Love Is Pink! (7 page)

14

T
he next town is Besançon,” David said. “It’s a comparatively big city. We’ll definitely be able to find a service station there.”

The Citroën seemed happy to have us sitting in it again. The engine started right away and sounded only slightly louder than normal.

So as not to overtax it, David drove a bit slower than usual. But that didn’t bother us. We were completely content from managing to get the muffler problem under control.

“Thanks,” David said after a while.

“For what?”

“For the idea with the wires.”

“Don’t mention it,” I said, waving my hand. “It was just a random thought.”

David smiled. He really looked charming when he did that.

As soon as we reached the plain, the city appeared before us. Thanks to an imposing stone bridge, we were able to cross a wide, half-frozen river. On the other side, we encountered an area of the city with a string of low buildings featuring an ornamental facade. A clear-blue sky soared above us.

Apparently, our Citroën could hardly wait to get to the service station. The engine got increasingly louder, and its deafening thunder resounded through the narrow streets. Pedestrians stopped in their tracks, looking for the source of the noise, and stared at us with partially incredulous and partially amused expressions. Of course, Emma noticed this and interpreted the locals’ behavior in her own way. She rolled down her window, poked out her pom-pom-hat-covered head, and waved happily at the townsfolk, calling out “Bonjour” to them in a perfect French accent. Coupled with the fact that the muffler was now emitting thick, black clouds behind us, it was no surprise that we drew a certain amount of attention.

I pulled my ski cap farther down onto my face, crouched in my seat, and hoped no one would recognize me here. I didn’t even want to think of a picture of me in this junker ending up on Facebook, Twitter, and who knows where else.

“We need a service station
now
!” I hissed at David.

“What do you think I’m searching for?”

“Searching is not enough!” I shot back. “You need to actually find one. When I go to a foreign city, I immediately know where to find the boutiques and jewelry stores. You, as an ordinary man—”

“Ordinary man?”

“Well, I mean, as a man who works with his hands,” I attempted to clarify.

David no longer seemed to be amused by my taunting him. “Look for a sign that says ‘Garage Automobile.’ ” He pronounced the words painfully slowly and clearly in a German way, as though I had the IQ of a carrot.

“You can just as easily say that
in the proper way,” I said. “After all, we’re in France, aren’t we?”

“Of course, but since you’re a German poet and thinker, not an ordinary—”

“There!” I screamed, grabbing the steering wheel and yanking it toward the right. The car screeched, slid, and skidded around the narrow curve.

“Have you lost your marbles?” David yelled.

“There was a sign.”

“I didn’t see anything.”

“Right. You were too busy insulting me.”

“I was insulting you? I thought you didn’t want to speak any French because it’s beneath you and German is a superior language.”

“How can one language be better than another?” I said, infuriated. “That’s complete nonsense. I’d never say something like that!”

“Then why don’t you speak any French?”

I bent forward and strained to find another sign that would point the way to the service station. “I don’t speak French because I can’t,” I said quietly. David acted as though he hadn’t heard me.

“There’s another billboard with a car on it!” Emma said.

This time the black arrow under “Garage Automobile”
pointed to an entrance ramp. David braked abruptly and turned in perhaps a bit too fast. We made it about two meters, then experienced such a loud bang that I thought that our car had split in two. An ear-piercing screech bored into my eardrum as the muffler dragged across the cobblestone pavement.

David stepped hard on the brakes. The engine died with an explosion.

The Citroën edged forward a bit, and then stopped moving altogether.

The car silenced, and I became aware of another sound—unexpected but familiar. The last time I’d heard it was at the Wagner Festival in Bayreuth. Valentin and I had treated ourselves to a seven-hour opera extravaganza, interrupted by two intermissions with champagne and exotic finger foods—and, consequently, a very urgent trip to the restroom. Some small sacrifices were worth the culture that one was able to enjoy there.

And here, in this courtyard, I again encountered that king of composers, that master of sounds who represents the apex of musical evolution. In short: Richard Wagner.

“Ride of the Valkyries” surged triumphantly from several speakers. Compared to that, our banging engine sounded more like a lame champagne cork.

We stepped out of the Citroën and beheld three car hoists—two of which held cars—countless tools, and a plethora of replacement parts. At the front of the courtyard was a mechanic in blue overalls, his back to us. His gray hair reached his shoulders. He’d stretched out his arms and was holding monkey wrenches in both hands. He was the conductor, the wrenches his batons.

His movements were short, precise, and frighteningly professional. With the swelling of the crescendo he became increasingly enveloped in a state of creative ecstasy. The monkey wrenches swished through the air, and his short, fat body hopped with every movement he made.

The music stopped. Frenetic applause could be heard from the recording. The man lowered the wrenches and bowed deeply.

“Bravo!” called Emma. “Bravo! Bravo!” She clapped frantically with her small hands.

I shot David a questioning, concerned look, which he acknowledged with a shrug.

The mechanic turned around, swept aside his gray mane, and granted us a friendly smile. “Merci,” he said. That French word I knew.

David relaxed. He approached the man, and the two immediately began speaking very quickly in French, making their discussion incomprehensible to me.

The mechanic grasped one of the monkey wrenches and went over to the Citroën with David. He knelt down and inspected the damage while they continued their detailed discussion. After a bit, the maestro got up and nodded to me. David came to my side.

“What’s the verdict?” I asked. “Can he fix it?”

“This car has been discontinued for decades. So, of course, it’s almost impossible to find replacement parts for it.”

“Does that mean that our trip ends here?”

“No, luckily. This mechanic possesses many varied talents and the ability to weld.” David grinned. “He’s going to figure a way to fix the muffler. It’ll hold until we get home.”

“That’s fantastic.”

David cleared his throat. “There’s only one little problem.”

“What?”

“The whole thing will cost us. Two hundred and fifty euros, to be precise. He can’t do it for less. I’ve already tried to bargain with him.”

“Two hundred and fifty euros? That’s peanuts! I’m sure he’ll be working on that muffler for a long time.”

“That’s true, but—”

“But what?”

David scratched his head and then looked to the side. “I’ve only got about four hundred euros cash on me.”

“You have what?”

“You heard right. Four hundred.”

I didn’t understand what David was trying to tell me. “So, that’s OK. You have enough to pay him. Just withdraw the rest for whatever else we need on the way.”

David cleared his throat again. He looked down at his feet and seemed to be squirming.

The real problem finally dawned on me: David was broke.

“The four hundred euros—that’s everything we have?” I let slip. “How are we supposed to get home? It’s not like you’ll be able to put snow in the gas tank, right?”

David seemed so ashamed of himself that he still couldn’t look me in the eyes. He didn’t answer. Here it was again. The huge difference between David and Valentin. Valentin would have been able to solve this problem with the blink of an eye, without burdening me in the least.

Despite my thoughts, I said, “Don’t worry about it. One thing at a time. We’ll get the car fixed, and then we’ll figure out the rest.”

15

D
avid and I sat on the steps of a shed—a thick old woolen blanket beneath us—and watched the maestro prepare to work on our car to the sounds of Vivaldi. Wait, why was I starting to think of it as
our
car? This pink hunk of rust belonged to David. (At least it did for now, until some well-meaning policeman forced him to dispose of the dreadful thing in a junkyard just to get it off the road.)

Funny—the idea of the Citroën being stripped for part
s . . .
I didn’t like it at all. Despite its many shortcomings, it was a comfortable ride. And the radio worked remarkably well.

I brushed aside my thoughts with a sigh. We had other worries at the moment.

Emma, who’d forced herself between us, poured hot tea from a thermos into a plastic cup. She first offered it to her father, who took a sip, and then to me. In truth, I don’t like peppermint tea, and I like it even less when it’s sweetened, but it didn’t taste half bad.

“Where did you get this?” I asked.

Emma pointed to the mechanic, who was getting ready to do the welding. Our Citroën was waiting on the third car hoist.

“Monsieur André gave me the tea so that we don’t freeze from the cold.”

“You understand French?”

“It’s really easy. The words just sound nicer than ours. We take a course in kindergarten.”

“Kindergarten,” I repeated, taking another big sip before offering the cup to David.

He thanked me but declined with a wave, walked down the steps, and peeled off his jacket. “If I lend André a hand, we can finish up in no time.”

“Good idea,” I said as I took his jacket and rested it on top of Emma’s and my knees. I thought that and the tea would warm us up a bit.

“Papa never wants to finish early,” Emma said.

“He doesn’t?”

“No. He loves to work on old cars. He spends hours and hours in his garage at home.”

“Ah,” I said. I watched as David approached André, and then eagerly threw himself into the work. He didn’t look too shabby while doing it, either. In fact, he looked pretty damn good. Sometimes, when he stretched, his sweater rode up. And since his jeans were low-waisted, this exposed his navel and the start of his happy trail. In terms of physical attractiveness, he differed from Valentin quite clearly. But Valentin didn’t need such external attributes. He possessed far more important ones, like inner strength and values.

And that brought me back to my main problem: This good-looking man in front of me was as poor as a church mouse. Which meant we barely had enough money to get home in the pink-red junker.

I sighed again.

It was clearly up to me to get us the money. The easiest solution would be to call my bank and have them quickly transfer one or two thousand euros to a local bank. But that wouldn’t work. I was stupidly without a passport, and hence without the necessary ID—all because that Swiss Botoxed Heidi (hopefully by now she’d fallen deep into the crack of a glacier while yodeling) stole it from me.

I took another sip of tea and stared aimlessly around the courtyard. Behind a filthy windowpane, I saw an ancient telephone hanging on the wall. It was one of those antediluvian things with a rotary dial, cord, and black receiver.

Valentin
.

I had to call and let him know what a jam I was in. He’d get me everything I needed immediately, I was sure. How dumb I’d been not to think of this sooner! Pregnant wife or no pregnant wife, Valentin loved me. He’d remove all obstacles that stood in my way, as he always did.

I stood up abruptly, the rest of the tea sloshing out of the cup and down my hand. I set it on the steps, and then carefully dressed Emma in David’s jacket before hurrying over to him. He was reaching to screw on some part—for which I had no name and never wanted to.

“David?” I said.

He answered with a short, “Yeah.”

“I need to make a phone call.” I pointed to the mechanic standing next to David with his hands in his pockets. He was following David’s efforts with visible interest and admiration.

“Could you ask your coworker here if I could use his office phone?” I said.

The mechanic-maestro turned to me. “Vous voulez téléphoner?”

I gathered all my courage and answered, “Oui.”

He smiled, sputtered out some words I didn’t understand, and pointed at the office.

I was fairly certain what this meant, but I asked David to confirm.

“Yes,” he said. “It’d be his pleasure if you used his phone.”

Despite my anxiety, I made myself pause a moment before dashing off.

“Merci,” I said to André, which caused him to smile even wider.

The office smelled like oil, cigarettes, and tea. I grabbed the receiver and dialed Valentin’s cell number. I knew I’d be able to reach him. He always made time for me. It was one of the certainties of our extraordinary relationship and great love.

My heart thumped as I heard ringing on the other end. My call was answered quickly. Typical Valentin—a true man of action.

“Hello?”

Only, this voice did not belong to Valentin. It was a female’s.

“Yes?” I said, perplexed.

“Who’s speaking?”

“Um—” was all I could get out.

“Is that you, Ms. Krämer?”

Suddenly full of rage, I held the receiver in front of my face and stared at the perforated speaker as though I might see through it to the person on the other end of the phone.

“Don’t you dare hang up!” the voice said in a tone that wasn’t exactly gentle.

I pressed the receiver to my ear, took a deep breath, and said, “I would like to speak to Valentin.”

“You want to speak to my husband, Ms. Krämer? You have the brazenness to call here and ask me to speak to my husband?”

I started to respond, but I was interrupted again.

“I’ll tell you one thing, Ms. Krämer. For a long time, I’ve known that my husband’s been having an affair. An affair with you. My man isn’t very useful, and as a businessman he’s a complete zero. But he’s
my
husband. Do you hear me?
My
husband. The stress is on
my
!”

“But we love each other—”

“Love?” the woman laughed. “Did he fob that off on you? He’s the best at that! I’ll tell you the one thing that Valentin really loves: money.
My
money, Ms. Krämer.”

“I won’t let you ruin this,” I said. “Valentin and I—”

She laughed again, and cruelly. “You think there’s something special between you and Valentin? Sorry to disappoint you. He’s always going after some young thing. And each time he does, he spends a small fortune on her. I let him have these little escapades because when the women reach a certain age, he loses interest. But now I’m pregnant, and the fun is over! Now
I
need him.”

“But—”

“No
buts
. If you call here one more time, you’ll see another side of me. I’ll destroy you.”

Now I’d had my fill. “How do you intend to destroy me? I’m on my own two feet. I’m financially independent. I can do whatever I want.”

“Really?” Valentin’s wife paused artfully. “You naive little thing. You work as a real estate agent. Who do you think owns the company you work for?”

“My boss,” I stammered.

“She’s the manager, not the owner. That company belongs to our family. And when I say
our
family, I mean it belongs to
me
. Why else do you think you were hired there? With no qualifications whatsoever except for your sexy little ass!”

This time I was reduced to silence.

“You leave your cutely manicured claws off my husband and find someone your own age—and at your own level. This is the first and last time I’ll ever speak to you. Should we for some unexpected reason need to talk to one another again, my legal department will take over. I think we understand each other.”

The drone of a dial tone told me she’d hung up.

I don’t know how I made it out of the office. I just remember staggering through the courtyard. Tears ran down my face. Emma clung to my legs and pressed her head against my belly.

David dropped his tools. André gave me a compassionate look. The sun had just hidden itself behind a cloud, and a thick shadow covered us all. But, after a brief moment, the sun fought its way free. Its rays streamed into the courtyard, onto our faces and the varnish of our Citroën, which glistened with a cheerful, carefree brightness.