The American Lady (The Glassblower Trilogy Book 2) Read online

  “Franco de Lucca makes poor old Harold look like a wet blanket,” she sighed.

  “Wanda! One simply doesn’t say such things,” Ruth scolded her. “Let Marie have her handsome Italian! I always thought that Magnus wasn’t the man for her. And Johanna did rather suggest something of the sort in her last few letters before Marie set off to join us.” Ruth glanced hastily over her shoulder, as if to make quite sure that Marie hadn’t suddenly appeared in the doorway.

  “What did she say?” Wanda was intrigued. Her mother didn’t often share such confidences.

  Ruth sighed meaningfully. “She wrote that Marie was depressed but didn’t know it. So of course the first question that popped into my mind was how dear Johanna managed to diagnose it. She thinks that anyone who doesn’t work a twelve-hour day with a smile can’t be right in the head. But now that I’ve seen Marie here with us, I have to admit that Johanna seemed to be right: my little sister didn’t seem terribly happy when she arrived.”

  Wanda shrugged. “But she seemed happier even before she met Franco, don’t you think?” She didn’t want to say so, but she was quite sure that it had done Marie good to get out and about with Pandora and herself. What Marie had really needed was to meet other artists and talk to them about their ideas.

  “Well I should think so! If she hadn’t flourished under our tender loving care, there would have to have been something really wrong with her!” Ruth declared in mock outrage.

  Wanda grinned. It was fun talking to her mother like this. She felt sorry now for having teased her earlier.

  “A little love affair never hurt anyone. Although I’m surprised at how quickly she forgot Magnus. That’s not like her,” Ruth went on thoughtfully. “Marie was never much interested in the opposite sex. I remember the first May dance after our dear father died . . . how the boys all tried to get her onto the dance floor! But Marie brushed them all off. First I thought that she was just waiting for the right one to come along, but then I realized that she simply found the lot of them boring. Blowing glass was more exciting to her than spending time with boys. She never cared for clothes or jewelry, or how her hair looked, because she was never interested in looking good for the boys.” Ruth was silent for a moment, lost in memory. “When I think about it . . . when she was a young girl, Marie was very much like you are today. After all, you don’t take much trouble to make yourself look pretty for Harold. It’s no wonder he hasn’t proposed yet! When I think how things happened with your father all those years ago . . .” She sighed. “The way we flirted and gazed into one another’s eyes and held hands under the table . . . Oh, and then I followed him halfway around the world, all for love!”

  At first Wanda wanted to protest that what Ruth had said about Harold was unfair, but instead she asked, “Will you tell me again what it was like to set off from Lauscha in the dead of night, in secret and all on your own?” Wanda loved the story, and Ruth loved to tell it. She always worked herself up into such a pitch of enthusiasm that she could be talked around to anything afterward. But today she wouldn’t let Wanda distract her.

  “No, that’s enough talk! I have to come up with the wine list. And I have an idea for you as well. Can you get a pen and paper, please?”

  Wanda looked up, ready to take orders. “What would you like me to do?”

  “You could write a letter to Aunt Johanna. It’s weeks overdue now. Your cousin Anna writes me every six weeks, you know, even if it’s just a few lines,” Ruth added.

  Wanda made a face. She was ready for any little task except writing to her country cousins in Thuringia. Why couldn’t they get themselves a telephone?

  “And I’ll ask Marie to write something as well when she comes back today. She’s been here nearly two months now and hasn’t dropped them a line—it’s simply shocking!” Ruth said emphatically.

  Wanda stood up hurriedly. Her mother could quite easily work herself into a rage and end up forbidding Wanda to do this, that, or the other.

  “I’m very sorry, but my dance class begins in thirty minutes. If I don’t get moving, I’ll miss the start!” She gathered her skirts and was halfway out the door before Ruth could protest. “Perhaps I will even see Marie at Pandora’s studio! If I do, I’ll remind her about the party tomorrow.”

  “What didn’t you do?” Wanda was almost shrieking.

  “Pay the rent. I just forgot.” Pandora waved away Wanda’s fury. “You might say I had a minor cash-flow problem. These things happen! Not to you, of course, you have Daddy for that sort of trifling detail, don’t you?”

  Wanda did her best to ignore the jab. She pointed to the huge bundle of luggage that was piled up in the courtyard of the building where Pandora used to have her dance studio. “Now what?”

  The dancer simply shrugged.

  When Pandora had announced that the class would take place outside that day, Wanda hadn’t suspected anything was wrong. It was one of Pandora’s exercises, she thought; perhaps they were going to watch the children playing in the streets and then include that in their dance. She only had her doubts at the end of the lesson—which had been much more conventional than Pandora’s usual style—when she and the others wanted to freshen up in the restroom, and Pandora told them that it was closed for repairs. Repairs¸ Wanda wondered, in that fleapit?

  While the others had trotted off without washing, Wanda had taken out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from her brow as best she could.

  Now Pandora was sitting on the pile of luggage that was all she had left in the world, her shoulders drawn up in misery. Her haughtiness had vanished as though in a puff of smoke.

  “Something’s always turned up at the last minute, until now,” she said in a weak voice. “I have so many friends!”

  Wanda nodded. And when the moment came, none of them were there to help her!

  She turned away and opened the clasp of her handbag discreetly to see how much money she had in her purse. Then she went over to Pandora.

  “Get up, you lame duck! I may be just a little rich girl, but let me tell you what happens next! You need a three-stage plan, nothing else will do.”

  A faint flicker of hope gleamed in Pandora’s eyes.

  “The first thing we need to do is take everything back inside. It won’t do your reputation any good to be seen out here looking like a common beggar.” Wanda had already picked up a bundle.

  “Don’t you think I’ve already thought of that? I know how all these law-abiding citizens’ minds work. They’re wondering right now why they should take me seriously as a dancer if I can’t even pay my rent! They simply don’t understand that an artist lives at least partly in another world, so to speak,” Pandora said as she gathered up a stack of hatboxes.

  Wanda made a face. That sounded like the old Pandora!

  “The next thing I’ll do is talk to your landlord and give him the rent for this month and for August.”

  “I can’t accept that!” Pandora protested, although she was already putting the hatboxes down on the first landing.

  Wanda felt a flash of anger. She couldn’t help but feel that Pandora had just been waiting for some well-meaning chump like her to turn up. Well, maybe so. Somebody had to take charge of this scatterbrained woman.

  “And the third thing . . .” She paused dramatically. Pandora put down the leather suitcase she had in her hand and looked at her. “The third thing we’ll do is organize a dance recital for you, so that you can put a little money back in your cashbox.”

  11

  It was oppressively hot. The air shimmered in the streets and by midday the housefronts were as hot as a stovetop. The trees were in such dire need of water that they had begun losing their leaves early, as though fall had already come.

  On a day like this there was only one place that held out even a hope of relief, Franco declared—the waterfront. And so he took Marie to Coney Island.

  Jus
t as he had hoped, Marie was enchanted from the moment she set foot in the Luna Park amusement park, which had its own special atmosphere. They spent hours there, riding the carousels, having their fortunes told by a palmist—“You have many happy days ahead of you,” as if they hadn’t known that already!—and then eating ice cream and strolling barefoot on the sand, hand-in-hand, surrounded by happy people with happy faces. But none of them were happier than Franco.

  They made a lovely couple, and the other day-trippers kept glancing at them. Franco had never enjoyed being the center of attention so much. Yes, look over here, all of you! he wanted to call to each and every one of them. Look here and be amazed! The most beautiful woman on God’s earth. But keep your distance, for she’s mine!

  When darkness arrived and the thousands upon thousands of lights in Luna Park came on, tears welled up in Marie’s eyes. She leaned her head on Franco’s chest, inhaling the scent of his tobacco, and told him about Lauscha, about how the flames of the glassblowers’ lamps shone from the windows of their little homes every evening, like glowworms lighting up the dark. He heard a melancholy note in her voice and was jealous. What was it that made her sad? Was she thinking of someone back home? But then she kissed him and was his own beloved Marie again. He pulled her closer.

  “There is a kind of magic that only comes from the place you call home. Back in Genoa we have a fireworks show in midsummer every year. It’s at least as big as the New Year’s show, and the fireworks are launched from ships anchored in the harbor. When thousands of new stars explode in the sky, the sea looks like something from a fairy tale. We have a wonderful view of the whole thing from our town house; you can see every star that falls.” Franco waved his hand at the sea that lay before them now, its water shining black in the twilight. How much bluer, how much clearer was the sea that lapped the shore at home.

  Marie smiled. “That sounds beautiful. Tell me more.”

  “When I was a little boy there was nothing I wanted more than to be big enough to stay up late and watch the fireworks launch. ‘Am I big enough this year?’ I would ask my mother every summer, to no avail. We have a family tradition of throwing a grand ball on that night—and she thought that a child would just get in the way. But my grandmother Graziella took pity on me. As she so often did!” He smiled at the memory. “She would always come into my room just before the fireworks launch to wake me up and then take me upstairs in secret to her own suite. We would stand together at the window and watch the stars shower down. Afterward she would take me back down to bed and give me a bonbon, then go back to the ball as though nothing had happened.”

  “Your grandmother must have been a very good, kind woman,” Marie said.

  “And she was clever as well!” Franco sighed. “What I wouldn’t give to know everything she did about wine. She only needed to glance at a vine in spring and she could tell you whether it would give a good harvest that fall. When I was very little, I thought that she could make the vines blossom just by touching them. Mamma mia, she had winemaking in her blood, that woman!”

  Marie gave him a little dig in the ribs. “I could say the same about you. I’ve never met anyone who can talk about wine with such enthusiasm.”

  “Am I boring you with my stories? If I am, you only have to tell me. I don’t want to . . .”

  “Shhh!” She kissed him. “I love your stories. When I listen to you, it’s as though a whole new world opens up. And even though it’s a world that’s strange to me, I feel that I know it. The way that this . . . passion is passed down from one generation to the next—it’s the same in my family. With us it’s glassblowing, and with you it’s winemaking.” She laughed happily. “No wonder we get on so well!”

  Franco joined in her laughter, but deep inside he felt a gnawing sense of unease. How he would have loved to share Marie’s certainty that the two of them had so much in common! Yet when she spoke, he felt once again how far he had drifted from his original dreams, however hard he pretended otherwise to her. He had begun to feel a deep yearning, a new hope that grew stronger with every day he spent with Marie. The two of them would be together, their love so strong that it could move mountains—he held tight to the thought, convinced that it would be his salvation.

  Later that evening they sat in one of the many beachside restaurants, a plate of steaming mussels between them. Marie reached across the table and took Franco’s hand.

  “Thank you for such a wonderful day! I . . . I feel as though I’m in some wonderland that’s far, far away from New York . . . and from the rest of the world. It’s just like a fairy tale . . .” She raised her hands helplessly. How could she put her happiness into words?

  “I thought New York was wonderland enough for you,” he teased her.

  “It is. But you have to admit it can be a fairly tiring city.” Marie took a piece of bread and threw it to a seagull, which pounced on it.

  Franco shrugged. “I find my work rather tiring, that’s all. It doesn’t leave me enough time for private pleasure, mia cara.”

  Marie groaned. “Must you say that? I already feel guilty that I’m out and about so much. My sister would say that I am being flighty! I really ought to spend an evening with Ruth and Steven.” She sighed. “But whenever I’ve made up my mind to do just that, either Pandora or Sherlain drops by and suggests something that sounds tremendously exciting! And then I just can’t say no. It’s just so exhilarating meeting all these artists and talking to them! I would never in my wildest dreams have imagined that little Marie Steinmann from Lauscha would end up sitting in the artists’ cafés of New York City discussing Expressionism! And now here I am sitting with you . . .”

  Her heart almost burst with the love she felt for this man.

  “Do you have to mention me in the same breath with all those crazies?” he grumbled. “I don’t like the idea of you spending so much time in Greenwich Village. I worry that something might happen to you . . .”

  “Whatever could happen to me there?” she asked, laughing. She knew that Franco simply found the artists’ quarter too strange. It wasn’t a neighborhood with just one smell or just one sort of people, like Little Italy or Chinatown. Voices speaking English, Yiddish, Russian, and German filled the air, and the whole neighborhood was crowded and shabby. But she found it easy to find her way around. She made an effort to sound reassuring.

  “It’s not called the Village for nothing, you know. Everyone knows everyone else, so I feel much happier and more comfortable there than I do in Ruth’s apartment building. All those huge yawning lobbies and the long, lonely corridors!”

  When he didn’t answer, she added, “Besides which, you know quite well why I spend so much of my time with artists.” She frowned. “Oh, Franco—whatever is wrong with me? I’ve never been so happy in my life as I am now—but why can’t I put the feeling down on my sketchpad?”

  “Don’t be sad, mia cara. I can’t bear to see you unhappy.” He leaned across the table toward her. “Your friends drag you from one diversion to the next as though you were a convalescent. As though you had something wrong with your head, and your hands!”

  His remark made her smile slightly.

  “Pandora behaves as though she were in charge of your treatment, but you’re not sick! When I think of that ‘free speech evening’ she made us go to last week—I still have no idea what that was supposed to be about.” He rolled his eyes. “They switched topics so fast it was like watching a mountain goat leap from one cliff to the next. Women’s emancipation, the revolution in Russia, Tolstoy, free love . . .”

  “What do you have against free love?” Marie replied, smiling again. She reached out and brushed aside a lock of hair that clung to his forehead. She didn’t want to argue with Franco.

  “And then that excursion the week before with the photographer, Harrison—I still haven’t forgiven Pandora for that,” Franco said, clenching his fist.

  “But why
ever not? Don’t you think it’s interesting to see the dark side of the city once in a while? Not spend all our time living among the bright lights?”

  “The dark side of the city? I don’t need some high-minded photographer to show me that. And those dreadful pictures he takes! Do you really think that people who already live crammed together like animals in cages enjoy having him come to take their photograph? All that talk about artistic value—he’s just using these poor people’s misery to make money!” Franco was angry. He flapped his hands to shoo away a wheedling seagull that was trying to perch on the edge of their table. “You had nightmares for days after our trip to the slums. Are you going to tell me that’s artistically valuable as well?”

  “I won’t forget seeing those poor people, not as long as I live,” Marie said, looking away from his fierce, dark gaze. She didn’t want to talk about it anymore, but she felt as if she had to explain. “Harrison says that men and women created those slums, so men and women must be the ones to do away with them! I do so hope that it happens.”

  “This Harrison takes himself mighty seriously—they all do. Everyone in that crowd thinks they’re so important!” Franco said savagely.

  “But isn’t it good when people want to change things?”

  “But what are they changing, mia cara? They sit there in their discussion groups, and the world keeps turning outside the door. Faster and faster. And none of them even notice!”

  Marie gazed down at the heap of mussel shells on the plate. She felt hurt.

  “Maybe in your eyes these people aren’t doing anything very special or important. But speaking for myself, I’ve never seen anyone dance like Pandora. And I’ve never heard such heartfelt poetry as Sherlain writes. You said yourself that her work speaks to you! The Greenwich Village crowd is like family to me; each of them has his own particular passion and we all have that one thing in common. Surely you understand!” she cried out, almost desperately. “And they accept that right at the moment I cannot make my art. Nobody looks askance at me. They all say that I simply have to gather enough inspiration, and it will start to happen again.”