Wait for Me in Vienna

by May, Lana N.

  She stepped into the oily bathwater.

  Johanna got to the school on time.

  “You look lovely,” Paolo crowed. “What a beautiful dress; red is your color. And the curls are just adorable. Are you going somewhere after work?” Paolo turned Johanna around to face him.

  “No. Do you think it’s too much?”

  “Honey, there can never be too much beauty.”

  Besides washing her hair, she’d spent some time on her makeup. She’d smoothed on body lotion and sprayed on just the right amount of expensive perfume, then slipped on a hauntingly beautiful red dress, which was definitely a little over-the-top for cooking.

  Does this really work? Johanna had asked as she scrutinized herself in the mirror at home. She screwed up her courage, though, and kept the dress on; after all, she hadn’t worn it even once since buying it years earlier. She’d have to wear a chef’s jacket over it anyway, but there was a slight possibility she would bump into Thomas on her way to or from class.

  “Ms. Stern,” called Chef Geyer, who had just entered Paolo’s kitchen. “Very pretty. You can just wear an apron today so that we can see your gorgeous outfit. But don’t spill anything on it—the dress, I mean.”

  Johanna nodded nervously. Without the oversized chef’s jacket, she’d have an opportunity to really make an impression on Thomas. She hadn’t been so successful last time—or so she thought.

  Thomas drove directly from the office to the cooking school. Traffic was backed up, and he was cutting it close. He tried a detour, but that was a disaster, too. He grew more and more impatient. As he sat behind the wheel, he started to sing and tap his left foot, turning the music up while savagely chewing on a piece of gum. His cell phone rang. It was his secretary. An emergency? He picked up.

  Class started and Paolo presented the menu. Johanna carefully prepared all the ingredients and distributed them to the students. When she noticed Thomas’s empty place, she was crushed. She glanced repeatedly at the door, but it just wouldn’t open up. Did Thomas quit the class? Perhaps something came up and he’d be back next week? Maybe he had something better to do, like a date or plans with his girlfriend?

  Just as she succumbed to doubt, the door swung open, and a man burst in wearing dark-blue Levi’s and a faded olive T-shirt. His eyes went to Johanna immediately. Thomas’s mouth slowly formed into a smile as he took in the red dress. Looking at her pretty legs, she reminded him of a ballerina standing shyly in the wings after a performance, not knowing whether to run back out onto the stage to accept her applause. Johanna’s brown tresses cascaded softly over her tender shoulders, curling in every possible direction. He found her ivory skin so striking. He was normally attracted to women with tanned, golden skin, but not this time. He thought Johanna was gorgeous just the way she was.

  Johanna’s jaw dropped a bit as he stepped into the room.

  “So sorry I’m late,” he stammered in Paolo’s direction, and rushed to the same station as last week. Johanna brought him his ingredients.

  “Hello, Johanna.”

  “Hello, Thomas.”

  They smiled broadly at each other but didn’t say another word—no exchange of pleasantries, just an intense look.

  “Johanna, please fill Thomas in on what he missed. In the meantime, I’ll begin working with the others,” Paolo ordered, and turned to his other students. “So my dear chefs, let us continue!”

  “My pleasure,” she said.

  There it was again. A certain familiarity, a tingling sensation from the top of her head to the tips of her toes; a pleasant, warm wave emanating from the heart, along with a feeling of uncertainty that made her want to run away.

  “Then mince everything finely and sprinkle it over the orange truffle sauce.”

  “So, um, what should I do?” asked Thomas.

  She began to explain with a quiet, professional voice, surprised that she could act so cool under the circumstances. Word after word flowed out of her, ultimately culminating in coherent sentences.

  “Wonderful! You’re doing great!” Paolo cried.

  Thomas looked at Johanna’s hands, which were twitching nervously. She didn’t seem to know where to put them. He was immensely pleased to note that she wasn’t wearing a ring. He would have loved to place his hands on hers to calm them.

  “Not so hard with the meat mallet; this is just a piece of meat, not the tax man.”

  He found her anxiety quite charming. He focused on her pink lips, which moved in a different direction with every word she spoke. He noticed how her mouth opened slightly when she smiled and that she had a gap between her two front teeth—a tiny one, but noticeable.

  “Hurry, hurry, cut faster!” the chef boomed. “I’ve seen glaciers move faster than this!”

  All he had to do was ask her a question. Now. Now.

  “Thinner. The meat needs to be thinner so your dinner guests can chew it.”

  Thomas gathered up all his courage. “Tell me, would you like to get a drink with me after class?”

  “Be careful not to cut yourselves with the knife! Though if you bleed as slowly as you cut, we won’t need to worry about getting you a Band-Aid for a couple of weeks. Come on, folks!”

  Actually, he would have preferred to drop the knife altogether and run away, but Thomas was a determined man who didn’t mess around. He might have been nervous, but this was his chance. She could suddenly disappear like last time.

  “Um,” Johanna said, “I’m not sure whether I can.”

  Thomas began to doubt his judgment.

  “The vegetables are burning. Let’s all get them out of the pan before we have to call the fire department!”

  Perhaps Thomas had misjudged the situation. Maybe she wasn’t attracted to him at all. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked her out. Maybe he had taken her too much by surprise, asking her out like this.

  “The meat is already dead; you can’t hurt it!”

  Johanna ran off in a panic, saying, “I’m sorry, I think Paolo needs me.”

  She didn’t know what to make of the situation. While it seemed relatively easy to say “I’d love to!” with unrestrained enthusiasm, maybe she should be a little bit more relaxed and say, “Sure, why not?” Or maybe just a simple yes would have done the trick, or maybe even “Of course.” Now what was she supposed to do?

  “Johanna, this lady needs your help,” Paolo called across the room, and sent her to a tiny woman, a paralegal who couldn’t figure out how to use the induction stove.

  Thomas concentrated on marinating his sliced-up meat chunks, looking at them pensively. Maybe it would be better, he decided, to add a little more salt to the beef.

  Johanna fled the kitchen on the pretext of bringing back more ingredients. She sat down on a box in the storeroom, her head in her hands. She was deeply annoyed with herself; her inner monologue was loud and unmistakable.

  “Go back in there, walk over to him, and tell him that you would really like to go get a drink with him,” she mumbled decisively, then stood up.

  Purposefully, she marched to the classroom, pushed the door open, and realized he was no longer there.

  “Okay, everybody, hop to it! Take your places. Break is over!”

  She went to Paolo and asked him where the man who had come in late was.

  “He apologized and said he wasn’t feeling well . . . But if you ask me, he’s not coming back. He didn’t seem so enthusiastic about cooking . . .” Paolo turned back to his students again.

  Johanna exhaled loudly, then headed for the restroom to splash a little cold water on her face. Her head felt like a burning-hot coal, and she didn’t know whether to cry or scream. What if she never saw him again? It was true she didn’t know him at all, but she would have liked to get to know him better. There was something in his demeanor that fascinated and pulled her in. She was lost in thought as she approached th
e bathroom door, which suddenly swung open and banged into Johanna’s head.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Thomas, unaware at first who he’d bumped into. Seconds later, he smiled when he realized it was her; Johanna smiled back.

  “No big deal,” she stammered as she touched the bump on her forehead. “You’re not leaving, are you?”

  “Yes, um, well, something came up,” he lied. “Wait, I’ll get some ice for your head. Just sit here, okay?” Before she could reply, he was gone and back at lightning speed with an ice pack. He gently laid it on her forehead.

  “It’s really okay. Really,” she said, and sucked in a deep breath.

  At that moment, she almost stopped breathing completely, but since she really didn’t want to do that, she exhaled. She looked at Thomas and ventured a revised response to his earlier question: “I’d love to go get a drink with you.”

  Thomas’s expression betrayed his relief. “Really?” he asked. “We can go to the emergency room together if that’s a better option.”

  “No, really. I’m fine. It’s just a little bump. It’s nothing, really. I can see you clearly. Everything’s good.”

  “Well then, we can . . .”

  “Yes, if you have to go now, then go, but I have to go back . . .”

  “Oh, yes. You have to go back in.”

  “But later . . .”

  “After class?”

  “Yes, if you want to?”

  “Yes, I really want to . . .”

  “Well then . . .after class . . .”

  “When you’re done, let’s just meet at the café down on the corner.”

  Thrilled, Johanna agreed. “Can’t wait,” she said, and went back into the classroom.

  Paolo was upset. “Where have you been?” he asked. “That one over there has never operated a hand mixer before. She’s splashed so much cream over the place, it looks like it snowed in here. Please help her out! What a mess we have here today . . .”

  Johanna apologized and helped the students prepare dessert—a ginger crème brûlée—as a small but glaring bump swelled on her beautiful forehead.

  After class, Johanna was visibly nervous. She simply didn’t know where to put her hands. She kept touching her face, her hair, and the knot on her forehead, thinking, Gosh, what a mess! It took all her effort to concentrate on Paolo.

  “You have to do what?”

  “I have to go now.”

  “Ah, so you do have special plans for the evening? I knew it,” Paolo exclaimed, pleased with his intuition, but Johanna just smiled coyly.

  She didn’t want to answer his question candidly. It wouldn’t be such a good idea to tell him about her date with Thomas. If you could even call it a date.

  “Well then, get out of here,” he said as he pointed to the door.

  “Thank you, Paolo.” She took off her apron and ran out of the room so quickly that Paolo thought that the ceiling must be about to collapse or that a fire had broken out. Johanna ducked into the bathroom, quickly glanced in the mirror, and wiped some mascara from around the corners of her eyes. She hurried downstairs to the exit and turned the corner toward the small café.

  Thomas was waiting. He sat at a small table in the right corner drinking a glass of beer.

  “Hello, Johanna,” he said, standing politely when she came in and approached his table.

  He shook her hand tentatively. He would have loved to give her a little peck on the cheek, but he didn’t want to push his luck. Neither one knew exactly how to conduct themselves at first. They were like two excited fourteen-year-olds meeting for the first time, their hearts throbbing, both quite insecure.

  “How’s your head?”

  “Oh, it’s fine. It’s nothing. Just a little bump.”

  “Show me . . .Yikes, it’s really not that little.”

  “Really, it’s not a big deal.”

  Thomas realized that Johanna was embarrassed about the bump and let it go.

  “What would you like to drink?” he asked as he reached for the menu. He carefully shoved it over to her from his side and let his fingers linger on it until she picked it up. Her fingertips brushed his gently, like windswept rose petals falling softly onto the ground.

  “Um . . . a glass of Muscat,” Johanna instructed the waitress.

  “Good choice,” Thomas confirmed, even though he seldom drank Muscat. “So, how long have you been working at the cooking school?”

  “Not long at all.”

  In no time, the waitress brought the wine and a glass of water to the table.

  “What do you do when you’re not cooking with us?”

  “I work in an IT department,” he said modestly, and went no further.

  He didn’t want to brag about his position, because what he did wasn’t all that significant. His main task was keeping Lehmann & Partners computers free from destructive viruses. He didn’t wear a white coat or remove brain tumors on a daily basis.

  Their conversation couldn’t seem to get going. It was like a car that was revving up, but despite giving it some gas, it just wouldn’t roll on down the road. There were times when two people felt a mutual attraction but didn’t seem to have enough common ground for stimulating conversation. After the initial burning desire, both would wake up to the depressing disillusionment that, in reality, they really weren’t made for each other after all. Was that the situation?

  Their conversation continued for a while: stilted, distant, and formal; an outsider might describe it as boring. If they’d been characters in a play or movie, there would have been almost no one in the theater—maybe just their mothers, who would be proud of the stilted performance, no matter how awful. Finally, though, one subject seemed to break the ice: Paolo. When Thomas asked Johanna about the chef, she seemed to thaw out. She told him enthusiastically about how witty and creative Paolo was, how many of his great qualities she’d noticed in just the short time she’d been working with him.

  Thomas observed that Johanna was shy and much more reserved than Clarissa. She was fragile in an interesting way. It wasn’t like she seemed ready to break at any given moment; he saw that behind that veil of shyness was great strength. He also perceived undertones of a palpable sadness. This type of complexity intrigued him and made him eager to spend more time with her; he could tell she wasn’t the kind of person you got to know in an hour and then got bored with after a week. He didn’t quite understand her, which was exactly what fascinated him.

  After a second beer, Thomas switched from beer to wine. As they each had a second glass of wine, they chatted about cooking, their favorite recipes, and organ meats—“Disgusting,” Thomas and Johanna both agreed as they laughed. They also talked about restaurants in Vienna. Johanna was clueless on the topic, whereas Thomas was an expert; he probably could have made a great PowerPoint presentation with graphs and charts. In this neighborhood, I recommend X, which has reasonable prices and high-quality food compared to Y in the next neighborhood over . . .

  Thomas had very little experience with cooking; in fact, he wasn’t just inexperienced, he was embarrassingly talentless. He was a master of warming up prepackaged food. He went out to eat so much partly because otherwise he’d end up eating processed junk from the corner market by the truckload. Johanna didn’t have a lot of cooking experience, either, but Thomas addressed her like she was some sort of master chef. Because of her current profession, he was convinced she could cook anything; he flattered her with this assumption. He was right to be impressed to a certain degree, because even though she’d just started working at the cooking school, she’d already acquired a solid base of cooking knowledge, although a lot of it was more theory than practice at this point.

  Thomas went on regaling her with his knowledge of excellent restaurants in the city. He often went out for business dinners, and he’d grown up in a family that could afford nice places.
Besides, he could always count on Clarissa to sniff out the most expensive and prestigious restaurants in town; she was born with a nose for such things. He didn’t say anything about Clarissa, of course. They were talking so much that they both forgot to drink as Thomas told Johanna about an award-winning restaurant in the City Park district.

  “The bread cart is awesome. There are so many types of bread; I’m positive that some of them would be totally new to you. Blood-sausage bread, for example . . .”

  Once again, they’d arrived at the topic of organ meats! Johanna scrunched up her face as he reassured her by patting the back of her hand for a few nanoseconds.

  “And the wine list! Pages and pages with white, red, and rosé wines from all over the world, for every palate. You simply must see it. They even have a cheese steward pushing a cheese trolley at least as big as the bread cart . . . No, bigger even; and the service is simply top-notch. It’s paradise, especially for someone like you!”

  Thomas took a sip of his beer; his mouth was dry from so much talking. He let his gaze hang on Johanna for a moment, then he went on. His enthusiastic descriptions intrigued her: his eyes glowed, he gesticulated wildly, he was excited and genuinely devoted to the subject of fine dining.

  “Wow! I guess I’ll need to eat there sometime soon. You’re like a walking, talking commercial. Do you get a commission from them?”

  Thomas laughed and shook his head. “No, unfortunately not . . .”

  Someday, she’d indulge in a dinner there. Someday when my hourly wage exceeds ten euros an hour, she promised herself.

  Not only could Thomas spin a good yarn, he could make Johanna laugh. He shared a story about the time when his parents had a company dinner.

  “I was maybe nine or ten years old. I don’t know exactly anymore. In any case, everyone else was eating fish, mussels, caviar, and all sorts of other decadent things . . .I liked fish and stuff, so I refused to eat it, and I had spaghetti instead.”