by Hill, Roxann
Madame Segebade looked at me critically. “My dear, Michelle, you’ve gotten something on you.” She pointed to my clothes, and I saw several stains, some from cooking and others from the long trip.
“Do you want to freshen up a bit? The quiche still needs a good forty-five minutes.” She escorted me to the vestibule and pointed me toward a door in the back. Then she headed to the living room to help out David and Emma.
David’s duffel bag was sitting right there, so I took it with me into the bathroom.
I found myself standing in a beautiful marble bathroom, in front of an oversized crystal mirror with a genuine gold frame. I had neither clean clothes nor any makeup—not even a lipstick.
In the mirror, an unfamiliar, completely changed person stared back at me. Slightly disheveled, with unkempt hair and faded makeup, but . . . I stepped closer and examined myself more thoroughly. I looked younger. And, if I hadn’t known better, from the way I looked, one might have thought that I was satisfied and actually happy.
I was probably going through various phases of a post-traumatic reaction, and that’s why I was in such a confused emotional state. Or did it have to do with the wonderful castle? Or both?
I bent down and hesitantly opened David’s bag. Even though he’d told me to help myself to his luggage, I felt strange poking around in his private things.
The bag was divided into four compartments. His and Emma’s already-worn clothes were packed in laundry bags. In separate compartments were clean clothes for both of them. Clean and folded.
I told myself to praise him later for his sense of order.
I found a solid-colored T-shirt and a hoodie with a zipper that might not look completely ridiculous on me. My jeans were still semi-OK.
Before dressing, I took a much-needed shower. The moment I opened David’s shampoo, the fragrance hit me like a blow, reminding me of him with intense clarity. I suppressed spontaneous thoughts of being under the shower spray with him, and . . . well . . . the rest of it. I was sure that these fantasies were a result of my overexertion.
After drying off and getting dressed, I blow-dried my hair. Without product, my hairstyle was irretrievable. So I just tied it in a ponytail with a bright rubber hair elastic I found in Emma’s accessories. I was ready to go.
Again, I looked at myself in the mirror. Ordinary, humble, but—as already stated—satisfied and somehow happy. Man, was I done for!
31
The scene in the living room looked like a hot chocolate commercial. David and Emma had put up the tree and decorated it with all sorts of whimsical ornaments—shiny balls, tinsel, and tin soldiers. Behind it, a fire burned in the fireplace. The large table was set for four people. There were even Santas on our napkins. How totally kitschy.
I liked it!
David was busy attaching a somewhat unruly glass ball onto a branch.
I said hello, but he only turned around after he was certain that the decoration would stay on.
His mouth fell open when he saw me. I nearly sank into the ground, since I felt so plain and ordinary in his everyday, inexpensive clothes. But then his expression changed. A glow appeared on his face and in his eyes. I’d never seen him look like that before.
“Ah, there’s our Michelle!” said Madame Segebade as she walked into the room. She paused. Her gaze went from me to David. A barely visible mischievous smile played at the corners of her mouth.
What had happened to everyone all of a sudden? For years, I’d been running around clad in the most expensive designer outfits, and never had I evoked such a response.
“Michelle!” Emma interrupted my thoughts. “Have you ever seen such a beautiful Christmas tree?”
I took a few steps farther into the room, and she grabbed hold of my hand and began showing me every single ball. “Papa said this is a very old decoration. Isn’t it unique?”
“I can’t remember when I last saw such a wonderful Christmas room,” I said.
“That’s nice of you to say, Michelle.” Madame Segebade smiled. “Even though I’m sure you’re exaggerating. Your Christmas tree is certainly no less beautiful than mine.”
I picked up a piece of tinsel from the ground and hung it on a branch. “To be honest, I don’t really celebrate Christmas. I haven’t had a Christmas tree of my own in a very long time.”
“But why not, my dear?”
“For me alone, it’s just not worth it,” I replied. It was true that for several years I’d spent Christmas by myself—Valentin had to fulfill his family holiday duties. Even so, I would have liked putting up a small fir tree. But Valentin didn’t think much of those messy little things, as he liked to call them. The most sentimental holiday decoration he’d tolerate in my apartment was a red poinsettia in a Villeroy & Boch pot. And he only allowed that for my sake. That’s why I was so excited about our vacation in Chamonix. It would have been our first time spending a proper, festive Christmas together. But it was not to be.
I looked up and saw three pairs of sympathetic eyes. I didn’t want sympathy. So I forced a smile and said, “Don’t look so concerned. It’s fine. I’m easygoing. Besides, I don’t have to do without a tree. Every Christmas Eve I visit the Brandenburg Gate. It has a splendid tree. It’s very quiet around then, and I have coffee at the adjacent Starbucks and admire the Christmas decorations, as if they’re my own. That’s good enough for me.”
Evidently, I didn’t sound nearly as convincing as I would have liked. David looked at me with eyes still full of pity. He was about to respond, but I nipped that in the bud by turning to Madame Segebade and saying, “Wow. The food smells fantastic!”
The old woman eyed me briefly and gave an almost imperceptible nod, as though she’d understood. “That pan is pretty heavy. If you could please give me a hand with it?”
Together we went into the kitchen, armed ourselves with potholders, and took the quiche out of the oven. We carried it into the living room and placed it on a highly ornamented hot plate.
The quiche needed to cool a bit, so we used the time to have a small aperitif. The adults drank cognac, and Emma toasted with red currant juice.
“It’s so cozy here,” I said.
“Normally, I eat with guests in the dining room,” Madame Segebade replied. “But I don’t usually keep the room heated—it takes at least a day to warm up such a large space.”
“Is the heating very expensive?” David asked.
“Yes, unfortunately.” She sighed. “I have central electric heating, and it sucks up more money every year.”
“Have you thought about solar panels and a pellet heating system?” David asked.
“That’s not a bad idea,” I agreed. “Your property value would definitely rise.”
Madame Segebade shrugged apologetically. “When it comes to modern technology, I have no idea. I’d need a tradesman who specializes in old construction.”
David seemed poised to respond, but instead he shot me an anxious look and fell silent. Sometimes he behaved incomprehensibly. At least to me.
Madame Segebade sliced the quiche and placed a big piece on each person’s plate. After some initial hesitation, Emma ate her serving plus two rounds of seconds. I only managed one slice. We drank a dry white wine and enjoyed a fresh field-greens salad that our hostess must have whipped up while I was in the shower.
Barely two hours later, I lay in a freshly made canopy bed. Madame Segebade had given us clean bedding, and David and I had made up the second-floor guest rooms. A couple of times, as we slipped duvet covers on the comforters, our hands accidentally touched—and we exchanged bashful looks.
David and Emma slept in the room adjacent to mine. There was even a connecting door. As I lay in bed, I caught myself hoping that the door would slowly open and David would come over to me. I even thought I heard footsteps on the other side. I became quite certain that David was standing just a f
ew meters away from me, wondering whether to come in.
Exhaustion overcame me and I fell asleep, unhappy in the knowledge that this was the last night we had together. Tomorrow, our trip would end. We’d separate forever.
32
It had stormed during the night, and I’d woken up a couple of times, as the wind rattled the shutters. Now, all the clouds had disappeared, and a bright-blue winter sky smiled at me. The kitchen was warm from baking. The aroma of fresh madeleines mixed with strong coffee hung in the air.
Outside, David was changing the tire. He knew exactly what he was doing. As had Madame Segebade when she was mixing the madeleine batter a little earlier. As did Emma, who was building a giant snowman next to David. I seemed to be the only one who didn’t know what to do. Either with myself or my life.
A dog snout nudged at me. Baby was already hobbling around pretty well.
“No,” I said. “That’s it.”
His dark-brown eyes held an urgent plea.
“You ate a whole chicken, and during breakfast Emma and Madame secretly fed you cake. Don’t look at me as though you’re starving!”
Baby whimpered mournfully in response. He drooled out of the sides of his mouth. I gave him another piece of cake. “But this is really the last one. From now on you’re on a diet!”
Madame appeared next to me and squinted into the bright sun streaming through the window. “Your boyfriend knows about cars. He’ll be finished very soon.”
“Yeah,” I sighed.
“Then you’ll get home quickly.”
“That’s what it looks like. If we drive straight through, we’ll get there today.”
Madame Segebade appraised me. “You don’t seem particularly happy about that prospect.”
I pushed my hair away from my forehead. “A few days ago,” I started, “I saw everything differently. I thought I knew exactly who I was and what I wanted. But now? I no longer know if going back to Berlin is the right thing for me to do. As crazy as it sounds, I’d rather cruise around in that pink-red hunk of rust and never arrive anywhere.”
The old woman’s face was filled with understanding coupled with wistfulness. “I completely understand what you mean. Sometimes you come to a fork in the road and it’s not clear which direction to take.”
“And how do you find out?”
“You have to do what your heart tells you. Reason is of little use. Believe me.”
“Unfortunately, my heart is clueless at the moment. The dumb thing isn’t telling me anything. Besides thump-thump.”
Madame Segebade started clearing the dishes.
“Maybe you need to listen a little more closely.”
A noise drew my attention to the window. David was standing outside it with Emma on top of his shoulders. She was tapping, or rather drumming, on the pane with her little fists. “Michelle,” she called. “We’re finished! We can go now!”
The old woman and I went into the hallway, where I slipped on my ski jacket and grabbed David’s duffel bag. Madame accompanied me to the door. She kissed Emma good-bye on both cheeks, patted Baby on the head, and, to my great surprise, hugged David and held him close for a few seconds.
“You will be getting mail from me,” David told her. Madame Segebade nodded gratefully before turning to me.
“Au revoir, Madame,” I said. “Merci bien. Thank you so much for everything.”
I hesitantly offered her my hand. Instead of taking it, she wrapped her arms around me. I was so surprised that a tear or two started rolling down my cheek.
“Don’t be sad,” she whispered into my ear. “You’ve known for a while what’s right for you.”
Moments later, our pink Citroën started without a grumble. The new old tire seemed to be working well as we slowly drove away from the castle. For a long while, in the side-view mirror, I could still see Madame Segebade standing and waving at us from her door.
33
Our last day together.
Even though we covered the longest stretches of our trip in the hours that followed, I can’t report much about them. There’s no border crossing between Germany and France, of course, so we passed from one country to the other without incident. When we crossed the Rhein, the houses seemed a bit more antiseptic and elaborately maintained on the other side.
We got onto the highway and stayed in the right lane. David made sure not to exceed 90 km/h on the speedometer.
Sometimes we’d get honked at.
Little by little, the blue sky was overtaken by clouds, and eventually a faint rain began. Occasionally, it came down on the roof above us in buckets.
The winter white was disappearing and—it seemed to me—being replaced with a bleak gray that hovered over the whole world. And over me, too.
At first, David tried to fight against our collective dim mood. He played some Christmas songs. And for over an hour, he led us in games of Twenty Questions and I Spy with My Little Eye. But none of us really had much fun. It was as though we’d left all of our good cheer in the little castle in Alsace.
Around noon, Emma got hungry, so we stopped at McDonald’s one last time. I chewed on a salad and bit into a cheeseburger, but I couldn’t taste a thing. I had no appetite. Baby got my leftovers. We’d stopped talking, and I had the feeling that the intimacy that had grown between us was diminishing by the minute—just like the distance that separated us from Berlin.
That it was our last day together was probably for the best, even though it was painful for me. Our lives were too different. I wanted to achieve something, to become someone others would look up to. David, on the other hand—and I had to sigh at this thought—wasn’t interested in any of that. He was satisfied with his completely mediocre existence.
Valentin represented the stark opposite. I tried to imagine him and shuddered—I could no longer remember the details of his face. I knew that he had brown eyes and wore Davidoff Cool Water. But the rest? The excitement of the last few days had definitely affected me more than I liked to admit.
I decided to test myself. I closed my eyes and imagined someone that I knew well. Totally randomly, David appeared. And it frightened me. Every detail of his face, every shade in his eyes. His dimples when he laughed, the feel of his hand in mine, our only kiss. It was all so intense in my mind that I felt dizzy.
What had happened?
Valentin and I—we were made for each other. My future and my purpose lay with him. Michelle von Gertenbach. By his side, I’d be rich and happy . . .
Well, probably rich, unless what his wife told me was true. And happy? I thought about it. Was I ever really happy with Valentin? But of course! I lived in a penthouse with chic furniture, and I wore designer clothing. We went to the theater and the opera and other events—if not in Berlin (because of his wife), at least in other exciting cities. I had everything my heart desired.
Come on, Michelle! Try harder! I pressed my eyes shut for a second time with the intention of conjuring up Valentin’s face. And again, nothing. Just a yawn of emptiness. Then I saw a silver picture frame. It was clear in my mind. Aha! Whenever I went away for longer periods, I’d take Valentin’s portrait with me. That’s why I wasn’t accustomed to imagining my lover’s face—I’d always used the picture to remind me. I felt relieved. But that feeling only lasted for a moment. A dark doubt was settling into my chest. Had I been carrying Valentin’s portrait because he hadn’t made any sort of lasting impression on me? Because he meant nothing to me and never had?
I opened my eyes and looked at the rain outside. The contours of the landscape were blurry.
In those last few minutes, a suspicion had come over me. A totally outrageous one. The suspicion that maybe my feelings were so confused because a twist of fate had led me to fall in love with a man who wasn’t suited to me. An attractive man who kissed like no one else. A man I’d gotten to know far better than I’d ever know
n Valentin during the three whole years we’d spent together.
David.
34
Shortly before we got to Berlin, our tank was as dry as last year’s Christmas cookies. We pulled off at the next gas station and spent the rest of our money. Sixteen euros changed hands.
We didn’t stop for long. Once back in the car, David turned the ignition key.
Nothing.
He tried again several times. Not even the slightest sound. No explosion, no small cloud, no screech, no rattle. Nothing at all.
Apparently, the Citroën didn’t want to go home. That made two of us. David dove under the hood, only to report shortly thereafter that perhaps, possibly, probably somewhere—he couldn’t say for sure and in which place (or if at all)—water had gotten through, and that now . . . blah, blah, blah . . . the Citroën was on strike.
He disappeared into the gas station and seemed defeated when he came back, yet also determined not to let it get him down.
“A tow truck is on its way.”
“You can afford that?” I asked. I’d almost said we instead of you, but I’d caught myself just in time.
“I have an ADAC roadside assistance membership. The tow is free of charge.”
And no sooner had he’d spoken those words, than a tow truck arrived at the station. A young guy jumped out of the driver cab.
“Man, what a jalopy!” He pointed to our Citroën, and I immediately disliked him.
“What do you mean?” I said. “It’s a classic. We’ve driven hundreds of kilometers in it. Through snow and ice and flood-like rains. And now just because it doesn’t start one time—and I stress, one single time—you call it a jalopy?”
The young guy’s mouth hung open. Obviously, his intellect needed some time to decode my message.
“I just wanted to say—”
“I don’t care what you wanted to say!”
He gulped and turned helplessly to David. “I just wanted to say, ‘What a spanking car.’ ”