Wait for Me in Vienna (3 page)

Johanna grinned and searched for the ingredients to prepare lasagna. It was impossible to mess up as long as you didn’t overcook it, and most people loved lasagna. Hopefully, Martin’s girlfriend wasn’t a vegetarian, because that probably wouldn’t be the best way to start a friendship. Should she make dessert, too? She could whip up a yummy mascarpone cream with cooked plums, rum, and cinnamon. Feeling like the famous Austrian cook Johanna Maier, she swept up to the cash register and looked forward to the evening. She hadn’t cooked in a long time. As a child, she’d loved to stand next to her mother in the kitchen. Her mother was a passionate and talented cook, both essential traits for the creation of good food.

Back at Martin’s apartment, Johanna walked into the kitchen and froze. What if she’d forgotten how to cook? She took a deep breath and put on some Beatles, which reminded her of dancing with her mother in the kitchen. She couldn’t explain it, but the Beatles always soothed her and freed her mind. Today was no different; her mood lifted immediately and she threw herself into her cooking. Johanna carefully layered the sheets of lasagna noodles, spreading the meat and the béchamel sauce between them, in a large baking pan. Satisfied, she slid her work of art into the oven.

Martin arrived home punctually, an enchanting young platinum-blonde woman in tow, carrying a huge shopping bag, which contained a large box. She reminded Johanna of the pop star Pink. She had a sharp little hairstyle and blue eyes with black eyelashes that made her eyes stand out and look even bluer. Johanna scrutinized her for a second and then reached out her hand.

“Hello, I’m Johanna . . . So nice to meet you.”

“Hello. Nice to meet you, too. I’m Linda,” she said with a beautiful smile. She held out the large shopping bag to Martin. “Where should we put this?”

“Thank you.” Martin kissed his girlfriend, then put the package in the kitchen.

“Now you can prepare yourselves a decent cup of coffee any time you want.” Linda grinned as Martin gave her a warm hug.

“So, Johanna, what amazing things have you made for us?” he asked as he rubbed his belly, probably more excited than either Linda or Johanna.

“We’re so hungry,” Linda said as she patted her flat-as-a-board stomach.

“Let me surprise you. Take a seat.” Johanna poured some red wine—an aged Blauer P
ortugieser. It came highly recommended by a clerk in a small wine shop on Martin’s street. The twenty-five-euro price tag promised that it would good enough, if necessary, to make up for burned lasagna.

“So, how long have you and my brother been together?” asked Johanna as they toasted and took their first sips.

“He never told you about me?” Linda patted Martin lightly on his knee.

“No, we haven’t talked much the last few years.”

“Well,” Martin began, “we’ve known each other for about four years; about a year after we first met, we ran into each other at a party. Linda was finally single, and I jumped at the opportunity and talked her ear off.”

“Yes, you were drunk and babbling like a crazy person. It’s a minor miracle that I agreed to go on a date with you after that.” Before she spoke again, she took another sip and looked at her significant other. “Martin gulped down one cup of punch after another.”

“Yeah, I was nervous. Men get that way every now and then,” he countered.

“And you were so charming . . .”

Johanna looked on in amusement as they got lost in their cute dating story. Then she stood up and went into the kitchen to check on the lasagna. She came back with two plates.

“Bon appétit!” she said as she put down the plates. “Go ahead and get started. I’ll be right back with mine.”

However, they waited politely until she came back.

“So, your turn,” said Linda. “Will you be staying here in Vienna?”

“Well, I don’t know. I like it here a lot, but honestly, I still don’t know what I want to do. Actually, I’ve never known,” Johanna said candidly, then took a big gulp of wine.

“Everything will work out great!” Martin said. He worried about making this transition as easy as possible on his sister and wanted to make sure she didn’t feel any pressure. Linda understood; he’d filled her in about Johanna at length. “You’re staying!” he continued. “And for the time being, you live with me. Linda has her own very nice apartment. If you get on my nerves, I’ll hop on over to her place.”

“I don’t think it’ll be a problem. As you know, I’m a neat freak, and I’m not afraid of housework. You could use somebody like me around here.” Johanna took another sip of the Blauer Portugieser.

She emptied her glass, then poured herself another. Johanna had a low tolerance for alcohol these days, almost no tolerance at all, actually. It had been over two years since she’d had anything to drink. This became evident when she spilled her wine on the beautifully laid table.

“Whoops,” she said.

“Wait a second, I’ll get that.” Linda dropped her knife and fork on her napkin as she hopped up.

“That’s so sweet of you,” Johanna said, thinking how nice Linda really was.

Martin started to laugh. “Do you know that I’ve never seen you drunk before?”

“Come on. I’m a little bit tipsy, maybe, but not drunk. Oh, that reminds me, I’m making a delicious dessert. It’s in the fridge, but it’s not quite finished. Crap,” Johanna slurred as she gestured toward the kitchen.

Martin stood up, went to the kitchen, and came back with the package of mascarpone. “Do you mean this?”

“Yes, but it’s not ready yet.”

“Well, that’s pretty obvious since the package is still sealed.”

“Exactly. I just have to add plums, rum, and cinnamon. And, um, warm it up and fold the mascarpone in . . .” Johanna gave up and waved her hand dismissively.

“Doesn’t matter, we’ll eat it some other time. I also bought some chocolate if anybody’s interested.” Martin held up a bar with double truffles and two kinds of nuts. “Or we can have pralines, the good kind, the expensive kind; this chocolate is the bomb, though. They’re both from Zotter. Didn’t you visit the Zotter chocolate factory once?”

His sister couldn’t follow him anymore. In the meantime, Linda had wiped up the red wine spill and changed the tablecloth.

“We were there two weeks ago,” she said. “I couldn’t drag Martin out of there. He got really sick from eating way too much chocolate, but there was just no way to hold him back.”

She poured some more wine for Martin and herself and assumed that Johanna had had her fill. But she didn’t confirm this with Johanna. Johanna reached for the bottle, but before she could get to it, Martin grabbed it and poured his sister a stingy little drink.

“Whatever, Linda, you had more than your share of chocolate, too, and you promised yourself you wouldn’t eat it again for a month . . . They had a chocolate fountain there, Johanna. I’m telling you, it was a chocolate lover’s paradise.”

“Yeah, I ate too much, but you’re a chocoholic, my darling.”

“You’re the one that bought that massive box of chocolates . . .”

“Yes, for you! Okay, fine, for both of us . . .”

Johanna observed Linda and Martin’s banter for a few minutes before growing tired of the topic. Abruptly, she interjected, “I’m not really drunk; it might seem like it, but I’m really not,” successfully regaining their full attention. She used this opportunity to ask, “Tell me, Linda, what kind of work do you do?”

“I work in a boutique. I actually own the shop.”

“Really? With clothing and stuff?” slurred Johanna as she firmly gripped her wineglass.

“Yes, with clothing and stuff. It had always been my dream, and three years ago, I decided to go for it. It wasn’t without its risks, of course. I had to take out a loan, but I really felt I had a promising concept. Now, things are going so well that I’m considering opening another location in another part of town.”

“Yes, Linda’s been very successful!” Martin bragged.

“Amazing, and she’s gorgeous, too!” said Johanna as she reached for the wine bottle again.

Martin beat her to it and poured her just a splash—even tinier than before.

“Can’t I have just a little bit more?” Johanna pouted.

“I don’t know. It seems like you’ve had enough for one night.”

“Does it matter?” Johanna scoffed.

Martin realized that it really didn’t matter and poured her some more.

“Normally, I don’t drink. I was never really interested,” she mentioned as she aimed her wineglass toward her lips and, by sheer luck, finally managed to get it there.

“You know what, you should come to my shop and I’ll set you up with some new clothes. You have a great figure, so it won’t be hard to find something.”

Initially, Johanna was taken aback by the idea. She hated shopping for clothes and was perfectly happy with her frumpy, worn-out clothes. In her hometown, she rarely went anywhere or did anything, especially after her parents’ death. But as she gazed at Linda’s stylish outfit, she realized that she needed to update her drab wardrobe if she wanted to fit in with Vienna’s stylish citizens. They arranged a time to meet the next morning. A little later, Johanna finally realized that she’d drunk too much.

“Excuse me, I’m going to hit the hay now. I have to go shopping tomorrow. That’s going to be very tiring,” she slurred as she rocked back and forth to get the momentum to stand up. When she finally got up, she swayed slightly, saying, “Good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

Martin smiled with embarrassment.

“She’s actually quite funny,” said Linda as Johanna stumbled down the hall, then disappeared into her room.

“Yes, she was today. That’s good, right?”

“Of course it’s good. I think it means she’s finally coming out of that awful depression you told me about.”

The couple stayed up for a while, drinking wine and getting tipsy. But not like Johanna had.

5

Though Johanna slept poorly, she was up early. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so hungover—probably not since she was fifteen, when she got stinking drunk at a dive called Harry’s Bar with her little high school clique. They drank house wine, of course, mostly the kind that came in two-liter bottles. Johanna lost interest in binge drinking and parted ways with her friends a few months later, which was fortunate for her liver, because as far as she knew, Stefan, Hans, and Katrin were still visiting the seedy little bar to this day. It wasn’t exactly the classiest place in town.

This morning, though, she had that same hungover feeling she remembered from the old days with her small-town pals. She’d have to drink enough water to fill a lake to get a handle on it, so she grabbed a huge bottle of mineral water from the fridge and used it to flush down some aspirin she’d found in the medicine cabinet. She never thought she’d be so happy to find aspirin; maybe this would be a good idea for a television commercial.
Do you have a hangover? Then take an aspirin and drown it with mineral water . . .

It was dark and calm in the apartment. The shades were down, making her feel a bit claustrophobic. Nobody was awake except for her, and she shuffled bleary-eyed back to her room to get cleaned up as she vowed never to drink again—exactly what everybody thinks when they have a damn hangover.

Johanna decided to go outside for some fresh air to clear her head. She closed the apartment door quietly behind her. She was about to take the stairs down, but when she heard someone noisily running up, she opted for the peace and quiet of the elevator.

Thomas came jogging up Martin’s staircase two steps at a time, breathing hard but scarcely breaking a sweat. As he rounded the corner, he noticed a young woman with long brown hair step into the elevator just before the doors shut. But he didn’t think anything of it as he rang Martin’s doorbell. Today was Thomas and Martin’s day to hang out and run together to the city park. It was a test of strength and endurance for them. They went every Saturday—not every first Saturday or every other Saturday, but every Saturday—at eight thirty sharp. A long time ago, after several beers, they had laughingly named it their “Saturday date.”

Thomas was raring to go, but Martin found it difficult to muster much enthusiasm this morning.

“Sorry, man. My sister just moved in with me, and last night we all ate dinner together and drank a lot of wine. I gotta say, I’m feeling it today. Maybe we could just do a short run and then come back here for some coffee. Okay?”

Thomas snorted and leaned forward. “What’s it going to hurt to run a lousy two-and-a-half miles? Don’t be so lame, you old fart.”

Martin grimaced. “But coffee sounds good, right?” he asked pleadingly.

“All right, we’ll do a quick run. Hey, is your sister here? I’d love to meet her,” said Thomas as he stretched a tight thigh muscle, thinking it must be a slight magnesium deficiency.

“Yeah, but I think she’s still sleeping.”

They headed out for a short jog and then doubled back to Martin’s apartment. The brand-new espresso machine that Linda had given him last night was Martin’s new favorite thing. He never thought he would like it, but she didn’t like having to wait for his old stovetop pot. Martin instantly developed a deep affinity for the shiny black machine that was as suave as George Clooney, easily whipping up lattes, espressos, cappuccinos, and the like. He even drew whimsical figures in the milk froth with cocoa, like he’d been trained by a fancy barista or something. In truth, he had stayed up late last night teaching himself by watching YouTube videos.

“I’m so happy. I can hardly believe that just yesterday I was happy with my stovetop coffee. You’re going to love this. I even have some leftover cake somewhere we can eat with it,” said Martin, looking through the fridge. “Or we can have some plain mascarpone cream.” He laughed and told Thomas the story about Johanna getting too drunk to make dessert. “How’s Clarissa?” he asked as he finally found the slice of marble cake and cut it in two.

“Really great. She flew to Paris early this morning for a shoot.”

“Aha,” said Martin.

He really wasn’t interested in Clarissa’s up-and-coming career. When they were all at a bar once, Clarissa bored Martin to death as she prattled on about the intricacies of a modeling shoot. Martin had worked his way through three whiskey colas and a beer as she went on and on about light spectrums, highlighters, posing, and flab—not that she herself had any, Clarissa emphatically pointed out, which Martin thought was a little weird. He’d nodded politely and clung to his beer bottle, hoping that Linda would rescue him soon.

“You want to play some PlayStation?”

Thomas nodded excitedly and they went into the living room, fixated on their latest game. They didn’t even notice Johanna when she came back home after an hour, took a shower, and washed her hair. Back in her bedroom, she turned on the radio full blast and sang along with a popular song. It seemed like every DJ was playing it practically nonstop. Meanwhile, Thomas left the apartment.

Johanna had a thick head of hair, but it wasn’t very shiny because she didn’t use conditioners or fancy hair treatments. In this respect, she was a minimalist. She wasn’t aware of the latest hair products, since she never watched those commercials where models seductively toss their shimmering, 100 percent split end–free hair over their shoulders. Johanna’s hair was easy to care for. Her natural color was a very nice shade, not an ash brown or mousy brown, but more hazelnut. It may not have been shiny, but it was probably about 80 percent split end–free, no thanks to any special products.

Feeling better from her hangover-curing walk, Johanna threw on some low-key makeup to emphasize her eyes and cheekbones, and then rode Martin’s bike to Linda’s boutique, which was in the very chicest part of the city center. Caught up in her excitement over trying on new clothes for the first time in ages, Johanna almost ran over a pedestrian. She was insecure about what would look good on her and realized she hardly knew Linda at all. She lacked any kind of fashion know-how, since her mother had never really cared much about fashion. Her grandmother had never been much help in that department, either; she usually wore a threadbare housedress underneath an apron dating from the sixties for twelve hours a day. Even when she went out, she’d simply dig into the deepest recesses of her closet and pull out an old flowery dress that she thought hid her love handles. Even knowing that Linda was warm and sympathetic didn’t assuage Johanna’s anxiety. On the contrary, she didn’t want this self-possessed woman to know how clueless she was.

As Johanna stepped into the boutique, Linda was busy helping an older woman who was clutching her shopping bag as if clinging for dear life to the beautiful new outfits inside. The old lady’s Maltese, on the other hand, was obviously done with his mistress’s shopping spree and kept straining toward the door, but her tight grip on his leash held him back. Maybe the little dog was also distressed at the prospect of humans on the street accosting him with squeals of “Oh, aren’t you sweet?” and “Look, how cute!” after the poor thing was squeezed into a precious red-and-green knitted 100 percent organic fiber jacket.

The greedy old woman wasn’t in any hurry to leave the shop, so Johanna looked around a bit while she waited. A green T-shirt caught her eye. She’d had a similar shirt when she was a young girl. Just a year later, she had been wearing nothing but dark colors: dark blue, brown, black, dark gray, dark purple. She guessed on a size small and held up the shirt to her chest. Her build was rather slight, and she wore an A cup. At fourteen, she’d hoped for a C, but by seventeen, she knew that was never going to happen. She didn’t have the right genes, and besides, you needed a little meat on your bones for plump breasts.

As a child, she’d baked cakes and cookies with her mother, and had even been a touch chubby. However, her appetite had largely disappeared in the wake of her parents’ death, and with it, her lust for life. Her grandmother had worried about her and filled the table with stews and delicious pies, but Johanna had often refused to eat; she’d spend most of her time in her room, lying on her couch and staring numbly at the ceiling. She might get up hours later, only to move from the couch to her bed. In school, the children teased her about her weight. “Skinny Johanna, the bean pole!” they would shout. Johanna tried not to remember their cruelty. She had let it go a long time ago.

“Johanna, nice to see you!” called Linda, beaming at her. “Oh, you don’t want the green one, right?” she said as she shook her head emphatically.

Johanna shook her head tentatively in agreement.

“Come on, I’ll show you a few things,” she said, and took her new customer by the hand toward the changing room on the other side of the store.

“I’m sure you already have those kinds of basics. Let’s take a look at a pretty skirt with matching boots. Check this out.” Linda took a denim skirt from the rack. “What size shoe do you wear?”

“Seven and a half.”

Linda went to the front of the shop and came back with black leather boots. “Aren’t these awesome?”

Actually, Johanna liked the boots a lot. “Yeah, they’re awesome,” she said as she tried on the 250-euro treasures.

“You head into the fitting room and try them on with the skirt. I’ll bring you some leggings—or do you prefer panty hose?”

“Uh, I’m not sure,” Johanna sputtered because she really didn’t have a clue.

“All right, then. I’ll bring you both! And I’ll try to find you a couple of tops to complete the look. You’ll see; it’ll be great.” Martin’s girlfriend beamed as she exuberantly clapped her hands.

Linda was the complete opposite of Johanna: lively, enthusiastic, and relaxed. Linda came back with a colorful stack of clothes and handed Johanna a top. She had a good sense of what would suit Johanna and showered her with compliments. After some initial uncertainty, Johanna felt increasingly comfortable in the fancy new clothes.

“Do you know what I’m going to do?”

Johanna shook her head as she raised her eyebrows.

“I’m going to give you a really good discount.”

Meanwhile, Thomas headed to a typical Viennese café in the city center, not far from Linda’s boutique. It was one of his favorite places to visit with his mother, Henriette. He probably wouldn’t have met Martin or another friend there, but it was perfectly suited for afternoon tea with Mama. It was a popular, old-fashioned café with lots of unfriendly Viennese waiters. Being unfriendly was unofficially part of the job description for a waiter in the city—one of the typical “Viennese grand traditions.” The quota of female servers was hardly ever filled because the profession was traditionally male. Men served the special Viennese coffee, made extra dark with whipped cream and accompanied by apple strudel, an assortment of cakes, and the obligatory scowl.

“Tell me, Thomas. When do you plan to propose to your girlfriend? You know that pretty girls won’t stay with a man forever without a commitment,” Henriette said as she stirred her black tea. She loved tea more than anything. Even coffee didn’t win her over, as it was too tart, too strong. “Oh, pass me the sugar, please,” she continued, beaming at her son as if he’d made her the happiest mother in the world for coming to the café—but he would make her even happier if he’d just get married or give her a grandchild.