Stones From the River (46 page)

When Jutta turned from the altar after the ceremony to walk up the aisle on the arm of her new husband, there was something skittish about the way she moved, and suddenly Trudi could see why the stable Klaus, who used to be so captivated by Ingrid, would also feel drawn to Jutta, who would balance that settled side of himself.

But she still couldn’t figure out why Jutta had chosen him. With a tug of satisfaction and revenge, she whispered to Hilde Eberhardt, who knelt next to her, “I finally understand why he fell in love with her, but Jutta—she’s so beautiful and young—she could have chosen any man.”

And Hilde agreed that Jutta could have chosen any man.

Most people in Burgdorf did not wonder at all why the wild young woman was marrying the dentist, who already was thirty-six and so different from her in temperament. He would make a reliable husband, they agreed. He’d quiet her down. Besides, it was not at all unusual for men to be substantially older than the women they married.

They regarded Jutta as odd, the people of Burgdorf. Not only did she paint pictures in which the colors were all wrong and far too bright, but she also, despite their warnings, swam in summer storms. “She doesn’t value her life,” some would say. Lightning and thunder, which made others seek shelter, would lure Jutta from the house. Rain would drench her even before she’d arrive at the quarry hole or river. “Crazy,” some of the people would say.

But Trudi knew what crazy meant from her own mother, and Jutta was not like that although she, too, had that high flicker, as Trudi thought of it. Hers was not the kind of flicker that would burn itself out but would only grow stronger, she believed, and even when Jutta would die young in a fast-driving accident nearly two decades later, Trudi would stay convinced that, without that one accident, Jutta would have kept burning strong, her fire evident in her brilliant paintings of the town.

Trudi would see that same flame in the child who would ensue from Jutta’s body—the daughter, Hanna, who rightfully should have been Trudi’s daughter if the dentist had followed up on that one reckless kiss.

T
HE WEEK AFTER
K
LAUS
M
ALTER’S WEDDING
, T
RUDI BEGAN TO READ
the marriage advertisements in the paper again—not that she was looking for a husband, but they gave her something to laugh about. Because of the war, the list of men was shorter than ever before, and most of the ads had been written by retired men. Late one evening she decided to answer one of those ads, Box 241, in care of the newspaper: the man was younger than the others, a thirty-four-year-old schoolteacher who collected stamps, did watercolors, and described himself as curious. She gambled on that curiosity when she sent him a letter without a return address, asking him to meet her at Wasen’s, an outdoor restaurant on the Königsallee in Düsseldorf, the following Saturday afternoon.

I will know you
, she wrote to Box 241,
because you carry an umbrella and two white carnations.
She had thought about this for quite a while, rejecting the idea of having him wear a top hat because he might have to buy that, making it too expensive to meet this woman whose description—tall and slender with a mane of auburn hair—Trudi had taken from one of the colorful book jackets in the pay-library.

Actually, once she reread her letter, the woman sounded a lot like Ingrid, with her long hair and delicate hands, and when she looked at the book jacket again, the woman could have been Ingrid except that Ingrid would insist on martyrdom before letting herself be squeezed into a yellow dress that exposed not only her shoulders but also the high cleft of her breasts. The woman in Trudi’s letter was warm hearted, loved to cook and dance, was in line to inherit the family business, and adored opera as well as children. Her name, Trudi decided, was Angelika, and she was the same age as Trudi, twenty-six.
I have been told that I am extraordinarily beautiful
, she wrote, chuckling to herself when she decided against adding that she was also exceedingly humble.

Not that she ever seriously intended to go to the restaurant and watch the man’s discomfort as she had with the others years ago.… After all, with the suffering going on around her, games like that were too frivolous. Still, that Friday she traded books for an almost new lipstick; Saturday morning she found herself washing and setting her hair, just in case, and struggling with the choice of what to wear if she were to go. Ready to turn back, she arrived at the restaurant twenty minutes early in her gray suit with the fitted skirt. She hoisted herself onto a chair next to one of the flower pots that separated the tables from the sidewalk, her back to the sun so she could see everyone.

Although she was only planning to watch the man wait for this woman he would never meet, she was sweating under her breasts and arms when Box 241 arrived exactly at four, the umbrella hooked over his arm. By the door he hesitated. The skin around his eyes was lighter than the rest of his tan as though he usually wore glasses, giving him a startled look. Carrying the two white carnations like spears, Box 241 darted toward the last empty table without glancing at anyone, bumping into two chairs on his way, his lean shoulders curved forward as if he were accustomed to tolerating disillusion.

Only after he was sitting did Box 241 allow his eyes to roam—quickly though, as if hesitant to intrude on anyone—and then he pulled thick eyeglasses from his pocket and studied the menu with intense concentration as if it could provide him with clues to the woman who had summoned him here. His black hair touched the collar of his suit jacket, and he had a timid mustache.

Trudi was one of two women who sat by themselves—the other tables
were occupied by couples or families—but the man’s eyes kept shifting past her as if she were not there, returning to a heavy, dark-haired woman who was devouring a piece of
Bienenstich
, scooping out the custard filling and spreading it on top of the glazed almond topping. Box 241 ordered tea with lemon, checked his pocket watch, then took off his glasses, hastily, as if he’d only now recalled that he was wearing them. Unfolding a sheet of paper that looked like Trudi’s letter from a distance, he frowned, and looked once more at the woman who was dissecting her cake.

I’m prettier than she, Trudi thought.

I’m much younger.

I don’t eat like a pig.

But the man never even glanced at her, and all at once she was filled with an ancient rage at him and every man who simply dismissed her, a rage that uncoiled within her, fast and savage, making her want to inflict suffering on him—far beyond the humiliation of waiting for a woman who would never arrive. It always came back to feeling different. Always. Knowing there always would be that difference, that it would not get any better. And one way to get back at them was to express the nastiness many of them didn’t dare to think. Though it was there, in their hearts, behind their smiles.

She wanted to get up and walk over to the man’s table and tell him—Tell him what? She couldn’t think of anything vehement enough to say to him. Besides, it wouldn’t crush him if it came from her. She dug in her handbag for paper and a pen.
I have seen you
, she wrote, the notepad on her knees,
and I find you too
—She paused, thinking, and read what she’d written.

Box 241 lit a pipe, spilling some tobacco onto the tablecloth. His eyes fastened on every woman who passed the restaurant as if he hoped Angelika would still step up to his table, raise his two carnations to her lovely face, and murmur something like,
“I could feel you waiting for me”
The heroines in the romances would say something like that. The bolder ones might even ask:
“Is this how you imagined me?”

Pitiful, Trudi thought.
Pitiful
, she wrote and finished her note.
I have seen you
, she read,
and I find you too pitiful to consider.
There. It was perfect. She signed it
Angelika
and paid her bill. Her heart a wild rhythm in her throat, she stood up. Her high heels felt wobbly as she neared the man’s table.

“Excuse me,” she said.

Box 241 squinted, his eyes moving from a space above her head to her face as if adjusting themselves to her height, shrinking her. “Yes?” he asked. His mustache was not skimpy as she’d thought but rather full and streaked with bleached hairs. Though his suit wasn’t new, it was of good cloth and well cared for. But his shoes were dusty. “Yes?” he asked again and set his pipe into the ashtray.

She blushed, realizing he’d watched her inspect him. “This woman—” she said, the taste of lipstick on her teeth. “You see, this woman was walking by … there on the sidewalk next to my table.” She pointed to where she’d sat, irritated with herself because she wasn’t nearly as composed as she wanted to be. “And she asked me to—to give this to you.” Before she could change her mind, she thrust the note at him.

“Thank you.” His tanned hand reached for it. “When—”

“Oh … about ten minutes ago.”

Hastily, Box 241 pushed the thick-lensed glasses back onto his nose and unfolded the lined paper. “Why did you wait this long?” He spoke in a rapid singsong, and she couldn’t understand his words right away because they sounded outlandish and light as they floated from his lips and only came together for her after he’d stopped speaking. “Why didn’t you come right over?”

“I’m—I’m somewhat shy.”

For the first time he looked at her fully as though he knew what it was like to be shy, and it occurred to her that he seemed to be a man who was kind by nature. She wanted to retrieve the note, but his eyes fled down the words and then up again. He turned the paper as if hoping for a contradicting message, and then he gave a little cough that ended high in his throat. Carefully, he refolded the note.

The voices of the other people had receded as if a wide space had opened around his table. A cool draft moved up Trudi’s legs, making her shiver. She no longer felt that rage—only deep shame. How could she have been so cruel?

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Her words jolted him as though he’d forgotten she was still there. He worked his lips as if to reply and finally shocked her with a burst of laughter. “You—young lady—you—”

She took a step back.

“—you are very lucky.” Still laughing, he pulled out a chair and motioned for her to sit down.

“I can’t stay.”

“In some countries they kill the messenger.” He stopped laughing and regarded her so gravely that she was afraid he suspected the truth. “Fortunately, I don’t engage in that custom.…” His peculiar singsong had slowed down, making it easier for Trudi to follow him. “What did she tell you, this woman?”

“Just to give the note to you.”

“You know what it says?”

“Oh, no. It’s private.”

“Of course. Please … do sit down.”

“I have to go.”

“What did she look like?”

“The woman?”

“The woman.”

“She—she was very beautiful… tall, with dark-brown hair pulled back. A yellow dress—she wore a yellow dress. With fabric-covered buttons.”

“The poor woman.”

“What?”

He smiled sadly and relit his pipe, drawing deeply. “That curse of beauty … Finding pleasure in trying to destroy others.”

“Did she—?”

“Destroy me?” Box 241 rested his elbows on his knees and brought his face close to Trudi’s. “Do you think she did?”

“I have to catch the streetcar and—”

“One cup of tea,” he said. “Or one small glass of wine.”

“I would. I really would, but my streetcar is leaving in ten minutes.”

“Where do you have to go?”

“Burgdorf,” she said, wishing immediately she hadn’t told him.

“That’s where this woman lives.”

“Really?”

“Her first letter was mailed from there.”

“I haven’t seen her before today.” Liar, she thought as an image of the book jacket flashed before her.

“I’ll drive you home.”

“No,” she said quickly, wishing she had mailed the letter from Oberkassel or Düsseldorf. “No.”

“I’d be glad to. Thanks to your message, my plans for the afternoon
have changed.” He added as though he really meant it, “I would welcome your company.” Extending his right hand, he introduced himself. “Max Rudnick.”

She mumbled her name, making it impossible to understand as she shook his hand. Far too contrite to resist his invitation, she climbed on the chair across from him, her leather handbag on her knees, both hands clenching the curved handle. Two shimmering flies were knitting their legs on Max Rudnick’s saucer. As the heavy woman who’d eaten the
Bienenstich
walked out of the restaurant, Trudi felt oddly abandoned.

“Tea?” Max Rudnick asked.

She nodded.

“Lemon?”

She nodded. Her feet swung high above the floor.

When the tea arrived, he squeezed the half-moon of lemon above her cup and stirred it. “Here,” he said.

“Thank you.” She burned her tongue as she gulped the tea, all of it, without looking at him. “It’s very good.”