christian turned to me, his face, cheeks, and nose red with the cold. He looked very happy, very young.
“I love this,” he said. “Hey, Sally, do you remember?”
And I knew he was thinking of the couple we had watched that night. As I nodded, an image flashed into my head: he and I, naked in the rich, white velvety snow, making love.
Christian began to take huge steps, as a child might, through the snow, destroying the image. He turned and gestured to me with a jerk of his head. Come on! I followed him into the center of the meadow. Looking back, our footsteps were the only marks on the snow.
“Listen,” he said, his breath puffing white clouds into the cold air.
“To what?”
“The forest.”
“I don’t hear anything.”
“Yes. The silence. Listen.” He closed his eyes and lifted his face to the sun.
He was right. The silence was full of things to listen to—rusting trees, water dripping, snow falling from a branch, his breathing, my own heartbeat. But the snow muffled every sound, coating the branches, covering the ground so that nothing appeared as it was, but was transformed into something white and beautiful, sparkling in the sun.
I dug my hands deeper into my pockets, shifting my feet in the snow. I wiggled my toes, making sure I could feel them through the layers of socks and boots.
Christian laughed. “You poor thing. You don’t like the snow, do you?” He put his arm around my shoulders.
“I like looking at it. From a warm room.”
“You want to go back?”
“No, let’s go on. I’d like to see the house too. I’m just cold standing here.”
“Right. Let’s go, then.”
We left the meadow and tramped around the lake toward the old Mayr house. Herr Mittelstadt had said that no one ever stayed in it during the winter months.
We went up the path to the lawn that faced the lake. One of the two big trees was gone, downed in a storm, we had heard, three years ago. All that remained was a big stump. The house looked very bare in the snowy yard, the sun glittering off its windows, obscuring the inside. Christian wiped the window in the door and peered in.
“Wait here,” he said, and ran through the crunchy snow around the corner of the house.
“Christian? Where. . .?” but he was gone. I turned from the house to look out across the lake. The water was very calm, a deep-gray color. It looked larger, deeper, and very, very cold. Seeing it in winter made me think of the time I’d swum out into the center of it. And I wondered, for the first time, with an adult’s perspective, at my youthful impulsive stupidity. And luck. Then I heard the door of the house open behind me and turned.
“Hello. Come in,” Christian said smugly.
“How did you get in?” I asked.
“Secret ways. A window off the kitchen. Kurt and I used to sneak out at night. Come on.”
“Is it all right?” I was reluctant to enter the closed-up house.
“Who will know? Come on.” And he reached out and grabbed my hand to pu
ll me inside. “Don’t be so cautious.”
“I’m not. Wait, let me kick the snow off.” I knocked my boots against the stone step.
“You are timid,” he teased.
“No, I’m not. I married you, didn’t I?”
He laughed, conceding my point, and closed the door behind us. It was even colder in the house. We walked through the still, icy rooms, hand in hand. The furniture was covered with dust sheets, as were paintings and mirrors on the walls. The entire house was thick with memories of Christian’s noisy family, especially the dining room, where we had had so many happy meals. We stood in the door looking at the long table and chairs under the sheets.
I could almost hear the noise of the big family, and I turned to say something to Christian, but abruptly he turned and walked away.
I followed him. He was standing at the bottom of the stairs, his hand on the lintel post, his back to me.
“Let’s go upstairs,” he said, without turning around. He took the first three steps as one. I followed more slowly.
He went on down the hall, but I turned into his old bedroom, where he had lain, so pale and sick. The door was slightly ajar and I pushed it open farther. The painted single bed was still there, the mattress rolled up on the slats. I heard Christian enter the room behind me.
“Remember how sick you were?” I asked. “How frightened I was. And your mother.”
He grunted, running his hand along the carved picture rail. He opened the little wardrobe; it was empty. Brushing his gloved hands together, he came to stand near me.
“Lots of memories here,” I said.
He shrugged. “It was good here.”
“For me too.”
“Perhaps the best time of my life. Everything was simpler. My brother. . .”
“Yes.” I didn’t know if he meant Kurt, or his older brother, Thomas. I remembered that Thomas’s formal portrait had always stood on the mantel downstairs.
“My father was alive.” He was looking down at the yard outside the window, and I could not see his eyes, but when he said the words, a tremor seemed to run through him. He would have shuddered if he hadn’t controlled himself so well. I felt I had seen something too personal, too private, and I looked away.
“You know,” I said into the silence. “I don’t think I ever spoke to your father. At least, I don’t remember doing so. He was so mysterious to me.”
“He wasn’t always like that. But he didn’t talk much to anyone after Thomas was killed. Not even to my mother. I always wanted . . . His voice petered out. He stood leaning against the window frame, his arms crossed, bulky in his coat. “I hardly ever spoke to him, either. Until I was old enough to argue with him. God, how we argued.”
“That’s not unusual, is it? Sons and fathers argue. Like mothers and daughters do.”
“I don’t think he and Thomas ever did. Did you? With your mother?”
“I suppose so. I don’t remember. It’s funny, you know. Now I only remember the good things about her. Not how she sort of ignored me, but how beautiful and talented she was. How I’ll never measure up.”
“You feel that way? So do I. I’ll never be as brave, as honorable as Thomas was. I’d never have been able to please my father.”
“Do you think that because we’ve both lost a parent, we are drawn together?”
“I don’t know. Why do you need reasons? Besides, you can’t please someone who’s dead.” Christian seemed edgy, and we fell silent again.
I turned my attention back to the room, to the blue-and-white- checked fabric covering the mattresses, the green, faded paint on the bed. I smiled.
“You’re remembering when you kissed me,” he said.
“You think you’re so smart. How do you know what I’m thinking?”
“That smile.” He put his arm around my waist. “I have seen that smile before.” Gently, he touched my lips with his other hand.
“When?”
“Last night. Last night I saw that smile. I am right. You are blushing.”
“No, I’m not,” I said, putting the top of my head against his chest so that he couldn’t see my face.
“It is all right. I like your blushes. They are sweet. Like you.” His arms tightened around me and he rocked gently from side to side, carrying me with him, until he raised my head and kissed me. When he pulled back and looked into my eyes, I recognized his expression from last night. I tried to retreat, but he wouldn’t let go of me.
“It’s too cold in here,” I whispered.
He didn’t answer, but raised my hands and kissed each one, through my gloves. His eyes never left mine.
“Christian, we’ll freeze to death,” I giggled nervously.
“No, we won’t. Come with me.” And taking me by the hand, he led me into his parents’ old room. There, he pulled open the inside shutters on the two narrow windows, letting the vibrant sunshine spill into the room where it seemed to set two rectangles of the wooden floor aflame. Taking the rolled-up, blue-and-white-checked mattress from the bed, Christian unrolled it in the sun. He found an old feather bed in a chest and put it down over the mattress. Then he held out his hand to me.
Standing in the shadows by the door, I could barely see him in the glare of the sunlight, which moved about him, the light reflecting off the dust dancing in the air. He pulled his cap off and his mussed hair flared through the moving air like spun gold.
“Come, Sally. It’s warm here,” he whispered. I could not see his face clearly; indeed, his entire body was blurred in the shimmering light. He seemed to be in another dimension, a warm, beautiful golden place that enticed me as I walked slowly toward him, holding my hand out, hoping I would find him in all the light. When my hand finally touched his, my relief was so great, I laughed. He was not a mirage.
He pulled my mittens off and unbuttoned my coat, tossing everything aside. We lay down and kissed, and somehow, with the kissing and the sunlight, our clothes disappeared and we were lying naked in that cold, silent room, the crazy sunshine pouring over us like a blessing from the lake. I was shy in the light, not of him, but of his seeing me. The light was his natural milieu, creating more light from within him that washed over me. When I closed my eyes, I could see the glow through my lids. And he was right, I was not cold anymore.
We lay spent and happy and he pulled the feather bed over us so that we lay curled together, his body folded around mine. He ran his hand along my hip, down to my thigh, where it lay on my abdomen. I felt so sleepy, so warm. My eyes were still blasted from all that light and I closed them, snuggling into the feather bed, into his arms.
“It’s strange to think there’s a child in there,” he said, his voice muffled.
“We’ll bring her here someday.”
“I would like that,” Christian said. “To show the child where we were children together. I could tell him stories about his mother—”
“Her mother,” I corrected him, my hand over his hand. His arm and hand were several degrees warmer than my body and I backed closer against his body. “What stories.”
“How stubborn you were.”
“Stubborn. I was never stubborn.”
“What about swimming out until you almost drowned? What about stealing a fellow’s clothes?” he laughed softly, nuzzling my neck.
“Or tricking girls so that they make confessions. That was evil.”
“I agree. But I think I apologized.” His hands were on my breasts, his fingers playing with my nipples, and I had to concentrate to speak.
“Insincerely.”
“Oh? Well, then.” And one hand moved down me. It was so warm under the feather bed with his body, his lips on my neck, his hands, that I thought I would faint from the heat and the feelings.
WALKING BACK THROUGH the afternoon, listening to the crunch of our boots on the snow, I sneaked a glance at him. He caught me.
“What are you looking for?” he said.
“I don’t know.” We walked awhile longer in silence.
&nbs
p; “God, I’m starving,” he said. “Come on, let’s hurry.”
“Don’t you think it’s strange?” I said. He had gotten several feet ahead of me and he stopped and turned.
“What do you mean?”
I studied the dirty snow along the road, where a car had passed, turned the whiteness to gray mud. I kicked at the sludge; it was frozen.
“That we were children together.” I looked up at his face. “You’re so familiar to me—but not. I see my past in you—but you’re still a stranger.”
He laughed, understanding me.
“I know, I know,” he said, putting his arm around me. He leaned his head close to mine, and I could feel his warm breath on my cold cheek. “I like it.”
“You just like the part in bed,” I said, kidding him.
“And don’t you?” He teased me back.
“Never mind.”
“Come on, Miss Ambassador’s Daughter, you like it too.” He started poking at me and I squirmed away, my boots clumsy on the ridges and tracks of the road.
“Stop it,” I laughed.
“You tell me,” he cried, coming after me.
I ran, slipping on the frozen ground, and he caught me, of course he caught me, knocking me down into a snow bank. He lay on top of me, pinning me in the cold, crunchy, wet snow. I pushed at him. I could feel the back of my jacket and trousers soaking up the cold. He wouldn’t move, teasing me, threatening to rub snow in my face.
“Oh, all right, you bully,” I said, reaching my arms around his neck. “I like it. And I like you. Now let me up before I catch cold. What will Frau Mittelstadt say when we come back wet and freezing—again?”
“I don’t know.”
“And why am I on the bottom, in the snow—again? Why couldn’t we have gone to a beach somewhere?”
“I like this. You are very comfortable.”
“You aren’t!”
“How about now,” he said, moving his body against mine. Even through all our clothing I could feel him. My body, almost without my commanding it, arched into his, responding to his desire. He lowered his face to mine and kissed me, then pulled me up so we were both sitting in the snow.
The Last Innocent Hour Page 39
