The American Lady (2 page)

The children of many families in Lauscha had to leave for the big city to earn a living in the factories that were springing up like mushrooms after rain. Johanna and her husband, Peter Maienbaum, however, had no such worries for their twins, who would take over the family business when the time came.

Marie spoke up again, as though she had been reading Sawatzky’s thoughts. “Of course I’m happy that our Christmas baubles are still selling as well as ever. Especially these day
s . . .
But it’s just a matter of time until the others notice that I’ve run out of ideas. I always feel so tired and empty! I just find everything dreadfully dull. Whenever I have to come up with a new design, I feel that I’ve painted it all before. I’d like to throw all my dreary little sketches in the trash, but we have to publish a catalog every year, don’t we! And the inquiries from America about new designs keep coming. Woolworth’s the worst; he won’t leave us alone
. . .
Do you think I might have used up all my ideas? Have I designed everything I have in me?” Her eyes were suddenly wide with fear, as though this were the first time she had dared to speak such thoughts aloud.

Sawatzky looked at her. Her shoulders were drawn together, her nose seemed almost sharp, and a thousand sparks seemed to be fading away unnoticed in her dark-gray eyes.

All of a sudden he pictured another Marie in his mind’s eye. She had been eighteen years old back then, slim as a willow, with a high forehead and narrow cheeks—and eyes that any man would gladly have drowned in if only she had let him. But Marie had no time to think of anything but her art back then, and she had let nothing and no one distract her. He smiled at the memory. The first time he had shown her where the art and design books were shelved, she hadn’t been able to believe that so many people shared her passion.

“Are these all books about art?”

She had been so eager back then. She had spent all the money she had earned with her first commission on the books she loved. It had been hours before she left the shop with a big stack of books under her arm, with Magnus faithfully following. She had been so devoted to her art that she had never even noticed how smitten he was with her.

Marie hardly looked any different now. She still had the figure of a girl and even her face was unchanged, with large eyes and high cheekbones. Sawatzky chewed thoughtfully on his lip. It was nothing new for an artist to go through a fallow period. But for a booklover like her to turn down the offer of books was more than worrying.

Suddenly he felt a powerful urge to get to his feet and shake Marie by the shoulders. Instead he said, “What you need is a new source of inspiration. You’ve just been here in the forests for too long, that’s all. You’ve spent years studying the chickadees and the finches, looking at their feathers. And I must admit I’m amazed you managed to get decades of inspiration out of pinecones—speaking for myself, I’ve never found nature studies terribly interesting.”

Marie frowned.

“What you need, my dear Marie, is inspiration from elsewhere—from other art, from other artists. Nobody can work for years on end with only themselves for company—not even the great glassblower Marie Steinmann!” He winked as he said it so that she knew he was not mocking her.

Struck by an idea, he reached for a shabby little volume buried in the pile of books behind him. The poet Else Lasker-Schüler had written a book in memory of her friend Peter Hille when he died, and he had been meaning to give Marie some of Else’s poetry for some time. Lasker-Schüler did with language exactly what Marie was trying to do with glass; her poems and stories pushed words to the limits, putting them to new use.

He leafed through it for a moment until he found the poem he was looking for. All the same, he hesitated. Marie was in a bleak mood—would she be able to see the symbolism at work here? The poem was not an easy one to understand. But she had surprised him often enough in the past with how readily she could find her way into difficult texts. Well, it was certainly worth a try, he decided, and held the open book out to her.

“Would you be so good as to read aloud for both of us?”

Reluctantly, she did as he asked.
“I fled from the city and sank down exhausted before a cliff, and I rested for one drop of a lifetime, deeper than a thousand years . . .”

Sawatzky shut his eyes and listened to Marie’s voice as she puzzled her way through the poet’s strange choice of words.

“And a voice tore itself free from the peak of the cliff and called out, ‘You are so miserly with your self-substance!’ And I cast my eyes upward and I blossomed forth, and a happiness took hold of my heart that had chosen me alone.”

With every word, Marie’s voice melted ever more closely together with the story and her yearning became part of the poetry. Sawatzky’s heart beat more quickly.

“. . . And a man climbed out of the rocks of the earth, the hair on his head and the hair of his beard was hard, but his eyes were velvet mounds . . .”

Sawatzky watched Marie closely. Would she think that it was all too much when Else compared her friend Peter with Petrus, the rock? The mythic resonances had led to much debate and discussion in intellectual circles, but Marie kept right on reading without comment.

“
. . .
the night had swept away my tracks, nor could I remember my name, for the howling, hungry North had torn it to shreds. And the man whose name was rock called me Tino. And I kissed the gleam of his chiseled hand and I walked by his side.
”

Sawatzky shut his eyes again. When he opened them once more, he saw tears running down Marie’s cheeks. And he knew that he had chosen the right text.

“Why are you doing this to me? Why are you torturing me like this?”

There was despair in Marie’s eyes. She snuffled noisily.

“To be able to feel like that! To forget
where
you are,
who
you ar
e . . .
nor could I remember my name, for the howling, hungry North had torn it to shreds
,” she read again, moved to tears. “And at the same time to know that you’ve been chosen, that you can’t waste your time on others!” Her eyes were shining. “
A happiness took hold of my heart that had chosen me alone—
she can really count herself a happy woman.” Marie was quiet for a moment. Then she spoke again. “But what does all this have to do with me? I have no friend to stand by me and take a fatherly interest—well, other than you—nobody to inspire me like that. And I don’t live in a big city or have an exciting life. Who or what do you suppose will give me my artistic inspiration? I sit here in my little village with Magnus by my side and my whole family depending on me and my designs.”

“But that’s entirely your own choice,” Sawatzky said with more than a touch of impatience. And he couldn’t resist adding rather harshly, “Even Else had to break free of her family home and run away to the city, as you’ve just read.”

Marie looked up, irritated. “I know, I know, everyone has their own road to follow. And next thing you’re going to tell me all over again about that painter who preferred to die in obscurity rather than follow the fashion of the times. What was her name again—Paula Modersohn-Becker?” She held a finger to her forehead as though concentrating hard. “Or you’ll tell me about some poet or other who may not have had any food on her table but wrote uncompromising poems all the same.”

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you,” Sawatzky declared, looking down at his shoes. “
I . . .
”

She grasped hold of his hand before he could say anything more. “I apologize. It didn’t come out the way I meant it, and you know that quite well. I’m being a silly cow today, that’s all. And ungrateful to boot.” She bit her lip.

He looked up again, half won over. “You never did care much for role models, did you?”

Marie shrugged. “What good do they do me? I’ve never found one in Lauscha, that’s for sure. After all, I
have
broken free of the lives our forefathers led! And I really don’t see what I did as being so revolutionary, not anymore. What do you think I have in common with all those women out in the big wide world? Why do you mention them so often?”

“For one thing, you have the world in common,” he said, waving his hand in the air.

Marie laughed. “The way you say that! As though the world were a slice of cake and all we have to do is help ourselves with a fork.”

Sawatzky laughed. The image was completely Marie. He sighed. “It’s not quite so simple, no—and thank God for that. But don’t you think it’s time to leave Lauscha for a bit? To see a little more of the world?” He wanted to remind her of her dream and the meaning that lay beneath it, but instead he said, “Look at it this way—every bauble you blow travels farther than you ever have—isn’t that rather a frightening thought?”

PART ONE

NEW YORK,
THREE MONTHS LATER

And when the night became day and the day became a dream, all my questions fell into glittering dust.

1

Dittmer’s was the best delicatessen in the city. Those who didn’t have the money to step inside the magnificent doors could at least lust after the wonderful window displays, which were so artfully assembled that they put some art galleries to shame. The shop’s cleaning women went out at least a dozen times a day to wipe away the fingerprints and marks left by greedy passersby pressing their noses up against the glass. And of those who could afford the prices, hardly anyone had the willpower to walk on past and ignore the wonderful scents wafting through the revolving doo
r . . .
Just a quick look, just to buy one little treat. Don’t you deserve it, after a long day at work? A bit of cheese? Or three chocolate truffles? Or a handful of those dark-purple plums, gleaming and juicy? Such resolutions generally vanished as soon as customers stepped inside the store and saw everything that was for sale—more delicacies than any other store in the world—and they left with light-blue Dittmer’s bags bulging with treats.

Fruit, vegetables, sausage, salami, cheese, prepared dishes—Dittmer’s had virtually any delicacy a person could desire. The bakery counter was lined with baskets full of long, thin baguettes and platters piled high with southern Italian biscotti. Next to them, deep-black pumpernickel loaves were stacked up like bricks. At the cheese counter a customer could choose from eighty varieties, and the next counter over displayed oysters from Blue Point, Chesapeake Bay, and Pine Island. To make the choice a little easier, the store offered half a dozen oysters for tasting on the spot—with salt and lemon juice on the side. Or customers could opt for a dish of Dittmer’s incomparable oyster stew with butter, cream, and rosemary. A customer could sit down to a plate of oysters and admire the cold counter across the way: with almost ten yards of canapés, it was a feast for the eyes. Whether she was giving an intimate dinner for eight or a banquet for thirty, there wasn’t a hostess in town who could afford
not
to include at least one course from Dittmer’s, whose dishes were as much part of a society meal as handwoven linen napkins or Tiffany flatware.

Whoever had the money could order the entire meal from Dittmer’s expert cooks. No order was too large and no dish too refined for the kitchen. Three dozen Polish pirogis, filled with Russian caviar? No problem,
madame
! A banquet for one hundred and thirty guests, to be served five hours from now? Something of a challenge, but you can rely on us! Such orders unleashed a flurry of activity that the customer would never see. Cooks jostled for space on the gas rings, while kitchen hands scrubbed vegetables and plucked grapes as though they were trying to set a record. And when the goods were delivered, everything had been prepared with such loving care that you’d have thought the cooks had spent the whole week doing nothing else.

This perfectionism fascinated Wanda. She glowed with pride at the thought that she was part of this perfectly tuned machine, that her work helped create such marvels.

Of course her mother had turned up her nose at the news that Wanda was going to start work as a counter girl at Dittmer’s.

“Why is there anything dishonorable about selling groceries?” Wanda had asked before Ruth could even say a word. Perhaps she hadn’t been about to say anything. Perhaps now that Wanda was eighteen she didn’t care how she spent her days. But Wanda preferred to think that her mother was upset by her choice.

“There is nothing at all dishonorable about selling groceries. And there’s nothing dishonorable about preparing food,” Ruth had declared. “I’m just wondering why you didn’t go all the way and become a chef.”

“I haven’t yet, but there’s still time,” Wanda had shot back, somewhat annoyed that her mother hadn’t been as shocked by her new job as she had imagined.

She straightened her gleaming, starched apron one more time—she had made a point of putting it on at home instead of waiting until she got to work, as all the other counter girls did—and looked expectantly at the door.

Wanda had been working at Dittmer’s for two and a half weeks now. So far, every day had brought fresh surprises. And best of all was that Mason Dittmer seemed happy with her work. Granted, he hadn’t actually said anything yet, but every time he came past her counter he gave her a friendly nod—though he never so much as glanced at the rest of the girls. Was that because she coped with stress better than most people? Because even amid all the hustle and bustle she kept a cool head? Because even in her first days on the job she had never made a mistake taking an order or writing up the check? Or better yet—perhaps it was because some of the customers had praised her work? After all, she was Wanda Miles; she was from one of the best families in all Manhattan, and that had to help when she was advising customers about their orders. Didn’t it? Her mother was one of the most fashionable hostesses in town and an important customer for Dittmer’s, which had to mean that Wanda knew what others would want as well. Who better to deal with the whims and wishes of high-society ladies than someone who had grown up in their world? That had been Wanda’s argument when Mr. Dittmer had wondered out loud whether the society ladies might not perhaps feel uncomfortable giving orders to her. In the end he had been won over by Wanda’s enthusiasm.

“All the parties are such a bore this season! There’s no spark anymore! Nobody has any new ideas! Everybody’s just chewing over the same old recipes that have already been served up everywhere else!” said Monique Desmoines, wife of Charles Desmoines—one of the most influential brokers at the Stanley Finch Bank—as she fanned herself ostentatiously. She glanced around the counters with an expression approaching disgust.

Wanda took a clean cloth and wiped an invisible splash from the rim of a platter of deviled eggs. “But Mrs. Desmoines, I’m sure you’re never short of ideas!”

Monique looked up from contemplating her perfectly manicured nails. Was she imagining it, or was Wanda’s smile just a little less subservient than she expected from the service at Dittmer’s? Was there even a hint of sarcasm in it?

“No more than your mother is,” she replied, frowning slightly, and then she sighed. She still hadn’t quite gotten used to the idea that the Miles girl was working at Dittmer’s. Thank God her own daughter Minnie would sooner drop dead than stand on her feet for a ten-hour shift. But Ruth Miles herself was a little eccentric—no matter how legendary her hospitality was. Well, the girl was no better than her mothe
r . . .
She sighed again, then remembered what she had actually come for.

“Your mother could certainly tell you a tale or two about that; too many parties, too many guests, and nobody these days really knows how to appreciate the lengths a hostess has to go to.” She waved a hand dismissively. “But there’s no use complaining, I always say. Deeds, not words! Deeds, indeed!”

If that’s the worst of your troubles, you should count yourself lucky,
Wanda found herself thinking. Out loud she said, “The talent to be a true hostess is something you must be born with.” She squared her shoulders. “Do you have something in particular in mind for your next event? Perhaps you have it all planned out already? As you know, we at Dittmer’s are here to help make whatever you intend go smoothly.”
We at Dittmer’s—
wonderful!

Monique Desmoines sat up straighter. The Miles girl knew what she was doing after all. Ruth had probably told her what wonderful parties Monique threw. She made a mental note to invite Wanda’s parents to the dinner she was currently planning, then remembered that she had waited in vain for an invitation to Ruth’s most recent event. She struck Steven and Ruth off the list in her head.

“Do I have a plan?” she said triumphantly. “I have more than just something in mind. I have it all written out!”

Monique began to root around in the depths of her handbag. A few moments later she looked up and sighed impatiently. She was holding a sheaf of folded notepaper in her hand.

“What I have in mind will light a fuse under my guests. I’ll be the first to admit it: I want to shock them!” She pursed her lips as though she were expecting Wanda to object. When nothing of the kind happened, she leafed through her bundle of notes.

Wanda waited patiently.

“Of course I want to spoil my guests, but more than anything else I want them to realize just how spoiled we all are—myself included, my dear! Who can still enjoy a dish when we all have so much more than we need? Who can still appreciate food as God’s gift to mankind?”

She swept her hand around in a gesture that included all the counters in Dittmer’s.

“You might say that what I am planning is a culinary allegory, a description in food, a gastronomic depiction of how we were driven from Eden.” Monique raised her eyes piously, as though she were expecting heavenly approval for her idea right then and there.

“A culinary allegory, I see,” Wanda said, nodding earnestly. “That will certainly impress your guests.”
Goodness gracious—even for Monique Desmoines, this is going a bit far!

“Here it is,” Monique said. She smiled triumphantly as she handed a folded sheet of notepaper across the counter. But before Wanda could reach out and take it, she snatched it away again.

“Just so that we understand one anothe
r . . .
I expect absolute discretion. For this party of all parties, nobody must know what to expect. You’ll understand exactly what I mean when you see what I have in min
d . . .
” Monique glanced hurriedly over her shoulder as though she feared that a pack of hyenas were skulking somewhere, just waiting to steal her party ideas.

Wanda put her fingers to her lips. “I shall be as silent as the grave. And I’ll do more than that; an important event like this calls for uncommon measures on our part.” She beckoned Monique to lean a little closer. “I’ll take your order directly to the kitchen department without going through catering as we usually do. I will also personally guarantee that nobody catches sight of the dishes when they are ready to be delivered. There are spies everywhere after al
l . . .
” she whispered.
Ha, if Mr. Dittmer only knew what trouble I am taking over one of his most important customers
. She took the folded sheet of notepaper and put it into the pocket of her apron as though she didn’t dare look at Monique’s order herself. Then she buttoned the pocket closed.

“Your guests will have a surprise they will never forget!”

At the other end of town, at the harbor, where thousands of crates from all over the world were unloaded every day of the year, two people were sealing a deal.

The shorter of the two, a nervous little man, shoved an envelope into his jacket pocket as the taller man snapped his briefcase shut with a flourish.

“I’m very pleased with your work, Mr. Sojorno,” the tall man said. “You have been a great help to us, preparing the way like this. Not every warehouse supervisor would be s
o . . .
cooperative. My father and I assume we may rely on your help in the future as well.”

Cooperative—who is he trying to kid?
Sojorno thought. They had him over a barrel and they damn well knew it! Sure, they paid him well for what he did, but what good would that money do him behind bars? He wiped the sweat from his brow and said a quick prayer to Santa Lucia to ask that he never end up in jail. Then he looked around nervously.

“Part of the shipment was already a littl
e . . .
well, let’s say it ha
d . . .
suffered from the journey,” Sojorno whispered. “I worry about what might have happened if there hadn’t been enough air.”

Franco de Lucca frowned deeply. “Well, shipping certain kinds of goods over such a distance is a tricky business, we all know that. An
d . . .
special shipments like these need constant temperatures and good airflow. But please don’t worry, Mr. Sojorno. Our man in Genoa is a master of his craft. As long as nobody interferes with the crates on the crossing, there’s plenty of air inside.”

The other man nodded. He found Franco de Lucca’s words reassuring. “When can we expect the next delivery?”

“First thing next week,” de Lucca answered, leafing through his pocket diary.

“So soon? I thought that
signore
would go back to Genoa firs
t—
”

“I do not pay you to think, Mr. Sojorno! If you have any trouble with this, you must let me know,” de Lucca interrupted. He fixed his ice-blue eyes on Sojorno until the man began to shift uncomfortably from foot to foot. Like a dog submitting to the pack leader, he hunched his shoulders and made himself look as small as he could. He simply shook his head in response.

De Lucca’s gaze became a little easier to bear. “I knew that we could rely on you,” he said, and even smiled.

Why does the dear Lord hand out his gifts so unfairly?
Sojorno wondered. The mere fact that the other man had smiled at him made him feel like one of the chosen few. The young aristocrat had everything that he did not, everything that he wished for; he had a physique that made Roman sculpture look clumsy, olive-brown skin that bristled with manly stubble even at this early hour, and eyes that could glow like hot stones—or glitter cold as ice, as they had just now. Finally, there was a tenderness and sensitivity in the shape of his mouth and chin that could make women swoon.
Madonna mia!