“Paula will adjust very quickly to another place. She’ll make new friends and, most of all, she’ll learn a lot. There’s no better school than the world out there.”
“You make it sound so easy—and you’re probably right. No,” I corrected myself, “I know you’re right. But it’s still not my decision alone. This is Paula’s life, too, and I can’t forget that.”
“Of course not. But you know, mothers do tend to lose sight of their own happiness and think only about the happiness of their families—like my mother, for example. She was a born vagabond—a nomad. But she suppressed those longings and stayed home with her husband and children. She sacrificed her freedom for her family. I often saw her standing, lost in thought, as she looked out into the world beyond our window. She seemed so absent; I often asked her if she was sad. She always waved me off, saying, ‘I’m fine, don’t worry about me.’” Eric’s voice had dropped to a whisper.
“Where does your mom live now?”
“She died when I was sixteen. She had cancer.”
My hotel room remained unused for the whole three days I was in Paris, because I stayed at Eric’s. Saying good-bye to him was very hard, and I couldn’t hold back my tears. But Eric just laughed, his eyes twinkling.
“There’s no reason to be sad,” he said. “At least, not as long as you live your life. And it will be your life that you live, Nele. I believe that with all my heart. Bonne chance!” He pressed a kiss to my forehead as I got on the train, and the cheerful sounds of his accordion stayed with me long after we’d left the station.
Can I make a pirate diploma on this ship?” Paula asked as we boarded the ferry.
“Quite possibly.” I panted under the weight of my heavy bag. “If not, we can play Parcheesi.”
“Oh, no.” Paula sulked. “Parcheesi is stupid. Let’s play Battleship instead.”
“I’m not so sure that would be appropriate.” I heaved my suitcase into the cab.
“Mathis will be totally happy when he sees us. Right?” Paula beamed at me.
“Mathis doesn’t know we’re coming. It’s a surprise.” This was a spontaneous trip. For weeks, I had been reading up on the Baltic states and considering whether I should take a chance on a new beginning—and every day, I made a different decision. The only thing that didn’t change over all those weeks was my constant longing for Mathis. We spoke with each other over the phone occasionally, but that just made things worse. Once the autumn holidays arrived, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I had to see him. At the last moment, I purchased tickets for the ferry to Riga, and two days later Paula and I were on board.
“But he’ll definitely be happy because he hasn’t seen us in so long.”
“Yes, I think so, too. Do you think that you’ll like Riga, Paula?”
“Of course I will, if you and Mathis are there. We could have a lot of fun there on vacation.”
My nervousness increased with every hour that we spent on the ferry, and I could have kicked myself for not choosing to fly. If I had, we would have been almost there already! I wondered if Mathis really would be happy to see us and considered the possibility that he’d already gotten used to a life without us. He’d sounded so positive over the phone, as if he’d finally found what he’d been looking for for so long. Would Paula and I fit in there at all? I knew Mathis liked Riga—but would I?
My legs felt wobbly as we walked off the ferry, and I felt terribly nauseous—not because I had been seasick, but because I was so terribly excited. When we finally reached Mathis’s front door, I took a couple of deep breaths, rang the bell, and . . . nothing happened. Mathis didn’t open the door. Disappointed, I sat down on the stairs with Paula. I figured he had to come home eventually, but half an hour later he still hadn’t shown up. I thought about trying his cell phone, but that would have spoiled the surprise. Finally, Paula and I decided to sit in the café across from his building and keep an eye on the entrance. But just as we started to get up, we heard someone come shuffling up the stairs. The source of the shuffling turned out to be an elderly gentleman, and he looked at us with interest.
“We’re waiting for Mr. Hagena.” I pointed at Mathis’s front door. I didn’t realize that I had spoken German until the old gentleman answered me—also in German.
“Mathis is usually on his boat at this time.” He pointed at his watch.
“I don’t suppose you know where it is?”
“Sure, it’s down in the marina—not far from here. If you want to run over there, I’ll show you the way. You can leave your bags here with me if you like.”
I accepted his offer gratefully, and we were soon on our way to the harbor. It turned out to be only about ten minutes from Mathis’s apartment. When I saw the first masts appear ahead of us, my heart started beating harder.
Paula and I didn’t have to search long before we found Mathis’s boat. “There it is,” she cried, waving her arms. “The Spieker is back there, near the dock!”
And so it was. I could see it gently rocking on the waves. Paula ran so fast I could barely keep up. Right before she reached Mathis’s boat, she slowed down unexpectedly, and I almost ran right into her. She looked unsure about what she should do. We both scanned the docks, but Mathis was nowhere to be seen.
Disappointed, I sat down on a wooden bench. Paula sat next to me and laid her head in my lap.
“I’m so tired,” she mumbled. “Where’s Mathis anyway?”
I stroked her head and looked out over the Baltic Sea. The sun would be setting at any moment—we had to head back. With a sigh, I asked Paula to get up. Just then, a shadow fell over my face. As I turned around, I saw something yellow flapping in the wind. My heart beating wildly in my chest, I raised my eyes to the figure in the brightly colored windbreaker.
“Welcome to beyond the horizon,” Mathis said.
The End
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © Oliver Schepp
Born in 1968, Jule Meeringa grew up in East Frisia, Germany, where she learned to read amid a wonderful expansive landscape of windmills, lighthouses, dams, sheep, and cows. Inspired by Enid Blyton’s books, she decided very early on to be a writer, and thirty years later she published her first book. In addition to contemporary fiction, she writes thrillers under the name Elke Bergsma.
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
Terry Laster is a musician, singer, and former music teacher who sang, studied, and worked in Germany for many years. Terry is also a writer, currently working on her long-overdue historical novel. She lives in Glendale, California, with her youngest son and her tiny Chihuahua.
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