The American Lady (The Glassblower Trilogy Book 2) Page 17

  She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw him nod reluctantly. Then she cleared her throat.

  “I want to talk to you about something else as well . . . If you don’t mind, I want to drop by and see Sherlain. She was supposed to give a reading yesterday, but she never showed up. There were more than forty people there, all waiting for her in vain! Pandora and I wondered whether she had fallen ill—Sherlain’s been even paler than usual lately, she looked very poorly to me—but when we went to look for her, she wasn’t in her room. I know you think I exaggerate, but I’m worried about her.” She was almost cross with him as she spoke.

  Franco raised his hands in resignation. “As long as it’s just a quick visit and you’re not going to spend half the night playing nurse—no problem. I have other plans for the rest of the evening, though . . .” He took her hand and kissed her knuckles, one by one. “I am going to apply my own special form of persuasion . . .”

  She found Sherlain down in the basement where she lived. And she wasn’t alone. Coming down the stairs, Marie recognized Pandora’s glowing red shawl.

  “Are you here too? If I’d known I wouldn’t have been quite so worried.” Marie ducked her head and put her hand on the rickety railing as she came down the last few steps. Suddenly a terrible smell struck the back of her nose. She began to feel sick.

  Then she saw Sherlain and had to stifle a scream.

  The poet was lying in a huge pool of blood. Her dress, the gray bed sheets—everything was covered in reddish-brown blood, already dry in some places. Her brow was slick with sweat, and the whites of her eyes were as yellow as a jaundice patient’s. Her eyes were wide open. When she spotted Marie, they fluttered a little.

  Marie knelt down next to the filthy bed as though in a trance.

  “Sherlain . . . what happened?” She shook her gently by the arm, which flopped back and forth like that of a doll. There was no answer, just groaning. A loud, persistent ringing erupted in Marie’s ears.

  Dear Father in Heaven, help!

  “Pandora, tell me what’s wrong!”

  The dancer shook her head. Her eyes were rimmed with red and she looked wretched, exhausted. She dipped a dirty cloth into a bucket of brackish water, wrung it out, and put it to Sherlain’s forehead.

  “Stand up, Marie, we’re leaving. This is no place for you!”

  Marie looked up at Franco, who was standing on the last step, his features motionless.

  “What are you talking about? I can’t just leave! We have to get a doctor. You have to find a doctor; she’s bleeding to death!” When he still didn’t move she added, “Franco, don’t make me plead with you! I’ll wait here while you fetch a doctor.”

  “Leave it, Marie,” Pandora said in a thin voice. “No doctor would treat her. But we’ve already had someone here, a nurse who took care of her. The worst is over now, she’ll live.”

  “A nurse? But why is she still lying in . . . If it’s a matter of money—I’ll pay for everything!”

  “Marie, calm down!” Pandora was almost shouting herself now. “Do I have to look after you as well now?”

  Marie stepped back as though she’d been slapped in the face.

  “How can you both be so . . . cold-blooded?” she sobbed, and shrank back when Franco put his hand out toward her. “Sherlain . . .”

  What had happened to the proud poet? As a thousand thoughts coursed through Marie’s head, she felt as though the world were crashing down around her ears. Suddenly Sherlain’s bittersweet voice echoed in her head.

  “I give you my blood, sweet lamb of mine, to still your thirst, to strengthen your spine . . .”

  Other voices joined in.

  “Don’t you think it’s interesting to see the dark side of the city once in a while . . .”

  “In the end we women are the ones who are left with a bun in the oven . . . !”

  “We have to talk . . . I have to go back to Genoa next week.”

  New York without Franco?

  Alone.

  Without the love of her life.

  Marie screamed and put her hands over her ears. She clung to Franco’s chest. Only when he held her in his arms did she realize that she had been holding her breath—and she finally dared to release it. The voices died away.

  She didn’t resist as Franco helped her up the stairs. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Pandora looking up at her, but she did not stop.

  When they reached the street, Franco released her gently. He lifted her chin and wiped her tears away with his thumb.

  “Everything has its price, mia cara. Sherlain must have known that a time would come when she had to pay it, but she went with all those men regardless.” His voice was hard. “Or did somebody force her to behave like a whore?”

  Not now. Not that.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Marie said, tired.

  He shrugged.

  For a while they walked along in silence like two strangers. It had rained earlier and the streets were empty. The light from the streetlamps shimmered dully in the puddles, and rats scuttled across their path. Most nights the rats only ventured out of the shadowy walls of the buildings much later, and Marie screamed in alarm at the sight of them.

  Franco spun around, but when he realized that there was no danger he walked on.

  Marie tried to tell herself that she was happy he was leaving her alone. But they had only walked two blocks when she could no longer bear the distance between them. She swallowed hard to get rid of the lump in her throat. Then she grabbed his sleeve and turned him around to face her.

  His gaze was cool.

  “Franco, I don’t want to argue with you. Please . . . I . . .” She screamed again as a rat ran over her right shoe. All of a sudden Marie found everything around her sickening—the streets, the trash on the sidewalks, the shadowy streets, the tall buildings hiding the moon. Ruth with accusation in her eyes. And Wanda, moping and feeling sorry for herself.

  “It’s this damned city! It’s the city’s fault that people here don’t know what they’re doing anymore!”

  “Do you want me to leave you alone here next week, in this devil’s kitchen?” Franco asked quietly.

  “No.” Marie was suddenly certain. “Take me away from here!”

  He didn’t answer right away, so she said again, “Take me away from New York.”

  PART TWO

  The stars dance on your soul, your heart shimmers in moonlight. The sun your sister—and as you go on your way you feel that the truth, if only for a moment, is close by.

  1

  “How often do I have to repeat myself? I haven’t the faintest idea!” Ruth shouted into the receiver. “At any rate she won’t be going back to Lauscha at the end of September as planned. She’s only told me what she told you in the letter, which is that she’s gone off to Switzerland with this Franco . . . Of course she’s in love with him—what kind of question is that? He’s quite turned her head, this Italian of hers, and don’t ask me how! It’s the only way to explain her behavior, though.”

  Wanda tried for the umpteenth time to catch her mother’s attention, but Ruth acted as though she hadn’t seen her.

  “Yes, there are two other women traveling with her. Friends of mine?” She gave a shrill laugh. “Great heavens above, no! I don’t even know them. Well that’s not quite true; I once had the dubious pleasure of meeting one of them, since she was Wanda’s dance teacher!” This time she looked straight at Wanda, with disapproval in her eyes. “The other one is apparently a poet. She says they’re her friends! Though if you ask me they’re a pair of tramps! Back in Lauscha we’d have laughed at them in the street!”

  “Ask Aunt Johanna whether . . .”

  Ruth waved her away again. Her pale cheeks were flushed with hectic red spots and she had pursed her lips.

  “My dear sister, I think you ha
ve got quite the wrong idea about how Marie behaved during her visit. She couldn’t give a tinker’s cuss what I had to say about anything—most of the time she was just out looking for fun.”

  A tinker’s cuss? Wanda had hardly ever heard her mother use such language. Indeed her whole manner had changed, and she had become almost mean-spirited. Wanda sat down on the velvet chaise longue next to Ruth and kept her ears open for her next chance to bring the conversation around to her visit to Lauscha.

  It was the first time since the sudden news of Marie’s departure that Aunt Johanna had walked into town to use the telephone at the post office and call them. Mother had been urging Peter and Johanna to get their own phone line for as long as Wanda could remember, to no avail. Johanna stuck stubbornly to the old ways, writing letters that filled reams of paper and expecting them to write back in just as much detail. But the family back in Lauscha had suddenly leapt into action when Marie sent a telegram announcing that she would not be coming back as planned but would instead be traveling to Ascona with a man she had just met to spend the fall at some place called Monte Verità. All at once Johanna seemed to think that a letter simply wouldn’t do in this case.

  “She’s not ill! It’s one of those women with her; I told you that. It must be the poet, since Wanda tells me that her dance teacher was still in the pink of health last week . . . Oh, what does it matter!”

  Ruth put her hand over the receiver for a moment.

  “You see what Marie’s gone and done now!” she hissed at Wanda. “She’s put off poor Johanna with just a few lines, and now I’m supposed to explain her scandalous behavior! Just think, she never even wrote to Magnus; the poor soul had to hear secondhand that Marie has up and left with another man!”

  Ruth turned back to the receiver.

  “No, Johanna, I was just talking to Wanda. Yes, she’s sitting right here next to me. She sends all her love.”

  Before Wanda could say a word, Ruth skewered her with another look.

  “Franco de Lucca! Well of course he’s Italian, you can tell that from his name! Why Switzerland?” Ruth rolled her eyes. “They’re taking their sick poet off to a sanatorium! The Swiss know all about that sort of thing, or so I’ve heard. All the same I would have thought that a patient from New York might have gone to convalesce in New England somewhere. I mean, think how much the journey must cost! But apparently Franco’s paying for everything, don’t ask me why. Marie mentioned some nonsense about wanting to take her friend to a sanatorium that’s run by artists—perhaps this woman thinks she’ll recover sooner if she’s surrounded by her own sort.”

  Johanna must have said something in reply, since Ruth frowned deeply.

  Wanda ran her finger over the threads on one of the satin cushions, and her mother immediately put out a hand to stop her.

  “Worried about Marie? To be honest, I don’t see why you should be. She’s made a very good catch with this Franco, let me tell you. You should have seen the tiara that he gave Marie as a present. A tiara!” she yelled. “Besides which, she’s not worrying about you. Or do you think she cares how you’re going to get through the next few weeks without her?” she said sharply. The tic under her right eye was back.

  Wanda sighed. If Mother got a migraine now, she could forget all about asking permission to go off on travels of her own.

  “Our little sister is only thinking about herself. She’s out for a good time, believe you me. I know, I know, that doesn’t sound like the old Marie at all!”

  “Why don’t you ask Aunt Johanna when I can come and visit?” Wanda asked, shaking her mother insistently by the arm.

  “Will you be quiet?” Ruth hissed. And then she spoke into the receiver again. “I meant Wanda, not you. What does she want?” Ruth heaved a heartfelt sigh. “Well if I were to tell you everything she wants, you’d have nothing to eat next month because you’d have spent all your money on the telephone. I’ll put it all in a letter, and more besides!” she announced ominously. “But I can tell you one thing for sure: after all that happened here, Marie needn’t bother coming back anytime soon. She hit us harder than a hurricane just on this first visit!”

  Half an hour later Wanda left the apartment. Rather than waiting for the elevator, she opened the heavy iron door at the end of the hallway and gathered up her skirts to climb the fire escape up to the roof.

  Just as she had expected, her mother was now lying down with a migraine. Before she went to her room, though, she had left no doubt as to whom she blamed for her suffering.

  “Ever since Marie arrived, it seems to have become the fashion for everyone in this family to look out only for themselves. Nobody ever asks how I feel! My nerves feel as fragile as glass,” she lamented. “First Marie leaves town on a whim, and now you come along with this obsession about going to Germany! I told you last week that I think it’s a terrible idea. Harold would certainly not welcome the thought of your leaving, and heaven knows that Johanna has enough to do right now, what with having to parcel all of Marie’s work out to others!” Ruth spoke as though Wanda was to blame for all that Marie had done.

  “She has one less glassblower in the workshop, so she doesn’t have time for tourists. Quite apart from which, I haven’t the faintest idea what you want to get out of going to Lauscha. If you imagine that the man who happens to be your father is eagerly awaiting your arrival, you’re mistaken. He didn’t even glance at you once the day you were born! He just went off to the tavern and got stinking drunk while I cried my eyes out back at home. That’s how things were, missy!” Ruth became angrier with every sentence. “But nobody wants to hear about that, oh no. Anybody listening to you and Marie would think that I’m the villain here, that I stole you away from your father!” Her voice was bitter, as it always was when she spoke of Thomas Heimer.

  Wanda knew exactly what would come next. As indeed it did.

  “I only want what’s best for you, child,” Ruth said, her voice suddenly softer. “I can just imagine how Marie filled your head with all sorts of romantic nonsense about Thuringia, about the pine trees rustling in the forests and the brooks babbling over the rocks and birdsong everywhere. But the truth’s quite different; cramped little homes that lose their roof tiles in winter, children who have to work alongside their parents from morning till night for a few moldy potatoes and maybe a scrap of ham to go with it. After our father died, we three girls didn’t even know how we would afford the wood for the stove that winter! Oh, we were young and slim and pretty, but we didn’t owe our trim figures to corsets or tailored dresses. Why do you think thousands of Germans emigrate every year? Why did Steven’s family emigrate? Not because life in the old country is so wonderful! Forget Lauscha. You don’t belong there any more than I do.” She wanted to stroke Wanda’s arm but her daughter pulled away.

  “And so you want me to deny my roots, just the way you did?” she blazed back at her mother. “We speak a little German from time to time and that seems to be enough for you. Why do we never eat German food at home? And why do we celebrate Thanksgiving but never the harvest festival?”

  Her mother was at a loss for words. Instead of even trying to answer she changed the subject just as she always did when she didn’t like the turn a conversation was taking.

  “What would you say to starting tennis lessons this fall? I hear that more and more young ladies are taking it up, and the white outfits are most attractive. Or if you like, you could go riding with your cousin Dorothy. She always says that a gallop through the park first thing in the morning is the finest pastime you can imagine.”

  Wanda waved the suggestions away. Tennis and riding—next her mother would suggest that she join a church choir.

  Up on the roof she had to squint as the sun sank down behind the buildings across the avenue. It had been a cool day with heavy rain in the morning, and the evening was noticeably cold. Wanda shivered as she headed for her favorite spot by the chimney. It would
n’t be long before it got too windy and cold to come up here.

  A pair of pigeons nesting by the chimney cooed curiously at her approach. Wanda shooed them away. There were no crumbs of dark rye bread for them today, no tales of the old German homeland. A tear ran down her cheek. She hadn’t realized she was crying.

  She missed Marie so much!

  “What do I do now?” she whispered as the pigeons strutted off through a puddle.

  “Everybody has a mission in life,” Marie had told her. “You just have to know what it is. And that’s true for you too.” It had sounded so true when she said it.

  Wanda ran her hand over the slab of cold stone where she sat. Only a week ago this stone had been warm, and Marie had been sitting there with her, a sketchpad on her knee. Despite Wanda’s protests Marie had insisted on drawing her portrait. “Just like in the old days when you were only a babe in arms. You’d hardly started crawling. I drew so many pictures of you in those days that your mother could practically have wallpapered the place with them,” Marie had said, laughing. Wanda also had laughed when she replied that Ruth probably wouldn’t want to be reminded of that these days. It had been one of those moments when everything seemed easy and uncomplicated. Once Marie had finished the portrait, she shut her sketchpad so carefully that anyone would have thought the sheets were made of gold leaf. “This way I can take something of you with me,” she whispered softly. And the carefree moment had passed.

  It had been their last conversation before she left.

  Wanda hadn’t let Marie go so easily. She had burst into tears, and she had said some harsh words. She accused her aunt of leaving her in the lurch, and Marie had been visibly hurt by the charge, nearly in tears herself.

  “I’m sorry if that’s the way you see it,” she had replied. “But there’s nothing more I can do for you. Not even if I stayed a couple of weeks longer. You have to find out for yourself what you will do with your life.” That was when she had told Wanda that everybody had a mission.