Three and a Half Minutes

by Caroline Fyffe

  Our deepest thanks,

  Antonio and Maria Bandier

  Günther folded the letter and slid it back into its envelope. He looked at the key for a few moments and then sipped his wine. When was the last time he’d taken time off? He tried to remember. Not since Katerina. He pictured her as she reached up to stroke his face. A three-day vacation they’d taken the year before Nikolaus was born. Off the coast of Italy, where they’d stayed holed up in their room the entire time.

  A small smile pulled at the corner of his mouth as he remembered the concierge of the tiny inn, and how embarrassed he’d been when he tapped on their door to see if everything was all right. They’d laughed for hours about that and then went out for a late supper, dining in a tiny café that overlooked the twinkling lights of the shoreline. They’d finished with chilled tumblers of Limoncello and walked the beach until dawn.

  Günther stroked the cat. “Ah, how I miss her. And my little boy too. I can’t imagine myself anywhere but back then. Or with anyone but her.” He took a deep breath. Life was good and had much to offer, he reminded himself. He had much to atone for.

  There was a rap on his door.

  Setting the mail on the side table, he stood, tossed the cat into the warm cushion, and went to answer the door.

  “Bitte, kommen Sie,” Frau Handler said, requesting he follow. “Schnell.”

  “What is wrong?”

  “Aggie ist krank.”

  Sick? He’d just looked in on Katerina’s mother this morning before going to the academy and then again briefly on his way home tonight. She’d been fine then. Thin and weak, but relatively the same as she’d been for the last five years.

  Günther grabbed his coat and locked the door. The nursing home was only a block from his flat so they walked quickly, side by side in silence, until they came to the house.

  She was sleeping. The hospital bed all but swallowed up her tiny broomstick body. Her gray hair stuck out in tufts and her sunken eyes pulsated as her shallow breathing trudged on. The right side of her face pulled down in a grimace and her claw-like right hand retracted stiffly upon her flat chest.

  Günther leaned over her bedside, taking her frail hand into his own. “Kannst Du mich hören?” He asked if she could hear him, his face close to hers. He tenderly smoothed the hair back from her forehead. “Aggie?”

  She opened her eyes for one moment, looking at the ceiling.

  The doctor attending the nursing home, a resident of the hospital across the street, came in and put his hand on Günther’s shoulder.

  Günther straightened.

  “She seems to have suffered another small stroke, Günther,” he told him. “We won’t know anything for certain until tomorrow when we run some tests. That is, if you want to have the tests run. Knowing if she has indeed had another stroke is irrelevant at this point and won’t really change anything we are doing now for her, or her therapy.”

  “I just saw her two hours ago. She seemed fine then.”

  “Well, you know how these things happen. I do believe this was nothing major, like before. Tomorrow she may be fine. Only time will tell.”

  “We will pray for that.”

  “I’m sorry,” the doctor said, “I have an appointment and need to go. Rest assured that they’ll call me if there are any changes in her condition during the night.”

  The doctor stood eye to eye with Günther. “You are doing all you can, Günther. Your mother-in-law is comfortable and comparatively speaking, other than her strokes, quite healthy. There is nothing more to be done for her.”

  Günther nodded. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  He knew that. But it didn’t make it easier to see her like this, day in and day out, month after month, year after year. He’d tried keeping her with him at his flat when he’d first returned to Vienna, five years ago, but that proved impossible. Her condition demanded supervision twenty-four hours a day. He would have had to quit his job to accommodate her and then he wouldn’t have the funds to pay for the therapy she needed.

  He pulled up a chair alongside her bed.

  The cloying aroma of the room was a smell Günther was long used to, and at the same time, one he would never be used to. The staff did what they could with meticulous housekeeping and sanitation, but four elderly, bedridden human beings, living in the same house, was enough to keep the air pungent.

  His heart broke again for Aggie. He didn’t want her to be here anymore than she wanted it. As often as he could, and as much as the weather permitted, he’d dress her warmly and take her out in her wheelchair for strolls through the park.

  She liked being outside, where she could see the sky and the trees and grass. They would sit for an hour just watching the children play. He imagined her lungs hungrily sucking in the fresh, clean air. Then when she tired, he’d take the robe from her lap, fold it, and push her home again, closer and closer to the confinement of this bed and this room.

  Günther took her hand and closed his eyes. “Give her peace. Bring happiness into the days she has left. Ease her pain and anger.” Emotion surged within him and he was unable to stop his eyes from filling. They had been thrown together, Aggie and him. They were a strange pair. He was doing his best for her, but sometimes that didn’t seem like it was nearly enough.

  Günther dug in his pocket for his rosary. He kissed the crucifix and made the sign of the cross. Leaning toward her and in a voice just loud enough for Aggie to hear, he began with the Apostles’ Creed. “I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth.”

  Chapter Eight

  Camille, awakened by the jangle of pots and pans, listened to the prattle of Sasha’s endless questions. The kitchen was directly below her room, making it possible to hear a muffled conversation between Petra and Patrick. The twins were bright and well-mannered. Both were fair-haired and slender like their mother, with blue eyes.

  Sasha, the baby, favored her daddy with thick curly hair and big brown eyes. She had an incorrigible smile that could draw in even the most steadfast grump. She was fast on her sturdy little legs.

  Groggily, Camille looked to the nightstand. It was six p.m.. Camille forced herself up and moved quickly into the tiny bathroom and brushed her teeth. She splashed her face, dried it, then applied moisturizer and the minimum of makeup.

  She rummaged through her earrings choosing silver dangles, subtle but attractive. No pendant. Donning a pink sweater and a nice pair of jeans, she felt presentable. She descended the stairs and greeted Helene and the children in the kitchen.

  “Hello,” Camille offered as she picked Sasha up, giving her a brief hug.

  “All was well today?” Helene asked.

  “Yes. It was lots of fun.”

  “Good. I knew it would be. Remember, the scooter is always here if you need it. Use it for sightseeing or shopping. No need to ask. Consider it yours.” She opened one of the cupboards and several keys hanging from a snow-covered chalet key holder swayed with the motion. “It is the blue key.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m sorry we were out when you returned. Patrick had an appointment and then I had to stop at the market. But not to fear, I have a nice supper planned and we will be eating shortly.”

  “Please, no fussing over me. Just do what you normally do.” Camille pulled out a stool and sat.

  Helene looked to her older daughter. “Petra, please set the table. We will take supper in the dining room tonight in celebration of Camille’s first day of school.” She took plates out of the cupboard and set them on the counter. “Come see, Camille.” She opened the oven door and cautiously lifted the lid of a large cast iron pot. Inside, boiling in broth, was a good-size roast. The origin of the heavenly smell.

  “Now I add the carrots, celery stalks, and leeks.” Retrieving the vegetable-laden cutting board, she started placing them carefully around the meat in the hot broth. “Tafelspitz is boiled beef with vegetables and dumplings. It’s a typical Viennese recipe and was a favorite of Kaiser F
ranz Josef, the Imperial Emperor.”

  Finished, she wiped her hands on her apron and handed Sasha a carrot to chew on. “And is also a favorite of Herr Christove, too,” she added. “How was Günther today?”

  “Herr Christove?” Camille asked, surprised that Helene had brought him up.

  Helene nodded.

  “Good. I knew him online a little but putting a face to a name helps.”

  The phone rang. Helene answered with her singsong, “Eberstark.”

  There was a pause. “Yes, one moment, bitte.” She handed the receiver to Camille.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, honey. I wanted to check to see how everything is going. How are you?” Camille’s mother said.

  “I tried to get you earlier, Mom, but your line was busy. I meant to call you right back but I dozed off. Right now, I’m learning how to prepare Tafelspitz.”

  “How exciting. So, you’re enjoying yourself?”

  “Very much. I can’t tell you how relaxed I’m becoming. You won’t recognize me when I get home.”

  “That is such good news. I’ll pass it on to Stephanie.”

  “Tell her too, I already have an appointment with Dr. Williamson day after tomorrow. The receptionist was very nice and spoke wonderful English.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “It’s so beautiful here, you just wouldn’t believe it. The family I’m living with is amazing, and their home is so nice. I can never thank you enough for insisting I come. I love you.”

  “That’s what moms are for, silly. I love you too. I’m going to let you go now since this is a very expensive time to call—and I don’t want to interrupt your cooking lessons. Kristin is fine and sends her love. Keep in touch, please. And have fun.”

  “I will.”

  They said good-bye and hung up.

  Camille knew Helene’s courteous manners would never allow her to ask why she was seeing a doctor. Rushing off to a medical center upon arriving in a foreign country was a peculiar thing to do. She hadn’t wanted to bring this up so soon but since the subject was now broached, she may as well get it out in the open. At least the children were out of the room.

  “About the doctor’s appointment,” Camille began.

  “Nein, you don’t have to say anything.”

  “I know. I want to tell you. I had a heart attack before coming to Europe.”

  She wouldn’t mention that she’d actually died and had to be resuscitated. That was too disturbing. She didn’t even like to think about it herself. “I’ve been recuperating, but my doctor felt I needed a complete change in everything to get my mind and worries off my business and family life. She is sending me to a doctor here just to keep an eye on things.”

  “A heart attack,” Helene said slowly. “But you are young for that, yes?”

  “Young, but not too young. I’m forty-four. It runs in my family, lucky me.”

  The front door opened and Wolfgang entered, his arms full of files. He stopped in the hall and swept the police hat from his head, tossing it onto the closet shelf in one fluid motion. As the files he was carrying began to totter, he heaped them onto the kitchen counter.

  Wolfgang was in his late thirties and had a face that might worry you if you didn’t know him. It was stern with straight lines and a moon-shaped mouth that pointed down. But that was only when in a relaxed state. In actuality, he was a happy man, always laughing at something, but mostly at himself. He talked with expression and used his hands extensively, entertaining the children and making them giggle.

  When their conversation had been interrupted by Wolfgang’s entrance, Helene’s expression told Camille that her secret was safe with her for as long as she chose to keep it quiet. A pact between women.

  Wolfgang smiled charmingly at Camille. He kissed Helene before loosening his tie and unbuttoning the collar of his shirt. He looked to his son. “Patrick, help your papa, bitte.” They gathered the files from the counter and left.

  Petra was back gathering the utensils. “Why does Patrick not have to help?”

  “Because he is your brother. He will do other help after dinner. Right now he is helping your father who’s had a long day at work. You know better than to complain about chores, Petra,” Helene scolded.

  Petra blushed.

  Laughter erupted from the other room. Chanting rattled off an unfamiliar song.

  “Der dicke Dachdecker deckte das dicke Dach.” Over and over, faster and faster. The baby came out of the room dancing around in circles and clapping her hands. Her faced fairly beamed.

  “What are they saying?” Camille inquired, chuckling.

  Wolfgang and Patrick were back, punching at each other playfully as they tried to make the other mess up their recitation.

  “It is what you would call a tongue twister. It means in English, ‘the fat roofer roofed the thick roof.’ Not nearly as fun as it sounds in German. Or as difficult.”

  The laughter was contagious and soon Camille was as hysterical as the rest of the household, trying to get the confusing words right.

  At last, Helene clapped her hands for attention and wiped the tears from her cheeks with a corner of her apron. “Enough now. Dinner is ready. Children, run and wash up quickly.” She gave them a stern eye as she pulled the heavy pot from the oven. “I will be very unhappy if Camille’s first taste of Tafelspitz is cold.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Achtung!” Herr Christove called the class to order. Camille watched as he tossed a look to Stena von Linné, who was chattering incessantly with her partner, Mark. The woman’s platinum hair draped her shoulders like a mantle and her bodice stretched tautly across her ample breasts, leaving more than a hint of cleavage showing. Turning to the board he wrote, Heute ist Mittwoch.

  Today is Wednesday, Camille read silently. Tuesday had come and gone without any big surprises or calamities, much to her delight and relief. She sat relaxed at her desk in a knobby periwinkle sweater with rolled collar and cuffs, worn Levis, and a backpack filled with things needed for her trip to the doctor’s office today. A plastic bottle of coconut water, map of Vienna, power bar, written directions from Wolfgang, and a handful of Tibetan goji berries for energy.

  Before class had begun, she’d had a brief conversation with the older gentleman, Scott Wilkins. Since he actually was from Canada, she’d had fun relating the fiasco that her Canadian luggage tags had caused her in Customs. He’d gotten a big kick out of her story and laughed enthusiastically, completely oblivious to the stares of curiosity from the other members of the class. He’d been on the same plane with her flying in from Heathrow, and had seen the unfortunate collision with Branwell.

  Herr Christove handed out a worksheet and the students began working at once. Camille raised her hand and Herr Christove approached.

  “Yes, Frau Ashland?” he asked with a small disarming grin she felt all the way to her toes. His casual tan and blue plaid shirt was open at the collar, revealing a tan tee shirt underneath. A brown sports jacket hugged his wide shoulders over a pair of Levis. It created a look totally his own that Camille thought was incredibly handsome.

  “I have an appointment at ten this morning,” she said softly, trying not to disturb anyone. “It couldn’t be helped.” As she fidgeted with the corner of her paper, her pencil rolled from her desktop, bounced twice, and landed at his feet.

  He picked it up and handed it to her.

  “I’ll try to be back by one at the latest,” she said quickly, as she felt her cheeks heating up again.

  “Do you know where you are going?”

  Camille reached for her backpack. “Yes.” She took out the directions Wolfgang had given her and handed them to Günther.

  “Wolfgang said it was easy. Just catch the train at Enkplatz and get off at the third stop. From there it’s only three blocks to the medical center.” Darn. She hadn’t meant to let that slip.

  His eyebrows raised a fraction in question. He looked over her directions and gave them back to her. “You s
hould be able to do this easily. It’s in a good part of the city. Branwell.” At the mention of his name, Branwell set his pencil down. “I’m giving you an extra credit assignment. You are to go with your partner, Mrs. Ashland, to her appointment, have lunch at some place of interest, then give a detailed report to the class tomorrow.”

  Camille straightened. “No.” She held out her hands, palms out. “Herr Christove, please. That’s totally unnecessary.”

  “No argument. Branwell knows the city well.”

  She couldn’t bear to look at Branwell. How embarrassing. She didn’t want him along. How could she get out of it? She looked at her watch. It was already eight twenty-five and she needed to leave soon.

  “Isn’t that so, Branwell?”

  “Absolutely, Herr Christove. Not to worry. I will take good care not to lose Mrs. Ashland.”

  “Good. It’s settled. Go ahead and get going. You don’t want to be rushed.”

  There was no help for it. Camille folded her worksheet and put it in her backpack. Branwell stood when she did and proceeded to the door. For one brief moment, he stopped by Stena’s desk and whispered something into her ear. They both laughed. Her gaze swept Camille quickly. She said something back and gave him a knowing look. Camille tried not to be suspicious. The two were friends, for heaven’s sake. They had this same class together last term. Even if they were meaning to hurt her feelings, she wouldn’t let their tomfoolery disturb her.

  Camille and Branwell walked down the hallway side by side in silence. She wondered if she should apologize or just keep quiet. He had a way of just looking at her that set her teeth on edge. She brushed her hair back off her shoulders and smiled at a passing girl, as if she didn’t have a care in the world. On the wide school steps, she stopped for a moment and looked around, pretending to enjoy the view. She wanted to break this icy wall of silence but was uncertain of how to go about it.