Love Is Pink! (3 page)

5

I
pulled open the heavy glass door and stepped inside the new rest stop. Actually, it looked exactly like the one I’d left a few hours ago.
A few hours ago!
The ice-cold temperature, the snow storm, my two leaden suitcases. I could have easily fallen on the way and frozen to death. But I’d made it.

I’d put my brand-new ski jacket on top of my coat and a ski hat on my head. My eyes were protected by ski goggles, and my hands were in thick gloves. That’s the only way I’d survived.

I dragged the roller suitcases behind me, swaying as I walked. Against the wall next to a heating unit was an open booth. I headed over to it and sat on the bench with a sigh. I stretched out my legs and inspected what remained of my Louboutin boots. The fact that the heels had broken off had proven incredibly practical, in retrospect. It was considerably easier to walk without them.

Clumsily, I removed my gloves, pushed my ski goggles up, and studied my hands. They looked as if I had gout. Lightly clawed, beet-red, cracked skin, and one, two—no, three—of my nails were broken. It took considerable effort to move my fingers at all.

I took off my drenched hat and lay it on the heater. My carefully coiffed hair was now soaking wet and sticking to my forehead.

I lifted my head and met the cashier’s wide-open eyes. And she wasn’t the only one ogling me. The other customers were openly staring, too. Normally, it would have gotten to me, but now I couldn’t have cared less. Let them think what they wanted. They hadn’t spent hours crossing Antarctica.

My face felt like it was on fire. I pulled several paper napkins out of the steel dispenser on the table and dried my stinging cheeks. The box was useful as a mirror.

My eyeliner and mascara were smeared. I looked like a clown. With no other choice, I rubbed off all my makeup, which, in turn, made my face burn even more. I’d probably gotten third-degree frostbite and would have to go through life with skin as red as a fire-alarm box.

From behind, a little girl’s face appeared next to mine in the reflective surface.

I turned toward her. She had brown locks, giant blue eyes, and countless freckles. I wanted to send the clear message that I was not OK with her getting so close to me, that I needed my space, and that I couldn’t stand children at all. But the girl smiled.

And I began to cry.

“Are you sad?” she asked.

I really wanted to tell her to mind her own business, but in that very moment she took one of the napkins and started dabbing the tears off my face.

I swallowed whatever was on my tongue.

“Are you sad?” she repeated.

“Yes, very,” I admitted.

The little girl continued drying my cheeks while pointing out the window with her other hand. “Have you seen the big snowstorm?”

Against my will, I laughed. “Oh, have I.”

The girl giggled, too. “It’s really cold. Better not go out in it.”

“You’re right about that. What’s your name?”

“Emma.”

What an uncomplicated name
, I thought. But then I examined the girl more closely. Emma suited her—100 percent.

“And are you alone?” I asked. For some reason, I was enjoying her company.

Emma crinkled her nose. “What are you thinking? I’m only five.” She lifted four fingers high. “I can’t travel alone on the highway.”

I shook my head. “No, of course not.”

“I’m here with my papa. We’re driving home.” She paused and thought for a moment. “Are you traveling with
your
papa?”

“I’m too old for that,” I said.

She nodded in a seemingly adult manner. “And we have a really, really cool new car. Do you have a car, too?”

“No, I’m on foot.”

“On foot? In the snow? Don’t you want to drive with us? We have lots of room in our car. It’s really great.”

“Well, I don’t know.”

Emma grabbed my arm and shook it. “Come on! Papa will be glad. Then he won’t be lonely anymore when I sleep in the backseat.”

Somewhat against my will, I got up and let myself be dragged across the room. There were parking spaces right in front of the restaurant. One of the cars had its hood up. The car looked spacious indeed. It was some sort of station wagon. A man was leaning over the engine and fiddling around.

“Papa, look who I have!” Emma yelled.

The man stood up. He was tall, broad shouldered with narrow hips, and he wore some sort of Norwegian sweater and faded jeans. He smiled at his daughter as he wiped his grease-smeared hands on a towel.

Striking features, blond hair, dark-blue eye
s . . .
any ordinary woman would have found him very attractive. But I was immune to such primitive manly attributes.

After a moment, he noticed me. He didn’t seem at all surprised by my bizarre appearance.

“Salut,” he said. Naturally, he had a deep, soft voice.

“Hello,” I said.

“You’re German?” Now he seemed surprised.

“Yes.” I brushed my damp hair away from my forehead.

“Papa, this is my friend,” Emma said. “She’s sad, because she’s traveling on foot.”

“On foot?” he repeated. “In this weather?”

I wanted to explain, but Emma spoke first. “We have a big car. I promised her that she could come with us.”

“You promised her?”

“No,” I heard myself say. “She was only trying to console me.”

“Aha,” the man said, clearly understanding the situation.

“I lost my bag with my money and documents. But it’ll be sent to me in Geneva. My taxi driver ditched me, and I’m not particularly good at hitchhiking. So I’ve been walking.”

“We can drive her to the airport. Can’t we, Papa?” Emma pled.

“You want to go to Geneva?” the man confirmed.

I nodded. “To the airport.”

“That’s quite a big detour for us, Emma.”

“That’s OK. You said Christmas is in five days. We’ll be back in Berlin in time.”

“You’re from Berlin?” I asked, astonished.

“Yes,” he said. “By the way, my name is David Rottmann. You’ve already met my daughter, Emma.” He extended his hand.

I grasped it even though it wasn’t entirely clean. “My name is Krämer. Michelle Krämer.”

“It’s nice to meet you.” He briefly held in his breath. “Well, if you like, you can get your things.”

“You mean you’ll take me?”

He shrugged, and a winning smile drifted over his face.

“Like she said, it’ll be Christmas soon. And Emma’s wish is that we take you to Geneva. I’ve already gotten my present.” He knocked on the fender of the car behind him. “How can I deny her anything?”

“We’re taking Michelle to Geneva! We’re taking Michelle to Ge-
neeva
!” Emma sang. She grabbed my hand and walked me back to the rest stop, where my suitcases and that Swiss woman’s Prada bag still stood.

I gathered my things and made my way to the restroom with Emma. However, this presented a problem. The use of sanitary facilities was not free of charge. And I had no money. A turnstile prevented adults from entering without paying. Next to the gate was a small opening for children, through which Emma was able to slip. I realized that I could, too. First, I awkwardly pushed my bags through. Then I got down on all fours and followed—perhaps not so elegantly.

Emma, at least, found my maneuver cool.

A woman behind me seemed to be complaining about my effrontery in French.

“Oh, shut up,” I yelled at her, heading to the spacious mother-child stall with Emma.

I took off my ski jacket and the coat underneath it. I carefully folded that coat—a Dior—and stowed it in one of the suitcases. My boots were ruined. My socks were wet. I found replacements in my other bag. I chose Louis Vuitton booties with relatively flat heels and plain D & G jeans. Emma proved to have surprisingly good taste during this operation, advising me on each item of clothing. We had fun despite the tight quarters and unappealing ambiance.

At last, I was finished.

I quickly styled my hair in the mirror above the sink and managed to refresh my eyeliner and mascara. As I did, Emma used my lipstick. After we’d removed all traces of it from the tiles and her face, we were ready to go.

As for the sad remnants of my Louboutin boots and the wet socks, I tossed them into the garbage can.

The turnstile didn’t require money on the way out. Emma was disappointed that we didn’t have to sneak through the small opening again.

When we got back to the parking lot, Emma’s father had shut the hood and was trying to sweep the snow off the car with a small broom. As he noticed us, his glance fell upon me, and he froze in place for a moment. That happened to me constantly. I was undeniably good-looking and had an effect on all men, regardless of whether they were educated, intelligent, and wealthy—like Valentin—or not.

“There you are,” he said, not very wittily, before nervously resuming his work with the broom.

Now it was my turn to stare, dumbfounded. The vehicle that had appeared under the protective coat of snow was large, ancient, and completely rusted. What turned me off the most about the hunk of rust was its dreadful color: a loud, kitschy pink. Totally offensive.

Emma’s father registered the change in my expression. “You’re flabbergasted,” he said. “You’ve never seen such a jewel.”

I had a sarcastic response on the tip of my tongue, but then I remembered the endless kilometers I’d just walked and managed a careful nod.

“Impressive,” I said. “I’ve never come across anything like it.” And that was the pure truth.

“It’s a 1973 Citroën DS 23 IE Pallas,” he said proudly.

I sighed on the inside. Maybe the guy couldn’t afford a decent car and had to depend on this old wreck. I certainly didn’t want to expose him in front of his daughter. In the end, I had to get to Geneva. So I played along.

“Great,” I said. “How fast does it go?”

“It’s not quite at its peak right now, but it can handle a good ninety kilometers an hour.”

With my mouth agape, it was a few seconds before I managed to respond, “Cool.”

“Is that your luggage?”

I nodded.

He opened the creaky trunk and then grabbed the suitcases, lifting them as though they were as light as a feather. From up close, I realized that he couldn’t be much older than I was. Maximum five, six years. But certainly considerably younger than Valentin. Younger and less mature.

He stowed my bags and struggled with the hatch of the trunk, which wouldn’t close at first. Once the latch shut with a click, he straightened his back and shot a victorious glance my way. “You see? A genuine classic!”

Emma opened the passenger door and waved me in.

No pleasant surprise awaited me. Burst-open leather seats, dashboard full of cracks, a stuffy odor, worn-out seat belts.

Emma’s father tilted the driver’s seat forward, and Emma crawled into the backseat. “Go, Papa!” she called out. “Show Michelle how great our car drives!”

He looked at me. “Keep your fingers crossed for it to start.”

“I’ll do that, Mr. Rottmann,” I said, smiling boldly.

He pumped the gas pedal. The engine sounded like an asthmatic tractor. A rocking motion passed through the car, followed by a tremor and a loud explosion. And then, as if touched by a magic wand, we were set into motion.

“Yahoo! We’re moving!” Emma cried. Her father seemed exuberantly happy, too.

“Papa, Papa,” she said, “now show her our radio! Michelle has to hear it.”

“The radio in here still functions, Mr. Rottmann?”

Emma’s father grinned. “Please, just call me David. And, yeah, the odometer is broken, and the rev counter is stuck on 8,000 revolutions. But the old radio works impeccably.” He pushed one of the half-broken small knobs.

And, by some miracle, a singer cawed out of the speaker. The sound was hollow and without depth, as though it was blaring through a tin can.

Of course I recognized the song immediately. It was George Michael’s “Last Christmas.”

6

T
he engine sputtered, wheezed, and then exploded. A black cloud of soot briefly wrapped itself around us as we stopped—directly in front of the Geneva airport’s entrance. The snowfall had also ceased as abruptly as it had begun. The last rays of the sun now bestowed a golden light. A shimmer of hope.

A policeman who’d seen our decidedly pathetic entrance approached from the sidewalk. He stood next to the car and rotated his index finger.

With some difficulty, David rolled down the window and stuck out his head, and the two spoke for a while in French.

The policeman straightened his back, tipped his hat, and ambled away.

“You speak French?” I asked.

David smiled apologetically. “A little. I know I must sound horrible, but it’s enough to make myself understood. I’m sure you speak much better than I do.”

“I speak German,” I said condescendingly. “German, the language of poets and thinkers.”

“Lack of education is also a form of education,” David rebutted with a twinkle in his eyes.

The arrogant little upstart! He didn’t even own a decent car. He toured around the region with his kid while other people worked, and he wanted to tell
me
about culture?

“Well,” I said, “one can clearly see how far your so-called education has gotten you.”

I was out of the car before he could even respond. I didn’t need an argument right now. An airplane and my future were waiting.

David stepped out of the car, too. “I’d accompany you, but my car is parked illegally. I need to be gone when the friendly policeman returns—otherwise he’ll change his attitude and write me a ticket.”

“We certainly don’t want that,” I quipped. David walked around the junker, and together we hauled my luggage out of the trunk. He tried to close it, but it remained slightly ajar. Evidently, the lock no longer worked.

Emma stood a bit apart from us. And as I gathered myself to walk into the foyer with my bags, I noticed her reddened eyes. Truthfully, I didn’t have time for such sentimentality. But, nevertheless, I bent down and rested my arm on her shoulders. She threw herself on me and held me tight.

“Oh,” I said, “you shouldn’t be sad.”

She hugged me even tighter.

Carefully, I pushed her away, swept her brown locks from her face, and tickled her chin. She laughed.

“I’ll call you when I’m back in Berlin,” I lied. “I just need to get home urgently—to take care of something very important. You understand that, right?”

Emma silently nodded. Her father walked over and hoisted her up. She leaned on his chest without letting me out of her sight.

“Well, then, Michelle, I wish you lots of luck,” David said, “and that everything goes as you hope it will.”

He extended his free hand and I quickly shook it. Then I waved farewell to Emma, grabbed my suitcases, and hurried into the airport terminal.