Three and a Half Minutes

by Caroline Fyffe

  Günther led the three up the left side aisle, past a confessional, past the side altar of the Transfiguration, and past a metal tray of prayer candles, with flames that swayed and blinked in the draft. Soon they were close to the front, stopping at the pew of the third row. They all genuflected and filed in.

  Günther lowered the kneeler and they knelt, making the sign of the cross. With Günther to her right and Hanna to her left, Camille struggled to calm her inner self, and center her thoughts. All the sights and sounds assailed her senses and she felt a deep regret for having stayed away so long.

  An altar boy went about lighting candles on the back altar with a tall silver lighter. Finished, he looked out into the growing multitude of people as if searching for someone. His face brightened. He descended the steps from the sanctuary coming toward them, then stopped and whispered into Günther’s ear.

  After he left, Günther glanced over his shoulder at the filling church and leaned over to Camille. “Everyone comes for their ashes. It’s one of the most well-attended days of the year. Too bad it’s not always like this.”

  A family of four joined their pew, scrunching them toward each other. Günther’s shoulder brushed hers. She appreciated his nearness as she knelt in prayer for the first time in many years. She looked at the tabernacle. She’d been bitter for too long. She was tired of it. Was it possible to pick up where she’d left off, as Günther said?

  A woman seated next to the microphone stood and greeted them in German and they all stood.

  Camille opened her hymnal and sang along the best she could. Günther glanced her way and gave her the slightest nod of support as he sang.

  Up the aisle came the same altar boy that had whispered to Günther, this time gripping a long pole with a crucifix at the top. Next was a staunch-looking man, carrying a big book high over his head, followed by the priest, his chasuble, long, flowing, and purple. He sang in a deep clear voice.

  Something about the priest caught Camille’s attention. She looked closer as he ascended the steps of the sanctuary and kissed the altar. Bending low, he added three spoonfuls of incense to the thurible, the device the altar boy now held. The priest proceeded to circle the altar, swinging the thurible back and forth on its long chain, creating a small billow of smoke. Finished now, the priest handed it back to the altar boy, who hung it on a stand. Facing the congregation for the first time, the priest greeted them.

  Camille sucked in a quick breath of surprise. Günther turned to her in question.

  “I have seen him before. I think we’ve met.”

  “Really?” he whispered. “Where?”

  She shook her head slowly. “I can’t put my finger on it. But I know I’ve seen him somewhere.”

  Mass progressed and after the psalms were sung, Günther slid from the pew and ascended the pulpit. He reached in his pocket and slipped on his glasses. Flipping the page, he flattened the purple ribbon to the side and began reading.

  Camille listened in awe. Günther’s voice rang throughout the church, his pronunciation and inflection a work of art. Happiness filled her. This was exactly where she was meant to be at this time of her life. She was sure of it. It was amazing how she’d gotten here and why. Her life had changed so much in the last month.

  Günther finished and returned to his seat. He offered Camille one of the smiles he was so generous with. She’d never realized, before meeting Günther, the power a smile held and the happiness it could convey.

  Now came the distribution of ashes, so Günther stepped into the aisle and let Camille, Hanna, and Niclas out in front of him. As Camille drew closer to the sanctuary, she could not take her eyes off the priest and his vivid blue eyes. She was sure she had seen them before. It was exasperating not being able to remember where; she hadn’t been to that many places since arriving in Vienna.

  She thought about the airport, the Eberstarks’ home, Michaelerplatz, the café, the school. She knew she should be thinking about what was about to happen and Lent and God, but darn, this was driving her crazy. Had she seen him somewhere back home?

  Almost there. Only two people ahead of her. The U-Bahn station, the candy store, the doctor’s office. Where was it?

  She stood before him. He rubbed his thumb in the small round canister of black ashes and traced down from her scalp line to her eyebrows, a shower of particles drifting over her cheeks and nose.

  Where?

  He made the horizontal line crossing through the first mark. “Remember, man, that you are dust, and unto dust you shall return,” he said in German, but she knew what it meant from her childhood.

  Afterward, out front in the courtyard, the four of them admired each other’s crosses, delighted that the priest had been heavy-handed. Everyone’s marks were big and black.

  “Come on, there’s someone I want you to meet,” Günther said, escorting them around the side of the church. They reentered St. Elizabeth’s from a side door and Camille found herself in the sacristy.

  “Are you sure it’s okay that we’re in here?” she whispered. It was quiet and cool. She felt like a trespasser.

  Günther laughed. “Of course. The Swiss Guard won’t be thumping on the doors to arrest us.”

  She glanced out into the church. Most of the parishioners were gone. Camille’s gut tightened realizing that most likely Günther wanted to introduce her to the priest.

  “Here he is now,” Günther said, as the priest came into the room, followed by the altar boy and some other parishioners.

  “Ah, Günther, I hoped you would stop in and visit. It’s good to see you. How have you been?” The men embraced and something strong and tangible passed between them.

  “I have no complaints.”

  Günther lifted the boy and hugged him too.

  “Let me see your ashes,” the boy said. He lifted the hair off Günther’s forehead and laughed. “Pfarrer Christove got you good.”

  Günther put him down and turned to Camille. “These are a few of my new students, Camille, Hanna, and Niclas.” An outbreak of murmurings ensued as everyone became acquainted, but Camille only concentrated on where she’d run into this man before. “This is my brother, Pfarrer Florian Christove.”

  Had he said brother?

  They were both grinning like fools from ear to ear.

  “The father is your brother?” At her silly-sounding question, everyone laughed.

  “Ja,” they both said in unison.

  Well, this solved her mystery. “That must be why I keep thinking I’ve seen you before. You two look and sound very similar. We haven’t met somewhere else, have we?” She asked, looking straight into the priest’s sparkling eyes.

  “Not that I recall.”

  “Camille comes to us all the way from Portland, Oregon,” Günther said proudly. “Isn’t that something? Camille, since I understand your American way is a little less formal, you can refer to Pfarrer Christove as Father Florian. I’m sure he won’t mind.”

  She nodded. “Thank you.”

  Father Florian proceeded to pull the chasuble over his head, and hang it in a closet. Actually, the priest’s resemblance to Günther was striking. They had the same build, although Father Florian was a bit taller. Same hair, same smile. He looked a year or two older.

  “Welcome to Austria. Are you enjoying your stay?” he asked, as he removed a colorful sash that hung around his shoulders and down his chest. He kissed it and placed it neatly into a drawer.

  “Very much. Your country’s beauty is beyond compare.”

  “Very true words,” he replied.

  An older gentleman moved about the sacristy, ignoring them completely as he tidied up and put things away.

  “Wait, so I can walk you out,” Father Florian offered.

  Camille squelched the impulse to close her eyes when he reached for the thin white under gown and pulled it over his head. The priest’s usual black clothes were underneath.

  They exited out the opposite side door and walked toward the back lot of the
church, which was now almost empty.

  “I have an appointment in a few minutes at the Eberstarks’. Will you see Johann home to Frau Weissman’s?” Father Florian asked Günther.

  “Of course.” Günther wrestled Johann playfully as they walked along.

  Father Florian was visiting the Eberstarks? What were the odds of that? Seemed the world was getting smaller by the second.

  “Wolfgang is investigating Bernhard’s case,” Father Florian said quietly.

  They stopped by a Volkswagen sedan that Camille assumed was the priest’s car.

  “It was a pleasure meeting you,” he said. “Günther, I will see you Saturday morning, correct?”

  Günther nodded. “The lesson is prepared.” At her confused look he added, “My brother and I give an informal English class for disadvantaged neighborhood children here at St. Elizabeth’s every Saturday morning. Johann helps too.”

  Father Florian turned and walked around the old car to a motorcycle parked on the other side. He went to the back and unfastened the helmet hanging from the trunk, and slipped it easily over his head.

  Camille’s eyes widened as she sucked in her breath.

  Chapter Eleven

  “You!” Camille gasped as he swung his leg over the big bike and sat deep into the seat. “It was you. You almost ran me down.”

  Father Florian jerked up his head and looked at her through the visor of his full-face helmet, a puzzled expression in his eyes. “Excuse me?”

  “I knew I’d seen you somewhere before, and now I remember. I’d thought your resemblance to Günther was the reason for it, but that’s not the case at all.”

  The group had stopped talking and had gathered around at her excited tone. Johann stepped protectively between Camille and Father Florian, his chin tipped up defiantly.

  “Tut mir leid, Camille,” Father Florian apologized. “I’m confused. What are you saying?”

  “I was walking home in front of the train station on Monday and a motorcycle almost ran me over. Shame on you for riding into the pedestrian zone at such a fast speed. I almost had anoth…” she stopped herself just in time. “Never mind.”

  At her first accusation, Father Florian had taken off his helmet. He covered his mouth with one hand. “That—was—you?”

  She stood there accusingly, waiting to hear what he had to say for himself. “You bet your booty it was,” she said angrily.

  He slowly got off the bike. “I cannot apologize enough for my irresponsible behavior. But I am thankful God has brought us back together so I can tell you in person how sorry I am for scaring you. I felt horrible about it.”

  “Not so bad to stop and say anything to me. My stockings are ruined, you know.”

  Johann looked back and forth from his beloved friend to the woman who was verbally attacking him. His little hands balled into fists at his side.

  Günther held up his hand. “Florian was the biker you told me about, Camille? The one who almost ran you down in cold blood?”

  Camille could see he thought the situation was extremely funny and could hardly keep from laughing.

  “I don’t see what’s so amusing.”

  “You don’t? God works in mysterious ways. I’ll tell you about it on our walk back. There was no harm done. Right, Camille?”

  Günther was right. And Father Florian had apologized. She felt a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Yes. Of course.”

  The priest took her hand. “Thank you for forgiving me. But your stockings were ruined?”

  Embarrassment radiated through her and she looked away. How childish of her to cause such a scene. “Well, not actually. I washed them immediately and the stains came out.” She wished she could go back and do it over. She had handled everything horribly.

  The priest bid them all good-bye and a good night, and rode off in a rumble.

  By the time they reached Michaelerplatz, Günther had told Camille everything about Johann and what they were trying to do for him. And about Father Florian and why he’d scared her so badly. Why he couldn’t take even one moment to inquire and apologize.

  With each word he spoke, her guilt grew more vivid, causing her acute anxiety. What on earth had she been thinking to attack the priest in such a manner? And her heart ached for poor little Johann; he was such a darling child, in spite of the things he’d already endured in his young life.

  It was six o’clock and the five friends stood in the center of Michaelerplatz and said their good-byes. A throng of businessmen and women filled the cafés, bistros, and bars, harried after a full day in the office. Hanna and Niclas left Günther, Johann, and Camille laughing at some skirmishing pigeons.

  “I guess this is where our paths split,” Günther said, smiling at Camille. “You will be okay on your walk home? It is starting to get dark.”

  Johann stood by his side, still eyeing Camille suspiciously, probably waiting for her to launch into another angry fit. She was sure he would not soon forget how she had treated his champion. She’d tried several times to strike up a conversation with the boy, with no luck.

  “I’ll be fine. All the streets are well lighted.”

  “And no more tangling with motorcycles,” he teased, making a surprised face.

  “That’s not funny in the least,” she said, trying to remain stoic, when she really wanted to laugh. “Herr Christove,” she began.

  “Please, you must call me Günther. After today, I feel we are fast friends. Is that all right with you?”

  “Of course,” she replied, wondering at how open and honest he was. No pretenses or games. He just said what he felt and thought and wanted. She had an uncontrollable urge to hug him, but she held her ground.

  “Günther,” she continued, “Thank you so much for taking me today. I’m so glad I went. I enjoyed it very much.”

  “Then I am happy you are happy.” He stood in his casual, boyish way, resting his weight on one leg. “And, most importantly, I know that God is happy too. Love demands a presence. Yes?”

  The cool March breeze lifted a few wisps of his hair, and he combed it down with his fingers.

  She couldn’t help but smile.

  Johann tugged on Günther’s hand. “It is getting late, Günther, we should start home.”

  “Of course. We are going now. I will see you then tomorrow in class. Have a restful evening.”

  “You too.”

  “Servus.” He pressed his cheek to hers, and the warmth of his skin was heady, despite the chill in the air.

  She was a good half block away when she heard him call to her. She turned.

  “Go straight home, don’t dally.”

  He was walking backward and he bumped into a café chair and almost fell. His embarrassment quickly turned to laughter, joining Johann’s.

  The walk passed quickly and before she knew it, Camille was at the Eberstarks’ house, standing under a streetlight at the corner of the driveway. The ominous motorcycle stood, parallel to the house, off the narrow street.

  She’d forgotten completely that Father Florian had said he was coming over to talk with Wolfgang. As embarrassing as it was going to be to see him again, passing the night standing in the street until he left would be even more uncomfortable. She proceeded to the door and let herself in.

  The house was quiet except for murmurings coming from Wolfgang’s den. The family must have already eaten, but Helene had left her a nice place setting on the counter, complete with cloth napkin and wineglass.

  She unbuttoned her coat and hung it in the entry closet, then placed her backpack on the first step of the staircase that led to her room. She went back and peeked into the oven. Helene came into the kitchen at that moment, a cobalt-blue sneaker in one hand and a rolled-up sock in the other. She had ashes on her forehead also.

  “It’s just tomato soup,” she informed Camille as she washed her hands, then took the covered tureen out of the warm oven, removed the foil, and placed it at Camille’s spot.

  “Thank you. Actua
lly, that sounds wonderful.”

  Camille felt very pampered. “Please don’t go to so much trouble for me. I can help out around here and most definitely serve myself.”

  “It’s no trouble. The children are studying and Sasha is in with Wolfgang and Pfarrer Christove.” She retrieved Camille’s salad from the refrigerator and placed it next to her soup bowl. From the bread keeper she brought a small plate with two rolls, the kind with a hard, stout crust and dreamy, soft center. The whole thing looked like a feast.

  “It’s Sasha’s bath time. If you hear screaming and carrying on, you’ll know why,” she said, chuckling. “If I let her, she’d go a month without bathing.”

  She uncorked the half-full bottle of red wine and poured Camille a glass. “Fortifies your blood,” she said knowingly.

  Camille thanked her and sat down to eat. This was the first time she’d taken her meal sitting at the counter on the high barstool. It gave her a good view of the kitchen.

  Camille loved interior design. After the second year of Chocolate Blossoms’ wild success, she’d sold her small tract home and bought a brick colonial in one of Portland’s older, more established neighborhoods. It was elegant and large, and she’d painstakingly gone room by room redecorating, playing off the home’s personality and her love of yellows, creams, and periwinkle. She’d taken extra time with Kristin’s bedroom, making it every girl’s fantasy.

  At the thought of her daughter, a pang of homesickness rolled through Camille. As soon as she was finished eating, she’d get online and say hello. It had only been four days since kissing her good-bye, but she missed her daughter terribly. On the other hand, Kristin wouldn’t be missing her much, since she adored spending time with her Aunt Stephanie. They were like two peas in a pod.

  Helene’s kitchen was tiny compared to hers at home, but the ambience and feel of it was comparable. The cabinetry was white, offsetting the black, caramel, and white countertops. Two of the cabinet doors were paned glass, letting their contents act as accessories to the room. Over the stainless steel cooktop and recessed into the tile, an intricate design of a flowering fuchsia in a tall vase drew one’s eye. The heart of the room. A built-in hutch, directly across from where she sat, held Helene’s random collection of colorful plates, pitchers, and knickknacks. All were classically European.