Three and a Half Minutes

by Caroline Fyffe

  Konrad set his bottle of Gösser, an Austrian beer, on the table and began. “My family owns and operates the resort of Königsschloss, Kings Castle, in Lucerne, Switzerland. It was built two hundred and fifty years ago by my great-great-great-grandfather and has remained in our family line ever since.” He looked straight at Stena von Linné, who was swirling her glass of wine, not paying the least bit of attention to what he was saying. “I’m the Director of Tourism for the corporation, and fall in line to be the next General Overall.”

  That got Stena’s attention. She glanced at him and smiled saucily. Oh, brother. Camille had to look into her wineglass to keep from rolling her eyes.

  A team of waiters delivered the entrées. Keeping in line with her low-fat diet, Camille had ordered the Forelle Blau with new potatoes. The plump little fish, with its head still on and eyes wide open, looked up at her as if to say, I really don’t taste all that good, so you need not waste your time eating me.

  “Lena, your turn,” Günther said, after swallowing a bite of his Wiener Schnitzel and wiping his mouth.

  Lena was from Turkey and the quietest student in the class. She was paired with the boy, Niclas, who liked Hanna from France. Very thin, her weight, or lack of it, bordered on alarming, and Camille wished the young woman had ordered the Wiener Schnitzel with potato salad and a chocolate milk shake. Instead, she picked at her Forelle Blau and pushed her vegetables around on her plate; little, if anything, made it to her mouth.

  “My home is Antalya, Turkey. My family farms also, but wants me to go into the tourism trade that is flourishing in Antalya. That is the reason I’m taking this class,” she said, looking at Warner. “Antalya gets approximately two million tourists in the summertime to our Mediterranean coast.”

  “Danke, Fräulein. Herr Zalzamaci.”

  “I’m from Prague, in the Czech Republic,” Timm said. “I’m nineteen years old. I am here because my father says I have to be here, and no other reason.” That was all he offered and shoveled a huge fork full of ravioli into his mouth and started chewing.

  The waiter was back with another glass of wine for Stena, a beer for Konrad, and a scotch on the rocks for Scott. “Can we hear from Camille?” Stena asked.

  Günther looked at her. “Camille?”

  “As some of you know, I’m from Portland, Oregon. My teenage daughter plays on the basketball and tennis teams for her school. I’m the proprietor of a gift shop in the downtown area, which I started four years ago. We’re now online if anyone is interested. It’s called Chocolate Blossoms,” she added after the fact. “I’m here because I enjoy learning, and seeing different parts of the world. And meeting new people.”

  “Are you married?” Stena asked boldly. Her sharp eyes flickered with interest.

  When had this turned into a question-and-answer session? Camille pushed away a jab of irritation. “No.”

  Stena wasn’t finished yet. “You had fun with Branwell yesterday?”

  Camille and Branwell had been asked to give an accounting in class about the outing they’d taken. She’d let him do all the talking, which he fabricated with ease. When Günther had asked her what she’d liked best, she’d described her time in the candy store and the walk on the bridge.

  “It was quite the adventure,” she said truthfully.

  “Thank you, Frau Ashland. Let’s see. Who has not yet spoken?”

  Mark raised his beer. “I’m Mark Marslino. I’m twenty-four. I’m an importer-exporter for a company in Rome. Attending a language school at least once every five years is a requirement of my job.”

  Mark was Stena’s partner and he was totally smitten. It was easy to see she had him wrapped around her little finger, as tight as could be. From the looks Konrad had been giving Stena all evening, there was certain to be some stiff competition between the two men vying for her attention.

  Camille glanced at Maria Glibrov, who hadn’t yet introduced herself. She dressed modestly, almost mannishly, had long, straight brown hair. She wore very little make up, if any at all.

  “I’m Maria Glibrov and I am eighteen years old.” She looked around the table, touching each person with her gaze. “I come from the Republic of Macedonia, which gained its independence from Yugoslavia in 1991. My family, men and woman alike, fought in the war for freedom. Many died. I was too young to fight then, but would do it now if I had to.”

  Her voice was hard, her expression defiant, as if she had something to prove.

  Obviously interested in the girl as an oddity, Stena asked, “And why are you here?”

  Without pause, Maria answered, “Knowledge is power.”

  Everyone looked a little uncomfortable.

  Günther nodded. “Fräulein von Linné, you are last. Will you please tell us about yourself and afterward we will order dessert. Spatzennest is famous for its strudel and I hope everyone will try it.”

  “You all know my name, Stena von Linné,” she began, unrushed and confident, brushing her silky hair over her shoulder with her right hand. “I’m twenty-four, and come from Uppsala, Sweden.”

  Mark and Konrad sat transfixed by her melodic voice, content to stare at her even if she were to go on all evening. It was evident she was used to center stage. She worked the table with animation, eye contact, and pauses, smiling at just the right moment, and by no means giving anyone the opportunity to break in. Camille wished she had a tenth of the confidence Stena possessed.

  “There are four girls in my family, of which I am the youngest. My grandfather, Aaron August Linné, was a Swedish chemist and one of the founders of the science of physical chemistry in Sweden. My uncle, Fran Smale, is a Swedish diplomat and politician. He was the Swedish Minister for Foreign Affairs and now is the head of the United Nations Monitoring Verification and Inspection Commission. He controls…”

  “Ahh, here is our waiter now. Thank you, Fräulein.” Günther said, breaking her long-winded, pretentious decree. “We will have nine strudels mit Schlagsahne, bitte,” he said to the waiter. “Whipped cream.”

  “Certainly, Herr Christove,” the waiter replied, as he cleared away the dinner plates and, with his small silver tool, scraped the crumbs from the white linen tablecloth. After dessert and Günther had paid the bill, some of the students left and some returned to the bar area. Camille had the maître d’ call for a taxi.

  “Your taxi,” the bartender said, when a long black Mercedes cab stopped in front. She looked to the group and said her good-byes, thanking Günther for the lovely evening. The friendly bartender gave her a wave.

  The driver got out and opened the back door of the cab. When she glanced back at the restaurant, she noticed a tall figure standing in the shadows between the restaurant and the adjoining building. In the evening darkness, splashed with lights from the restaurant, the whole thing looked surreal and foreboding. A niggle of apprehension slipped up her spine. “Fräulein?”

  Camille should have felt flattered that the driver thought her that young. Instead, a dark premonition unsettled her thoughts. She glanced back. Whoever it was, was now gone. “Uh…district three, bitte,” she said. “Hollandstraße 7688.”

  The cab started off.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Before Florian opened his eyes, he ran through the Divine Praises in his mind. Blessed be God. Blessed be His Holy Name. Blessed be Jesus Christ, true God and true man…

  When he was finished, he thanked God for another day and consecrated himself to the Holy Spirit, asking for assistance in sanctifying everyone and everything he came into contact with this day.

  Now fully awake, he rolled out of the warmth of his covers before his alarm sounded and he was tempted to lie there an extra five minutes. He looked at his clock. Five a.m. He twisted the knob on the radiator along his bedroom wall, and then glanced at his calendar. First Friday of Lent. He was on the schedule tonight for the Stations of the Cross and to head the soup and bread dinner put on by the Jungschar, the very active youth group in his parish. Then on Saturday, he and Gün
ther had their English class for underprivileged children, something he really enjoyed. He pulled on his sweatpants and sweatshirt, then donned his running shoes. In the bathroom, he splashed his face once and was out the door quietly, so as not to wake anyone else.

  The neighborhood was dark and still asleep. A dog barked a couple of blocks over. He looked at his wristwatch, gauged his time, and turned left, beginning the course he ran three times a week.

  He warmed up slowly and then settled into his rhythm, sucking the cold, crisp air deep into his lungs. Joy for life filled his heart. He offered a few morning prayers of thanksgiving for his life and this new day, his vocation and his parish, as he lengthened his stride in order to cover the six miles in fifty-five minutes, no longer.

  If he could choose, Wolfgang and Helene Eberstark would be his first choice as parents for Johann, he thought as he ran down the street. But they had already been blessed with three children and were on a very tight budget. Especially since Helene had given up her lucrative art curator’s position at Galerie der modernen Kunst. Supporting a foster child would be very difficult.

  Rounding the corner, the awesome sight of St. Peter’s Church stood before him. He came this way often, just so he could see the dramatic baroque structure in the rosy light of dawn. It was gorgeous and he offered a thanksgiving for it as he took in the banquet of splendor. Its façade of angled towers, elegant steeples, and blue-green domes was awe-inspiring. He crossed Peterplatz in only a few strides, and turned onto Der Graben. He jumped a puddle of greasy water on the uneven cobblestone street.

  Ahead, between the Hauptpost Building and VKB Bank, were two provocatively dressed women. They laughed and smoked cigarettes, looking very out of place in evening attire, with tall heels and black stockings. The length of their skirts left little to the imagination. Besides Florian, they were the only two people on the street. They watched his approach with interest.

  “Guten Morgen,” he called to them politely when he was within hearing distance.

  They smiled and nodded.

  He stopped beside them breathing hard, his hand on his side, his forehead moist.

  “Hallo,” the younger one said, blowing smoke coyly into the air. Her bleached blonde hair was stringy and her eyes were heavily shadowed.

  “Hallo,” he responded. She didn’t look a day over sixteen. The older woman had short jet-black hair and looked around eighteen. She eyed him suspiciously.

  “Polizei,” she whispered into her friend’s ear.

  They would probably prefer he was a police officer rather than a priest. “Ein Polizist,” he repeated, laughing. “No.”

  “Wie heißen Sie?” He asked their names.

  “Ich bin Hilda,” the youngest said. “Sie heißt Rosa.”

  “Ah, Hilda und Rosa, Freut mich sehr Sie kennen zu lernen,” he said, very pleased to meet them. Now that he was closer, he could see that their clothes were tattered and worn. If a wind came up, it would blow them away for their thinness.

  Before either one could proposition him in any way and embarrass everyone concerned, he hurriedly invited both to join him for coffee and dessert, something scrumptious and all they could eat, at his place tomorrow morning, at seven thirty.

  It must have been the best offer they’d had on this cold March morning because Rosa asked for the address. He reached into his pocket and drew out two business cards, giving one to each girl. He always carried his cards for precisely this reason. He never knew when God would drop a golden opportunity right into his lap—or running route.

  They looked at the card and then into his face. The younger of the two started to back away slowly.

  “Nein, nein,” he pleaded low. “Bitte kommen Sie.” He put out his hand in supplication as he told them he hoped that they would come for Mass at seven, but if they didn’t want to do that and only felt like coffee and sweets, to arrive at seven forty-five. That his English class was more fun than work. There would be other kids their age there too. He gave a wave and started down the street at a jog.

  Camille’s alarm sounded at five thirty, waking her from a fitful sleep. She lay in her warm bed for a few minutes, listening to the breeze as it pushed a branch against her windowpane.

  She was tired today after her night out on the town. She stretched, remembering the whole evening of enjoyment. Even Stena’s behavior hadn’t spoiled the two and a half hours sitting next to Günther and listening to him talk. When the alarm sounded again, she switched it off and pushed back the warm, downy comforter. It was time to get up.

  Nothing but quiet below. Am I the first one up? Slipping on her robe, she descended the steps admiring the yellow walls. She would paint the inside of Chocolate Blossoms the exact same shade when she got home, to remind herself of her time spent here.

  About halfway down the staircase, Camille heard someone in the kitchen. Must be Helene putting on the coffee. She rounded the corner and stopped. At first glimpse, she wasn’t quite sure what she was looking at. Then as she stared in disbelief, her senses quivered, not recognizing if what was before her was a natural phenomenon.

  There was a tower in the kitchen.

  A pillar of cans and boxes, cups, plates, saucers, and silverware, a queer-looking obelisk that pierced the room’s cozy charm with an unearthly sense.

  Sasha stood on tiptoe on a chair that was placed on the countertop. She reached up as she tried to place a round spice shaker on the top of a can of beets. The tower she’d created was taller than Camille by several feet, and eerie in its steadiness. Intent on her mission, Sasha hadn’t noticed her entrance, or the small sound of distress that escaped from Camille’s throat.

  Günther checked his watch as he took the steps to the nursing home two at a time. He let himself in with a key, walked down the hall, and entered the third room on the right.

  Aggie had been attended to already this morning. She was awake and looked as if she’d come through the effects of the small stroke, as was her pattern. Her gray hair was combed back from her face and hooked neatly behind her ears. A fresh pitcher of ice water sat on the table by her bedside. The pillows behind her were plumped and fluffed, the blue eyelet coverlet folded neatly at the foot of the twin bed.

  Breakfast would arrive soon.

  “Guten Morgen, Mutti, I’m glad to see you are doing better today,” he breathed happily to the old woman as he stopped at her bedside. He leaned down and placed a kiss on her warm forehead.

  “Look,” he said, holding out a small cluster of flowers in his hand. “Aren’t they pretty?” He didn’t expect an answer as he went about filling a vase with water from the sink in her bathroom.

  “There.” He placed the daisies on the windowsill directly in line of her view after he’d drawn the heavy curtains open.

  “Frühstück,” the nurse called in a singsong voice as she came in with a tray of hot porridge, coffee, and a little pitcher of milk.

  Günther clapped his hands together cheerfully. “Wunderbar. Danke sehr, Frau Blitter.”

  The nurse set the tray on the nightstand and looked at Günther with an expectant expression. When he had time, he preferred to feed his mother-in-law himself, giving him something to do and talk about during his visit. It could be a challenge thinking up things to say in a one-sided conversation. Food was always a big help.

  He pulled a chair next to her bedside.

  “Du bist nichts als Dreck,” she murmured under her breath, calling him nothing but dirt.

  “Ah, so you can speak.” He ignored the content of her address. He was used to it, and worse. “I’ve been wondering about that.”

  “Dreck,” she said again with distaste. She turned her head and looked at him through shrewd eyes.

  She’d been holding out, a trick she liked to use to confuse the nurse and doctor. One she’d used many times over the years.

  “Not so,” he said matter-of-factly, refuting her claim of him.

  He picked up the small pitcher of milk and added some to her porridge. Next, he
opened a package of sugar and sprinkled it on, then stirred well with the spoon. He added sugar and milk to her coffee, blew on it a few times to cool it down, and held the cup to her lips.

  Aggie tried to hold out. Stubbornness was her best quality. But as the rich aroma danced up into her nostrils, her will crumbled and her lips opened just a crack, and took the warm liquid in.

  He smiled and nodded. “Good.”

  She took another sip.

  The nurse stuck her head in the room, smiled at Günther, and asked him if he’d like a cup of coffee. He declined and tried giving Aggie a spoonful of the porridge. Her hunger always won out sooner or later over her mulish determination, and she’d end up eating.

  He scooped a small amount of the hot cereal onto the spoon and was able to get some into her mouth through her lips.

  She made a face and stuck out her tongue, letting the porridge fall to the towel he’d placed on her chest. “Beschissen.” She called it shitty and gave him a chilling smile.

  Günther looked away and counted silently to five. If he gave in to the temptation of a response, her distasteful behavior worsened. He’d learned to keep his cool. Katerina would expect that of him.

  He scooped up another bite and held up the spoon. “Bitte, Mutti?”

  She just looked at him.

  It was no use. Bitterness filled her heart. She’d not oblige him in the least just because he said please. “Okay, suit yourself,” he said in English, knowing perfectly well she understood. “It’s time for me to go. Frau Blitter will finish up here.”

  He stood and kissed her forehead. As he left the room, he passed Frau Blitter in the hallway and shook his head, telling her she’d have to finish feeding Aggie her morning meal.

  Outside on the stoop, Günther buttoned up his black wool overcoat. He looked up and down the street and then ran across, jaywalking.