Wait for Me in Vienna (4 page)

Thomas grimaced. “Oh, Mama, I don’t know. Sometimes I think that it won’t . . .” Thomas hesitated. What did he really want to say? He didn’t even know for sure himself. He wasn’t sure whether he even wanted to marry Clarissa.

“What were you going to say? You know how much we’d love to have a grandchild. You’re over thirty now, and well, you’re our only hope, since you don’t have a sibling,” she said as she touched Thomas’s face. She knew full well that he couldn’t stand it when she did that, but she just couldn’t help herself.

“Really? I had no idea,” he countered. “Enough with the interrogation. If I do propose, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Yes, yes, I won’t say another word. But I hate that I can’t talk to you about these things! You always shut me down right away,” she said, and Thomas realized that she was insulting him in her own sweet, inimical way.

“So then tell me how work is going,” she continued, and took a sip of tea. In her excitement, she had let the tea steep too long, and the bitterness was evident on her face. Thomas told her all the latest news.

Thomas hated the pressure he got from his family to marry Clarissa. He also knew that Clarissa wanted nothing more than for him to propose. She’d confided in his mother, but it was almost impossible for the old woman to keep a secret. So Henriette told him enthusiastically about the spectacular wedding plans they had dreamed up, though Thomas wasn’t interested in thinking about it. Recently, when Clarissa had raved about a Marc Jacobs wedding dress, Thomas had only said, “Markus who?” He didn’t feel the slightest inclination to get engaged to Clarissa. He wanted to leave everything as it was for the time being. That seemed reasonable, at least in principle.

After tea, his mother said good-bye with a seemingly endless series of exhortations: “Be good,” “Take care of yourself,” “Let’s hear from you again soon,” “Come over for dinner sometime,” and “Your father would like to see you, too, you know.”

On his way home, Thomas ducked into a bookstore in search of a new novel. There, he came across a book by a local author who would be giving a reading at the bookstore that night. He decided to go and perhaps buy the book then.

Johanna had barely walked through the door when her brother tore the shopping bag out of her hand.

“Let’s see,” he said, and pulled out the skirt, two tops, and the boots. “Wow, you have to put these on right now,” he said.

“Later, later,” Johanna promised, then disappeared into her room.

Surprising herself, Johanna found that she did want to wear the new clothes, and she also really wanted to do something tonight that would force her to venture out. She searched the Internet for an interesting event. She hadn’t been to a cultural event in ages—not to the theater or an exhibition or anything—and it was high time to take advantage of the big city and start getting some culture. On an online event calendar, she spotted a reading by her favorite author. Johanna was pleased and made up her mind to spend the evening there.

Heavy rain poured down in the late afternoon; huge drops fell from the sky, pounding on the pavement. Johanna sat in her bed snuggled up with a cup of tea as she looked out the window, watching people with raincoats and umbrellas run around on the street below. Most of the umbrellas were dark: black, brown, or navy blue, some printed with catchy slogans, obviously promotional freebies from enterprising companies. On occasion, she spied brightly colored umbrellas, which belonged mostly to children trying to keep dry. The littlest ones wore bright-yellow hooded raincoats and held umbrellas decorated with cherries, frogs, flowers, or cartoon characters. Some umbrellas had action-hero designs that made the kids think they could save the world. The scene was hectic. The raindrops gurgled in the gutter, then sped away down the street to their final destinations. Johanna looked at the clock and put the cup down. It was time to get dressed for the reading.

Thomas showered, put on blue jeans and an olive-colored sweater, gobbled down some chili con carne he’d prepared for lunch from a mix, and then hastily left his apartment. The rain poured down, and within a few steps, his shoes were drenched. Luckily, he lived only a few blocks from the bookstore.

Johanna left the apartment at six o’clock. She was wearing her new outfit, which her brother had given his full approval for.

“You look really nice,” Martin said. “Have fun.”

It was still raining buckets, and walking to the bookstore, even with her umbrella, meant her new clothes would be completely drenched by the time she got to the reading. Johanna was nervous about running into unsavory characters on the subway but decided that if she wanted to stay dry, she’d just have to get used to it. So, she talked herself into it, and everything was fine until she got off at Karlsplatz, where two suspicious-looking men hurried past. Using the map she’d printed out from Google, she turned down a side street in the direction of the bookstore. Thomas was trotting down the same alley, only a few steps ahead.

Thomas’s cell phone rang loudly, shrilly, and unmusically. He’d chosen a simple ringtone that made it unequivocally clear that what he was hearing was a telephone call and not a radio. Having Rolling Stones, Simply Red, or Queen songs as a ringtone would have confused him. It was his friend Christoph calling, asking him to meet.

“Right now,” Christoph said. “It’s an emergency.” He simultaneously cursed and sobbed as he spoke—a combination of emotions with which Thomas was unfamiliar.

Christoph’s girlfriend had left him. Thomas knew that he had no other choice but to go console his friend. He turned around immediately. Johanna, her umbrella held close to her head, bumped into him and apologized without looking up. Though the collision startled Johanna, she held her course to the bookstore and forgot all about it within five minutes.

The shop smelled of old books. The wood-plank floors creaked and groaned as she walked over them; the sound triggered a feeling of comfort, reminding Johanna of her family’s old living-room floor, which had creaked the same way many years ago. Her childhood home was originally an old farmhouse. For a second, Johanna could even remember its smell. Her mother was an interior designer and had redecorated it, completely upholding the traditional elements of the farmhouse, but at the same time expanding it with contemporary elements. Newspapers and magazines often photographed the house and its interior. Johanna’s mother redecorated as often as some people cut their hair. As a child, Johanna didn’t understand all the fuss. She was just glad that the smell of manure gradually faded away.

She sat down on a chair in the fourth row and looked anxiously at the stage.

“May I?” a young man with brown hair and wet clothing asked. He made it abundantly clear that he wanted to sit right next to Johanna. The wet shirt immediately caught her eye; it stuck like glue to his upper body. Johanna nodded and he continued. “I should have brought an umbrella.”

She briefly turned to him, gave him a half smile, and turned her gaze toward the stage. A half smile was the most Johanna could manage—she was too shy to say or do anything more. Usually, when she saw an interesting, good-looking man, she would take measures to make herself invisible. She’d duck her head or turn away, which is what she did right now. The wet man dug out the event program from his left coat pocket, briefly left to hang his coat, and came back. He carefully unfolded the program on his lap.

“My name is Daniel, by the way.” He offered his hand to Johanna.

She stretched out her hand to him somewhat hesitantly, then said, “Johanna.”

“Hi, Johanna, pleased to meet you. Are you familiar with this author?”

Apparently, he was as talkative as Johanna was shy. She found herself quite overwhelmed by the situation.

“You’re a fan of this author?” he asked again.

“Yes, I’ve read all his books.”

He nodded. They both fell silent. Johanna looked to the front again; Daniel did the same.

After a while, Johanna asked hesitantly, “And you?”

Daniel turned his head to Johanna, “Yes, me, too. He has a brilliant writing style and the stories are quite exciting.”

Suddenly, the conversation between the two thawed a little; what had been a frosty January turned into March, and the thick blanket of snow began to melt.

“Have you ever been to a reading before?”

“Do you mean in general, or with this author?”

“No, I meant with this author,” she said.

“Yes, quite often. I’m very excited about his new book. The press is just about deifying him.”

“I’ve read quite a few pages, and it’s really good.” Johanna smiled shyly. Then the reading began.