by Hill, Roxann
David smiled. But only for a moment. “What’s going on with Valentin?”
“I banished him to his castle.”
“Is it over between you?” His voice sounded almost forced.
“Yeah. He should stay with his queen.” I smiled, and David’s eyes twinkled with amusement.
“If I’m reading things right,” he said, pointing to my chic cotton-puff string of lights and the slightly battered Advent calendar, “you don’t have anything special planned for Christmas. Or do you?”
“What big plans should I have?” I said. “I’ll be sitting here with Baby . . . and we’ll have a good time.”
David went over to Baby’s chair and began folding his blanket. “And look how well you’re doing. Just a little bit better and you’ll be jumping off the roof! Would you and Baby like to come to our place?”
I took a little time to answer. “Do you even have the space?”
“We’ll manage to find a little corner. We’ll huddle together a bit. If you like—”
“Five minutes,” I said. “I’ll pack a few things.”
I went to the bedroom, pulled my Pilates bag out of the closet, and indiscriminately stuffed some underwear and clothing in it. I grabbed my toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, comb, and some perfume and a little makeup from the bathroom.
I was done in a flash, yet I forced myself to breathe slowly so as not to show David just how much I’d hurried.
He’d already put a leash on Baby. “Well, then,” he said happily, “let’s go!”
38
The Citroën had been freshly washed. In the halo of the streetlights, the pink paint even managed to shine a little. We helped Baby up to his seat in the back. I placed my duffel bag next to him and went to open the door on the passenger side. I immediately noticed the side-view mirror.
“Those things really make a difference,” I said.
“The trip to Nancy was worth it,” David agreed, and we both had to laugh.
I got in. It smelled just as I remembered: like old leather, Christmas cookies, fuel, and David’s aftershave. It should have been an off-putting combination, but I found it quite pleasant.
“What was wrong with Pinky that it didn’t want to be driven the other day?”
David crinkled his forehead. “Pinky?”
“Well, our . . . I mean, your car. Why wouldn’t it start?”
“I’m not exactly sure. Most likely one of the cables was clogged. I cleaned everything thoroughly and wham, it started again.”
“Strange,” I said.
David started the ignition and waited for the bang before turning to me. “Oh, by the way, before driving home, I need to stop by work again.”
“You have a job?”
“Yeah, of course. What did you think? Today is our Christmas staff party, and I’m supposed to be there. It’s part of my job.”
So David wasn’t unemployed. I liked this unexpected development. I tried to imagine what his job might be. Although, in the end, there weren’t that many possibilities: mechanic, janitor, or doorman.
I surreptitiously eyed his outfit. As always, he wore jeans, a sweater, and a quilted leather jacket. So, not a doorman, I decided.
Mechanic? His fingers were too clean, and he also didn’t wear the obligatory blue overalls.
I bet pretty confidently on janitor. I could see that. David was nice and approachable and was certainly capable of making quick repairs. He was probably also a whiz at changing printer toner or clearing a paper jam in a copy machine. I sighed contentedly and settled back in my seat. David had a proper job. And if a Christmas staff party was among his duties, I would support that.
“No problem,” I said. “I don’t mind waiting in the car while you do your work.”
David merged into traffic. “That won’t be necessary. I’m definitely allowed to bring a guest to the party.”
“Oh,” I said, a bit surprised. “But what about Baby?”
“Baby?” David took a quick look at the backseat. “He can wait in the reception area. He won’t bother anybody.”
“Where’s Emma?” I asked.
“Emma’s at a friend’s house. We’ll pick her up on our way home.”
“Well, make haste, young man!” I said, and David stepped on the gas.
Darkness had fallen, and it was raining gently. Individual raindrops landed on the Citroën’s windshield. I turned to look at the people on the sidewalk, the lights glowing in the windows, and the festive street decorations—all of which were slowly but surely putting me in the Christmas spirit. Perhaps David had his own Christmas tree at home. The chances of that seemed high, once I thought about it. Emma had no doubt taken care of it.
This year, I’d have a real fir. I wouldn’t need Starbucks at the Brandenburg Gate. Who would have ever guessed!
David slowed down as we drove through a commercial area from the nineteenth century. In the last few years, a great deal of development had happened here. A mix of chic apartments and trendy offices had been built. A real yuppie neighborhood.
In front of a dark-red brick building, whose massive facade had been rendered more playful through geometrical ornamentation, a number of hypermodern waist-high streetlamps were burning. There were also lamps embedded under thick glass blocks in the path that led to the building. The lights were arranged in a clever way so that they invited one to come closer.
A number of my former friends had assembled at the building’s parking lot: a BMW, a Mercedes, and a Porsche. One parking space, stenciled with the word “Private,” was still unoccupied. David parked the Citroën there without hesitation.
I looked around to see if anyone had noticed. “Are you really allowed to park here? We won’t get towed?”
David shook his head. “A Christmas party is going on. People are celebrating. No one is going to look at the parking lot. Not today.”
We helped Baby out of the car and walked slowly up the brightly lit path to the entrance. In faded, old-fashioned letters on the building’s red bricks, I read:
Coin-Minting Institution
—Founded in 1909
Underneath those words hung a stainless-steel sign:
D. R. Architectural Office
Keep. Renew. Reinvigorate.
We walked into a big lobby, in the middle of which was a huge rug featuring the same company motto. Behind a stylish glass table sat a chic but simply clad older woman typing with two fingers while eating a Christmas cookie.
“There you are, David. Finally!” she said, not sounding upset. “Dr. Stieglitz is already getting restless. He has that very special look in his eye—you know what I mean.”
David smiled apologetically. “Perhaps he’ll forgive me one more time.”
With that, it became clear. David was obviously the janitor. He was well-liked, people found him endearing, and he was allowed to get away with certain things.
“Oh, I’m being rude,” David continued. “Michelle, may I introduce you to Marianne? Marianne is . . .” David turned to her. “What exactly do you do here?”
“You can see what I do, all right—I eat Christmas cookies!” She got up, wiped off some crumbs, and extended her hand. “David has already told me about you.”
“Really?” I said. I wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing.
“Marianne, could we leave the dog here up front, do you think?” David asked.
I added, “We even have his blanket with us. He’ll lie on it, and I’m sure he won’t move from his spot. We’ll take him with us when we leave, obviously.”
“Of course,” Marianne said. “I couldn’t deny David anything around Christmas, now could I? But the dog doesn’t bite—or have fleas?”
I had to laugh, especially because Marianne, while talking, started to pet Baby and feed him cookies. I spread out the blanket. Baby to
ok his place and wagged his tail at Marianne, who unceremoniously emptied the whole bag of cookies in front of him.
The three of us went down a short hallway and wound up in an open-plan office. Black ornamental pillars held up the vaulted ceilings. The entire room was brightly lit. Drawing boards, models of buildings, plans. In between was a seemingly endless sea of glass-and-stainless-steel desks with computers on them. Next to a professionally decorated Christmas tree, approximately three dozen employees stood around an older man in a custom-made Italian suit.
As the man noticed David, Marianne, and me approaching, he gave us a harsh look, coughed indignantly, and then took the microphone. “Now that we’re finally all here, I would like to take the opportunity to open this year’s Christmas party.”
“Dr. Stieglitz is really in a bad mood,” David whispered to Marianne. Even though he spoke softly, at least a few colleagues standing next to us heard him. They smiled stealthily.
Again, Dr. Stieglitz gave us a punishing look and cleared his throat. I secretly planned on personally apologizing to David’s boss during the course of the evening. I’d also accept all of the blame for our delay. I didn’t want the sourpuss to strike the few extra peanuts that David would receive in Christmas money.
“We can look back on a good year,” he said. “In the past twelve years we’ve planned, attacked, and completed many important and demanding large projects throughout all of Europe—and not just projects concerned with landmark preservation. Our profits have nearly doubled. This calendar year was the most successful one in our company’s history. And we owe it all to one man. Our boss, David Rottmann. Dear David, even though you arrived late—as always—I ask that you come over here and say a few words.”
Dr. Stieglitz raised the microphone and tipped it in our direction. I turned around to check if someone standing behind us was, by chance, also called David Rottmann. There was no one. I could see Baby on his blanket in the reception area. He’d probably devoured his Christmas cookies and was now sleeping soundly.
The audience applauded. David smiled, and, to my great surprise, he moved toward Dr. Stieglitz and took the microphone. He put his free arm over Dr. Stieglitz’s shoulders. The latter looked pleased.
“It’s true. I’m late as usual, and our own Dr. Stieglitz—our dear Andreas—is too modest, as always. As he does every year, he’s made a tremendous effort in planning this year’s party. And, for that reason, I don’t want to speak too long. It’s because of this that we’ve been so successful. You’ve all given more than your best, in all endeavors. I think it’s cool to work in a community of such talented and creative coworkers. For that, I thank each and every one of you. And before we start kicking up our heels: the buffet is open. And your work assignment for today is: no leftovers and not a word about business.”
Again, thunderous applause. The employees encircled David. Everyone seemed to want to shake his hand, hug him, or kiss him on the cheek.
I turned to Marianne. “David is the boss here?”
“What did you think?
“I thought he was the janitor.”
Marianne looked contemplative and then snorted. “Sometimes he really acts like one. But it’s true—the business belongs to him. He’s the creative engine. Without him, nothing works.”
“But,” I stuttered, “the old guy. I mean . . . Dr. Stieglitz?”
Marianne was still smiling and wiping tears out of her eyes. “Andreas? He’s our guardian angel. He makes sure we don’t sink into full-on chaos.”
I watched David as he conversed with an employee who was dressed even worse than he was. And I began to understand: the guy David was talking to probably owned the Mercedes or the Porsche.
“David is not at all poor,” I said, mostly to myself.
“David?” Marianne giggled. “He took care of his ex-wife with obscene sums of money and is still as rich as shi—, uh, he’s very rich.”
“So why does he drive that pink hunk of junk?
“You don’t know much about cars, do you?”
“I do,” I said. “But not so much about such . . . classics.”
“David searched for that particular Citroën for years. He was overjoyed to finally discover it at a collector’s in France. He went there immediately to get it. In its current condition, the car is worth sixty or seventy thousand euros. But once David finishes restoring it, it will be worth at least two hundred thousand.”
“Two hundred thousand,” I repeated. I’d gotten a knot in my throat. Suddenly, I began sobbing. Loudly.
“But Michelle,” Marianne said, concerned, “that’s a good thing! It’s no reason to cry!”
David fought his way through the crowd to get to me. His eyes were shining. He looked so happy. “Michelle, what’s wrong?” When I didn’t answer, he turned to Marianne.
“What happened?”
I didn’t hear what Marianne said. Instead, I turned around and ran out of the room. David followed and caught up to me in the lobby. He grabbed my arm from behind.
I whirled around and screamed, “You liar—let go of me!”
“Liar?” David said, sounding completely perplexed.
“Liar, cheat, bastard! You choose the name that suits you best!”
“But I don’t understand.”
“You don’t understand? You played me. You really played me well, making me believe that you’re a janitor, that you have no money and drive around in a hunk of rust!”
David shook his head. “I’ve done exactly what you said.”
“Oh? That’s just the best! Now I’m to blame for everything! I’m the one who told you to pretend to be a janitor? And we would have almost starved and frozen to death in France! We even had to eat at McDonald’s! McDonald’s! And we even slept with each other . . . I mean, in the same bed! And to top it off, you even dragged poor little Emma into this idiotic game!” I gasped for air.
“I don’t know what you want,” he said, making a helpless gesture. “Don’t you remember our first evening in the small hotel? You told me exactly what you wanted from me.”
“What did I say?”
“You said that when a rich man falls in love with a woman but isn’t sure whether she loves him or just loves his money, then all he has to do is pretend to be poor. And then he’ll quickly be able to tell which way the wind blows.”
“The wind?”
“You know what I mean! And admit it—you said that.”
I felt my cheeks flush as I recalled that conversation. “You idiot!” I said, furious. “I was speaking abstractly. I wasn’t thinking about myself, or about you—or about anyone I know!”
David crinkled his forehead and raised his hands as though he was about to touch me. I took a step back, scared because I didn’t know how I’d react to that.
“Those days in France with you were the most beautiful ones in my life,” he said. “Nothing was missing, Michelle.”
I began shaking my head slowly. A gray emptiness was taking hold of me. “How can something be beautiful when it’s built on lies, deceit, and manipulation? I just ended a relationship like that with Valentin. I’m not letting it happen to me again.”
David took a deep breath. “But we really love each other,” he said.
“Love?” I noticed that I was sobbing again. “It’s just an illusion. Nothing that happened between us is really true. Nothing at all. My name isn’t even really Michelle.”
I went to Baby, grabbed his leash and his blanket, and left the building. Outside, it was raining buckets. I flagged a taxi, and the driver helped me get Baby into the backseat.
As we drove away, I saw David watching from the entrance to his company. He was dripping wet and looked lonely and abandoned.
39
I spent half of the night crying into my pillow. I finally fell asleep in the early morning.
When I wok
e up, it was almost afternoon. I had a headache. I was ill and my face looked like a spotted cauliflower, long forgotten in the refrigerator.
Michelle Krämer—#fuckedupwouldbebragging.
Baby needed to go out, so I quickly pulled on a pair of jogging pants over my pajamas, slipped into my ski jacket, and tugged a hat over my head to cover a good part of my face. Baby and I stumbled a couple of blocks to a public park.
On a park bench lay a copy of the Bild newspaper. Its front-page headline, “No White Christmas!” yammered at me.
How trivial! Who even needed those stupid white flakes?
Once back home, I fed Baby and ran myself a bath. I blessed the water lavishly with my best bubble bath, brewed myself some coffee, and retreated to the tub.
After a good hour, I at least felt clean, but my fingers and toes had lost circulation. On top of that, I was hungry. I warmed the next-to-last burger in the microwave and sat in front of the TV to watch It’s a Wonderful Life with Jimmy Stewart. I sobbed during the movie, especially during the final scene when the bells chimed so the angel could get his wings. I kept crying after it was over. Baby joined me for a bit, yowling in solidarity.
In an effort to cheer myself up, I decided to listen to the Christmas CD I’d found at Aldi. I spent the next hour with the remote control in my hand, pushing “Repeat” every time Elvis’s “Blue Christmas” came to an end. And I sobbed some more.
Outside, darkness was slowly falling. Christmas lights started twinkling in many of the apartments I could see out my window. Fewer and fewer people were on the street, as families hurried home to sit around their Christmas trees. I, however, had neither a family nor a tree.
It was high time.
Even though I really didn’t feel like it, I pulled myself together and dressed myself up. I wrapped a fresh Dior scarf around Baby and took him downstairs, where a taxi was waiting for us.
We circled around the lonely and deserted streets until the permanent lighting at Unter den Linden led us to the Brandenburg Gate. I got out there, gave the driver a generous tip, and stood alone with Baby at the Pariser Platz right in front of the gate. The Quadriga, a horse and chariot statue, didn’t interest me at the moment; instead, I wanted to see the enormous, beautiful Christmas tree.