In Love with a Gentleman (6 page)

Luckily, it’s not long before the bus approaches. I immediately jump on the first step. I want to shake out my rain-soaked umbrella, but the automatic door closes with a hiss of compressed air. The only problem is, I’m in and the umbrella is out. In a bit of a panic, I lose my grip and the umbrella slips out of my hands. The wind catches it, and it’s gone! I jump over to a window and can see my umbrella dancing away from the bus in the wind. The whole situation is so funny that I’m overcome with violent giggling. I stand there, clinging to a pole, bent over with laughter.

After a while, I search for a handkerchief in my jacket and wipe away my tears of laughter. I see Catherine sitting in the back of the bus. I try to keep my balance as I walk toward her; the other passengers follow me with amused glances. Only after I slide into the seat next to my new friend do I feel a pair of dark eyes fixed on me. The womanizer, Mr. Derby, is sitting several rows in front of us. He turned around to watch me, but when our eyes meet, he turns to the front again without even acknowledging me.

That kind of rankles me. It’s the third time we’ve seen each other, and we’ve even exchanged a few words. He could at least have the courtesy to smile at me. Whatever. I guess it’s not that important. I turn to Catherine, who is sitting next to a girl with a tangle of long hair and very eye-catching earrings.

“Hi, Lea,” she says with a Spanish accent. “Catherine was just telling me about you. My name is Inez; I’m from Barcelona. I’m an assistant teacher at Chelmsford.” Chelmsford is another school in the area.

During the twenty-minute bus ride to Brantwood, the three of us share pretty much our entire life stories. By the time we get off in front of the adult-education school—what we call “evening college”—we’re thick as thieves and looking forward to the evening. Only later, as we are trying to concentrate on the exercise sheet our teacher passed out, does it occur to me that I didn’t notice whether Mr. Derby, the womanizer, got off the bus, too. I figure he must live in Brantwood, since he was on that bus.

After the lesson, Inez suggests we go to a pub. Catherine and I check our watches; the evening buses run once per hour, so we still have some time. We end up in a quaint restaurant on a nearby street. As with any pub in the British Isles, the place is packed by eight o’clock. Luckily, there’s still a table in a back corner that we can squeeze into. Inez offers to get the first round. The ale warms me up, and we chat animatedly with each other. The second round is on me. I work my way through the guests, and, in passing, I see a particularly cheerful group of very young adolescents sitting at a table. I can’t help thinking they should be home and even in bed by now. They undoubtedly have school tomorrow.

At the bar, I order two ales and a crème de menthe—Catherine is crazy about this drink for some reason.

The bartender looks at me darkly. “This is alcohol,” he says.

I nod in agreement.
Yes
,
I think to myself,
it is
.

“I’m not going to serve you,” the stern bartender says. “And I don’t believe your friends can drink, either.” He points to the table with the teenagers. “I don’t think any of you are older than fourteen!”

It takes me a second to understand what he means. “I don’t belong to that group! My friends are sitting over there.” I point at Catherine and Inez. “And I’m much older than fourteen—I’m actually twenty-three.”

The bartender knits his brow and scrutinizes me skeptically. “You can’t seriously expect me to believe that, can you? Can I see your ID?”

I cooperatively pull out my card, then hold it out over the counter. The bartender looks as though he’s got egg on his face.

A colleague polishing glasses next to him grins broadly. “See! I told you!”

Funny
, I think. Apparently, the men had made a bet as to whether I am an adult or not.

The bartender sheepishly hands me back my ID. “I’m sorry,” he says in a friendlier tone. “I see you’re from Germany. You have to understand; we have very strict laws here. If I get caught selling alcohol to minors, I’m as good as behind bars.”

I smile at him warmly. “It’s okay,” I say. “I think it’s good that you’re so diligent.” I take the tray with our drinks and return to my girlfriends.

They find the story insanely funny, and I laugh a little, too. Secretly, however, I find it annoying that I look so much younger than I actually am. The fact that people think I’m a student rather than a teacher is darned inconvenient.

“It’s no big deal,” Inez says. “When you’re older, you’ll be glad that you look younger than your age.”

“Perhaps,” I say, “but it’s a pain to be over twenty and have people treat you as though you’re some teenybopper who doesn’t know what she wants.”

“Hmm,” Catherine says thoughtfully. “Do you really think there’s such a big difference? Twenty-year-olds aren’t all that wise and mature. Sometimes I feel very much like a teenager myself.”

I look at her resolutely. “I don’t. I really feel like we’re adults now. I don’t like when people treat me condescendingly.”

“I admire that you feel that way,” Catherine says. “But at our age, we don’t really have that much experience. It’s only through experience that a person can become wise. I mean, when I look at myself critically, I realize I have a lot to learn.”

“I feel the same way,” Inez says. “That’s the main reason why I’m happy for the opportunity to live abroad.”

I stay silent. If I tell them what I experienced that made me grow up so quickly, they either wouldn’t believe me, or they would ask too many questions. And that is something I’m not ready to share yet. Also, I don’t announce what I really think because I don’t want my new girlfriends to think I’m arrogant. But I know
I’m an adult, I know what I want, and I know I’m confident and self-assured.

Inez sets down her glass of beer and tilts her head to the side, gazing at me questioningly. “What do you wish to achieve here, Lea, if it isn’t to grow up and become wiser?”

I don’t even need to think about it; I respond immediately. “I’m incredibly curious about life. I love being in a new country—meeting new people and experiencing different cultures. It’s tremendously fascinating to me. Sometimes I want to seize life greedily as though it’s a prized possession, the same way other people collect rare coins or stamps.”

My friends gaze at me with fascination. What is it? Is my hair messed up? Do I suddenly have a pimple on my nose? I can see my reflection in a long mirror hanging on the opposite wall. My cheeks are bright red, and my eyes are lit up. My face is aglow with passion. Embarrassed, I take a drink from my large glass of beer so I can hide my face.

Catherine says gently, “There is something about you, Lea, that I just can’t describe. I noticed it immediately when we met for the first time earlier today. You have an inner glow. Sounds stupid, I know, but that’s how it seems.”

Inez nods. “I think the same thing. It seems like you’re happier than most people. Are you in love?”

I put down my glass and laugh. “In love? No way. I would be the first to know, believe me.” But I think,
It’s true. I am in love. But not with a man—with life.

To steer the subject away from me, I ask, “And what about you? Are either of you in love? Do you have boyfriends back home?”

The diversion works. Inez tells us about an ill-fated love, which made it easier for her to leave Spain. Catherine has a boyfriend in France, who she sadly hasn’t seen during the year she’s been studying abroad.

She takes out her phone and shows us a photo of him. “Actually, I think it’s good that we’re spending time apart. I’m pretty sure that we’ll end up getting married and staying together for the rest of our lives. I want to experience life on my own before that, though. I think it will make him respect me more.”

“Do you doubt that he does?” I ask. “He looks like he’s the same age as you.”

“We are the same age. We went to the same school.”

I shake my head. “Then why do you think he doesn’t respect you enough?”

“Well, because I’m just a woman. But that’s the way of the world, isn’t it? Men always think that they’re stronger, more reasonable, and wiser than women. My boyfriend always treats me as if he has to protect me from the world.” Catherine’s face darkens slightly. “As if I’m too helpless to survive without him.”

I look at Catherine. I know I look younger than I am—the bartender reminded me of that earlier—but Catherine really looks like a little girl, although she’s only about two years younger than I am. She’s petite with a peaches-and-cream complexion, big black eyes, and ridiculously long lashes. She naturally triggers a protective instinct in me. Sitting next to her, I feel much bigger, stronger, and older.

Inez says bluntly, “Well, I wouldn’t worry about his finding a new girlfriend while you’re gone. You’re way prettier than any other girl on the planet.”

Catherine turns red at the compliment. It’s nice when someone so beautiful is so modest. It’s as though she doesn’t realize that what Inez so graciously asserted is true.

“In any case, he didn’t want me to go to England,” Catherine says. “He was convinced that I would be helpless and fail miserably, and I want to show him that’s not going to happen.” She seems stubbornly resolute.

“I understand why you would feel that way,” I say. “I couldn’t stand being with someone who looked down on me and treated me like a child. Did you read that novel about the girl who falls in love with a rich, handsome man? He convinces her to prove her love to him by engaging in strange sexual practices. I found the author’s portrayal of women really disturbing.”

“I know exactly what book you mean,” Catherine says. “I was really disturbed that she let him push her around like that, like she’s a complete airhead. I definitely don’t want somebody like that in my life.”

Inez shrugs. “It’s nice to have a strong shoulder to lean on every once in a while. It was exactly the opposite with my ex-boyfriend in Spain. He was hopeless. I felt like his mother. He wanted me to take care of him and everything that concerned him, but if I had a problem, he didn’t lift a finger to help me. It was the main reason I broke up with him.”

She seems angry and sad, but I giggle involuntarily. “Don’t take it to heart, Inez,” I say apologetically. “Men are complicated! That’s why I want to be single for a while. No one has yet to discover the perfect man.”

Inez sighs, then says bitterly, “But that doesn’t prevent us from falling in love with losers. I suppose it comes with the territory.”

Catherine says dreamily, “My Christian’s not a loser; I just need to prove to him that I’m not.”

Inez gives her a cynical look. “Well, then, good luck!”

I say softly, “I’m sure you’ll succeed, Catherine. You’re going about it the right way.”

A few minutes later, we get up, put on our jackets, and stroll out into the night toward the bus stop.

Chapter 3

My first week in Gatingstone flies by like an arrow. I get used to the routine of school quickly, and find that working with the students is a lot of fun. I have it easy. I’m the first German many of them have ever met, so I’m a novelty to them. Even though my clothes are not significantly different from theirs, they think of me as an exotic being from another planet. The language teachers are grateful when I initiate discussions about German culture with the upperclassmen. The students sit openmouthed and listen in amazement. It’s a strange feeling to be admired for the ability to speak my own language, something that comes so naturally to me. Of course, the students’ English is so excellent, even the most diligent German student studying English could never compete.

I’m touched by the younger students’ intensity and seriousness as they struggle with the German language. It’s becoming clear to me just how difficult it is to learn German. For example, they are eternally mystified why nouns in German are masculine, feminine, or neuter.

“Why,” they ask me again and again, “is the German word for table,
Tisch
, masculine, but another word for table,
Tafel
, is feminine? Why is the word for window,
Fenster
, neither feminine nor masculine but neuter?”

Yes, why? Good question
,
I think.

I feel sorry for them. These poor kids have to study laboriously and memorize what I learned so easily since I was weaned. I have to fight the urge to laugh when a student misuses a German article—it sounds so funny! For example, they say
der Huhn
instead of
das Huhn
, for “the chicken,” or
das Bauer
instead of
der Bauer
for “the farmer.” I bite my lip and correct them quickly. If I were in their shoes, I wouldn’t appreciate it if the teacher giggled hysterically every time I made a mistake.

That said, they laugh when something sounds like a naughty English word. In an advanced class, I asked the students to summarize the facts (
Fakten
) they read about in a chapter of their book. The German word
Fakten
apparently sounds like “fucked him” in English! The class couldn’t stop laughing the whole hour. The next time I spoke about facts, I used a less obscene-sounding German phrase.

In the simpler family narratives used for the lowerclassmen, the word for father,
Vater
, occurs frequently.
Vater
sounds similar to the English word “farter,” so there, too, the lessons often go off the rails. Unfortunately, there’s no substitute for
Vater
in German, so I have no choice but to be strict and call the class to order.

I’d already gotten used to this as a student back in Germany. I knew what to expect when I had to use the important and irreplaceable English word “fiction,” which to Germans sounds like the word
ficken
, meaning “to fuck.” In this regard, I’m probably like many young teachers around the world. I can easily empathize with my students. Under any other circumstances, I would be only too willing to laugh along. But here it would demean my authority. Sometimes I have to turn toward the window and hope that no one sees me struggling to suppress my laughter.

When I tell the Seafields these stories, they find them hilarious. Edwin has taken a brotherly responsibility for me and is often very insistent on explaining which gestures or expressions are absolute no-no’s in English culture. For example, you can indicate the number two with the index finger and middle finger, but only with your palm facing out. If you do it showing the back of your hand, it’s insanely indecent.

In the afternoons, Edwin, Linda, and I often go on bicycle trips in the surrounding area. Essex County is gorgeous. It reminds me of Jutland, the northernmost part of the Danish peninsula, with its similarly sweeping panoramic views of the rolling countryside and the occasional small stands of trees. As a child, my family often visited Denmark during the summer holidays.

English country roads are narrow, long, and winding. They wind and curve endlessly, hugging the contours of the houses and farms that they connect. The roads are carved deep into the hills and valleys after centuries of use. They were never straightened out as they were in the German state of North Rhine-Westphalia, which was ruled by Napoleon’s brother, Jérôme.

An English teacher once explained to my class why people drive on the left side of the road in England. Supposedly, the lanes at the time were very narrow, and knights and other horsemen could barely pass each other. Since they never knew who they’d meet on the road in those days, they kept to the left so they could easily reach for their lances or swords with their right hands, ready to fend off the enemy. I wonder if the theory is true. Traveling on the narrow roads, I figure it makes sense, even if cycling on the left takes some getting used to.

One afternoon, we go a bit farther than before and come to a small white church standing all alone on a hill. We lean the bikes on the cemetery wall and look at the old gravestones, many of which have fallen askew with barely legible ancient inscriptions.

“What kind of strange church is this?” I ask Edwin. “Where is the village?”

Edwin told me that there had been an entire village here in the Middle Ages. Most of the residents died in the plague, and eventually other people scavenged building materials from the abandoned houses. But they respected the church and the cemetery too much to tear them down, so that’s why they are still intact centuries later.

On other days, Catherine and I meet up to go shopping in the village. Sometimes we buy things; other times we just window-shop. Most days we meet for lunch in the cafeteria or in the teachers’ lounge.

“You know, it’s a pity we have almost no contact with the other teachers because of the separate teachers’ lounges,” Catherine says one morning.

Anne, a small, wiry Scottish teacher with freckles, overhears her remark. “That’s true, Catherine,” she says. “I hadn’t even thought about it, but it would be nice if colleagues from other departments socialized more. Would you two like to visit my flat in Brantwood sometime? I could invite some of our younger colleagues.”

Catherine and I nod at the same time. So far, we’ve only seen our hosts’ homes. We’re curious to see how young teachers here live.

“May I make a suggestion?” asks Catherine.

“Of course,” says Anne.

“I’d love to make crêpes for you and the other teachers. They’re a Breton specialty.”

Anne smiles. “Oh, that would be wonderful. I love crêpes! Are you sure it won’t be too much work? I’m thinking I’ll invite about eight people.”

“Lea will help me,” says Catherine. “Won’t you, Lea?”

“Of course,” I say. “I’d be delighted to help.”

“Good,” replies Anne. “I’ll check to see if Saturday night works for everybody.”

On Saturday morning Catherine and I go to Tesco, the supermarket in Gatingstone, and buy ingredients for the crêpes. We can hardly wait for the party.

Of course, it happens again, but this time to both of us. When the cashier sees the bottle of cognac on the conveyor, she pauses and eyes us critically. “Are you girls eighteen?”

“Of course I’m eighteen,” I say, and hastily add, “Actually, I’m twenty-three.”

Now the cashier looks even more doubtful. “Then show me your ID, please.”

A bit unnerved, I pull the card out. The cashier looks at it without comment, then gives it back to me and taps the price for the cognac on the cash register.

Afterward on the sidewalk, Catherine and I stare at each other incredulously.

“‘Actually, I’m twenty-three,’” Catherine says, mimicking me. “That doesn’t sound suspicious at all!” She almost falls down, she’s laughing so hard.

I force a smile. I’m starting to feel like Oskar in Günter Grass’s
The Tin Drum
, who still looks like a child or a dwarf as an adult.

“Luckily, you’re with me,” I say pointedly. “I look a couple years older than you.”

Catherine is so amiable that this comment only leads to more laughter.

In the evening, we meet on the bus to Brantwood. Catherine is carrying the grocery bags from Tesco.

“Oh boy,” she says. “I haven’t made crêpes since I was a kid; I’m a little nervous. What if they don’t turn out well?”

“Oh, then we’ll just say it’s a special recipe from your village.”

“Funny,” Catherine says, but her voice sounds strained.

Neither of us has dressed up. Instinctively, we’re both wearing jeans, sneakers, and a sweater. As always, Catherine looks insanely beautiful. Just in case, I’m wearing mascara and a touch of lipstick. With makeup, I look more twenty-three than fourteen.

When we finally reach Anne’s, I’m a bit surprised to find that a certified teacher has to share an apartment, although I know an English teacher’s salary is well below what a German teacher earns.

We ring the doorbell, and Anne opens the door for us.

“Hello, my dears,” she says warmly. She gives each of us a kiss on the cheek. “Come in and put your things down, then you can meet the others.”

We bring our shopping bags into the kitchen, which is small and a bit cluttered, but functional.

“Excellent,” Catherine says, “a gas stove—it’ll be much easier to make the crêpes.”

Anne leads us into the living room. Our fellow teachers have taken their places on the few seats available.

“Everyone at least recognizes each other,” Anne says. “But, just in case, I’ll introduce everybody again. Here are our assistant teachers, Lea from Germany and Catherine from France. Lea and Catherine, that’s Gill, who you know already from the teachers’ lounge. Daniel teaches math; then there’s John, Phil, Amy, and Ethan.”

I look at each face one by one, nodding amiably. Then my heart stops.
The athletic heartbreaker. The so-called womanizer.

He looks quickly in my direction, then turns away to talk to Amy, a blonde who, to the best of my knowledge, is a physical education teacher, too.

“Are you hungry?” Anne asks.

Everyone gives an enthusiastic “Yes!” so Catherine and I rush into the kitchen and immediately begin to whip up the crêpe batter. Like a pro, Catherine stirs it up quickly.

“Hey!” I say. “I see you have some experience with this.”

Catherine stirs even faster and says, “Yes. My sisters and I operated a booth at Fest Noz in our village. We had to crank out these things in a hurry.” She tells me, somewhat nostalgically, about the Breton folk festival, where villagers hold hands and dance to the nasal sound of the district’s bagpipes.

Anne peers into the kitchen. “Do you two need help? Is there anything I can do?”

But we send her back into the living room. A fat gray cat sneaks around our legs. She starts to follow Anne out, but then rests near the kitchen door.

Catherine places two pans on the stove and melts a little butter in each. Then she drips a small dollop of batter into the hot fat. She skillfully manipulates the pans at lightning speed until the dough is just a white film on the bottom of each pan. It smells delectable.

Catherine concentrates on the edges of the crêpes. “Almost done.” She takes a pan firmly by the handle, steps back, and says, “Watch out!”

She jerks the pan upward. The crêpe swirls once on its axis, then lands perfectly, the crispy brown side facing up.

“Wow,” I say, deeply impressed. “Up till now, I’ve only seen television chefs do that. I never thought I would see that live.”

In amazement, I watch Catherine toss the next crêpe in the same way. “Oh, it’s nothing,” she says. “Anyone can do it.”

“I’d never be able to do that,” I say, but I’m suddenly tempted to try.

“Of course you can,” Catherine says. “Would you like to try?”

Of course! I wait until after Catherine prepares two more crêpes. Then I take the pan firmly by the handle.

“Jerk it up quickly,” Catherine explains. “Here, let me show you again.” It looks like magic.

“Okay,” I say. “Let me try. One, two, three . . .”

I jerk the pan up, but I miscalculate and use too much force. My crêpe shoots up into the air, briefly sticks to the ceiling, then falls to the ground. How did the cat reappear so suddenly? She’s right where she needs to be. She attacks the crêpe, and it disappears into her stomach. Catherine and I look at the cat, then each other, in amazement. Her eyes are dancing with delight, and we burst out laughing.
Oh man
,
I think,
I never thought that making crêpes would be so much fun
.

“Excellent!” Catherine giggles. “At this rate, everyone will starve, but the cat will roll around on the floor, fat as a tick.”

Again, we laugh uncontrollably.

I notice someone at the kitchen door and look over quickly. It’s Ethan Derby, leaning on the door frame. He’s watching us carry on with our nonsense.

“Hi,” I say, suddenly feeling uncharacteristically shy. “We’re almost ready to deliver the first batch.”

“Beautiful,” he says. Then he turns around and disappears.

Catherine spoons some more batter into the pans. “Huh,” she says. “That’s one beautiful man. If my Christian knew that such a handsome Englishman was hanging around us, he wouldn’t sleep at night.”

“Hmm,” I answer, but I feel my cheeks burning. I hope Catherine thinks it’s from the heat in the kitchen. I must admit that Catherine is totally right. Ethan is really attractive. I wonder if he’s dating the Amy girl?

“He’s probably already taken,” I say despondently as I vigorously stir the batter.

“No, he’s not,” says Anne. She’s peeking through the door into the kitchen. Darn! She obviously overheard our conversation.

“He claims that he still hasn’t found ‘Miss Right,’” Anne sighs. I get the impression that she’d like to be the one. “Can I steal those crêpes?” she asks.

“Yes,” says Catherine, “and take this jam, too. Make sure everybody gets some.” She presses the jar into Anne’s hand.

“The crêpe idea was actually pretty silly,” I say to Catherine after Anne leaves.

“Why?”

“Because we don’t have time to socialize with the other teachers. We’re in the kitchen, reeking of fried fat, while everybody else hangs out in the living room.”