Hidden Away (15 page)

Mrs. Fournier and I sit silently until she rises. “May I bring you a drink? I’ll get Jules and we can open the wine you’ve brought.”

“If you’d like,” I answer. As she leaves, I pick up the photo album I’d looked at last time and flip through the pages. I learn very little from them. Turning to the side table, I pick up the three books stacked on top of each other. They are written in French, so I replace them.

“John!” Professor Fournier’s voice startles me. “What a surprise.” I stand quickly and shake his hand. “To what do we owe the honor of your visit?”

Selfish need, I think, but answer, “I’m not sure.” I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “I just felt as though I should drop by.”

We exchange a few more pleasantries. The arrival of Mrs. Fournier with glasses of wine breaks the string of courtesies. She is followed by Kurt, who, as usual, keeps his head down as he enters. Professor Fournier occupies the chair his wife had been in, so the only free seat is on the other side of the sofa.

There seems to be a silent struggle between Flori and Kurt. After handing the professor and myself a glass of wine, she sits on the arm of her husband’s chair. Kurt is left in the middle of the room, hands balled at his sides. It is obvious that Mrs. Fournier would like him to sit on the sofa. It is equally obvious that he does not want to comply.

Unsure of how to diffuse the situation, I clear my throat and remember my manners. “Good afternoon, Kurt.”

He jumps slightly, bringing his hands to his head, then quickly back down to his sides. The action was the same as the night in the incinerator room. I am fascinated by his mannerisms.

The German lets out a shaky breath, then brings his hands back up to touch the top of his head again. He finally looks up at me as his arms settle at his sides. “Good afternoon, Mr. Oakes.”

He’s looking at the floor again as his tongue sweeps out over his bottom lip. “John,” he whispers, but it sounds more like “Yohn.” After long moments of awkward stillness, he stiffly walks to the sofa and sits as far away from me as he can.

“So,” Jules begins, “remind me where you are from. Kansas?” he guesses.
I’m flattered that he even tried to remember, since the class I had with him was so long ago, but I correct him. “No. Tulsa, Oklahoma.”
“Ah,” he says as he rises from his chair. A few long strides bring him to a short bookcase situated next to the radio. He pulls out a large book and settles on the arm of the sofa next to Kurt. The professor flips open what I now see is an atlas and points to the middle of the map of the U.S. To Kurt, he says, “This is where he’s from. And we’re here.” He moves his finger to California.
The German nods.
“He’s a long way from home,” Jules says as he stands up and replaces the book on the shelf.
“Like us,” Kurt says. His voice is soft, just barely audible.
I’m happy to have caught it. It gives me an opening. “Not quite as far as you though. I can still visit regularly.”
Once he’s back in his chair, a light hand on his wife’s knee, Jules asks, “How long does it take you to journey home, John?”
“It’s a two-day drive. I once pushed myself and tried to drive straight through, but could only make it to Amarillo, Texas before passing out.” There is polite laughter, which eases me even more. “If I had someone else to share the driving with, it’d take a lot of the pressure off.”
Mrs. Fournier speaks next. There is a look of curiosity on her face as she considers me. “So there is no one in your life to share in the journey?”
Shaking my head, I clear my throat. She’s asked the question in a vague way, giving me the impression she may not be talking only about the road trip to my hometown. “No. I have a friend who would probably go with me, but I’m not sure if he and my father would get along.”
Jules lights his pipe, then asks, “A friend?”
“Yes,” I answer, “his name is Charles. He’s also taking graduate classes at Berkeley. He’s a fine fellow, and would probably charm my father into liking him, but there’s no reason to take him home.”
“And what about your mother?” Flori asks.
I attempt to keep my thoughts off of my dream from just hours ago by fiddling with my cigarettes. Thinking of my mother always leads to dual emotions. I love her so much and her unconditional love for me brings me such joy, but whenever I dwell too long, I’m overtaken by sadness.
Once I’m smoking, I answer, “She died before I came back from the war.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Flori says, face a mask of sympathy.
It’s kind of her to be so compassionate, but it makes me feel strange. I didn’t come here to talk about myself. I came here to get more information about Kurt. Turning to him, I speak to the German directly. “What about you? Do you go back home often or ever?”
For a moment, he looks as though he may faint. I worry that I’ve scared him unintentionally again, but then he straightens his neck and looks at me. “No. I’ll never go back.”
He lowers his eyes again, so I ask more questions. “Where exactly are you from?”
“Munich,” he whispers. He raises his voice just slightly to add, “But I lived in Vienna for many years as a boy and young man.”
It makes sense. “That’s why I couldn’t place your accent. It’s a mixture of Austrian and southern German.”
Kurt’s expression is almost pained, but he asks, “Did you get to see much of it when you were there?”
Happy that he’s decided to engage, I shift on the sofa, angling my body more toward him. “Yes. I saw a lot. I’d love to say that I enjoyed it, but the tasks I had to carry out stole all the beauty of the place.”
He shakes his head and drops his gaze to his lap. His fists are balled on his thighs. “Germany has not been beautiful for years.”
Silence looms after that, so I smoke. I am thankful that he seems to be warming up to me. This is the most words we’ve exchanged. If my eyes on him are making him nervous, he doesn’t show it. In fact, the reverse is true. He is sitting stock-still. It is unnerving me.
I have a flash of a vision—a fantasy—of what he would look like in motion, his body moving against the white cotton sheets of my bed—against
me
. The vision confuses me. It must be because of what I’d done with Dominic last night.
Stretching out my arm to the side table, I carefully tap the ashes of my cigarette into the glass ashtray. I try to shake the mental picture of Kurt’s body from my mind, but when I look back at him, I notice small things, such as his strong cheekbone and brow. My fingertips tingle with the desire to touch them.
“Mr. Oakes?” I look up at Mrs. Fournier. Her concern drenches my name and is written in her expression. “Are you all right?”
I’m not sure what I look like, but I feel like I’m drowning. Trying to push a soft grin onto my face, I’m unable to answer. My heart is beating in my throat. I glance over to Kurt. He looks away quickly.
“I should probably take off,” I finally say.
“Please stay for dinner, John,” Professor Fournier says as he stands up with me.
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly—” I begin, but stop short.
“Flori is making ratatouille.”
Mrs. Fournier stands up as well. “I’ll be offended if you don’t eat with us.”

There is nothing I can say to that, although I doubt she would
really
be offended if I couldn’t stay. In the end, I simply smile my acceptance of the invitation and settle back down onto the sofa.

A half hour later, I find myself in the back yard with Kurt. The little girl is swinging on a rope tied to a large tree as he and I sit in wicker chairs. Although the temperature is cool, my jacket helps me to remain warm even though I’m sipping a cold beer. We don’t speak. Part of the time, I wonder if he’s even aware I am sitting across the small patio table from him.

He keeps his eyes on Adéle, and when she struggles to get off of the swing, he goes to her. His movements are efficient as he picks her up and places her back down on the ground. She takes his hand and uses it as a balance as she spins on one foot.

They make an odd pair, but somehow I can see how their relationship works. He asks nothing of her beyond being the darling child she is, and she expects nothing of him except for his quiet support.

When she is finished twirling, she lets go of his hands, then runs to the steps of the house. She picks up an abandoned doll and begins rocking it as she sits. Kurt returns to the table. “Do you like your job?”

He turns his head toward me, raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t meet my eyes. “Pardon?” “Your job at the university. Do you enjoy it?” “Yes,” he answers, but doesn’t expand. “What did you do before you came here?”

Again, he doesn’t answer right away. “I’ve performed in Vienna, yes, but my last performance was near Linz.”

I want to ask him why he’s implied that he no longer performs, but instead, I incline my head toward the garage. “You stay there?”

I light a cigarette now that I have nothing left to ask without delving into more personal matters. With as little as Kurt speaks now, asking anything deeper will only decrease his willingness to speak.

Instead of asking about the past or present, I choose to make a general statement. “You don’t enjoy talking.” He looks up at me, and I seek confirmation. “Do you?”

With an expression that is almost a smile, but not quite, he looks up at the sky and says, “Sometimes there is more to be said in silence than with words.”

I
ROLLED
over as the sunlight filtered in past my closed eyelids. The bed felt strange, and as my eyes focused, I realized this room was not mine. Remembering that I was in Peter’s warm bed, I extended my arm out in search of him. What I found was nothing more than cold, wrinkled sheets.
“I could look at your body bathed in light all

His beautiful voice in the still room startled me. I rose up onto my elbows, then saw him leaning in the doorway, nothing but the perfection of his skin covering his body. I playfully rolled my eyes and flopped back on the bed.

When Peter was standing over me, his eyes swept the length of my body. I grew hot underneath his gaze. Memories of the previous night poured over me like warm water. Still naked, I reached for the sheets to cover myself, but Peter was too quick.

“No, you don’t. It took an awful long time for me to get you into this state last night. I won’t be letting you ruin my work so soon.” His body descended upon mine. I relished the feel of his weight as he kissed me.

Peter left me breathless, my body tingling, as he stood back up and disappeared through the doorway. He was carrying cups of coffee when he returned. I sat up, immediately wincing as I did.

I couldn’t deny that I was sore, but I wouldn’t trade the slight discomfort I felt for the sensations of last night. “I’m better than all right.”

Sitting down gently and handing me the cup, Peter fixed his eyes on mine. “What?” I asked after a moment.

“Nothing,” he replied. “It’s just that you’re even more gorgeous the morning after.”
I looked down. My face had to be as red as the trim in the Golden Hall. Embarrassed, I didn’t know how to respond, so instead, I sipped my coffee. “Big day,” I said after long minutes of silence.
“Are you up for the challenge? Ready to play from your heart? To let the music lead you?”
The concert was this evening. Ever since I’d begun private practices with Peter, I’d begun to understand exactly what he’d been on about. There was something freeing that happened when I stopped trying to be a great musician. When I just played, I
was
a great musician.
I brought my head up when I felt his finger glide along my cheekbone, and I saw him suck in his lower lip. “You know how much I love it when you blush,” he said. The edges of my mouth lifted, causing him to laugh. “And it’s even better when you’re blushing
and
smiling.”
He took the cup of coffee out of my hand and placed it on the bedside table along with his, then pressed me down into the mattress. “I might not let you out of bed at all today. Fuck the concert.”
He was joking. There would be important people in attendance, and he depended upon the favor of some of those people. While most of me understood how horrible it would be to miss such a huge event, the little wishful piece of myself hoped that we
wouldn’t
leave the bed.
Unfortunately, reality won out. When I returned home, I felt as though I was soaring on one hand, but on the other, I felt so low being without Peter.
“And where have you been?”
I stopped in the archway that separated the hallway and the sitting room. “I was out with friends,” I answered my uncle’s question without turning around.

“I don’t know who you think you are,
Kurt
, but you are still living in my house and—”
I pivoted and finally came face to face with him. “You
wanted
me to be social. You pushed me to befriend Peter because of his connections and now you—”

My uncle was outraged. He came very close to me, his red face inches from mine. I swallowed hard. “How dare you talk back to me.
I
took you in when you were a starving urchin. How long do you think you would have survived on the streets of Munich?” I wanted to lower my eyes, bow my head, but he was too close. I was forced to stare directly into his judgment. “You were mere
days
away from being turned out of your parents’ home, and you stand here, in mine, arguing with me about
your
misconduct?”