The Flip Side

by James Bailey

  Did I imagine that?

  “Try the English bookstore on Schellingstrasse . . . Words’ Worth.”

  As I walk past his cubicle, I notice he has a copy of Jane Eyre open on his desk.

  Andreas is actually an old romantic.

  Before I encounter any other official, I make my way quickly through Baggage Reclaim and then out into the German daylight.

  Now just the small matter of finding Sunflower Girl in this city of 1.5 million people. At least I have my first destination.

  21

  I think they’re expecting about six million visitors this year for the festival, so it’s going to be very busy everywhere,” the young man sitting next to me on the airport bus explains. He is dressed in a blue checked shirt with traditional lederhosen, and until he mentions the festival, I wonder if everyone dresses like this in Germany.

  Who knew that Oktoberfest actually takes place in September?

  Apparently everyone but me.

  It seems like false advertising. Like having Christmas in November.

  So my one in 1.5 million chance has already become one in 7.5 million. If I was trying to find a needle in a haystack before, I’m now looking for a needle in a field of haystacks.

  After I am dropped off in front of the Hauptbahnhof, thousands more checked shirts pass by me, all heading in the same direction, presumably toward the beer. Accompanying them are dozens of women with plaited hair and dressed in traditional dirndls, although some look more like the kind of outfits that you would find in a branch of Ann Summers than an authentic Bavarian store. Everyone seems to be speaking with an English or Australian accent.

  I definitely look the odd one out, dressed in jeans and a sweater, but I push on against the crowds and walk toward Andreas’ recommended bookshop, Words’ Worth. A quick search online tells me there are only two English bookshops in the city, and both are within a few minutes’ stroll to the Neue Pinakothek, where Sunflowers is on display.

  As I get closer, it’s clear from the abundance of coffee shops and takeaway food outlets promoting their student discounts that I’m entering the university area. Teenagers tumble out of a vintage clothes store onto the pavement, having just bought a bag full of denim by the kilo. Every time I see a flash of a yellow jacket I get excited, as if that is all Sunflower Girl ever wears. I follow the herd of students toward Munich University’s Department of English and American Studies, which is right next door to the bookshop. The copper-colored sign tells me I’ve arrived. I walk in through the maroon steel doors of the shop with butterflies in my stomach.

  The handful of customers inside don’t look like Andreas; they are young, carrying backpacks, and presumably study English next door. An oversized black-and-white rug covers the right-hand side wall, with the slogan “Booksellers Words’ Worth since 1985” embroidered across it. More than an English bookstore, it seems to be a tribute to English culture. Tea trays and porcelain mugs, royal memorabilia and jars of marmalade, dainty napkins and postcards of Henry VIII and his six wives are all on sale. There is a whole gardening section complete with Alan Titchmarsh books. I didn’t realize he was so popular in Germany.

  The shop is smaller than I expected and is spaced out over three mezzanine levels. I shuffle around the store, pretending to look at the books, but I’m really keeping an eye out for Sunflower Girl. There don’t appear to be any staff around, let alone the one I want to find. I take the few steps up to the first mezzanine level, where there is a DVD section. I browse through the collection, quickly realizing it is made up of the most stereotypical British movies from Harry Potter and James Bond to Monty Python and the entire Carry On collection. Do the Germans think we just watch Mr. Bean constantly?

  I notice a series of framed letters hanging on the opposite wall. They are all addressed to the bookshop from Clarence House. The first one is from the Queen Mother’s secretary, informing the shop that the Queen Mother won’t be able to open Words’ Worth; the second thanks the shop for their birthday wishes to the Queen Mother; and the third apologizes that the Queen Mother won’t be able to attend the shop’s anniversary celebrations. I expect the fourth one is from the Queen Mother telling them to get lost and stop bothering her, but before I can read it I notice a pair of legs around the corner. Tucked away on the top level, a fifty-something man is kneeling down on the dark-gray carpeted floor stacking the shelves with new books.

  “Excuse me . . .” I startle him slightly as I approach him from behind.

  “Hallo, kann ich Ihnen helfen?” he says automatically before realizing he can speak in English. “Um, sorry, can I help?”

  “Well, I hope so. I have a random question. I’m looking for a girl who I think might work here, she’s in her twenties and has got dark hair, she’s English . . .” I ramble.

  The guy looks back at me confused.

  “Is there a young English woman who works here with dark hair, by any chance?”

  I repeat it much more slowly this time, although I’m not sure if he’s confused by the words or the question.

  “You mean Clara?” he says as he gets to his feet, towering over me. He must be about six foot three.

  “Maybe, I don’t actually know her name.”

  He looks at me, trying to decipher why I want this information.

  “I will go and get her for you.”

  Can it be this easy? Maybe fate really is on my side. I’ve managed to find her on my first attempt. Jake and Jessie aren’t going to believe it.

  Still looking bewildered, he wanders off and heads through a door at the back of the shop, squeezing between customers and bookshelves.

  My heart starts beating more quickly, my hands sweating.

  What am I going to tell her?

  I didn’t expect to find her straightaway. I haven’t even thought about what I am going to say. And I didn’t envisage having to talk to her in front of a crowded bookstore with the owner standing beside us. How am I going to explain why I’ve traveled to Munich to find her? Maybe I should just leave before they come back.

  As I pace up and down, contemplating just running out of the door, I notice the man coming back. There doesn’t seem to be any sign of a woman with him. Maybe she has spotted me and refused to come out. Maybe he’s going to ask me to leave the store before they call the police.

  “Sorry, sir, I think Clara left for the day. She studies in the afternoon.”

  “OK, can I just check that Clara is definitely English? And she’s about this height, with dark hair?” I gesture with my hands.

  “Yes, that’s right. That’s her. She will be working tomorrow morning, or I can call her if necessary?”

  “No, that’s OK, I will come back tomorrow. Thank you very much for your help.” I sense a phone conversation would be even more embarrassing. I want to ask him if he has a photo to confirm it’s her, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I will just wait until tomorrow to see her in person.

  I smile, unable to believe my luck, and head back out into the street, my heart racing.

  I am already daydreaming about my reunion tomorrow with Sunflower Girl, or Clara. I didn’t envisage her being called Clara. It makes sense that she works in this shop next to the university; I can see her studying English literature there. I wonder where she is now. I look around at all the students, trying to spot her in the crowd, wondering if she is at a lecture. Or maybe she is at the festival? Perhaps she’s dressed in a dirndl and downing beers while dancing on tables?

  As it’s only around the corner, I decide to check out the other English bookstore, the Munich Readery. It is set away from the hustle and bustle of the university campus and has a more discreet frontage. It’s purely a secondhand bookshop, and so just a handful of relatively new books are propped up in the window, with no royal memorabilia adding to the display. Although if you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, you shouldn’t judge a bookshop by the outside. By the entrance, there is a stack of blue bric-a-brac crates containing half-price books. I have a
quick browse through before I go in, flicking through dog-eared James Patterson novels and out-of-date travel guides.

  The inside of the shop is like a private medical-surgery waiting room, with light-wooden laminated flooring, large green IKEA plants in white pots, and comfy armchairs. Separating the room is a labyrinth of large floor-to-ceiling black bookshelves that are positioned at different angles. A bald-headed, bespectacled American man, who could be Stanley Tucci’s twin, sits behind the counter, discussing his pets on the phone. I can’t help but listen in as I linger by the nonfiction section. It takes me a while to realize Dickens is the name of his dog.

  “You know what it’s like . . . Yes . . . Yes, exactly . . . They take a while to settle in, don’t they . . . I remember when we got the two kittens . . . Yes, that’s right . . . Now they get along with each other, and with Dickens. Thank God . . .”

  “Excuse me, do you know when the new Danielle Steel book will be in stock?” I hear a woman’s voice ask him.

  “It depends when someone brings it in,” he says, before going back to his phone conversation.

  I wait to hear him put the phone down before I walk over to the counter.

  “Can I get you an espresso?” he asks as I approach, in a thick New York twang.

  I look back at him, confused, thinking I am in a bookshop, not a Starbucks, until I see the sign on the counter advertising hot drinks for sale. He is enterprisingly putting the kettle next to his computer to good use.

  “No, I’m OK, thanks, I was just wondering if there is an English girl who normally works here? She’s in her twenties with dark hair?”

  “Sorry, man, I am the only person who works in this shop and I haven’t been twenty or had hair for many years.” He laughs at his own joke. I muster a little chuckle back so as not to appear rude.

  I am not too despondent as I leave, confident that Clara is indeed Sunflower Girl. I am more concerned about where I am going to stay tonight, given every hotel, hostel, and guesthouse in the city is fully booked, or priced exorbitantly, due to the influx of tourists from around the world. I wander back through the city center, past the Rathaus-Glockenspiel, where some of these tourists are gathered, waiting to see the figures coming out of the clock.

  Having been turned away from four hotels, just as I am about to find a piece of pavement to settle down on for the night, I spot a hostel near the main train station with a sign “Rooms Available.” Thank God, I think, until the receptionist reveals the price. Even with my knowledge of hotels, I can’t haggle the price down much, considering they only have one private room left. I begrudgingly hand over a large portion of my quiz winnings and head upstairs, realizing when the lift takes five minutes to reach the third floor that this isn’t going to be the best accommodation in Munich. I turn the key and walk in, but it’s difficult to actually fit myself and my bag into the room. If it seems like false advertising to have a festival named Oktoberfest in September, then it certainly is false advertising to describe the cupboard I have paid 150 euros for as a “premium private room.” Describing a cupboard as a “room” is pushing it. Describing it as “private” when it lacks any curtains is a step too far. Especially as the window looks directly out onto a multistory office block. I would say I can just change in the bathroom, but the “bathroom” isn’t quite how it had been described. There’s no bath for a start. There’s not even a door. And someone took the unique decision to place the toilet directly underneath the sink, meaning only a contortionist can use it. Most bizarrely of all, the floor is heated. Forget curtains, or a toilet door, underfloor heating is the one luxury you just can’t do without.

  Still, all that matters is that tomorrow I’m going to be reunited with Clara.

  22

  I lie in bed waiting for the clock to move. I feel like I’m seven years old, waiting for everyone else to wake up.

  I wasn’t expecting to be excited about my twenty-ninth birthday. I was dreading it. Another year with nothing to report. In fact, I stopped being excited about birthdays after my twenty-first, when I got food poisoning at a cheap restaurant Dad picked for us. I spent the entire evening throwing up in the toilet.

  But today is different. Today is going to be the best birthday ever.

  I don’t even mind when Jake and Jessie both text with digs about my age. Nor when I open the football-boot card from Mum and Dad that is designed for a five-year-old.

  The bookshop doesn’t open until 10 a.m., and it’s only about a twenty-minute walk. I have plenty of time to scoff down the eggs in the breakfast buffet and pack my stuff, which is easy when everything is within an arm’s reach in the box room.

  “How was your stay?” the young man in the hostel reception asks as I hand back the key.

  Well, I’ve barely slept, because of nerves and the constant noise of the revelers returning to the hostel, which now means I look awful. It also didn’t help that the air-con system was on all night. Bloodshot eyes, swollen, puffy skin, and a blocked nose are not ideal for our big reunion. And for 150 euros, I didn’t even get any shower gel.

  “It was fine, thanks,” I say, handing back my key and rushing out into the cool Munich morning breeze. Having spent so long on the other side of the desk, I know the receptionist doesn’t want to know the truth.

  As I make my way back toward the bookshop, I overhear what looks like the Munich Free Walking Tour. The poster advertising the tour was plastered all over the hostel, along with adverts for day trips to nearby Berchtesgaden and Neuschwanstein Castle.

  “There is an old tradition that towns try to raid their neighbors’ villages to steal their maypole. If successful, the city who loses the maypole is obliged to host a party in honor of the group responsible for outsmarting the city.”

  The large group of tourists listen attentively as they are gathered around Munich’s maypole. The German woman leading the tour seems to speak English with a Scottish accent, as if she learned by watching episodes of Taggart.

  “A few years ago, Munich Airport’s maypole was stolen. When the airport staff realized the pole was gone, they called Munich’s city police to get their help, but all the airport police heard on the phone was laughing. The city police had actually stolen the maypole and changed the security footage so they wouldn’t see. The airport ended up throwing a party for the city in order to get their maypole back!”

  The whole group laughs along, and I wonder how many times the guide has told that same story.

  As I continue toward the bookstore, I go through my own script in my head and rehearse what I am going to say to Clara.

  I know that this, um, is quite random and, well, you probably weren’t expecting to see me again, but, well, I guess I really liked you and well, um, I wondered if you maybe felt the same?

  I realize as I practice that I sound too much like a Hugh Grant character. It sounded much better when I practiced in front of the mirror last night, even if I did have to contort my whole body to see my reflection.

  In my haste, I reach the street a few minutes early. I contemplate that it seems keen to get to the shop for opening, but too keen to be waiting outside before it opens. As such, I opt to hover down the road, watching the entrance from a distance, seeing if I can spot her going in to work. I decide to give Nan and Pap a call to thank them for their birthday message.

  “Seven six nine eight two four.”

  I never understand why Nan always recites her phone number when she picks up the phone.

  “Hello, how are you?” I say.

  “Good morning. I’m very well, thank you. And how are you today?” she says very politely in her phone voice.

  It usually takes her at least a minute to recognize who I am, so I speed up the process.

  “It’s Josh, Nan. How are you doing?”

  “Oh, Josh, so lovely to hear from you. Happy birthday! Has someone given you the bumps yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Happy birthday to you . . .” She sings the entire song as I stand in the chil
ly street, watching the shop.

  “Thank you very much. I just wanted to say thank you for your lovely message.”

  “That’s OK. We’ve got a present for you too when you get back.”

  “Aw, thanks.”

  “Now then, I wanted to ask you if you knew which route you took to get to Germany? It’s Germany you’re in, right?”

  “Yes, that’s right, Nan, I’m in Munich.”

  I can hear her flicking through her atlas, which was published when the British Commonwealth still ruled the world. Half the countries either don’t exist anymore, have changed their name, or have merged with another country.

  “How did you get there?”

  “I don’t know, I didn’t fly the plane,” I say flippantly, concentrating more on the store.

  I see the man from yesterday unlocking the door and moving a sign outside.

  “Sorry, Nan, I’ve got to go.”

  “Just a minute. Pap just wants to wish you a happy birthday too.”

  “Sorry, Nan. Can you tell Pap I will call him back a bit later on? Thanks again. See you both soon.”

  I hang up.

  As the clocks around the city chime, a sudden rush of students floods onto the street, heading in and out of their classes. As I squeeze through them, my heart is beating rapidly, and I feel like I’m going to throw up. When I’m almost at the door, I stop dead in the middle of the pavement. My legs don’t want to move.

  Is this it? Is this the moment? Am I actually doing this?

  I think of my journey so far this year and all the choices the coin has made that have led me here. I force myself to walk slowly on.

  Come on, Josh, you can do it.

  I pause, once more, outside the shop and take a deep breath.

  Here goes.

  I swing open the door, bound into the shop, and see Clara immediately.

  She is standing behind the counter on the first-floor mezzanine. She is wearing a turquoise-green jumper and dark-rimmed glasses, and her brown hair is tied back in a plait. She looks up from what she is doing and smiles at me as I walk in. “Guten Morgen,” she exclaims.