Forever Fleeting Page 4

  It had been quiet without a single customer before lunch. A middle-aged man had stopped by but left as soon as he saw Wilhelm approaching. Another customer had to “think about it,” but the third had stayed and inspected the Adler Trumpf parked in the second row. He assured Wilhelm he would not be influenced into buying, but Wilhelm did not mention the car a single time during their conversation. He told the man his boss was watching and he only wanted it to look like he was pitching the car. They talked about the nice autumn day, the headaches of traffic, but Wilhelm snuck in hints about the car’s design and specs every now and then. Once the man sat behind the wheel, Wilhelm bore his fangs and poisoned the man’s thoughts with the sleek silver Adler Trumpf, and he bought the car at market price.

  “Way to bear those fangs,” Hans said, using his pointer and middle fingers to form fangs.

  Hans took note of Wilhelm’s enthusiasm for nearly everything—even the fly that kept landing on his head didn’t perturb him.

  “Are you picking her up?” Hans asked as they closed up for the day.

  “No, I do not have a car,” Wilhelm said.

  Hans nodded to himself before tossing a key at Wilhelm.

  “Bring it back in good shape or you will be buying it and at above market price,” Hans stated.

  Wilhelm smiled at the gesture, but his mouth dropped open when he read the label telling him which car the key belonged to—a 1935 Mercedes-Benz 500K convertible. It had a sleek, long front end and a small back-end design. It was not the best car in the lot, but it definitely was in the conversation.

  “Are you sure?” Wilhelm asked, giving Hans the chance to reconsider.

  “You did well today,” Hans said, patting Wilhelm on the back.

  It was less than an hour from when he had to pick up Hannah. As he drove off the lot and the wind blew his hair back, he felt like one of the heroes of American cinema. He returned to his apartment and showered and brushed his teeth. Then he combed his hair and dabbed some of his father’s aftershave he had taken. Heinrich had stopped by to wish him luck, and he and Erich advised him on when to try and kiss her. The talk made Wilhelm nervous, and he brushed them off with a wave.

  He was downstairs and in the car in less than twenty seconds and at Hannah’s in just over ten minutes. He parked the car along the curb and opened the door to Josef’s shop. He hoped Hannah would be there waiting for him. But it was Hannah’s mother working behind the register. She was an elegant woman with a kind smile.

  “Mr. Schreiber?” she asked.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” Wilhelm responded, walking to her and then shaking her hand.

  “I am Hannah’s mother, Emma. It’s nice to meet you, Wilhelm. Let’s see how this fits.”

  He had forgotten about the suit. Emma removed it from the hanger and helped Wilhelm put it on. She fixed his crooked tie and buttoned the suit and made sure it was wrinkle free with a pull here and a tug there.

  “Handsome,” Emma said.

  “Will Hannah be coming down?” Wilhelm asked.

  Emma bit the corner of her bottom lip—something was wrong. Her lips contorted somewhere between a frown and a reassuring smile—something Wilhelm translated as she had something she wanted to say. Her lips parted, but a rustle in the back caused her to close them again, and she elected to defer. Josef came through the black dividing curtain and smiled.

  “Is the suit to your satisfaction, Mr. Schreiber?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Wilhelm said.

  It could have been down to his knees and he would not have cared. It was not the reason he was there. But it did fit perfectly and the material, a blend of wool and cashmere, was the most comfortable thing he had ever worn. But an uncomfortable silence descended with only the buzzing of the lights above making noise. Josef looked adamant in his resolve toward an unknown issue while Emma looked sick over it.

  “Josef,” Emma whispered.

  “Mr. Schreiber, I do not think it appropriate that Hannah go out with you,” Josef said delicately.

  He had said it in such a kind way that Wilhelm did not understand his words at first. But Josef had hit him with a rock, and even if he called it a pillow, it still hurt.

  He should have taken Hannah out the night before. Fate had been cruel in Schönfeld and Munich, and he could sense it laughing at his expense now.

  “As for your tux, I will give you the discount and an extra five percent off,” Josef said.

  “Thank you, Sir,” Wilhelm mumbled.

  Truthfully, he didn’t even know what Josef had just said. He removed some Reichsmarks from his pocket and set it on the counter. It was well more than needed, but he neither knew how much change he should receive nor did he care. He glanced at the black dividing curtain, hoping it would brush open and Hannah would step through. But the curtain was as unmoving as a brick wall. He tried to smile in appreciation for the well-made suit and left.

  “Oh, Josef,” Emma sighed.

  “We talked about this. You know why, Emma,” Josef interrupted her before she could say anything further.

  His decision had not wavered, but there were only five things that made Josef truly happy—a hot cup of lemon tea, the first snowfall every year, his business, his wife, and his daughter. But now, he was looking at a silent dinner with smoldering glances from his wife and tear-soaked ones from Hannah, a sight no father wanted to see, and it was a combination that created a painful steam directed Josef’s way.

  “Hannah,” Josef called. It was loud enough for Hannah to hear from upstairs. The footsteps that followed threatened to break the floorboards, and Hannah came skidding to a stop with a hopeful smile. “Please be careful,” Josef said.

  Hannah hugged her father, and he embraced it with a soothing sigh. It comforted him in a way nothing else could. Hannah pulled away, grinned, and then dashed out of the shop. Her mother looked on with a smile. Emma had listened to Hannah’s pleas for over an hour the night before.

  “Wilhelm!” Hannah shouted.

  Wilhelm had been too dejected to even start the car and, instead, he just stared at the steering wheel as if it contained his past, present, and future. But like the wheel, it was nothing but black.

  “Hannah!” Wilhelm exclaimed.

  She was stunning in a blue dress, emblazoned with white dots, that fell short of her knees. In her hair, she wore the blue rose Wilhelm had given her.

  “Is this your car?” Hannah asked.

  She was certainly impressed, even if she had been taught not to focus on such superficial things.

  Wilhelm returned to his senses and dashed around the car to open the passenger door for her and nearly got hit by a passing car. A horn honked to voice the driver’s displeasure. Wilhelm opened the door and held out his hand to help Hannah into the car.

  “No. Hans, my boss, let me borrow it,” Wilhelm explained.

  “That was very nice of him,” Hannah said.

  Wilhelm stared long enough at Hannah that she self-consciously examined herself in the side mirror.

  “Something wrong?” she asked.

  Wilhelm slowly shook his head. “I hope if I look long enough, this image will photograph itself onto my mind and never leave me,” Wilhelm said.

  Hannah smiled as Wilhelm closed the door for her. He dashed around to the other side, again not looking for oncoming cars, and hopped into the driver’s seat. The car roared to life, and Wilhelm tugged on the steering wheel to get the car to veer onto the street. It was a cognizant effort to keep his eyes on the road and not on Hannah. She had her right arm out of the open window, her fingers dancing with the wind.

  Wilhelm parked a few blocks away from the restaurant—“Veni, Vidi, Edi” or “I came, I saw, I ate”—for two reasons. First, parking was a nightmare, and he did not feel comfortable squeezing into any tight space with a car that was not his and one he could not afford. Second, and more important, he wanted to walk with Hannah.

  The weather was exceptionally fair for mid-October apart from sporadic gusts of wind.
But the gusts were cold enough for goosebumps to spread on Hannah’s arms. Seeing that Hannah was cold, Wilhelm removed his coat and draped it over her shoulders.

  “Now you will be cold too,” Hannah said.

  “My heart is beating too fast to be cold,” Wilhelm said.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Do you like Italian food?”

  “I do.”

  The restaurant was nestled in the corner of an intersection and had the option of both indoor and outdoor seating. He had originally planned to sit outdoors, but after giving up his suit coat, he realized how thin his white, long-sleeved dress shirt was, and the wind’s nips had turned into bites.

  “Reservation for Schreiber,” Wilhelm said to the attendant.

  Hannah had found a man who planned to be romantic. It showed that the woman was on his mind and he had taken the effort to ensure the date goes smoothly. Her father was that way. He would “surprise” her mother and her with flowers every Friday.

  Fortunately, Wilhelm had made reservations. Otherwise, they would most likely not have been seated before Hannah’s curfew. Those who had been waiting a while for a table groaned when Hannah and Wilhelm moved past them. The seating area had dimmed lighting, and the walls were dark walnut in color. They followed the greeter to a booth, where he laid two menus next to two glasses of white wine. The booth cushions were black and the backing, a wash of silver and gold and extremely comfortable.

  “I hope you like Riesling wine,” Wilhelm said.

  “I do, but I can’t. I will just have water,” Hannah replied.

  But Wilhelm’s gesture was not lost and was appreciated nonetheless.

  Wilhelm took a sip of his wine to stifle his nerves. It was one of his favorite wines. It gave off an almost-perfumed aroma and a taste of apples.

  They both reached for the menus and scanned through them. Wilhelm loved anything with pasta, and because of that, he found the menu to be a series of impossible choices. Hannah, on the other hand, loved cheese and picked out the cheese ravioli in a matter of seconds. But Wilhelm still had not decided when the waiter returned to take their order. Wilhelm was quick to decide on just about everything, but choosing food was something he toiled over. He studied the dishes on the other tables to see what looked best. As Hannah finished ordering, a surge of anxiety bull rushed him. Fettuccine Alfredo were the first and only words that came to his mind. It was only after the waiter had taken their menus and left did he realize he had forgotten to ask for chicken to be added.

  “I am most certainly going to spill. I have to avoid tomato sauce,” Wilhelm said.

  Hannah smiled and took a sip of her water.

  “Can I ask you a series of questions?” Wilhelm asked.

  “Am I being interrogated?” she asked playfully, leaning forward with her eyes bulging in a suspenseful way.

  “Where were you the night of August second?” Wilhelm asked, taking another sip of his wine. He had not planned on asking her a “series of questions.” He had wanted a naturally forming conversation.

  A nervous energy hovered over the table and between them, not uncomfortable, but both were aware of it.

  “What is your favorite color?”

  “You are getting a bit personal, aren’t you?” Hannah asked, laughing. It was the last question she had been expected to be asked, but she found the randomness of it to be adorable.

  “Blue,” she answered.

  It had been his guess based on the blue rose and her dress.

  “Reason?” Wilhelm asked.

  “There was a landscape painting I had seen when my parents and I were vacationing in Austria. It was of a mountain lake with trees alongside it, and the lake stretched and branched off past what we could see. Gray mountains with white tips rose in the background, and the sky was filled with clouds that looked like cotton balls. A single canoe on the water, not moving enough to even cause a ripple. I imagined I was in it. It seemed to be the most perfect place on earth. It was peaceful and tranquil in the most wonderful way. Things hadn’t changed there for hundreds of years. I’ll never forget the color of the water,” Hannah described.

  She smiled nervously before taking a sip of her water. Wilhelm’s gaze had not broken the entire time she spoke. The blue of her eyes was that lake and the white around the blue, the clouds she spoke of.

  “Thank you for sharing that with me, Hannah.”

  He had always been open, but for some, it took a lot of trust and faith to reveal such a thing.

  “What is yours?” Hannah asked.

  “Black,” Wilhelm answered. There were no close seconds, yet Hannah’s eye color ascended the charts.

  “Any painting you’ve seen to make it so?” Hannah asked, making light of her story.

  Wilhelm shook his head but then hesitated.

  “My mother had black hair. When I was sad, she used to lie in bed with me, and I would run my fingers through it. It gave me the same comfort that painting gave you. When she died, my father made me wear black. He said it was the color of strength—that I should take all my sadness and tears and let the black soak them up. Black absorbs everything,” Wilhelm said.

  “You have her hair,” Hannah remarked.

  But she was more focused on the cold remarks Wilhelm’s father had given him.

  Wilhelm nodded. Not a day went by when he did not think of his mother. It was a loss he never accepted, never understood, and never let go of. He took a deep breath to steady his emotions. He was one more poignant memory away from crying.

  “You said you are not close to your father?” Hannah asked.

  She hoped she was not getting too personal, as it was quite the leap from discussing his favorite color.

  “On different continents. I remember my mother telling me to be patient with him. When I was young, I was digging through his drawers one day, and I found the Honour Cross. I didn’t know what it was at the time. But there was another medal—silver with a skeleton hunched over. The coin terrified me as a child,” Wilhelm said.

  “What was the medal for?” Hannah asked.

  “The Battle of Verdun. But my father caught me looking at it, and he hit me. He was shocked and scared at what I had seen. I cried in my mother’s arms.”

  “Did you ask your father about it later?”

  “Once, but I was told to never bring it up again. My mother kept saying, ‘be patient,’ ‘be patient,’ like it was some kind of mantra.”

  Wilhelm acted as though he was beyond caring, but the reality was he did. The man was his father, and he longed to have a great relationship with him. But the older he got, the more he accepted the truth that the two would never become close. The problem with being somebody who conveyed every emotion they were feeling was that it also revealed their more personal emotions. Memories of his mother brought tears and those of his father too, but those were caused by anger.

  Hannah reached over and squeezed his hand. “I am sorry for asking.”

  “No. I am happy you did.”

  It was far too early for Hannah to make assumptions or judge Wilhelm in any way, but she thought that his mother’s early and sudden death and the distant relationship with a father who had no use for life had given rise to a fire and thirst for life in Wilhelm.

  The waiter finally arrived with the two dishes, leaving a trail of smoke that wafted off the ravioli and alfredo. He also took the liberty of refilling Wilhelm’s Riesling and Hannah’s water. They both thanked him, and the waiter nodded and left.

  “I will trade you one ravioli for one fork swirl of your alfredo,” Hannah said.

  “You strike a reasonable bargain, Ms. Goldschmidt. I agree to your terms,” Wilhelm said.

  He offered his hand. Hannah shook it. Her face turned slightly red, and her touch sent shivers across his arm and into his heart.

  Wilhelm slid his plate over, and she did the same, and they sampled each other’s order. They ate in silence. Wilhelm was afraid of speaking with a mouthful of food or, worse, sending
bits of food flying like noodle shrapnel at Hannah’s face. He also made a conscious effort to not eat past the point of full. He was used to eating with Erich and Heinrich, where eating usually turned into a competition, and the winner received burps and flatulence as a prize.

  The waiter returned and asked if either were interested in dessert, to which both refused. Wilhelm had always loved chewing gum, and as a child, he only received it on his birthdays or holidays. But he always saved a pack for special occasions. It was clove flavored, and apart from using it to freshen his breath, he simply loved to chew it. He offered a piece to Hannah, and they rose from the table. Wilhelm placed enough money for both of the meals and a tip into the black check holder, and the two left the restaurant.

  It was dark, and the city was lit by streetlights and headlights. But Wilhelm led her away from the artificial light and toward the Spree River and its reflection of the stars.

  “We are not going to the car?” Hannah asked.

  “Not unless you want to go home,” Wilhelm answered.

  “No. I am just curious,” Hannah said.

  The air had a deep chill, and Wilhelm did his best not to shiver.

  “Do you want your jacket back?” Hannah asked.

  “No. I am fine,” Wilhelm lied. What he wanted was to hold her hand, but the cold wind had numbed his courage. He counted to five in his head and reached for her hand. Her hand met his, and he entwined his fingers with hers. The cold shivers were met with a rush of warmth from her touch.

  “Do you paint?” Wilhelm asked.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “You mentioned the painting. I was wondering if it made you want to paint,” Wilhelm explained.

  “I do. I am not any good, but I do like to paint,” Hannah said.

  “I will not agree to that until you let me see one of your paintings,” Wilhelm argued.

  “And then you would say I am no good?” Hannah asked.

  He thought she was serious until she smirked.

  “Well, I would not want to lie to you,” Wilhelm said.

  Hannah playfully punched his shoulder before wrapping her hand around his arm. It sent an army of warm shivers up his arm that warmed him in a way no jacket could.