Flight of Dreams (17 page)

He's quick when he needs to be. Damn him. And he can't resist a challenge. She knows this about him too. So she is only mildly surprised to hear his voice in the keel corridor, ringing out behind her. She rushes down the stairs.

“We need to talk, Emilie.”

She ignores him, walking faster, eyes darting to and fro in search of a place to escape. The kitchen is her only promising option, and she pushes through the door without having any real plan in mind. It's only when she sees Xaver Maier that an idea takes shape. Max will follow her. She's certain of this. He's still angry and he has not yet said his peace.

“What's wrong?” Xaver asks.

Emilie knows she must look crazed. She steps forward just as the heel of Max's hand smashes against the kitchen door, shoving it inward. She reaches Xaver in three bold steps and throws her arms around his neck. His eyes are wide and alarmed but he hesitates for only a second when she leans in for a kiss. She hears a metal bowl clatter to the floor, dropped by one of the assistant chefs. They have an audience. Good. She can put an end to this situation with Max once and for all.

Xaver is nothing if not opportunistic. His arms are around her waist in a moment. Tight. Greedy. But this kiss is nothing like the one she shared with Max the night before. There is no passion. No warmth. Xaver tastes of yeast and cold water and a hint of parsley. Her skin tingles with nothing but shame, and her ears are tuned to the deep, furious hum emanating from Max's chest behind her. And Xaver, being the bastard that he is, slides his hand down several inches from her waist, threatening to cup her backside. She stiffens beneath him and feels his taunting smile against her lips.

This is the worst kiss of her life. Worse even than the one she had shared with Frank Becker in the back room of her father's shop before she dropped him to the floor. She hadn't told Max that part last night, of course. Emilie wasn't
entirely
innocent in the whole affair. But Xaver is smart enough to know what's happening. He doesn't take this farce too far. If nothing else he possesses a healthy amount of self-preservation. Max is watching after all. No doubt confounded. Bristling.

Each second is interminable. She wants nothing more than to pull away and wipe her mouth. But she cannot do so until Max leaves. It's one thing to do this out of spite; it's another thing to own up to her treachery while he's standing there.

And yet he must know. Because he waits. Silent. Furious. Seeing how long she will pretend.

So Emilie goes for cruelty. She lays her palm flat against Xaver's face and lightly plays with his earlobe. He is a man, after all, and she feels him soften beneath her. His kiss takes on a note of sincerity, and he moves one hand up to cradle her skull. She tries to pull away on reflex, but his grip tightens as his fingers wind through her hair.

Only when she hears the door swoosh shut does she pull away. But she can't look at Xaver right away. She's too ashamed.

“I don't know what is happening between you and Zabel, but don't ever do that to me again.”

She's insulted. Angry. Irrational. “You didn't like it?”

“I didn't say that. Clearly. Where the hell did you learn to kiss like that anyway? But still. Shit. I thought he'd kill me by the look on his face.”

“You kept your eyes
open
?” Emilie hears her words slip out in a horrified hiss. She flinches at the sound.

“That was rather the point, right? Piss off the navigator? Taunt him? It's not like you've ever kissed me before.” He peers at her, curious. “So?”

“I was making a point.”

“Well done.”

“Would you be serious? Please?”

“That's what you were just now?
Serious?
I'd hate to see you act flippant.”

In truth, Emilie is serious. Seriously angry. Seriously ashamed. Seriously confused. Yes. All these things.

“Just”—she holds her palm out, silencing him—“I need to think.”

“A bit late for that, I'd say. You've just broken Zabel's heart and confused the hell out of me. He'll probably kill me in my sleep.” Xaver's toque was knocked askew during her little display, and he sets it back into place. “Listen. Do what you like with your navigator, but leave me out of it, okay? I actually value my life.”

I
f Max could breathe he would call out to Emilie. He would tell her to stop kissing the chef. If he could move he would reach out and break Xaver Maier's skinny neck.

Kiss who you like,
he had told Emilie yesterday,
as long as I'm the one you like the most.
But he hadn't meant it. Not really. It was a rash comment, an ineffective parry in their ongoing battle. The truth is Max doesn't want to share this woman with anyone else. The heat behind his eyes builds and then explodes into a dozen tiny sparks when Maier slides his hand down Emilie's waist. He would sooner cut that hand off than see it groping her. But the chef is less of a fool than he seems, for he stops a fraction of an inch before violating what scant, undeserved trust Emilie has placed in him.

Maier has the eyes of a bear—small and dark and vengeful. He narrows them as he kisses Emilie, taunting Max. He is uncertain whether Maier enjoys the kiss, but Max is certain the chef enjoys the victory. His lungs burn with the agony of expansion. He has yet to release the breath he drew on entering the kitchen. His nostrils sting. His hands begin to shake with the effort of not reaching out to pull Emilie out of Maier's arms. In some far-off part of his mind a single thought registers: jealousy isn't just something you feel; it can be tasted as well. Sharp. Metallic. Like blood drawn from the inside of a cheek. He lets the breath out with a whoosh.

Scheiße!

There is nothing to do but leave. One step backward. Then another. One more and the door swings shut on its hinges and he's standing in the corridor swallowing bloody spit and a good portion of his pride while he gasps for breath as though he has just been kicked in the
Hoden.
Voices erupt on the other side of the door, an argument, but it's just noise to his ears. Some foreign language of betrayal.

It's almost noon and he has no interest in food or company, but he must do something. So he takes twelve steps down the corridor to the officers' mess. It's a compact room to the left of the kitchen, connected by an opening in the wall used to pass dishes back and forth. Commander Pruss, Captain Lehmann, and Colonel Erdmann are already seated at the far table, looking out the observation windows while two other officers play poker as they wait for lunch. Werner Franz is busy setting the table. Lunchtimes are staggered, the first at 11:30 and the second at 12:30. The cabin boy often wolfs down his own food in the kitchen before or after, depending on the rush.

Max's face must still be filled with alarm because Werner's eyes grow round and he opens his mouth as though to ask what's wrong. Max is still flushed and out of breath, but he decides to pre-empt the conversation. He says the first thing that comes to mind only to regret it seconds later. “Werner went with me to engine gondola two this morning.”

The cabin boy is startled, like he's been shot, and the officers assume varying expressions of horror. It takes a moment for Max to register his mistake. And one more to find a course correction.

Werner is frozen in place. His hand trembles a bit, and Max fears he will drop the plate in his hands. Or begin crying.
Just hold it together, kid,
he thinks.

“He was quite brilliant actually.” Max tosses his cap onto the table. Smoothes out the dent in his hair left by the snug band, and drops into the nearest seat. “Didn't even flinch when he went down the ladder. I almost pissed myself the first time I did that midflight. The kid's a natural.”

This isn't entirely true. Werner had been terrified and made no effort to hide it. But the accolade has its desired effect on the officers. They turn to Werner. Assess him. Max can almost hear them take stock. He's tall. Hardworking. Werner will be broad shouldered in a few years, and clearly he knows how to keep his mouth shut. This is the first anyone has heard of their little adventure. Many young men would have bragged about such an escapade.

And slowly the look on Werner's face changes from betrayal to confusion to understanding.

“I do recall sending you to fetch Zettel for the repair,” Pruss says to the cabin boy.

“I misread the note,” Werner confesses. He fidgets, barely able to maintain eye contact. “I was in a hurry. But Max fixed the problem.”

“The lid on the engine telegraph dial was loose, so the gauge wasn't pressurized. It was a minor fix. I'd guess we won't have any further issues with it.”

“A risky thing taking young Werner with you.” Pruss pushes his spine back against the padded banquette. He glares at Max with no small amount of displeasure.

Max could explain that the decision had been coerced. That it was Werner's clever form of blackmail that forced his hand. But then he'd also have to explain his quarrel with Emilie. And he is too exposed already, his pride smeared all over the kitchen floor. So he shrugs and takes responsibility for the decision instead. In truth he is contrite—it was a deeply foolish thing to do—so there is no guile in his voice when he says, “I wasn't much older when my commanding officer had me dangling from the
Vogtland
to repair a broken porthole. I was feeling nostalgic this morning and thought I'd test the boy. If a reprimand is to be given I'm the one who deserves it.”

Commander Pruss is not satisfied, but he is interested. “So trial by fire, Herr Franz?”

The cabin boy ducks his head. Tries not to grin. “I do feel a bit singed.”

He's greeted with laughter and one raucous slap on the back that almost sends the plate shooting right out of his hands and into the wall. He grabs it at the last second and stands tall before the second barrage of laughter. Werner Franz is, for a few short moments, one of the men.

Lunch, when it's served a few moments later, proves to be simple and elegant. Pan-seared chicken crusted with rosemary. Sautéed asparagus. New potatoes with roasted garlic. Yeast rolls served with sweet cream butter. When Werner sets the plate before Max, the navigator considers shoving it aside on principle. This is Maier's meal. And given the events in the kitchen Max would be justified in indulging in a temporary hunger strike. But he's famished. And smart enough to know that what Emilie did was about
him,
not Maier. So he eats, begrudgingly, only to discover that the meal is superb. When his plate is empty he leaves the officers' mess without giving his compliments to the chef.

Max makes a quick detour to deposit the morning's collection of letters and postcards in the mailroom, then checks his watch. There are only a few minutes left in his lunch break, but he doesn't want to return to the control car just yet. He needs to clear his head. Five minutes of silence in his cabin will do the trick.

Wilhelm Balla intercepts him just as he's leaving the mailroom.
“Du siehst schlimm aus,”
he says. “What has Emilie done now?”

Max hasn't seen a mirror since early this morning, so he guesses that Wilhelm's assessment of his appearance is likely correct. His eyes are dry and they sting when he blinks. He nicked himself while shaving, and every time he smiles it feels as though the cut is splitting open on his chin. Best not to smile, then. It's an overrated expression anyway.

He rubs his jaw. “It was stupid of me to think it would ever work.”

“Oh.” The tendons beside Balla's mouth curve to accommodate the knowing smirk. “So you got your kiss, then?”

“Maybe,” is all Max says. He had gotten his kiss and then some.

“And a broken heart to go along with it. So tell me.”

No response.

“She's leaving the airship for one of the luxury hotels?”

A glare.

“She's joining a convent?”

He clenches his jaw.

“She's pregnant with another man's baby.”

“For God's sake!”

“What? It's not like you're giving me any hints here. I'm a man after all. My mind is base.”

“I would think your mind is blank given this lack of creativity.”

“She's dying?”

“Just stop,” Max says. “It's much worse than any of that.”

“Worse than
dying
?”

“Maybe. Almost.” The words sound crass and petty to him and he immediately regrets them. He clears his throat. “If she were dying—which she's not—at least she wouldn't be leaving me on purpose.”

“Leaving?”

He hadn't planned to confide in Balla. This certainly isn't his secret to share. But he needs to talk to someone, and the steward is the closest thing he has to a friend aboard this airship.

“Emilie is immigrating to America.”

“She told you this?”

“No. I found papers in her cabin last night.”

“You were in her cabin at least. That's progress,” Balla says. “When is she leaving? Maybe you'll have time to change her mind.”

He looks at his watch. “In a little less than two days, I'd say.”

This brings Balla up short. His eyes have a natural almond shape and they narrow even further at this news. “And you discovered this by…”

“Accident.”

“I take it she isn't pleased that you know?”

“That's an understatement.”

“So she had no intention of telling you. That's a problem.”

“The problem is that she's
leaving.
That's why I look like hell and feel worse.
Scheiße!
” Max grabs his cap and throws it against the wall.

“You love her.”

“Obviously.”

“Does she know that?”

“I don't see how she couldn't.”

“But have you said it in so many words?”

“Listen,” Max says, the rage he felt in the kitchen returning in a hot whoosh, “it's not like she has reciprocated much. Call me a fool, but I can only put myself out there for so long without any encouragement.”

“She kissed you, yes?”

“You could say it was the other way around.”

“But she responded?”

Max closes his eyes and gives himself five seconds to remember the kiss. “With enthusiasm.”

Something occurs to Max. Clearly she has been planning to leave Germany for some time. Her papers were in order. It must have taken several years to save as much as she has. And the plan alone is meticulous. So Emilie was planning to leave Germany long before she ever met him. She's scared enough to leave everyone and everything she has ever known, and he goes and takes the decision as a personal slight. Stupid. Selfish. He's ashamed, and now he's angry with himself as well.

“Scheiße!”

“What now?” Wilhelm asks.

“I'm an idiot.”

“I've known that for ages.”

Max picks up his cap. Dusts it off. Places it back on his head with precision. “I'm going to set things right.”