Wait for Me in Vienna (9 page)

9

Daylight broke through the dark curtains as Thomas embraced Clarissa. One arm lay over her right breast; the other was under her back, gently snuggling up next to her protruding vertebrae. She liked his athletic body and cuddling with him after he came home from an intense workout. She found the veins in his arms and hands masculine and sexy; she liked to stroke them gently. He was sensitive about the protruding veins, though, and hated when people noticed them.

After a few minutes, Clarissa looked at the clock and whispered into his ear, “I’m going to the Power Plate gym.” She climbed out of bed and slipped her Victoria’s Secret underwear on.

“That’s fine,” he said sleepily, rolling onto his side. He wasn’t the least bit interested in getting up so quickly.

The next morning, Johanna told her brother about her date. Linda listened intently, too, eyes wide open with interest; she didn’t even go to the bathroom, though she really needed to. Linda and Martin began to analyze her date in detail, although they didn’t agree on all aspects. Johanna gave up listening after a while and went to take a shower. Her brother and his girlfriend remained seated, intent on analyzing Johanna’s date even further.

The days went by in a flash. There was no word from Daniel, and Johanna found herself missing him. She would have liked to contact him, but since he didn’t try to contact her, there was no way she was going to be the one to reach out again.

Clarissa flew her perfect butt to the New York modeling job she’d been going on about. Thomas was happy to have a little more time for himself. Besides, he had the cooking class the following evening; he was looking forward to it so much he’d circled the date in red on his calendar. He wanted to finally learn how to make a proper Viennese cutlet. He called his friend Martin to ask whether he’d like to accompany him in Clarissa’s absence.

“Unfortunately, I can’t make it.”

“Why? No time? You don’t want to get in touch with your inner chef?”

“No, I’m going to a musical with Linda. We already have tickets.”

“Ah . . . that’s a shame. Well . . .”

“Wait, which cooking school are you going to? My sister works at one of those places now . . .”

“Just a sec, Martin. My secretary just brought me something. I’ll call you back.”

“No, it’s okay. I have a meeting soon anyway.”

Johanna arrived at the cooking school for her first shift and put her chef’s outfit on. It was way too big, boxy, and unsexy, but she wore her new uniform with pride. What could she do about it now anyway? Probably nothing.

“Well,” said the assistant, “this is the smallest adult size available; we’ll need to order a children’s size for you.”

Were there children who knew how to prepare venison, rabbit, or other types of game?
Johanna wondered as she crammed the oversized chef’s jacket into her waistband.

The assistant shook her head at the strange woman and gave her a full tour of the school. She explained all the ins and outs of working at the school and showed her where the toilets were, noting that one of the toilets didn’t flush well and that it would be better if she would relieve herself of her “larger business” at home. Johanna seriously doubted that they explained that to their customers.

She followed the assistant, Gina, into the so-called “cooking studio,” a smaller space where Gina said Johanna would be spending a lot of time in the near future. She liked this little studio; its atmosphere was warm and light. The friendly ambiance was accentuated by the black cooking island. It was stylish and elegant, but not over-the-top. There were ten workspaces fully equipped with all the state-of-the-art kitchen accessories, probably ordered out of one of the latest gourmet supply catalogs.

Someone flung open the door, and Chef Geyer appeared in the room.

“So great to have you here, Johanna! I see that Gina’s shown you your workstation. You’ll be working here as a chef’s apprentice—oh, what am I saying.” She smiled. “I always say ‘chef’s apprentice’ when I really mean a cooking-course assistant . . .” The chef took a step toward Johanna and continued, “You will provide our clients with utensils and ingredients.”

She patted Johanna lightly on the hand, which displeased shy Johanna, who didn’t know if she could get used to a boss who touched her so unselfconsciously.

“I see the cook’s uniform doesn’t fit you. This won’t do at all. You definitely need a child’s size, but it’s no problem, we’ll order one. Gina will take care of it.”

With that, the chef lifted her eyebrow in the direction of her assistant and cleared her throat, as if this was some sort of immensely important undertaking. It was obvious from her cough and the yellow pointer finger on her right hand that the chef was a dedicated smoker. Wherever she went, she brought a fragrant cloud with her—a tart blend of perfume, perhaps Opium or maybe Samsara by Guerlain, and Marlboro Lights. The end result would no doubt horrify any perfumer.

“Paolo should be in soon, my child. He’s steadfastly gay and quite handsome. A lot of women have tried to hit on him . . . in vain,” she said, and then she and her cloud of fragrance disappeared from the small cooking studio.

“Yes, he is,” added Gina. “He’s very sweet, but sometimes a bit bitchy. You’ll be able to form your own opinion when you meet him. In any case, he’s the real boss here, no one else, you understand? He will not allow himself to be interrupted or corrected, so do what he says and never question his art. Take my advice, and you should get along with him fine. Like I said, he really can be very sweet.”

Then Gina disappeared. Johanna timidly stood in the kitchen in her ill-fitting chef’s outfit. She didn’t dare touch anything, worried she might break it. She felt like she should do a little work, but she had no idea what she could possibly do. She waited and waited, without making a peep or moving a muscle. She hardly trusted herself to breathe.

A few minutes later, Paolo swept in, bringing a flowery scent of violets with him.

“Ciao, sweetheart! Well, look at you,” said Paolo as he scrutinized Johanna. “Well, well, we must change this. We can’t create anything beautiful in that outfit. I would be too ashamed of you. No, there’s no way. For today, we’ll just have to hide you amid the flock of students.”

Paolo’s violet cologne smelled so strong he might as well have sprayed it all over the room. Someone needed to tell him to stop after three spritzes; the smell even drowned out Chef Geyer’s. Johanna was glad she didn’t know about this beforehand; she was unusually sensitive to smell and sometimes avoided streetcars and subways for that reason.

“I’m going to get a new uniform.”

“Well, thank God!” he chirped. “So, where have you worked most recently?”

“Do you mean, where have I cooked?”

“Yes, where have you cooked?” he mocked as he pulled a stool up to the counter to assess Johanna as if he were inspecting a piece of fruit for discoloration and blemishes before purchasing it.

“Actually, I don’t have much experience, but I—”

Paolo—whose name was actually Paul but who, for artistically advantageous reasons, wanted to be called Paolo—didn’t let Johanna answer the question. “Then why did they hire you? Doesn’t matter, we’ll see how it goes. Chef Geyer has a flair for finding talent—I mean, look at me!” Paolo brushed off an imaginary piece of lint from his pristine white chef’s outfit, which looked as it had been bleached within an inch of its life each time it was washed.

He was African-American, lively, and lean, with a striking face that he embellished with a bit of blush, mascara, and foundation, as well as some light powder.

How strange for a man
, thought Johanna, captivated by the glossy powder. She’d never met a man who wore makeup, but she’d heard about it. Paolo definitely wasn’t a drag queen, though; he was too masculine. She couldn’t decide whether the makeup made him look more handsome, but his eyebrows were shaped to perfection and she wondered about his tweezing secrets. Paolo’s tailored uniform had his initials monogrammed above the left breast pocket. Johanna wondered whether she would ever get a uniform with her initials.

“You can scrutinize me all you want and ask questions. It’s true, I’m a really great chef. I’ve been everywhere. I was the head chef at the Ritz when it was awarded five stars,” he said proudly.

“So why are you working here now?” asked Johanna, but immediately realized that the question came out like,
Why are you working in this dump, then? Who takes a job at a cooking school after working in an award-winning restaurant?

“Well, I call it a happy coincidence,” he answered succinctly, and didn’t pursue the topic any further. “A happy coincidence”—what an odd description.

“Let’s get started right away with a Stefanie meatloaf, a puree of leeks, and some creamed peas.” Paolo handed her the leeks before she could say a word.

Maybe the cow’s name was Stefanie
, thought Johanna, as she’d never heard of this kind of meatloaf before. But she didn’t want to say anything that might make her sound more ignorant than she already felt.

“How do you want me to cut the leeks?” she asked, trying to be the model student. Paolo took the time to show her and explain everything carefully.

“That’s why,” he said.

“What?”

“That’s why I gave up my restaurant! I love to teach,” he said as he sliced the leeks patiently, seeming very relaxed. They were, as Paolo declared, the “most perfectly cut leeks in the whole world,” fit to be displayed in a museum.

“This is the dish we’ll be cooking tomorrow evening,” he said as he pulled the delicious-smelling ground beef concoction out of the oven.

Tasting it, Johanna realized the dish was something Johanna’s grandmother often served for supper: minced beef with egg. As a child, Johanna had just called it “meat with an egg inside.”

“You did okay for your first time,” said Paolo, smiling broadly.

Johanna looked at the black rings the mascara was leaving around his eyes. Just in case, she rubbed her index finger under her own eyes to prevent the same thing from happening to her mascara.