“I know that you don’t believe me now, but here’s the truth,” came a quiet voice from over by the bed. “I was going to put a stop to it after this crossing. I swore that to myself on New Year’s Eve. I would give anything for this never to have happened.”
Franco got up and tried to put his arms around Marie from behind.
“Please, Marie, don’t go! Don’t do this to me. Everything will be all right again, I promise you. Think of our child. Think of the gallery we wanted to open. I’ll go to America and I’ll make sure that . . .”
She shook him off. Her suitcase was in storage somewhere, and she knew Franco would never send a servant to fetch it for her, so she stuffed some underwear into one of the linen bags that was used to take dirty washing down to the laundry. She added the blouses in, then two skirts.
“Marie, I’m begging you! If you go, I won’t survive that. Please, you can’t leave me now. I need you . . .”
She looked at him, her eyes blank.
And I won’t survive if I stay! she might have told him. But instead she said, “You’ve ruined everything.”
17
Half carrying and half dragging two sacks of clothes, Marie stumbled through the palazzo’s long hallways. She had to get out, away from there—she couldn’t think of anything else.
From the opposite end of the hallway, she saw the count at the front door. Patrizia was at his side.
“You are not going anywhere.”
Marie stared at her father-in-law, astonished. How self-righteous he looked! No “Marie, I’m so sorry.” No “I repent of my sins.”
“What are you going to do to stop me? Shut me away, like you did those poor men in your wine crates?” She spoke boldly but her words lacked conviction. Something crumbled inside her, and her strength ebbed away. Please let me go so that I have time to think, she pleaded silently.
“Marie, don’t leave without me! Please, I’m begging you! If you must leave, then take me with you!” Franco had followed her and now he clung to her arm like a child clinging to his mother.
“Ti amo,” he whispered. And then, “I love you more than my own life.”
A wave of pity broke over Marie. But she answered aloud, “That doesn’t count for much, with a life as miserable as yours.” It hurt her so much to say those words that she had to wrap her arms around her belly. She blinked against the pain and suddenly felt dizzy.
Franco flinched as though she had hit him.
“Marie, darling, be reasonable! We mustn’t be too hasty; we have to sit down and help one another to deal with this tragedy. Una famiglia, si?” Patrizia said, putting her hand on Marie’s arm with exaggerated concern. “In good times and in bad—isn’t that what you promised my son in Ascona, when you were married? Didn’t you tell us how happy you were on Monte Verità? That was a very good time for you and now the bad time has come, but it doesn’t have to stay this way, don’t you see? Everything can be good again, just as it used to be.”
Her voice was soothing, cajoling—almost a chant, as though she were driving out evil spirits.
Ascona, the wedding . . . Marie’s head was buzzing. What did Monte Verità have to do with all this? The mountain of truth, freedom, and love . . . How dare Patrizia mention it in the same breath as the terror and suffering that . . . Marie’s eyelids fluttered but the veil that clouded her vision grew thicker. If only she weren’t so dizzy . . . She raised a hand to her temples to brush the dizziness away, but it was becoming harder and harder to think.
What had she done wrong? All she had wanted to do was tell Franco about her idea of inviting Sherlain and Pandora here to Genoa! To help open her gallery. And then she had heard it. We are murderers.
The drawstrings of the laundry bag were pulling at her hand. So heavy. Everything was so heavy . . .
Just to lie down for a moment, then . . . Suddenly a lance of pain stabbed into her skull.
Marie fainted.
“What’s this?” Patrizia said in a tone of disgust. She reached out and picked up the letter from the floor where Marie had dropped it.
Her husband looked thoughtfully in the direction of the bedroom where Franco had carried Marie after she fainted.
“Send it,” he said absentmindedly.
“Are you sure?” The countess rarely intruded upon her husband’s affairs, but they could not afford any false steps now.
“Of course I am!” he snapped. “She knew nothing of all this as she was writing it.”
He took the letter from Patrizia’s hand and inspected it.
“It’s to her American niece, as always. Meaningless gossip, that’s all.” He put the letter down onto the hall table with the rest of the outgoing mail and then turned to go back to his office. “I have to prepare everything for Franco’s departure. What luck that there is a ship leaving tomorrow!”
Patrizia followed him. “Are you really going to send Franco to New York? Into the lion’s den?” Her voice shook.
Though her face was usually calm and composed, fear had left its mark on her. There were wrinkles at the corners of her mouth, and her lips twitched. Her eyes were wide with shock. She looked like an old woman. “Isn’t that dangerous for him?”
The count shook his head. “It would be more dangerous if we do nothing. At the moment nobody can connect us to the dead men; their bodies washed up farther north along the Hudson. Franco has to make sure that it stays that way. It will cost us a great deal of money, but what can you do?” He threw up his hands in resignation.
The countess bit back a reply. Instead she asked, “And what are you going to do about Marie? Do you think she’ll just calmly accept the fact that Franco has left? You’ve seen how foolish she can be. She’s a danger to us all! What if she goes to the police? And what will she tell her family in her next letter? Do you want to let her ruin us?” Though Patrizia was whispering, her voice was shrill.
The count looked up only briefly from his pile of papers.
“There will be no next letter.”
It was still dark outside when Marie woke up the next morning. The left side of her head was throbbing. The terrors of last night came flooding back to her, shrouding her in darkness.
Without even looking over at the other side of the bed she knew she was alone—Franco was bound to be with his father again, in the office.
Feeling drained, she was just about to sit up when she noticed something on the pillow next to her.
A letter from Franco.
Her hand trembling, she picked up the sheet of paper.
Mia cara, by the time you read these words, I will already be on my way to New York. In the name of all those who died, I have to try to set this tragedy right, even though I wonder if this is even possible. I know that it is the worst possible moment for such a journey, but there is nothing else I can do. Please do not do anything rash while I am away—if not for my sake then for that of our child. I beg you to wait for me. I will make sure that you have everything you need while I am away. Please stay! Give me this one chance. If you leave me after I come back, I will not stop you. In everlasting love,
Your husband Franco.
Marie put down the note. An attempt to save what could not be saved. How could he leave her on her own, at this time of all times?
In good times and in bad . . . but how much did she still owe Franco after all this?
Pale winter sunlight streamed into the room. Marie looked outside, her gaze vacant. The palms, the laurel bushes, the neatly trimmed box trees—everything looked just as it had before. The thought that she had not even said good-bye to Franco only added to her misery.
Air! She had to get out of bed and go out for some fresh air. Perhaps that would calm the tumult in her head a little.
She walked barefoot through the workshop and tried to open the double door that led into the garden, but it was stuck. She t
wisted the handle and shook it hard, but the door wouldn’t budge. That was odd, as the gardener had oiled the hinges and the lock at her request only last week—it used to squeak with every little puff of air.
Well then, not out into the garden. What then? Should she pack up a few things and sneak out of the house?
Perhaps Franco was still there? It was only seven o’clock after all. If she saw him again, perhaps that would help her to understand. She could tell him why she had to go—she owed him that much, at least. Marie rushed to put on her robe. Suddenly she was in a hurry. But when she went to open the door to the hallway, that didn’t open either.
Marie frowned. Was she being especially clumsy today? She rattled in vain at the doorknob, but to no avail. This couldn’t be happening!
She leaned against the door and pushed with her whole weight. Nothing happened. What could it possibly mean?
“Franco!” she shouted. “Franco, open the door!”
Panic rose inside Marie, stretching its tentacles like an unfurling octopus.
“Damn it all, what is this? Can’t anybody hear me?”
Nothing happened.
Marie was a prisoner.
18
“Great God in Heaven, Wanda! I’m a glassblower, not a factory worker! You and your ideas!” Thomas Heimer’s fist crashed down on the kitchen table. He shook his head, enraged. “When you said you wanted to help in the workshop, I thought you were talking about the dusting, or doing the spring cleaning when the time comes. You never mentioned that you wanted to turn the whole place upside down!”
Wanda was speechless for a moment. She pressed her lips together angrily.
“I certainly never said anything about dusting! Do you think Mother would ever have agreed if she knew that I were just here as your cleaning woman?” she said once she recovered a little.
Only two days before, a letter had arrived from New York, five pages long, in which Ruth had expressed in no uncertain terms her disapproval of Wanda’s sudden wish to help her father. Wanda had been racking her brain over the best way to phrase a reply that would calm her mother down—although so far she had come up with nothing.
“Oh yes, the young lady’s much too good to do the dirty work! Just like her dear mama, back then!” Eva spat from where she stood by the stove.
“Don’t you think I’d have switched over to technical glass long ago if I had seen any point in it?” Heimer answered with forced patience. He lifted his beer glass and signaled to Eva that he wanted more.
“Reaction flasks and test tubes—what’s any of that got to do with the glassblower’s art?” Eva asked, slamming a new bottle of beer down on the table in front of Thomas. Then she went back to the stove and gave one of her nameless soups a stir. “Quite apart from which there are already plenty of glassblowers who earn their living that way.”
“All I ever hear about is your art! But the fact is that however artistic your work may be, it doesn’t put food on the table. Isn’t that right? So what’s the logical next step? Look for something that does earn you a crust of bread! That’s all I’m trying to do, and I’d be grateful if the two of you could at least try to make an effort instead of knocking down every idea I come up with. And please, Eva, if you’re not going to put a lid on that pot, then at least open the window! The steam’s making me quite queasy,” Wanda snapped. This whole undertaking was just getting to be too much for her!
She had quickly noticed that nobody in the Heimer household treated anyone else with kid gloves. Nobody took much trouble to be polite or consider anyone’s feelings or speak a kind word. Everybody said exactly what was going through their minds—Wanda included—and said it plain. All the same she still felt a pang of frustration every time Thomas knocked down yet another of her suggestions—one or two of which were quite good ideas! Of course she was no expert on how to run a business, but she was nonetheless astonished at just how much she had learned about Lauscha and the glass industry in the last few weeks. Once she had even sat down at the lamp and tried her hand at blowing a glass, under Thomas’s guidance. She hadn’t done very well, however, and she remembered how much she had hated craft lessons back in New York.
Eva slammed a lid onto the pot and then slammed the door behind her. A moment later, she stuck her head back into the kitchen.
“Nobody invited you here, don’t you forget that! You come here and you imagine we’ve just been sitting waiting for you and your daft ideas! If Wilhelm could hear you, he’d be a lot less pleased to have you in the house!”
Then the door slammed again.
Silence filled the room.
Thomas Heimer was the first to speak. “Technical glassware, glass buttons, spun glass—we can’t just switch production over from one day to the next; there are specialists in all those areas. And that wild idea of yours of putting a display case on the front of the house . . . None of this is as easy as you imagine, Wanda.” He spoke gently, as though ashamed of his earlier outburst.
“I never said that it would be easy, did I?” Wanda said. “But even you have to see that something must be done.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Good times give way to bad times and then the other way around. You have to be able to sit it out without turning the whole workshop upside down in the meantime. That’s just a law of nature; it’s always been that way.” Heimer sighed. “But what does a city girl like you know about these things?”
“You and your laws of nature! I’d be interested to know why these laws don’t affect all the glassblowers equally but only the ones who refuse to move with the times. Fashions don’t come back around again all that soon once they’re passed, because people have simply had enough of looking at them. I’m a city girl; I know what I’m talking about when it comes to trends! Isn’t most Lauscha glassware sold in towns? People want something new! Modern products that make life that little bit easier. Pretty new things to decorate their homes. And all those factories that are stealing work from under your nose, they’re not going to disappear either!” Wanda leaned back in her chair, worn out. How many times did she have to explain it all to him? She was beginning to feel like one of her mother’s phonograph records, skipping over a crack and repeating the same thing over and over again.
Neither of them said a word. Stubborn silence reigned.
They simply couldn’t find any common ground. Her father refused to even consider any of her ideas. But she trudged up the hill to the Heimer house every day anyway.
The way he sat there, sulking like an overgrown schoolboy! When he did that, he had the same stubborn lines around his mouth as her grandfather when he refused to eat what Eva tried to feed him. If she came out now with her idea about the colored marbles, he would undoubtedly say that wouldn’t work either.
Wanda stood up. “I’m going. I promised Richard I would say hello.”
Heimer looked down into his empty beer glass.
After she left, Wanda stuck her head back into the kitchen, just like Eva had done before. “Sometimes I think you only agreed to have me come up here because you know it annoys Eva.”
“You did what?” Richard put down the piece of glass he was working on and looked at Wanda in dismay.
“I suggested that he put a display case on the front of the house and have some of his pieces on show there. And a sign inviting people to come into the workshop to watch him work. Anybody who has never seen how glass is blown is bound to find it interesting. Something like that will bring the customers in, I’m sure of it. But he refuses to even consider the idea. ‘I’m not an animal in a zoo!’ was all he said. Shouted, even.” Wanda smoothed down the hair at the back of her head. Her hackles rose just at the memory!
Richard laughed. Then he beckoned her over. “Come here so I can kiss you!” he called out, still laughing.
“I’d like to know what you find so funny,” Wanda answered, staying where she was. Her glance fel
l on the frost flowers that covered the inside of the windowpanes. How could Richard work in this cold all day long? “The shops in town would be quite lost without showcases and window displays. There has to be something to tempt people inside!”
“Well yes, but not here in the village. Wanda—we’re at the back of beyond here! Don’t you know what the city folk used to call us? Hillbillies with bellows!”
Wanda blinked back tears. “Now you’re against me as well!”
Richard’s flame flickered and died. His stool scraped across the floorboards and he walked over to Wanda. He took her hands and kissed each palm.
Wanda felt a shiver run down her spine and went weak at the knees.
“Who’s going to come looking at shopwindows? You can count on two hands the number of visitors who find their way to Lauscha. We make a living from our contacts in the outside world.” There was a faint note of impatience in Richard’s voice.
“I know all that,” Wanda grumbled. She was stung by the thought that she had made herself sound ridiculous. “And contacts are exactly what my father doesn’t have. Not anymore. He’s had one lousy commission these last few weeks. Fifty bowls, with stem and foot—what riches! He’s stone broke and the workshop is finished, but do you think he understands that?”
She heaved a sigh.
“He’s so fatalistic! How can I persuade him that he has to make things happen himself? You can do anything you want in this world! Though first of course you have to know what it is that you want . . .” Her anger died down a bit and she turned thoughtful. “I feel like a fisherman casting my rod into a murky pond without really knowing what kind of catch I’m after. Whatever I suggest to my father—he’s against it. The whole thing’s turning into a staring match. At least that’s something we’re both good at!”
The American Lady (The Glassblower Trilogy Book 2) Page 30