by May, Lana N.
“You threw them away?” asked a voice from a dark corner of the room. It was Clarissa.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“I wanted to get your opinion on which photos you liked best and which ones we should use,” she said as she lounged on the couch, her long legs striking an elegant, ballerina-like pose.
“I have no comment.”
“Too bad, I’d love to know which one’s your favorite.”
“No. Please go now.”
“I hear that Johanna broke her foot.”
“That’s none of your . . . Who did you hear that from?”
“Oh, a little birdie told me,” she said as she bobbed her foot up and down.
“How about you get out of my office?” Thomas stared threateningly at Clarissa.
“Fine by me,” she said. She stood up, skillfully, slowly, and deliberately swaying her hips side to side as she slithered out the door.
Thomas waved off her antics; he already knew what she was all about.
Vienna, 4:00 p.m.: I’ve held off on writing you for several hours—three-and-a-half hours, to be exact. I hope you’re pleasantly surprised.
Could you bring me some raspberries and vanilla ice cream, please? I need some hot loving, because I’m cold right now.
New York, 12:00 p.m.: Yes, I’ll bring you a container of ice cream after work. But do you think that ice cream will warm you up?
Vienna, 6:00 p.m.: In a figurative sense. I mean, I miss you and you’re supposed to warm me up. Since when have you had so much trouble understanding my flowery words of seduction?
New York, 12:30 p.m.: That sounds a bit aggressive. Should I be afraid of this evening?
Vienna, 6:35 p.m.: Yes, if I don’t get my hot loving.
New York, 12:38 p.m.: You’ll get some after work. I promise.
XXXX,
Thomas
Vienna, 7:30 p.m.: Addendum: by the way, we went shopping today. You bought a lovely olive-colored sweater, a weakness of yours. I’m amazed, because you’ve expanded your current collection of twenty-four olive-colored sweaters with yet another olive-colored sweater. Did you think you didn’t have any? I’m almost starting to believe that you are color-blind, or maybe I just know your wardrobe better than you do. Yes, olive is a good color for you, but what about sky blue, orange, or a beautiful red?
Kisses,
Johanna
PS: If I were a color, I would be olive because then you’d always wear me.
New York, 2:02 p.m.: Dear Johanna,
If you were a color—and not olive—I would fall in love with you and I wouldn’t just wear you, even if you were a shade of sugary pink Paolo thought I looked sweet in. I’m sure if I asked my future therapist, he could definitely tell me which childhood trauma caused this penchant for olive-colored sweaters. It’s probably my mother’s fault. It’s a well-known fact that parents are always guilty when their adult children have some sort of problem, although I wouldn’t say that my twenty-two (!) sweaters—surely not more than that, because I donated two sweaters to charity recently—could reasonably be considered a problem. Or am I being too boring?
PS: We’re talking here only about my olive-colored sweaters because my shirts, T-shirts, and jackets are a variety of colors—except for violet, light blue, pink, light pink, turquoise, salmon, mahogany, rust (doesn’t do a thing for me), and beige—I just looked inside my closet. I have carefully itemized everything; the list has been checked and cross-checked for accuracy.
Johanna’s cell phone rang. She set her cup of tea aside, then muted the TV with the remote. The only shows on right now were unoriginal sitcoms, rather shallow entertainment for which she paid a handsome monthly cable fee. It was after eleven in the evening, a weekday—still no excuse for such mindless TV programming.
Thomas usually called around now because by this time of day he’d finally gotten back to his hotel room, bored to death after working all day, but also longing for Johanna. He didn’t like going out because he didn’t know anybody in New York anyway, and he wasn’t interested in hitting the bars with his colleagues; he’d rather call Johanna, watch TV, or go to bed early. He behaved like a sixty-year-old man living in the middle of nowhere. New York lifestyle? No way.
Johanna didn’t mind his late phone calls because she didn’t have to be up early while on sick leave. It would actually be a pretty cool thing, if only she didn’t have a broken ankle and was vacationing with Thomas somewhere in the Maldives, eating fresh pineapple, sucking down cocktails, getting massages, splashing around in a pool, reading good books, and enjoying Thomas nearby, in all his caring and loving glory. That would definitely be a dream come true. Of course, the reality of the situation was that she lay inside all the livelong day without sunshine, without cocktails decorated with colorful little umbrellas. She was alone in her apartment and so bored that she started to count the cracks on her walls. The only thing that reminded her of a five-star hotel was Paolo’s food, one of the few bright spots in her dreary days.
My next apartment will have a balcony, she thought, a big one with a view of the park. This was a very expensive proposition in Vienna, and the far greater problem was that apartments like that went very quickly. When you called about a new listing, you usually heard, “Oh, the apartment is no longer available.” This had already happened to Johanna when she was looking for a place a few months ago.
“How’s Mr. Plaster Cast?” Thomas asked when he called.
“He criticizes me incessantly and just won’t go away. Some guests are really stubborn.”
“Well, an uninvited guest.”
“Yes, very much uninvited. I painted a little heart on it.”
“On the cast?”
“Yes, it’s for you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, of course for you!”
“What does it look like?”
“It’s gigantic and red, with our initials in it.”
“So, then, really corny.”
“Yes, impossibly corny!”
“Can you take a picture and send it to me?”
“Yes, good idea. I’ll do it later. Can you do something for me, too, Thomas?”
“Yes, what?”
“Can you hang a love lock on the Brooklyn Bridge as a symbol of our love?”
“Of course. I’ll get one engraved with our initials, totally schmaltzy, ‘J + T,’ and hang it on the Brooklyn Bridge.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“It has to be really schmaltzy. Then we’ll have our initials on public display in both Dublin and New York. I would gladly do it myself, but I’m indisposed at the moment and can’t fly all the way to New York.”
“Oh, really. I didn’t know.”
“Yeah, I’m terribly busy lying around and eating, so I really don’t have the time.”
“All right. A person must have their priorities. I understand, of course.”
“Yes, I appreciate that. Thank you.”
After a short pause in their conversation, Johanna went on. “The Brooklyn Bridge is one of the oldest suspension bridges in the United States. I read that on the Internet today.”
“Don’t worry, tomorrow after work I’ll put it up right away. I won’t forget; I never forget anything.”
54
The next morning, the sun rose in New York City and all hell broke loose. This was the city that never slept, and it was at its most unnerving, loudest, and most crowded in the early morning hours when people were rushing to work. To deal with the stress, you had to have nerves of steel or swallow tons of B vitamins—in acute cases, valerian drops were recommended—especially if you weren’t quite up to going to your office. New Yorkers were probably used to it; they were the wheat separated from the chaff.
Thomas made his way to the office amid the frantic cr
owd, which appeared to be in perpetual motion. Today, he felt a little less pensive and sad; yesterday he’d felt really guilty about Johanna. He had regretted leaving her after the accident; he couldn’t bear the distance between them and mourned their time apart. But since their silly conversation the night before, he had felt somewhat closer to Johanna, and that had put him in a much better mood.
Johanna pulled the covers on, pushed them off, took a sip of tea, then a sip of water, read a book, put the book aside, stared at her cast, then at her cast-free right leg, then looked at the big blue wall clock in her living room, which she still hadn’t gotten rid of. Thomas would be coming back in three weeks, which seemed like a millions years from now—way too long. She’d have to wear the cast for a miserably long time, too. She looked out the window. Summer wasn’t quite in full swing in the city—that was also taking too long. Linda wasn’t here yet; she was taking too long. Waiting bothered her.
In short, Johanna was at her wit’s end; she was bored and didn’t want to stay on the couch. Everything was just taking too damned long. She wondered whether she could walk around. “Do not put any weight on that leg,” she heard Dr. Mick’s voice echoing in her mind. They’d given her crutches but only for emergencies, doctor’s orders. Like a good patient, she used them only for short excursions from the couch to the bed or from the bed to the bathroom, or from the bathroom to the couch, or from the bathroom to the bed and vice versa. She would have liked to walk around again, go to work, shop, drink coffee, fly to New York and see Thomas. Thinking about not being able to fly to New York made her sad again, and she tried to distract herself with a magazine. It didn’t help at all; she was ready for all this waiting to be over.
Vienna, 4:00 p.m.: I hate my couch and the cast; have I already mentioned that today?
New York, 10:10 a.m.: No, you haven’t, but I hate your cast, too. I don’t hate the couch.
Vienna, 4:12 p.m.: Okay, so we don’t hate the couch, but we do hate the cast.
New York, 10:16 a.m.: Agreed. Isn’t Martin coming over soon?
Vienna, 4:19 p.m.: He’s coming around seven this evening. He has a lot of work today and can’t get away sooner and I’m so BORED. SOS from Vienna.
New York, 10:25 a.m.: All right. Let me tell you what we did this morning. What we did last night, I don’t think I need to mention. Hopefully, you remember it affectionately? This morning, you prepared a fantastic breakfast: American-style pancakes with a ton of maple syrup. Then I got a thousand kisses from you. Then you ironed a shirt for me at the last minute, because I forgot to give it to you yesterday—thanks a million, you are the best. You know that I can’t iron properly. Then, unfortunately, I had to go to work. I would have preferred never to let you go, as you were wearing my shorts, your hair uncombed, when you were ironing. I held you close, then we both had to go to work.
Vienna, 4:30 p.m.: Good that you reminded me, because I almost forgot that I conjured up those fabulous pancakes for you. I really love that magnificent American cuisine—fat burgers and golden french fries—as you well know.
You say you can’t iron a shirt. Don’t you mean that you don’t want to?
PS: My hair is always messy.
New York, 10:40 a.m.: I’m not going to ask you whether you’re still wearing my shorts, because I can imagine what your answer would probably be and that would be too much of a distraction from my work, which I eventually need to take care of. See you later.
Kisses,
Thomas
Vienna, 4:45 p.m.: Yes, do your work, but take it easy. Today I read that if you work more than eight hours a day, your risk of a heart attack increases significantly. I guess my risk has dropped precipitously because I’m on the couch a minimum of eight hours a day, which means the only danger for me is being bored to death.
Kisses,
Johanna
As she sent out her last e-mail, she asked herself if she was starting to seem too pathetic.
Martin came over relatively late.
“I’m so sorry, but I simply couldn’t get away. How are you?” he asked as he panted from racing up the stairs too quickly.
“Okay, I suppose. I would love to be able to move again, but that’s not going to happen any time soon. It really bugs me.”
“Johanna, we’ve talked about this. You have to accept the situation, even though it’s hard. And you need to stop complaining so much. Other people have much more serious ailments and don’t complain at all.”
“I know, I know,” Johanna admitted. He was right, as always.
Johanna peeked into the plastic bag Martin had brought. Inside, she found newspapers, a magazine, and a variety of vitamin-enriched juices: one for a good start in the morning, the other for a good night’s sleep, and the last one for “more energy.” Well, the last thing she needed was more energy right now; she was already restless enough.
“Marketing companies are always coming up with some new nonsense,” Johanna noted, and tucked everything back in the bag except for the newspaper and magazine. “Can you please get me the stuff from the kitchen?”
“Any chance that Paolo cooked enough for me? I’m starving.” Martin looked at Johanna dolefully as he came back from the kitchen.
“Totally. There’s plenty; take whatever you want,” she said.
Martin came back shortly with some warmed-up vegetable curry.
“So you had a lot going on today?”
“Yes, it’s just one project after the other. I don’t know how we’re supposed to get all this done. We could probably use one or two more employees, but we can’t predict how steady our flow of new contracts will be,” he said.
He put a forkful of food into his mouth. “Mmm, that’s delicious,” he said, then took another bite.
“Enjoy your meal. Nobody can cook like Paolo. Anyway, it’s so sweet how you both take such good care of me. Thanks so much,” she said as Martin patted his sister’s right hand. “What’s the latest with the wedding plans?”
Martin shook his head. “Nothing new, so far as I know. Everything’s coming up roses. Linda is still calm and relaxed as ever, and I’m infinitely grateful for that. Not that she doesn’t still have time to morph into bridezilla on me.”
After Martin left, Johanna thought a lot about how she’d been behaving recently. Yes, she felt like crying; yes, she was in a crappy situation. But Martin was right; she wasn’t seriously ill, and things could be much worse than having a broken ankle and lying around on her couch. She couldn’t go to work, but she could shop online for the cooking school and evaluate their most recent survey results. On top of that—and most important—was that Thomas called her and e-mailed her every day. Even though he was probably swamped at work, he made time for her.
Suddenly, her mood changed, and she vowed not to wallow in self-pity any longer. She put on the Beatles to lift her spirits. It was nine o’clock in the evening in Vienna, so Johanna hobbled on her crutches into the bathroom, which thanks to Linda hadn’t been entirely neglected, and washed her face. When Linda came over, she turned Johanna’s apartment into a beauty salon. Linda had recently given her a surprisingly professional pedicure, trimming her toenails, then painting them fuchsia. They’d both applied face masks, and Linda had helped Johanna pluck her eyebrows.
She practically had an entourage: her friend Paolo, who was a combination of chef and entertainer; Linda, a stylist and beautician who didn’t balk when she needed a pedicure; and her brother, Martin, their esteemed advisor, who kept them all on the right track when necessary.
55
Linda’s friends visited Johanna late one Sunday morning for brunch. Squealing with delight, they pounced on Johanna’s right leg with multicolored felt-tip pens, which Erika had stolen—borrowed—from her kindergarten class. The women fought over the remaining free space on the cast. Erika emerged victorious; she had learned how to fight dirty from her kindergart
ners, a clear advantage.
“Your cast matches your Desigual dress now,” Erika crowed as she scrawled.
The other girls had already lost interest, preferring Prosecco and croissants to arts and crafts.
“Nina and I can run this off at the gym this afternoon,” said one of the girls, devouring a croissant in two bites.
“You won’t regret it. I’m telling you, Antonio is hot,” gushed Nina as she fanned a Vogue magazine around in front of her face.
Johanna drank Prosecco as well. There were worse ways to spend her time. She enjoyed the hustle and bustle in her home, the girls gesticulating excitedly, laughing, spilling Prosecco on the couch, spreading crumbs and croissants across her table, listening to Nina’s sexy adventures. At the moment, Nina’s fitness trainer, Antonio, and her ex-boyfriend were both in the running to get in her bed, and she couldn’t quite decide between them. After much deliberation, the girls decided that her fitness coach should make the cut.
Nina treated herself to another calorie-laden croissant. She could afford to, not just because it was inexpensive, but because she went to the gym religiously. Like a professional athlete, she spent two hours on the cardio equipment daily and half an hour in the weight room. With all that exercise, she could eat what she liked; plus, she wanted to retain her invitingly curvy butt, which Antonio was a big fan of.
Thomas tried to enjoy Sunday as much as he could. He vowed not to work at all today because he’d already worked enough for the week. He’d even worked all day Saturday. He’d slept badly for days, unable to really switch off or relax. Nothing helped, not jogging through Central Park or even sipping a beer while soaking nightly in the hotel room’s fancy Jacuzzi.