Love Is Pink! (12 page)

29

D
avid was right. Tall windows, thick stone walls—I could even make out a tower. This actually was a castle. Next to the wooden door, which had been worn down over time, a small lamp shone above a doorbell. Evidently, the building had electricity. That was something, anyway.

David rang the bell, and we heard it chime inside. We waited. Nothing happened.

I was just about to suggest going back to the car when the door handle started to move. The door opened a crack. And, naturally, it creaked.

Now the only things missing were a hunchbacked servant and an insane ax murderer—an end truly worthy of this day.

An old woman, not particularly tall, in pants and knitted jacket, squinted at us from behind the door. The cold wind blew snowflakes inside. She put her hand on her forehand to block them.

“Bonsoir, Madame,” I said.

David greeted her, too, and bowed his head lightly.

“Bonsoir,” she answered.

David started speaking French, so once again I didn’t understand a word. I tried to make a nice face, but it wasn’t easy to do in the frigid cold.

David stopped talking.

The old woman examined us with a skeptical gaze. She had clever brown eyes and many wrinkles. But it was clear that she’d been a true beauty in her earlier years.

I tugged on David’s arm. “Did you tell her that we have a child in the car and that our dog is injured?”

“Yes,” David said nervously.

“Oh,” said the old woman, looking at me. She proceeded to speak in German, instead of French. “You’re from Germany.”

“Yes,” I said, and pointed at the street behind me. “We have a flat tire.”

“Your husband just told me.”

“We really don’t want to disturb you, Madame, but would you happen to have a place for us to stay? Only for this one night. Maybe even in a nearby building or in a barn? And if that’s not possible, then at least for little Emma and our dog, who’s just had an operation? It’s simply too cold for the two of them to stay outside.” I was speaking so fast that I nearly stumbled over my words.

A smile spread over the old woman’s face. “My dear child,” she said. I was amazed that she spoke without an accent. “You think that you can come to my house shortly before Christmas—a family in need of shelter—and I’d make you sleep in my barn? What do you take me for?”

She stepped aside and made an inviting hand gesture. “Bring in the child and the dog immediately. We’ll catch our death of cold if we keep standing outside.”

“But this is a big dog. Really big,” I said. I marked Baby’s height at my upper thigh.

“He won’t be afraid of me,” she said.

David and I hurried back to the car. Baby seemed a little better and had managed to sit up halfway. We covered him in the blanket again and carried him together toward the castle. Two additional lanterns were turned on, making the short trip easier.

Emma walked next to us across the snow. Wheezing, she dragged David’s huge travel bag behind her. The castle door was wide open now. As we reached it, Emma stopped and gasped for air.

“And what is your name?” the old woman asked.

“I’m Emma. And this is my papa and Michelle. And my dog’s name is Baby. He’s still groggy from the operation.”

“My name is Madame Segebade. Welcome to my house.”

“This is not a house,” Emma said. “This is a castle.”

Madame Segebade smiled. “But a small one.” She proceeded forward. We wound up in a long corridor with many oil paintings hanging on the walls, along with framed photographs of German shepherds. Madame Segebade was obviously a dog person.

She pushed a sliding door to the side, and we entered a giant living room. A fire burned in an open fireplace. The floor was covered in hand-woven carpets, and there were countless boxes sitting around. A Christmas tree was laying in the middle of the room, not yet in a proper stand.

Madame Segebade shrugged shyly. “Please excuse the mess. I was not expecting visitors. But where is my head!” She pointed to a large leather couch. “You’d do best to lay the dog there.”

“On the sofa?” I asked doubtfully.

“Of course! He needs to be somewhere soft and warm. The floors aren’t heated in this old place.”

We got Baby to the couch. He whimpered a few times, then he closed his eyes and started to snore.

“That seems taken care of,” Madame Segebade said, satisfied. “Michelle, if you could please help me in the kitchen? Certainly, you’re all hungry.”

“And how!” Emma blurted out.

“Could Emma and I also help you in some way?” David asked.

The old woman thought for a moment and made an expansive gesture that embraced the whole room. “Well, I don’t like to force anything upon you, but I was just about to make my living room look a little bit like Christmas. In truth, I was starting to despair. The tree is just too big and heavy for me.”

I could see that she wasn’t telling the truth, but her fib made it easier on David. “Emma and I are happy to put up the tree for you,” he said. “And if you like, Emma is a real expert when it comes to Christmas decorations.”

“Yes, that’s me,” Emma said with sparkling eyes. She immediately made her way to one of the boxes, reached inside, and pulled out a gorgeous shiny-red Christmas ball.

“I think those two will be very busy,” Madame Segebade whispered to me. I looked at her, surprised, and she winked and said, “Now we have plenty of time to prepare the food. And you’re chilled to the bone—maybe you’ll both have a little cognac with me?”

“That we could definitely use,” I said as I followed the old woman through several doors before arriving at the kitchen.

30

G
igantic! There was no other way to describe the kitchen. Utility sink, counter space, refrigerator, stove, fume hood—every element assumed proportions that I’d only seen in the movies. You know, those movies in which a staff of ten prepares meals for Lord Sinclair, and all sorts of intrigue arise when they have to decide who will help the butler iron the lord’s trousers. I love those! Back then, the world was still whole, and everyone knew their place.

Madame Segebade noticed how impressed I was. “A long time ago, more than a dozen people lived here. But no
w . . .
” She sighed. “My daughter owns a gallery in Paris. She seldom finds the time to visit me. Perhaps she’ll manage to this Christmas.” She sighed again and smiled. “Do you have an idea for what we should cook?”

I looked at her helplessly. “Well, if I’m being honest, cooking is not exactly my forte.”

The old woman’s smile broadened. “We’re going to change that right away. What do you think of quiche?”

“Is it difficult?”

“No.” She shook her head. “If we both pitch in, it’ll be a cinch.”

She gave me a basket full of apples, a cutting board, and a vegetable knife. With her guidance, I chose the most beautiful fruit and peeled it.

As I worked, Madame Segebade prepared the dough.

“It’s so nice of you to take us in,” I said, cutting the apples into thin slices. “I never would have thought that there were such helpful people.”

“Oh,” she said, waving away my statement, “I’m only being selfish. Being alone is sometimes difficult. I very much enjoy having visitors, especially during the Christmas season.”

“I can understand that,” I said. “Being alone definitely isn’t easy.”

“And you?” she said. “The three of you will surely celebrate Christmas together.”

I had just cut into an onion. It burned my eyes, which began to tear. “David and I, we’re not married.”

“I’d already noticed,” said Madame Segebade. “You don’t wear any rings.”

“We met by accident,” I explained. “David is only taking me along. We both need to get to Berlin urgently. It just worked out this way.” I sniffled. It was the onion’s fault.

As she rolled out the dough, the old woman pursed her lips and shot me a curious look. “There’s really nothing more between the two of you?”

“How do you mean?” I asked, still chopping apples.

“You’re very familiar with one another.”

“We’ve been through a lot these past few days. That bonds people together.”

“Hmm,” was her only response.

For a while we stayed silent.

“It definitely wouldn’t work between the two of us. David is a single father, and I am useless as a mother,” I heard myself say.

Again came the
hmm
. “But the child is already attached to you.”

“For no reason that I can understand.”

“All I can say is that children are like dogs. That may sound strange, but it’s true. Neither can hide their feelings. So you must have done something right.”

This time it was my turn to answer with a
hmm
.

I stood quietly in thought as Madame Segebade laid out the dough in a round, cast-iron pan. Together, we diced a large piece of bacon, fried it crispy, added onions and butter to it, and mixed in curd, eggs, and shredded cheese. Then we placed a thin layer of sliced apples on top of the dough, and Madame Segebade distributed the filling over it evenly.

“Done,” she said. We placed the heavy pan into the preheated oven.

For the first time, I noticed that one of the burners on the stove was turned on. Chicken was cooking in a red pot. “Oh,” I said, “did we forget that?”

“No. That’s for the dog.”

“You don’t need to cook anything for the dog,” I protested, uncomfortable.

“Your dog must get healthy as soon as possible. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. I used to breed German shepherds. After the operation, he won’t be able to hold down anything solid. The broth will do him good. And he’ll get the meat early tomorrow. It’s easily digested and will give him strength.”

I couldn’t think of a suitable response, so I simply said, “Thank you.”

Madame Segebade looked at me critically. “My dear, Michelle, you’ve gotten something on you.” She pointed to my clothes, and I saw several stains, some from cooking and others from the long trip.

“Do you want to freshen up a bit? The quiche still needs a good forty-five minutes.” She escorted me to the vestibule and pointed me toward a door in the back. Then she headed to the living room to
help out
David and Emma.

David’s duffel bag was sitting right there, so I took it with me into the bathroom.

I found myself standing in a beautiful marble bathroom, in front of an oversized crystal mirror with a genuine gold frame. I had neither clean clothes nor any makeup—not even a lipstick.

In the mirror, an unfamiliar, completely changed person stared back at me. Slightly disheveled, with unkempt hair and faded makeup, bu
t . . .
I stepped closer and examined myself more thoroughly. I looked younger. And, if I hadn’t known better, from the way I looked, one might have thought that I was satisfied and actually happy.

I was probably going through various phases of a post-traumatic reaction, and that’s why I was in such a confused emotional state. Or did it have to do with the wonderful castle? Or both?

I bent down and hesitantly opened David’s bag. Even though he’d told me to help myself to his luggage, I felt strange poking around in his private things.

The bag was divided into four compartments. His and Emma’s already-worn clothes were packed in laundry bags. In separate compartments were clean clothes for both of them. Clean and folded.

I told myself to praise him later for his sense of order.

I found a solid-colored T-shirt and a hoodie with a zipper that might not look
completely
ridiculous on me. My jeans were still semi-OK.

Before dressing, I took a much-needed shower. The moment I opened David’s shampoo, the fragrance hit me like a blow, reminding me of him with intense clarity. I suppressed spontaneous thoughts of being under the shower spray with him, an
d . . .
wel
l . . .
the rest of it. I was sure that these fantasies were a result of my overexertion.

After drying off and getting dressed, I blow-dried my hair. Without product, my hairstyle was irretrievable. So I just tied it in a ponytail with a bright rubber hair elastic I found in Emma’s accessories. I was ready to go.

Again, I looked at myself in the mirror. Ordinary, humble, but—as already stated—satisfied and somehow happy. Man, was I done for!

31

T
he scene in the living room looked like a hot chocolate commercial. David and Emma had put up the tree and decorated it with all sorts of whimsical ornaments—shiny balls, tinsel, and tin soldiers. Behind it, a fire burned in the fireplace. The large table was set for four people. There were even Santas on our napkins. How totally kitschy.

I liked it!

David was busy attaching a somewhat unruly glass ball onto a branch.

I said hello, but he only turned around after he was certain that the decoration would stay on.

His mouth fell open when he saw me. I nearly sank into the ground, since I felt so plain and ordinary in his everyday, inexpensive clothes. But then his expression changed. A glow appeared on his face and in his eyes. I’d never seen him look like that before.

“Ah, there’s our Michelle!” said Madame Segebade as she walked into the room. She paused. Her gaze went from me to David. A barely visible mischievous smile played at the corners of her mouth.

What had happened to everyone all of a sudden? For years, I’d been running around clad in the most expensive designer outfits, and never had I evoked such a response.

“Michelle!” Emma interrupted my thoughts. “Have you ever seen such a beautiful Christmas tree?”

I took a few steps farther into the room, and she grabbed hold of my hand and began showing me every single ball. “Papa said this is a
very
old decoration. Isn’t it unique?”

“I can’t remember when I last saw such a wonderful Christmas room,” I said.

“That’s nice of you to say, Michelle.” Madame Segebade smiled. “Even though I’m sure you’re exaggerating. Your Christmas tree is certainly no less beautiful than mine.”

I picked up a piece of tinsel from the ground and hung it on a branch. “To be honest, I don’t really celebrate Christmas. I haven’t had a Christmas tree of my own in a very long time.”

“But why not, my dear?”

“For me alone, it’s just not worth it,” I replied. It was true that for several years I’d spent Christmas by myself—Valentin had to fulfill his family holiday duties. Even so, I would have liked putting up a small fir tree. But Valentin didn’t think much of those
messy little things
, as he liked to call them. The most sentimental holiday decoration he’d tolerate in my apartment was a red poinsettia in a Villeroy & Boch pot. And he only allowed that for my sake. That’s why I was so excited about our vacation in Chamonix. It would have been our first time spending a proper, festive Christmas together. But it was not to be.

I looked up and saw three pairs of sympathetic eyes. I didn’t want sympathy. So I forced a smile and said, “Don’t look so concerned. It’s fine. I’m easygoing. Besides, I don’t have to do without a tree. Every Christmas Eve I visit the Brandenburg Gate. It has a splendid tree. It’s very quiet around then, and I have coffee at the adjacent Starbucks and admire the Christmas decorations, as if they’re my own. That’s good enough for me.”

Evidently, I didn’t sound nearly as convincing as I would have liked. David looked at me with eyes still full of pity. He was about to respond, but I nipped that in the bud by turning to Madame Segebade and saying, “Wow. The food smells fantastic!”

The old woman eyed me briefly and gave an almost imperceptible nod, as though she’d understood. “That pan is pretty heavy. If you could please give me a hand with it?”

Together we went into the kitchen, armed ourselves with potholders, and took the quiche out of the oven. We carried it into the living room and placed it on a highly ornamented hot plate.

The quiche needed to cool a bit, so we used the time to have a small aperitif. The adults drank cognac, and Emma toasted with red currant juice.

“It’s so cozy here,” I said.

“Normally, I eat with guests in the dining room,” Madame Segebade replied. “But I don’t usually keep the room heated—it takes at least a day to warm up such a large space.”

“Is the heating very expensive?” David asked.

“Yes, unfortunately.” She sighed. “I have central electric heating, and it sucks up more money every year.”

“Have you thought about solar panels and a pellet heating system?” David asked.

“That’s not a bad idea,” I agreed. “Your property value would definitely rise.”

Madame Segebade shrugged apologetically. “When it comes to modern technology, I have no idea. I’d need a tradesman who specializes in old construction.”

David seemed poised to respond, but instead he shot me an anxious look and fell silent. Sometimes he behaved incomprehensibly. At least to me.

Madame Segebade sliced the quiche and placed a big piece on each person’s plate. After some initial hesitation, Emma ate her serving plus two rounds of seconds. I only managed one slice. We drank a dry white wine and enjoyed a fresh field-greens salad that our hostess must have whipped up while I was in the shower.

Barely two hours later, I lay in a freshly made canopy bed. Madame Segebade had given us clean bedding, and David and I had made up the second-floor guest rooms. A couple of times, as we slipped duvet covers on the comforters, our hands accidentally touched—and we exchanged bashful looks.

David and Emma slept in the room adjacent to mine. There was even a connecting door. As I lay in bed, I caught myself hoping that the door would slowly open and David would come over to me. I even thought I heard footsteps on the other side. I became quite certain that David was standing just a few meters away from me, wondering whether to come in.

Exhaustion overcame me and I fell asleep, unhappy in the knowledge that this was the last night we had together. Tomorrow, our trip would end. We’d separate forever.