A Summer In Europe

by Marilyn Brant

  Interesting concept, but then the rules of mah-jongg were full of quirks and oddities. She remembered something Aunt Bea had told her about the game once and mentioned it to the other women. “It’s mostly a really unpredictable game, though, right? I heard the winning hands are different every year.”

  Zenia nodded. “Yep, the winning combinations of tiles change from year to year. They’re on a special mah-jongg card that you can get online or at a store. So, the ‘best’ future for a player changes all the time. Between games. And between years.”

  “As capricious as life,” Connie Sue added, and Gwen marveled anew at how well these seniors seemed to handle the fickleness of both the games they’d played and the real world they inhabited. How willing they were not only to take risks but to let the chips of randomness fall where they may. Gwen had never liked the feeling of being in flux, but she figured making peace with it was, somehow, the key to contented longevity.

  Hans-Josef appeared before them. “We will eat in four minutes,” he stated, tapping his watch and looking as if he might break into “Sixteen Going On Seventeen” at any moment. Clearly, his good humor had finally been reestablished, no small thanks to the restorative properties of the Alps and a lengthy semiprivate conversation with Cynthia.

  “Great!” Zenia enthused, bounding unsteadily to her feet, shackling their tour guide’s wrist with her firm hand and pulling her toward him. “I got a seating request. There’s a man who just walked in. So tall”—she gestured—“with black-’n’-white sideburns and a nice blue jacket—”

  “You want to sit at a table near him?” Hans-Josef interjected, having learned by now that Zenia was not shy about introducing herself to any potential objects of her fleeting affection. He tried, unsuccessfully, to get her to release his wrist.

  “Why, no.” Zenia grinned naughtily. “I wanna sit at his table, preferably on his lap.” She tugged him in the direction of the door. “And you’re gonna help me.”

  Hans-Josef’s smile faded to an expression of alarm, and Connie Sue laughed loudly and whispered in Gwen’s ear, “So long, farewell,” as Zenia and Hans-Josef disappeared into the restaurant. Then, after a beat, she added, “Auf wiedersehen, good night.”

  Gwen shook her head as Connie Sue motioned for her to quickly follow. “Being a tour guide must be a challenging job,” Gwen commented to the older lady, just as Cynthia pushed between them, racing to catch up with her now-agitated Austrian boyfriend and the strong-willed woman who had him in her grasp.

  “Any job is challenging if you lack a sense of humor, honey,” Connie Sue replied pleasantly. “We could all use more of that.”

  9

  Illuminations

  Friday–Sunday, July 20–22

  Connie Sue’s wise words rang true in Gwen’s mind. She mulled them over during their drive through the scenic Black Forest of Bavaria and its neighboring German states—complete with a stop at a Munich biergarten, a Würzburg bratwurst haus and a Heidelberg apfelstrudel bakery—as they approached the French border and zoomed toward Paris.

  “Someday you’ll have to come back to Germany,” Emerson told her on the bus as they crossed the Rhine River into the French city of Strasbourg. “To see Mittenwald. It’s a small Alpine town in Bavaria, but it has a great tradition of violin making. It’s quaint. Not too far from the Austrian border.”

  “I’d like to come back to Europe someday,” Gwen admitted, realizing for the first time just how true this statement was. It was funny to think that, only a few weeks ago, she couldn’t imagine the need to see a European city twice. But now ... She had to laugh at herself. She was beginning to feel almost sentimental about Rome. Wishing she’d dwelled longer in the cool halls of the Vatican or studied the Bernini sculptures more carefully. Hoping—however irrationally, illogically or unscientifically—that the coin she’d pitched into that decorative fountain would, indeed, hasten her return to the Italian capital.

  “Well, perhaps this will remind you.” He pulled something out of his small backpack. A brown paper package, tied up with string. And it looked like a compact disk—one of her favorite things, of course. She smiled, wondering if he’d done that purposely. Before she could ask, he added, “I found this at a music store in Vienna. But it was recorded live in Budapest.”

  Gwen thanked him, removed the wrapping and studied the CD inside. Gypsy music. Or “Romani,” as Emerson explained. Mostly stringed instruments. Lots of guitar and violin and some kind of dulcimerlike thing called a cimbalom. “I can’t wait to listen to it,” she said warmly, recognizing only as the words left her mouth that this would be unlikely until she had access to a CD player and that was back at home. The realization tempered her enthusiasm.

  Emerson was looking at her curiously as she gripped the disk tighter and read through the song selection a second time. “Sorry, I wasn’t able to wrap it in nice paper,” he said. “I didn’t have any on hand, and I’m actually dreadful at handling it even when I do. It always tears.”

  She tried to envision him struggling to gift wrap a present, but found it hard to imagine him being bad at anything. His hands were so agile. So capable. A man who could play piano as he did would surely be able to fasten the edges of paper with tape or attach a fancy bow with ease. Not that his gift required any further embellishment—she loved it just the way he gave it to her. Most likely, Emerson was just making an attempt at being modest.

  It did occur to her, however, that she would have loved for him to have attached a note of some kind to the CD. She’d never even seen his handwriting. How impractical it was of her to be growing attached to a man, if only in mere “friendship,” whose signature she wouldn’t recognize! In truth, she knew so little about him ... almost nothing from his daily life ... and if that wasn’t a reality check for her, she didn’t know what else might serve as one.

  Their bus pulled up to their Parisian hotel around dusk, the iconic silhouette of the Eiffel Tower rising in the distance. A distinctive birthmark on the face of the classic city.

  They checked into their rooms, changed for dinner and, as night fell and lamps began to flicker on, Hans-Josef and Guido took them on an evening drive through La Ville-Lumière—indeed, true to its name, Paris was the City of Light—before they stopped for a delicious group dinner on the famed Champs-Élysées.

  Finally, with the delectable scent of boeuf bourguignon and crème brûlée still clinging to their memories like the fragrance of pleasure, they wove their way back through the sparkling city. Views of a lit-up Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame Cathedral, Sacre Coeur, Louvre and Arc de Triomphe illuminated their night.

  When they passed by the Paris Opera House (or “L’Opéra Garnier” as Hans-Josef called it, using its proper French name and describing the building’s illustrious history), Emerson stole a glance in her direction. This was the setting of The Phantom of the Opera. The place where one of the counterweights for the grand chandelier really dropped in 1896, killing someone and igniting the imagination of author Gaston Leroux, who went on to write his classic Gothic novel.

  As Gwen stared, mesmerized, at the imposing, impressive edifice, she could almost hear Emerson humming to her from the score of Webber’s musical, as he had in that Venetian mask shop, right before he’d kissed her.

  Well, no. The humming wasn’t only in her imagination. He was doing it again. In the seat just across the aisle from her. Providing a disquieting musical accompaniment to their drive. And, soon, he wasn’t alone. Soon half the tour members were humming Phantom ’s title track along with him, Dr. Louie most enthusiastically of all. Hans-Josef, with a good-natured shrug, gave up trying to give them a detailed commentary and instructed Guido to just circle the opera one more time.

  “So, why didn’t you guys form some kind of a cappella club instead of a sudoku and mah-jongg group?” Gwen grumbled to her aunt.

  Bea just laughed and kept humming.

  And Emerson did the same, gazing at her with knowing eyes as he led the group, the vibrations of their c
ollective cacophony making the air currents hip hop around her. His brother even joined in after a time, holding his index finger and his thumb apart, at a pawn’s height, and moving them on an invisible board in space-time to the music.

  The moment was somehow both menacing and magical. As much a portent of things to come as a prologue to a play. Like the orchestral opening notes accompanying the rising of the curtain, Gwen sensed the appropriate theatrical foreshadowing. She saw the players onstage—most conspicuously, Emerson and Thoreau with their persistent dualities, which they wore as flagrantly as costumes. She remembered other players hidden carefully in the wings—like Richard with his impending arrival and his tacit expectations.

  But, despite the real-life play having begun, she did not yet know the dramatic nature of the production. Would it reveal itself to be a tragedy or a comedy? Would the actors sing or merely speak? Would she be relegated to the role of an unnamed extra? A removed audience member? Or, was she an integral part of the cast?

  Theater. Chess. Physics. Life. Four disparate yet surprisingly similar games of skill, woven together like one of Zenia’s fiber-art masterpieces and presented to her like a multihued scarf. One fit for wearing. Or, perhaps, if Hester had her way, for strangulation.

  And in sensing this absurdity, finally ... finally ... she laughed. At herself. And at the goofiness surrounding her.

  Like Hans-Josef, she shrugged off the oddities of the group, stopped fighting her instinctive desire for order and gave herself permission to slip into the chaotic, entropic silliness of the moment. She might not be a central part of the show yet, but at least—from her place at the fringes—she was fully enjoying the performance for a change.

  The next day was their action-packed induction into the Saturday stream of Parisian tourism, starting at nine a.m. when the Eiffel Tower opened to the public.

  “As visitors,” Hans-Josef said, waving a brightly colored brochure in the air to get their attention, “you have the choice to climb the steps as far as the second floor or to take the elevator up. It is one hundred fifteen meters to reach that second level. Three hundred forty-seven steps to the first platform, three hundred twenty-seven more to the second and—”

  “I’m climbin’!” Zenia pronounced fervently. “I’ve been training for this.” She pumped her arms and gave their tour guide a playful slug in the bicep. “You’re leading us, right?”

  “Er, ja,” he said slowly. “I will climb if there’s anyone who wants—”

  “Well, good!” Zenia interrupted again. She nodded at Cynthia and motioned the woman closer. “You wanna get his pulse racing, right? You wanna see those cute legs of his take to the stairs, don’t ’cha?”

  Cynthia glanced between Hans-Josef’s cute legs and Zenia’s expectant expression and emitted an embarrassed giggle. She bobbed her head and got as far as, “Um, I ... uh—”

  “I knew you did!” Zenia interjected. “Do we need tickets? When do we start?” She fiddled with the timer on her wristwatch and swiveled around to take in the swarm of tourists headed toward the base of the tower from their respective tour buses. “Oh, quick. Let’s get goin’ before that Portuguese group gets here.” She took a few excited strides in the direction of one of the tower’s entrances and jogged a little in place. “How many steps all the way to the top?”

  Hans-Josef cleared his throat and waved his brochure rather frantically at Zenia. “One moment, please. To reach the top of the tower, it’s another two hundred seventy-six meters or about one thousand more steps. Sixteen hundred sixty-five steps total or three hundred twenty-four meters or one hundred eight stories,” he informed them, visibly proud of his ability to recount the numbers with his trademark meticulousness. “But we are not allowed to go all the way up by foot. No matter how we get to the second floor—by climbing or by lift—we must all take the elevator up to the topmost level.”

  “Well, what are we waitin’ for?” Zenia said. She nudged Cynthia. “Tell him we need to go! ”

  It was unclear to Gwen whether Cynthia was as enthusiastic as Zenia about climbing La Tour Eiffel or if she was just pleased to be seen as the go-to girl in regards to influencing Hans-Josef. Regardless, Cynthia took keenly to the task of hurrying along their tour guide. Soon, with Hans-Josef, Cynthia and Zenia in the lead, about half the group followed them in their zoom up the stairs. The other half balked openly.

  “I ain’t crazy,” Hester murmured to Connie Sue as she made for the elevators. Aunt Bea, strolling leisurely beside Colin, elected to take the lift as well. But the honeymooners—Sally and Peter—were raring to go the climbing route, as were Matilda, Dr. Louie, Kamesh and Ani. Louisa and Thoreau had each been to the top of the tower a few times before, so they informed Gwen and Emerson they were going to spend the next hour having tea at a café nearby.

  “You’re welcome to join us,” Louisa said politely. “But, perhaps, since you’ve never been up before ...” She let that thought trail off.

  “Yes,” Gwen agreed, unwilling to let her lack of travel experience embarrass her this time. “I ought to go up there.” And she wanted to. After all, how many of her colleagues from her tiny corner of her home state could say they spent the summer visiting the most famous landmarks of Europe?

  “Climb or lift?” Emerson asked her.

  Before she could reply, Thoreau cut in. “Doesn’t she have the option of you carrying her?” He raised a mocking eyebrow at his brother. “Or are you too much of a modern man for that?”

  Gwen wasn’t at all sure where, when or why the seemingly innocuous phrase had morphed into an insult, but she was certain the sarcastic delivery of those emphasized words referenced something from the brothers’ past. Emerson’s expression told her she was correct.

  Emerson’s fist told her something more.

  Like a comet streaking across the heavens, Emerson’s right hook to Thoreau’s jaw moved in a flash of grace imbued with fire. The elder of the two men grunted upon impact and cradled his bruised mouth and chin with one hand while warding off his brother with the other. The younger man scowled, unclenched then reclenched his hand and verbalized a phrase one wouldn’t say, even in a place where people were unfazed by crude remarks. When he repeated it—in flawless French—it sounded even filthier. Some nearby college kids gasped.

  Gwen was not typically one to step into a fight between strong men. In fact, in her entire thirty years, she had never found herself in such a position. But extreme times called for extreme measures, or at least for spontaneous action—which in Gwen’s world was, indeed, a radical undertaking.

  She grabbed Emerson’s nonpunching hand and tugged until he turned to face her. There was something haunting his expression—a phantom personality mingling with his real one. Or, maybe, they were both real, just different sides of the same creature, battling it out within one body.

  A look of silent agreement passed between her and Louisa, and the British woman moved to prevent Thoreau from physically retaliating against his brother while Gwen kept her hold on Emerson. They succeeded in separating the men only by wrenching them in polar directions—crisscrossing beneath the tower and emerging from its shadow on opposing sides—making the schism between them as literal as it was figurative.

  The only thing Gwen understood for sure about the past three minutes was that Emerson’s strength far surpassed her own. If he’d been determined to go after his brother, he would have. So, the fact that he let her lead him away meant that he must have wanted that fight to end. She suspected the same was true of Thoreau, although, as the initiator of the dispute, she would have liked to have known what had sparked his desire to instigate it. Perhaps Louisa would have some luck in figuring that out. Gwen had her hands full with the still-angry younger sibling.

  When they had moved past the Portuguese tourists and even past a conglomeration of Scandinavians, she stopped walking. She took a deep breath and, still holding his hand, she squeezed it until he met her eye. “What. Was. That. About?” she asked slowly.
/>   He clenched his jaw and shook his head.

  “Emerson, I’m serious. I want to know.”

  “I’m serious, too. I do not wish to talk about my family conflicts. But I’m terribly sorry. We can go back to the tower and you can decide if—”

  “I don’t want to go to the tower right now and I don’t want another apology from you. I want an explanation,” she said stubbornly. “And I don’t care if you think it doesn’t concern me. It concerns me enough. When I get home, I’m going to remember the battles between the two of you just as clearly as I’ll remember seeing the David or listening to the operetta. Your little ‘conflict’ was going on then, too, affecting my experience.” In an act of frustration, she pulled his fingers toward the base of her throat and placed them against her Mouth of Truth pendant. “You’re touching the oracle now. You have to be honest with me.”

  He fought against the smile that kept trying to rise on his lips and—to Gwen’s relief—lost the battle after a few seconds. “What? Now you believe in its powers?” he asked. “Now you’re willing to tell the truth for fear of losing your hand?” To emphasize his point, he cinched her wrist with his fingers and gripped extra tightly, making a chopping sound.

  She pulled her hand away and crossed her arms. “I will if you will,” she stated boldly. “But you’d better be the one to start.”

  He inhaled, slow and deep, then placed both of his hands on her shoulders, caressing them and her upper arms. “All right. If you must know, I’ll tell you. Not here, though.” He glanced around at the grassy lawn surrounding the base of the Eiffel Tower. “It’s open until midnight. Let’s come back a little later and take in Notre Dame and the Louvre on our own, not with the group. Are you all right with skipping out on the tour, Gwen? I know the city well enough to show you the highlights.”