Text for You

by Sofie Cramer

  And because he can’t very well use Ben’s phone—that is, his phone with Ben’s number—to call Clara and apologize for being late, he’s starting to get the feeling that fate is trying to screw him over. Maybe it’s punishment for all the lies he’s told. But really, thus far he hasn’t misled Clara at all. In a situation like this, though, he has to tread lightly. He can’t possibly go barreling in by calling Clara up and confusing her completely.

  “Excuse me!” Sven approaches an elderly woman.

  “Yes?” she politely replies.

  “Do you happen to have a cell phone I could use?” he asks.

  “Sorry, I don’t—but that young man over there is bound to have one,” she says and gestures toward a teenager who, with a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead and earbuds plugged into his MP3 player, has completely closed himself off to the outside world.

  “Thanks,” says Sven and turns to the kid, who he guesses must be about fifteen.

  “Excuse me!” Sven speaks extra loudly.

  “Why are you yelling?”

  “Sorry, I thought . . .” Sven points to his ears, miming to indicate the earbuds.

  The kid gives Sven a surly look, waiting for him to get to the point.

  “Uh, could you maybe lend me your cell phone? I have to make an urgent call.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “Well, you’ll be helping out your fellow man in his time of need.”

  “Huh?”

  “All right fine.” Sven rummages in his wallet for a two-euro coin and puts it in the kid’s hand.

  The kid looks at the coin and scowls. Then he sticks his hand out again and puts on a poker face.

  Sven’s patience is already worn thin, but he’s got no other choice.

  “This is extortion!” he grouses. He takes out a five-euro bill and hands it over, though not before snatching back the two-euro coin.

  Finally the kid hands over his phone. “Just don’t take too long!”

  Sven frowns and looks through his iPhone for Clara’s number.

  “But you’ve already got a phone!” the kid shouts indignantly. “A really sweet phone!” In one quick motion he snatches his own phone back out of Sven’s hand and tries to run off.

  “Stop!” Sven shouts, apparently with such authority that the kid actually does stop. He looks a bit intimidated now. “I can’t use mine right now, got it?”

  “Technology too much for you, huh?” The kid grins, shakes his head, and sticks his hand out again.

  “You’re a no-good, scheming little brat!” Sven snarls and again hands the kid the two-euro piece in exchange for his cell phone.

  Nervously he types the number into the display. It rings.

  He hears Clara’s clear, warm voice whisper “Yes?” on the other end of the line, and it takes what seems like an hour before he’s finally able to tamp down his anger and hide his agitation.

  “Ms. Sommerfeld? Sven Lehmann here. I’m sorry, but I didn’t manage to catch my train.” His surroundings there at the Altona train station are fairly loud, but Sven does his best to maintain a mild tone of voice.

  “Come again? I can’t hear you very well. You’ll have to speak a little louder!”

  “This is Sven Lehmann. I missed my train and won’t be able to get out there to meet you for another forty-five minutes.”

  “Oh” is all Clara says.

  “I’m sorry. Would you be able to wait, or should we figure out another time?”

  Clara seems to hesitate for a minute, but then, apparently making an effort to sound friendly, she says, “No, it’s all right. But I’d better just meet you at the train station. Then I can show you my studio on the way, if you like.”

  “Sure, sounds great . . . Um, who should I be looking out for?” Sven asks awkwardly.

  “Oh, um . . . Right, so I’m thirty-one, blond, medium height, on the thin side, and today I’m wearing jeans and a tan corduroy blazer.”

  “Okay, so I’ll see you at the train station. Thanks!”

  “No problem. Bye!”

  “Yeah, bye!” Sven hangs up. He can’t help grinning, happy that he will finally get his chance to meet Clara in person. He tosses the kid’s phone back to him and quickly marches off to find the departures board to look for the next train.

  clara

  Hopefully it’s not a bad sign that this Lehmann guy is so late, Clara thinks. After all, for all her self-doubt she still sees this interview as a way of helping herself launch her freelance career. But she got the impression that the guy was likable and down-to-earth, so she’s happy about that. And he’d sounded younger than expected, on the phone at least.

  Clara is a bit angry that she didn’t just google him beforehand. If he works for such a prominent magazine there’s bound to be a photo of him online somewhere. On the other hand, if he were even moderately attractive, then she was sure to have been even more nervous before the interview, Clara thinks as she crosses the street in front of the train station.

  She hasn’t been back here since winter. On Christmas Day Ben had gone with his mother and Dorothea to visit his grandmother near Düsseldorf. A few days later he took the train back—he had a gig with his band on New Year’s Eve and wanted to be back in Lüneburg in time for rehearsal. Clara can still vividly remember picking him up at the station that day and how much she had looked forward to seeing him again, even though it had only been a few days that they’d spent apart after he proposed on Christmas Eve.

  And yet Ben had been so strangely quiet that day. Maybe because even at this time he was already straining against the commitment he’d chosen to make. Was it already clear to him, even then, that he wouldn’t be able to see it through?

  Clara’s throat tightens as she thinks now that Ben might have known that he was saying good-bye to his grandmother, who was so dear to him, for the last time. He probably spent the whole train ride staring out the window, filled with deep sadness. When he arrived in Lüneburg it must have taken an unbelievable effort for him to pull himself together so that Clara wouldn’t suspect anything.

  And now she’s back here again—but everything is different.

  It’s like at Castello the other night, Clara thinks. Everything I do now I’m doing for the first time—not with Ben, but alone.

  But ultimately it’s Ben and Ben alone whom she has to thank for the fact that she’s standing here now. Here, at this turning point in her life, which suddenly feels like a completely fresh start. From this point forward she’s headed in a direction that she never would have dreamed of before. And she never would have imagined that she would be capable of choosing such a bold path.

  Clara is still completely lost in thought when the Metronom commuter train from Hamburg finally arrives. Suddenly her mind is blank—all the clever lines that she’d spent the whole day preparing are gone, just like that. And before she can start looking for a man in a suit, she’s already being spoken to.

  “You must be Clara Sommerfeld!” says a terrifyingly good-looking man in jeans carrying a small laptop case.

  “Uh, yes. Mr. Lehmann?”

  He shakes her hand and looks so deeply into her eyes that Clara is completely discombobulated.

  “Sven Lehmann, that’s right. Thank you for waiting so long.”

  * * *

  • • •

  This guy just makes me nervous somehow, Clara thinks, sitting across from him now at Cheers at the very same table she and Ben sat at the night they met. What a strange coincidence that Mr. Lehmann would head for this table, even though there were several others available. But she likes the man; he’s got a cool sense of humor and loads of charm, which he no doubt has expertly deployed on hundreds of women by now.

  “It’s a really good fit, you and this lovely little city,” he had confidently declared as Clara closed the door to her studio behind he
r. During the brief tour she’d given him the journalist had also taken a few photos of her. She had simply ignored his compliment.

  How old is he? Clara asks herself now as she studies his face on the sly. Definitely somewhere around forty, she thinks, and then quickly looks down at the menu again, even though she knows the selection of food and drinks here by heart.

  “So how is it you’re actually going to approach the topic of ‘freelancers’?” Clara asks, determined to get through this conversation as capably as possible. Meanwhile, inside, she’s admonishing herself to ignore the fact that the man she’s speaking to exerts a certain fascination on her. The macho side of him that shows through in an occasional comment or gesture reminds her of Ben, and as soon as she realizes this, she starts to feel guilty. But she’ll just act as professionally as possible and not leave her interviewer any room for personal chitchat.

  Sven Lehmann readily explains how he’s envisioning the article. And even though Clara is really interested, somehow she isn’t capable of fully listening to him. No wonder, she thinks to herself, with those eyes of his! Do the people at the next table think we’re a couple? But Beppo said he’s with someone! In any case it definitely wasn’t a colleague or a platonic friend who he was out for dinner with at Castello. Beppo’s got an unfailing sense for these things. Does this Lehmann guy take his girlfriend or wife or whoever she is to Lüneburg often?

  “I think I’m going to get a glass of the house white. How about you? We could also get a whole bottle. It’s my treat, of course.” He looks at her with a smile and a glint in his eye that makes Clara feel all the more unsure of herself.

  “Um, I’d rather have a spritzer . . . that is, a juice spritzer . . . so sparkling water with passion fruit juice and not sparkling water with wine,” Clara hears herself stammering. She feels like biting her tongue—this sounds anything but confident and professional.

  Lehmann also looks a bit puzzled, but when he places their orders with the server, his voice sounds exceedingly casual and charming again. He also comments smugly on her choice of bar—“So, this is your favorite spot, is it?”—and flashes that roguish smile of his again.

  Clara feels impelled to respond right away. “Yeah, I know, there are trendier places, but I like the atmosphere here, and I guess I’m just a creature of habit.”

  “A creature of habit who’s also quite willing to open herself up to something new, though, right?” the man across from her asks, still grinning.

  “Sure. But where being self-employed is concerned, at least, I really don’t have any other choice. If you work as a freelancer you’ve just got to be flexible and also willing to, like you said, open yourself up to something new,” Clara replies and is very relieved that they’ve finally arrived at the topic that they’re actually here this evening to discuss. She has no idea where to put her hands, so she just shoves them under her thighs, hoping the journalist won’t notice how nervous this whole thing makes her.

  “You’re not cold, are you?” Lehmann asks with concern.

  Clara only shakes her head. No, it’s just that you’re making me feel so unsure of myself with your funny questions and those looks you keep giving me, she thinks to herself.

  “But I’ll have to excuse myself for a second, if you don’t mind,” she says shyly.

  “Of course not. Unless you’re going to leave me here alone on purpose—as payback for being so late,” he banters playfully.

  Clara smiles awkwardly and feels herself blushing a little. She quickly flees in the direction of the bathrooms. She has this feeling that she urgently needs to send a text. To Ben.

  sven

  Shortly before midnight, when Sven drops his keys and his phone onto the dresser next to the front door of his loft, he sees that he’s got a text. He looks hesitantly at the display. A text from Clara! But he doesn’t know whether he should be happy or angry. After all, it’s still not meant for him.

  Ben, I have a confession to make, which I’m sure you already know by now: I’ve cheated on you at our table and now I feel guilty. Please believe me, no one could ever replace you. Your L.

  Sven can’t help but wonder at the words “I’ve cheated on you”—and what’s this about “our” table?

  The whole ride back he had thought about how much he would have liked to touch this sensitive woman or at the very least to have showered her with compliments. She left him enchanted. But the looks she gave him and the gestures she made were all evasive; she immediately parried every attempt he made to get closer to her.

  Sven had been on many, probably too many, dates without having anything to show for it except for the belief that over time he has grown better at deciphering the mysterious behavior of the opposite sex. Like when a woman props her chin on her hand and tilts her head to one side. In eighty percent of cases that means that when he takes the first step to cross the invisible border between them and reaches to carefully but firmly touch her other hand, flitting nervously across the table top between the coaster and the silverware, or her napkin and her glass, she won’t pull it away. Or if she bends her chest slightly forward to better accentuate her breasts—that means that there’s a very high likelihood of his being able to touch them at a later point in time.

  But with Clara there was nothing! No hints, no signals, not a single gesture of interest. And it wasn’t like she seemed cold or anything; she’d been just as friendly as Sven had always imagined her being. At the same time there was something unapproachable about her, which meant that the attraction Sven felt toward her from the first second only increased as the evening went on.

  Just thinking of the way she’d stood there on the platform—bashful, like a little girl, and yet sexy, like a young woman who is fully aware of how attractive she is but isn’t trying to make anything of it. At the memory of their first encounter there at the station, Sven can’t help but sigh. But then he gets a hold of himself, puts his phone away, takes his shoes off, and tosses his jacket into the corner. He turns the TV on, grabs a beer from the fridge, and throws himself down onto the couch, laptop bag and all. Next he gets out the digital camera that he used to take pictures of Clara and her studio. Even though he’d looked at the photos incessantly during the train ride, he now feels the urge to look at them yet again.

  And there he sees it again, this radiance in Clara’s bright green eyes.

  The sight of her so captivates him that he’s tempted to just call her number right this instant. No more workarounds, no more business talk—totally direct and totally personal. He’s just about to grab his phone, but then he freezes.

  This last text is just the latest confirmation of the uncomfortable feeling he has that this woman is in love with someone else.

  The best thing he could do, he decides, is to forget about her as quickly as possible.

  clara

  If you had a man we wouldn’t have to do all this heavy lifting,” Katja says with a grin, waiting to get another rag thrown at her by Clara.

  “Okay, I get it. It’s my own fault; I’m standing in the way of my own happiness and am just an all-around hopeless case,” Clara responds sarcastically and lets out a groan as she attempts to lift what is indeed a particularly heavy paint can out of her trunk.

  “Do you think he would have kissed you if you hadn’t comported yourself like a refrigerator?” Katja keeps needling and heaves the second bucket out of the car.

  “It wasn’t a date; it was a professional meeting that—”

  “That could’ve gone a lot differently,” Katja interrupts.

  Clara sets down the paint can, draws herself up, and turns to face her friend: “Okay, let’s go over this again: First of all, the guy is a serious journalist who—”

  “Who asked you if you’d like to grab a drink sometime because—and I quote—‘it had been really nice!’ ”

  Clara rolls her eyes and continues: “Second of all, the guy i
s with someone already.”

  “But you don’t have proof of that.”

  “I do have a reliable witness who described in no uncertain terms how attractive the woman with him at Castello was.”

  “So what? We thought Andy was married at first just because he had a ring on his finger!”

  “Third of all, guys who are that good-looking are very good at getting their kicks with a woman in the short term. A guy like that doesn’t want to really commit himself.”

  “You know he can’t help it that he’s good-looking.”

  “But he tried to hit on me!”

  “Is it a crime for a man to act confident and in control and want to take what he likes?”

  “No. More like . . . sexy,” Clara has to admit.”

  “Aha!”

  “Oh, don’t you ‘aha!’ me. That’s the problem right there. Because fourth of all: I’m not ready yet. And fifth of all: I’m concentrating on my career right now!”

  “Which he could really help you out with . . .”

  “That’s why I’ve got you. Come on! The studio isn’t going to paint itself.”

  Katja tries to respond, but she’s already used up all of her arguments. Which leaves her only one last option: blackmail.

  “All right, either you get in touch with him today or I’m not lifting a finger!”

  Clara gives Katja a withering glare. But she can only hold it for about five seconds—then her lips twist up in a crooked grin that Katja, in her inimitable way, claims as a major victory.