Wait for Me in Vienna (31 page)

54

The next morning, the sun rose in New York City and all hell broke loose. This was the city that never slept, and it was at its most unnerving, loudest, and most crowded in the early morning hours when people were rushing to work. To deal with the stress, you had to have nerves of steel or swallow tons of B vitamins—in acute cases, valerian drops were recommended—especially if you weren’t quite up to going to your office. New Yorkers were probably used to it; they were the wheat separated from the chaff.

Thomas made his way to the office amid the frantic crowd, which appeared to be in perpetual motion. Today, he felt a little less pensive and sad; yesterday he’d felt really guilty about Johanna. He had regretted leaving her after the accident; he couldn’t bear the distance between them and mourned their time apart. But since their silly conversation the night before, he had felt somewhat closer to Johanna, and that had put him in a much better mood.

Johanna pulled the covers on, pushed them off, took a sip of tea, then a sip of water, read a book, put the book aside, stared at her cast, then at her cast-free right leg, then looked at the big blue wall clock in her living room, which she still hadn’t gotten rid of. Thomas would be coming back in three weeks, which seemed like a millions years from now—way too long. She’d have to wear the cast for a miserably long time, too. She looked out the window. Summer wasn’t quite in full swing in the city—that was also taking too long. Linda wasn’t here yet; she was taking too long. Waiting bothered her.

In short, Johanna was at her wit’s end; she was bored and didn’t want to stay on the couch. Everything was just taking too damned long. She wondered whether she could walk around. “Do not put any weight on that leg,” she heard Dr. Mick’s voice echoing in her mind. They’d given her crutches but only for emergencies, doctor’s orders. Like a good patient, she used them only for short excursions from the couch to the bed or from the bed to the bathroom, or from the bathroom to the couch, or from the bathroom to the bed and vice versa. She would have liked to walk around again, go to work, shop, drink coffee, fly to New York and see Thomas. Thinking about not being able to fly to New York made her sad again, and she tried to distract herself with a magazine. It didn’t help at all; she was ready for all this waiting to be over.

Vienna, 4:00 p.m.: I hate my couch and the cast; have I already mentioned that today?

New York, 10:10 a.m.: No, you haven’t, but I hate your cast, too. I don’t hate the couch.

Vienna, 4:12 p.m.: Okay, so we don’t hate the couch, but we do hate the cast.

New York, 10:16 a.m.: Agreed. Isn’t Martin coming over soon?

Vienna, 4:19 p.m.: He’s coming around seven this evening. He has a lot of work today and can’t get away sooner and I’m so BORED. SOS from Vienna.

New York, 10:25 a.m.: All right. Let me tell you what we did this morning. What we did last night, I don’t think I need to mention. Hopefully, you remember it affectionately? This morning, you prepared a fantastic breakfast: American-style pancakes with a ton of maple syrup. Then I got a thousand kisses from you. Then you ironed a shirt for me at the last minute, because I forgot to give it to you yesterday—thanks a million, you are the best. You know that I can’t iron properly. Then, unfortunately, I had to go to work. I would have preferred never to let you go, as you were wearing my shorts, your hair uncombed, when you were ironing. I held you close, then we both had to go to work.

Vienna, 4:30 p.m.: Good that you reminded me, because I almost forgot that I conjured up those fabulous pancakes for you. I really love that magnificent American cuisine—fat burgers and golden french fries—as you well know.

You say you
can’t
iron a shirt. Don’t you mean that you don’t want to?

PS: My hair is always messy.

New York, 10:40 a.m.: I’m
not
going to ask you whether you’re still wearing my shorts, because I can imagine what your answer would probably be and that would be too much of a distraction from my work, which I eventually need to take care of. See you later.

Kisses,

Thomas

Vienna, 4:45 p.m.: Yes, do your work, but take it easy. Today I read that if you work more than eight hours a day, your risk of a heart attack increases significantly. I guess my risk has dropped precipitously because I’m on the couch a minimum of eight hours a day, which means the only danger for me is being bored to death.

Kisses,

Johanna

As she sent out her last e-mail, she asked herself if she was starting to seem too pathetic.

Martin came over relatively late.

“I’m so sorry, but I simply couldn’t get away. How are you?” he asked as he panted from racing up the stairs too quickly.

“Okay, I suppose. I would love to be able to move again, but that’s not going to happen any time soon. It really bugs me.”

“Johanna, we’ve talked about this. You have to accept the situation, even though it’s hard. And you need to stop complaining so much. Other people have much more serious ailments and don’t complain at all.”

“I know, I know,” Johanna admitted. He was right, as always.

Johanna peeked into the plastic bag Martin had brought. Inside, she found newspapers, a magazine, and a variety of vitamin-enriched juices: one for a good start in the morning, the other for a good night’s sleep, and the last one for “more energy.” Well, the last thing she needed was more energy right now; she was already restless enough.

“Marketing companies are always coming up with some new nonsense,” Johanna noted, and tucked everything back in the bag except for the newspaper and magazine. “Can you please get me the stuff from the kitchen?”

“Any chance that Paolo cooked enough for me? I’m starving.” Martin looked at Johanna dolefully as he came back from the kitchen.

“Totally. There’s plenty; take whatever you want,” she said.

Martin came back shortly with some warmed-up vegetable curry.

“So you had a lot going on today?”

“Yes, it’s just one project after the other. I don’t know how we’re supposed to get all this done. We could probably use one or two more employees, but we can’t predict how steady our flow of new contracts will be,” he said.

He put a forkful of food into his mouth. “Mmm, that’s delicious,” he said, then took another bite.

“Enjoy your meal. Nobody can cook like Paolo. Anyway, it’s so sweet how you both take such good care of me. Thanks so much,” she said as Martin patted his sister’s right hand. “What’s the latest with the wedding plans?”

Martin shook his head. “Nothing new, so far as I know. Everything’s coming up roses. Linda is still calm and relaxed as ever, and I’m infinitely grateful for that. Not that she doesn’t still have time to morph into bridezilla on me.”

After Martin left, Johanna thought a lot about how she’d been behaving recently. Yes, she felt like crying; yes, she was in a crappy situation. But Martin was right; she wasn’t seriously ill, and things could be much worse than having a broken ankle and lying around on her couch. She couldn’t go to work, but she could shop online for the cooking school and evaluate their most recent survey results. On top of that—and most important—was that Thomas called her and e-mailed her every day. Even though he was probably swamped at work, he made time for her.

Suddenly, her mood changed, and she vowed not to wallow in self-pity any longer. She put on the Beatles to lift her spirits. It was nine o’clock in the evening in Vienna, so Johanna hobbled on her crutches into the bathroom, which thanks to Linda hadn’t been entirely neglected, and washed her face. When Linda came over, she turned Johanna’s apartment into a beauty salon. Linda had recently given her a surprisingly professional pedicure, trimming her toenails, then painting them fuchsia. They’d both applied face masks, and Linda had helped Johanna pluck her eyebrows.

She practically had an entourage: her friend Paolo, who was a combination of chef and entertainer; Linda, a stylist and beautician who didn’t balk when she needed a pedicure; and her brother, Martin, their esteemed advisor, who kept them all on the right track when necessary.

55

Linda’s friends visited Johanna late one Sunday morning for brunch. Squealing with delight, they pounced on Johanna’s right leg with multicolored felt-tip pens, which Erika had stolen—borrowed—from her kindergarten class. The women fought over the remaining free space on the cast. Erika emerged victorious; she had learned how to fight dirty from her kindergartners, a clear advantage.

“Your cast matches your Desigual dress now,” Erika crowed as she scrawled.

The other girls had already lost interest, preferring Prosecco and croissants to arts and crafts.

“Nina and I can run this off at the gym this afternoon,” said one of the girls, devouring a croissant in two bites.

“You won’t regret it. I’m telling you, Antonio is hot,” gushed Nina as she fanned a
Vogue
magazine around in front of her face.

Johanna drank Prosecco as well. There were worse ways to spend her time. She enjoyed the hustle and bustle in her home, the girls gesticulating excitedly, laughing, spilling Prosecco on the couch, spreading crumbs and croissants across her table, listening to Nina’s sexy adventures. At the moment, Nina’s fitness trainer, Antonio, and her ex-boyfriend were both in the running to get in her bed, and she couldn’t quite decide between them. After much deliberation, the girls decided that her fitness coach should make the cut.

Nina treated herself to another calorie-laden croissant. She could afford to, not just because it was inexpensive, but because she went to the gym religiously. Like a professional athlete, she spent two hours on the cardio equipment daily and half an hour in the weight room. With all that exercise, she could eat what she liked; plus, she wanted to retain her invitingly curvy butt, which Antonio was a big fan of.

Thomas tried to enjoy Sunday as much as he could. He vowed not to work at all today because he’d already worked enough for the week. He’d even worked all day Saturday. He’d slept badly for days, unable to really switch off or relax. Nothing helped, not jogging through Central Park or even sipping a beer while soaking nightly in the hotel room’s fancy Jacuzzi.

Sunday wasn’t a day of rest in New York. It was just like any other day of the week, whether it was four o’clock in the morning, one in the afternoon, or eight at night. Only the source of light and its intensity changed; otherwise everything remained the same. The huge, brightly illuminated billboards hawked various products. It seemed as if everybody was on their feet in New York right now; New Yorkers didn’t drive much anyway.

Thomas wanted to get out of town. He decided to hire a taxi to drive him to the Hamptons, so he could check out the socialite scene there, spend a leisurely day, relax, read a good book, and swim. It was a simple plan. Hiring a taxi was, however, a bit trickier.

The Hamptons, 7:00 p.m.: Dearest Johanna,

We’re lying together on a fluffy lemon-yellow blanket on a warm white sandy beach in the Hamptons. There’s nary a soul to be seen; the beach belongs to us alone. The warm wind blows through your golden-brown hair, making your delicate locks dance in the breeze. It seems like they’re dancing a tango and we’re the audience. You smile—no, you beam—with happiness, just like me. I reach tenderly for your hand. The wind blows, and grains of sand spread over your smooth stomach. I blow them gently away. You gaze at the ocean with a kind of melancholy, then you look into my eyes and spread my lips gently with your fingers. I want to kiss you; you turn away, smile, then sit up next to me. We look at each other and time seems to stop. It’s always like this when I’m with you. We capture the moments for eternity, each individual experience scanned and filed in the archives of our memory. We can return to them whenever we want, even when we can’t be together.

The sun sets slowly, the glowing ball of fire sinking into the sea, slowly disappearing inch by inch, still luminous behind the horizon, a reminder, hinting of a special summer day. We cuddle up close. I wrap the warm blanket around you protectively as the cool sea breeze blows around us. I can taste the salty sea on your skin. We put our heads together and watch the sunset, knowing that we still have the night and tomorrow is another day. All is well as long as we have each other. We know that we’ll spend many beautiful hours together, for as long as we both live. I love you. Kisses.

Yours always,

Thomas

But what neither of them knew was that there weren’t many days, hours, or even minutes left for them at all.