Wait for Me in Vienna (32 page)

56

Tears rolled slowly down Johanna’s face as she read Thomas’s e-mail about the Hamptons. She was touched by his tender words, his beautifully written descriptions. She hobbled into the kitchen to find some tissues in a drawer, then read the e-mail a second time and opened a new package of Kleenex. What could she possibly write in response? “I’m so moved that I don’t know what to write,” or “I’m at a loss for words,” or “Wow!” Countless thoughts flashed her through her mind as she pondered. She didn’t know what to say. She searched for the right words—beautiful, witty, affectionate words—to write him back with. System overload! She was definitely suffering from a system overload. She just couldn’t find the right words.

She brooded for hours. She started to write an e-mail several times, but then deleted each one. She’d always felt inhibited about expressing herself in writing. Whatever she wrote got nowhere close to expressing her true feelings. She regretted that she’d never studied poetry, Goethe or Schiller, like her mother always preached. Would reading Goethe’s
Faust
have helped her in this situation?

She finally decided to keep it short and simple; there were words in every language in the world for what she wanted to say to him.

Vienna, 1:30 p.m.: Dear Thomas,

I was so moved by your e-mail. It simply blew me away. I had to breathe slowly and deeply to regain my composure. I want to say as lovingly, honestly, and openly as you told me how much I love you, too. It was lovely to spend a day with you in the Hamptons. It was one of the happiest days of my life. Kisses.

Forever yours,

Johanna

Paolo came over a little while later and brought some work from the cooking school for her. More answers to their latest survey. Naturally, he also brought something to eat. It was kind of a code of conduct; he never left home without something edible, like a priest never leaving home without his rosary. Paolo often brought homemade cakes or biscuits, other times, a homemade pesto or jam. He always carried an edible gift in his bag, just in case.

Johanna had definitely put on weight because she couldn’t do much except eat, lie around, talk on the phone, and e-mail. She felt like Garfield.

Paolo gazed at the heart drawn on her cast, but Johanna, like a trained watchdog, didn’t allow anyone to write or draw anything near it.

“I would have loved to write ‘Johanna + Thomas’ in that heart,” Paolo griped as he shook his head.

“Hands off the heart,” she growled. “I don’t want it to get too gaudy. I actually wanted to draw a love lock, but I always got crummy grades in art, so I gave up after the first few pen strokes. Look, right there . . .” Johanna pointed at two straight lines over which she’d drawn an arc.

“You’re right, you can draw hearts better than love locks. Leave it. You’re a chef, not Picasso.”

“I’ll say.”

“Johanna, I absolutely have to tell you something.”

“What is it?” She sat up in anticipation.

“I met someone yesterday.”

“No, really?”

“Yes!”

“You did, really?”

“Yes, if you’ll let me tell you about it.”

“You have to tell me!”

Paolo leaned back slowly and pursed his lips, reveling in his thoughts, taking his sweet time. The tension was practically killing her.

“He’s handsome”—Paolo smiled—“and athletic. I thought he was a rugby player.”

“He plays rugby for Austria?”

“Well, let’s just say he has the hot body
of
a rugby player.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“Wait, wait. I’ll tell you everything from the very beginning . . .”

When Paolo began to dish, he didn’t leave out any details, even the ones that weren’t that interesting. He was as thorough and conscientious a storyteller as he was a chef. His story was about a relatively brief encounter in an ice-cream shop with a hot guy who looked like a rugby player, who’d given Paolo his cell phone number after talking for three minutes about the wonders of ice cream. And that was it. To relate this lousy three-minute encounter, Paolo needed twenty minutes. He reported the details of the rugby player’s shoes, the fact that he didn’t wear a ring, how he parted his hair in the middle, that he owned a brown leather purse that might have been Armani. He also had a mole on his left forearm; it reminded Paolo of the shape of Lake Maggiore, and much more.

When he finally finished his tale, Paolo looked at Johanna expectantly, as if Cupid had bestowed the gift of romantic omniscience upon her. He wanted her help coming up with the perfect way to contact the rugby player and get him to agree to a date.

Johanna will know
, he thought.
After all, she’s in a solid relationship now herself.

“Wait a second, let me think about it,” she said, and thought it over thoroughly, even though the answer was quite obvious.

Paolo jiggled his left foot so vigorously that the coffee table started to wobble.

“You’ve got his phone number?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting.”

“A good sign, right?”

“Of course, but that leaves you with only one option.”

Paolo waited, wide-eyed.

“Well, call him!”

“That’s the best you can do?”

“Do you have a better idea? Calling is the simplest way to get in touch with someone. That’s the reason he gave you his number, right? Now stop shaking your foot like that, you’re making me nervous. Call and ask him whether he’d like to go get a drink with you. Really easy.”

“Yes, really easy,” he mocked Johanna.

Now she understood why Paolo was still single; he was a tad too complicated. Perhaps he thought he’d have to track down the rugby player’s address, send him a gold-plated invitation card, pick him up in a helicopter, then fly him in a private jet to the underwater restaurant in Dubai. It could all be so simple. Johanna scrutinized Paolo, who was now wondering whether it wouldn’t be better just to send the guy a text.

New York, 5:00 p.m.: Dear Johanna,

We didn’t want to get up this morning at all. You kept kicking me last night; I suppose you slept quite restlessly, because you murmured something in your sleep. I couldn’t understand a word of it, but you were in an extraordinarily good mood in the morning, which made up for your unusual behavior. Please note: do not kick the man who loves you so!

We started our day with breakfast in our favorite coffee shop around the corner. Today, they served homemade pastries that we’re completely addicted to. After a short walk—you were cast-free, of course—we rested on a park bench, watching the passersby. It was a lot of fun, and we thought the teenage lovers were so adorable mainly because they cuddled when they sat down. We had to join in. Sweetest Johanna, you’re a pretty tough cookie, but I think we looked pretty ridiculous canoodling in public like teenagers. So ridiculous that I think we’ll just have to do that again sometime in the near future. Don’t you agree?

As we walked back through the park to your apartment, you had the fabulous idea for us to get a dog. Just like that. I suppose it happened in the park because fancy little dogs and their owners—lovely people, actually—are always roaming around there. You always say, “Oh, look, how cute,” “Thomas, look at that,” “What a good boy” . . . After a few too many canine encounters, something happened to you. I tried to talk you out of it as we walked back home and only managed to dissuade you with the fact that I’m deathly allergic. I watched your face as you asked yourself, “Thomas or a dog?” But you made the right decision by choosing me. “But if you break up with me,” you said, “I’m buying a dog.” Well, I can live with that, because I don’t intend to break up with you ever.

The day ended at the movie theater. I was able to find an action flick with a lot of romance mixed in. With a whole lot of romance, actually, because I knew that otherwise you would be asking me questions like, “How long is this movie anyway?” and “What just happened?” As a precaution, I picked an action-romance movie. You liked it a lot, but I don’t entirely understand why you’re so into romance movies. I guess it’s related to the extremely powerful feminine part of you I love so much—cheesy and hopelessly romantic.

After the movie, we went home and cooked up something to eat. Well, actually, you cooked and I watched, but I also imagined exactly what our joint future would look like.

After that, things got a little heated. No, it wasn’t from the stove. The sweet curve of your butt in jeans got to me. I was shaking, and it was very difficult for me to concentrate on dinner, so we ate rather quickly and rushed into the bedroom. What happened there, I’m sure you can imagine.

Kisses,

Your lover!

Vienna, 11:35 p.m.: Your view of events was quite interesting, my dear Thomas, but now my side of the story: You snored like a grizzly bear and I had to kick you in the middle of the night several times to make you quiet down. When you didn’t respond, I tried to talk to you, but you ignored me. I was in such a good mood in the morning because I found my old earplugs, which dampened your roar by several decibels. Man, you can really snore up a storm!

Then, in the morning, you ate enough pastries for two, and I had to be satisfied with what was left over—what one must endure for love!—but when somebody keeps making declarations like, “Simply delicious,” or “You don’t want the rest of that, do you?” it’s really hard not to indulge them.

I didn’t want to go for a walk because I was rather tired, but I was a good girlfriend and went anyway because, after all, a little fresh air never hurt anyone? (You made that argument about fifty times, in case you forgot, and after a while, I gave in.)

Ah, the teenagers. Now I understand why you suddenly pulled me onto your lap for that megaembarrassing public display. Dear Thomas, we’re too old to look cool when I sit on your lap like that.

Regarding dogs: I have no interest in the trendy and ridiculously ugly little dogs that seem to be in vogue. That’s the reason for my exclamations such as, “Oh, how cute,” “Look at that one,” and “What a good boy.” If I wanted a dog, I would adopt a mutt from the animal shelter! That said, dear Thomas, you misunderstood me. I would never get a dog; I have you!

The movie was mediocre because the main character’s lover died within ten minutes of the film starting. The remaining ninety-five minutes were guns blazing in all directions. It was a no-brainer why the protagonist suffered so: his lover got killed. I actually do like action films. However, I’d much rather go with you to a movie with a great love story!

I’m glad you like how my butt looks while I’m cooking, but you’ll have to learn to control yourself so I can get something done. But the rest of the evening was really great. You spoil me thoroughly in the bedroom, my lover. We should remember to keep it like this always.

Kisses.

Yours forever,

Johanna, who loves you no matter how much you snore, no matter how good or bad your movie selections are, and no matter how übercool you seem or don’t seem when making out in the park like a pseudoteenager.

“Pseudoteenager.” Thomas smiled. She had a sense of humor, his anti-trendy-dog girlfriend. He checked his calendar and counted the days until he’d be able to jump on a plane and fly back to Vienna. Twelve days, then about ten hours in the air, an hour’s ride to Johanna’s apartment, and then all would be right with the world again. Thomas made plans; upon his return, he was going to request some time off from work and just take care of Johanna, which meant that she would take care of him, too.

“Damn, the love lock,” he cried, and hurried to his office to take care of it.

New York, 10:00 p.m.: Hello, my sweetheart,

I was able to order our love lock, the so-called
lucchetti del amore
, after doing a little research about it on the Internet. Thank God for Wikipedia. It’s hanging on the Brooklyn Bridge now, looking nice and shiny, engraved with our initials. I threw the key in the East River as discussed, never to be found; it’s there forever.

57

Johanna pined for her sweetheart a little more than usual that day, knowing the love lock now hung in its proper place. She would call Thomas later and thank him. She had to hear his voice at least once a day, regardless of the impact it had on her phone bill. She even liked it when he fell asleep on the phone and she could listen to him snore. Oh, the things you never imagined you’d miss.

She booted up her laptop. Today Johanna wanted to analyze some of the survey answers. She was planning to do some brainstorming with Paolo later to generate new marketing ideas for the cooking school.

Thomas whistled a tuneless melody as he straightened out the folder on his desk. He had had a good day. After working so many nights and Saturdays, he was confident that he’d be able to fly back to Vienna earlier than originally planned. His workaholic tendencies proved to be a plus for once. To celebrate, he made a date with two colleagues to get dinner—they promised him New York’s best pizza—and they’d go on a little pub crawl. He was sorely in need of a beer. He’d been living way too much like a monk; fun had fallen by the wayside.

The concrete was burning hot as commuters waited for their trains and buses. They fanned themselves—some just with newspapers, others with fancy, colorful folding fans, generating a tiny bit of wind to keep their faces and makeup relatively dry. The Vienna heat always reached its highest point around noon.

Paolo arrived at Johanna’s apartment covered in sweat. He was late as always; he definitely wasn’t the poster boy for punctuality. His short-sleeved checkered shirt stuck to his torso.

“When’s your next doctor’s appointment?” he asked as he took the food out of the plastic bag.

“In a week; I can’t wait to see what the doctor says,” Johanna answered, sitting up.

“It’s burning up outside today. Let’s keep the windows closed,” Paolo said as he brought her some fresh gazpacho and sat down next to her on the couch.

“So, did you call the rugby guy?”

“Yes.” Paolo paused.

“Yes! So what happened?”

“We’re meeting tomorrow evening. Oh, I’m so excited, I’m telling you, I won’t sleep a wink until then. It feels like my last decent date was decades ago, I don’t have anything to wear, and—”

“Paolo, just be yourself and everything will be great!”

“Thanks, Jo, but this guy is totally awesome: great build, piercing blue eyes, an interesting aura, beautiful hands, and he likes raspberry ice cream.”

Johanna smiled. She understood all too well what he must be going through.

“What do you think about this advertising theme?” she asked a little later as she showed Paolo the first couple of drafts on her laptop.

“I think the second one looks the best, but all three are pretty good,” he said appreciatively, scrolling between the images as Johanna finished eating her gazpacho.

After Paolo was gone, she lay on the couch like a bump on a log. She didn’t want to work anymore; it was too much of a struggle; her ever-critical inner monologue had the upper hand today. She would simply have to work more later.

So, she grabbed her laptop and Googled new recipe ideas, then looked for Thomas’s company and researched the products they offered again, even though she’d done it so many times that she knew the catalog by heart. If Lehmann & Partners was ever searching for a salesperson and offered profit sharing, she would be the right woman for the job. She could end up a millionaire. In her research, she came across an article that hyped Thomas as Lehmann & Partners’ rising star. The article praised him for being extremely innovative and resilient, as well as quite handsome; it said he showed the same strengths his uncle had as a young entrepreneur. Johanna was delighted to read these compliments; after all, he was
her
boyfriend. Thomas’s photo showed him off in the absolute best light; he wore a neat, fitted navy-blue suit and was leaning back on a chair with just a hint of a winning smile. She wasn’t familiar with the photo. He looked so irresistible that she decided to save the photo right away and use it as her screensaver image. Thinking there might be a higher resolution version elsewhere, she Googled Thomas’s name and encountered his Facebook profile, but couldn’t access it because she wasn’t a registered Facebook user.

Crap
, she thought. She deliberated for about a minute and then decided to take the strange social media plunge.
Congratulations
, she thought;
Ms. Johanna Stern, you have a Facebook profile now, and you’ll need to get at least two hundred friends to prove you’re cool.

She had always condemned Facebook, knowing that many people went overboard with self-promotion and others compulsively posted everything they did and thought. She definitely wasn’t interested in the minor ailments and other minutiae her potential friends might share: where they were going on vacation, what they ate, who they were hanging out with, where they shopped, how long they slept, and why they found themselves so unbelievably interesting. She hated these contrived, fictional realities. Plus, Johanna had always been too shy to have lots of Facebook friends.

Johanna was tempted to upload a photo of herself. Should she? She thought about it. No. She uploaded a photo of a beautiful landscape instead. This suited her better. She tried again to look at Thomas’s profile, but she’d have to send a friend request and get him to accept it first. She searched for other people, too—her brother, for one, but only Facebook friends could view his profile. She’d have to “friend” him first. She had the same problem with Linda. Paolo didn’t have a Facebook profile because he was completely computer illiterate and didn’t even own a smartphone. According to him, it was time consuming, completely useless, and bad for your health.

Facebook is pretty boring when you can’t see your friends’ profiles
,
she thought as she browsed public profiles to pass the time. Celebrities like Heidi Klum and Victoria Beckham had positioned themselves impressively on Facebook—great photos of them smiling (well, Victoria Beckham wasn’t smiling so much as scowling, of course), great figures, a ton of friends, beautiful travel pictures, and so on and so forth. Way too much perfection for Johanna’s taste. At least now she knew that high society traveled constantly, drank tons of green smoothies, and refused to indulge in virtually any high-calorie delicacies whatsoever. They always wrote things like, “Missing my family,” and showed off their new designer bags. This type of life was quite foreign to Johanna. She closed her laptop and set it aside. Less than ten minutes later, though, she opened it up again.

One person she hadn’t looked for (yet) was Clarissa.

Having just a little information gives a lot of leeway for your brain to jump to conclusions that may or may not have any basis in reality. As your head starts spinning, you begin to weave stories; confusion reigns as real or imagined plots and misdeeds swirl around your head. Logic goes out the window. Nothing seems to add up, and you immediately assume the worst, twisting innocent statements, images, quotes, smells, or gestures into the most heinous crimes; then your world suddenly crumbles.

Johanna’s heart almost stopped; her stomach felt as though it had been flipped upside down; her chest tightened, making her breathing labored. She stared at the pictures on Clarissa’s Facebook profile, which had hundreds of likes, and what she saw there she didn’t like at all. It was Lehmann & Partners’ latest advertising campaign: Clarissa posing sweetly, Clarissa smiling, Clarissa and only Clarissa, styled to look like a
totally
normal woman. If the ad had depicted picture-perfect Clarissa as a vamp or a sexy housewife or whatever, then it wouldn’t have been nearly as bad, but to see her depicted as so sweet and normal and average—that in and of itself was upsetting. Johanna found herself hating Thomas’s ex-girlfriend for the first time.

And it wasn’t just Clarissa she suddenly hated. A wave of disappointment, shock, and sorrow rolled over her; Thomas had deceived her. She began to cry and couldn’t calm down, especially when she scrolled down and saw all the old photos of Thomas and Clarissa as a beautiful young couple on the beach, or cuddling intimately on a terrace somewhere between Lanzarote and the Mediterranean. Thomas and Clarissa skiing on white powdery snow, hiking, rock climbing, and, and, and . . . So many beautiful, exciting, passionate moments in their perfect life together. In each picture, Clarissa had a perfect, beaming smile on her flawless face. That smile fucking hurt like hell and triggered some sort of nausea in Johanna.

Johanna slammed her laptop shut, then threw it into the corner. It didn’t smash into a thousand pieces like she’d hoped it would, but it did shatter the framed photo of Thomas she’d just received in the mail into hundreds of irreparable little pieces. She closed her eyes and saw herself in a wonderful, wide-open meadow full of poppies and daisies, which she tiptoed through happily, almost floating over the flowers. On the far side of the field, Thomas was waiting. Suddenly, though, the sun gave way to rain, rain became snow, and bitter cold spread far and wide through the meadow. She couldn’t see Thomas anymore; the snowstorm buried all signs of the poppies and daisies, and a dangerous sheet of ice formed beneath her feet. When the ice cracked, she fell inexorably into its depths.

Was it really true? Had Thomas set up this modeling gig for Clarissa? Had he been meeting her secretly in New York? Would he cheat on Johanna? Had they gotten back together again? Was he just too afraid to break up with Johanna? Or was it possible that he’d never actually broken up with Clarissa?

I can’t breathe; I can’t breathe
,
she
thought, her heart breaking. Tears rolled down her cheeks like a tidal wave.

“What an asshole!” she yelled, fighting malicious thoughts that paralyzed her with grief, anger, and fear. She had trusted Thomas, even given him a second chance, but he’d evidently given Clarissa a second chance, too.

Reluctantly, Johanna picked up her laptop and checked the time stamps of the beautiful vacation photos with so many likes. They all predated Johanna’s move to Vienna. Only the advertising campaign showed current photos of Ms. Perfect, with her long legs and sexy ass, with that a sickeningly sweet smile. Clarissa had commented on one Lehmann photo, “The shoot was so delightful. We had a ton of fun on the set. I love you.” Johanna could well imagine that doing a photo shoot with Thomas would be a ton of fun. She started to feel ill; an influx of jealousy, hatred, and uncertainty came over her. She would have loved to scream at Clarissa and drag her by her hair across the room, or even better, across Vienna. But she wasn’t there, so Johanna would have to fly to New York if she wanted to fulfill that fantasy. She took perverse pleasure at the thought of dragging Clarissa across Manhattan by her hair, even though she knew she wouldn’t have a chance to do that because of her damn cast. She was a prisoner in her own apartment.

Johanna’s jealousy and aggressiveness reached a feverishly high pitch. Now she just had to wait until it ran its course. She wanted to call Thomas, but she probably wouldn’t have been able to spit out one word. She wanted to go for a walk to clear her head, think things over, but with the stupid cast on her leg, that wasn’t an option. It was all she could do to hobble a couple of feet on her crutches; walking downstairs would be impossible.

After stewing for a few hours, she poured herself some red wine. Soon, she’d emptied an expensive bottle of Zweigelt she’d been saving for Thomas’s return. Somewhere between tipsy and dead drunk, she succumbed to self-pity and began to cry again. Her mood rapidly swung between bad and worse, like a dangerous ride down a steep alpine road. On top of her hate and self-pity, Johanna was filled with self-loathing: she’d brought this on herself by giving Thomas a second chance. If she’d just resisted, she would have been unhappy for a time, but then she would have found someone new who could make her happy, who was faithful, who wasn’t entertaining his ex-girlfriend on the other side of the globe.

Emboldened by the wine, she began to type an e-mail.

Vienna, 6:06 p.m.: Thomas, how could you? How could you betray me like this? I trusted you. I envisioned our future together, and then you go and cheat on me with Clarissa! Or did you cheat on Clarissa with me? I don’t know which one of us you respect less. I feel so terrible because my present and my future, which I’d thought were so certain, have suddenly gone up in smoke.

Before she pressed “Send,” she called Paolo. He didn’t pick up, so she reread her e-mail and decided to improve upon it somewhat. Because she was drunk, it didn’t get any better, but it did become decidedly more dramatic. She added the last line:

I never want to see you again. You’ve deceived me twice, you’ve taken away everything that we so lovingly built together in the last few months.

She wondered if she should spell-check her e-mail, but why make the effort? The best thing would probably be to just send a simple, short, and hostile “Fuck you,” but she was too upset and still loved Thomas too much to do that. She clicked “Send” moments before Paolo called her back.