Heroine: The Husband's Cologne (4 page)

  
For months Daniel and I carried on a long-distance marriage.  He would come up on Friday nights and leave again on Sunday to head back south.

After another failed attempt at having Norman all to myself, I went celibate and refrained from any contact with men other than my husband.  It was a gray, rainy late winter season that refused to pass over into spring, which didn't help the situation. Instead, I focused on my studies, drove to my parents' place occasionally, met with my girlfriends and then did actually see Norman another couple of times, just to stave off my loneliness.

During the week I felt jilted and alone. With nobody to keep me company in that small apartment, I was running around like a caged animal, missing Daniel. The worst part was the emptiness I felt when he was gone. In those moments, a part of me was uneasy, morose, confused, and in this mood I didn't put much stock in talking to other people. 

It was a windy day in February, a Monday if I
recall, when I ran into Norman by accident in the city. This time it was really a coincidence, since I was in the city shopping and we happened to bump into each other in the pedestrian zone of the Cologne  Cathedral. But he seemed as happy as I was about it.  He was on his way to meet his doctoral advisor at a restaurant to discuss some details about his work, and wanted to know if I would like to come along. 

Wouldn't I be imposing? 
Nonsense, Norman assured me, the professor would be delighted to speak with a younger woman. He was a solitary older man, who was always glad of an opportunity to meet with younger people.

So I went along, since the main thing for me was not to spend the day alone, and Norman was the only person I trusted in the city.

The Riemerschmidt was an elegant restaurant near the city center.  I had never been there because it was too pricey for me, and from the outside the waiters gave a smug impression.  The patrons, according to the local newspaper consisted mainly of “distinguished figures,” which probably meant that they were just as haughty as the wait staff. 

The table, at which sat an older gentleman introduced to me as the professor, looked as if it had been deliberately placed for this man before the window in the winter garden. The table had a floral setting and had been extended with a serving cart. Two chairs were stationed around it.  As I approached, a waiter in black livery dashed by me, and placed an additional chair at the table.  To say “chair” was an understatement, as was “table” for that matter.

They were baroque armchairs, with carved wooden armrests tapering down into the form of an animal's head (a lion perhaps?), upholstered in gold and green.  The table could have easily accommodated six more people, and its ornate feet were just visible beneath a striking white silk table cloth. I was righteously impressed, especially by the waiters. There were now three of them dressed in black ties, who stood fawning over us.  I felt privileged, flattered even.

Norman's doctoral advisor stood apart from the usual professor types that I had met.  Dark hair streaked with gray, medium height, slender and toned, wearing an
elegant dark suit that looked to have cost a fortune; he wore a plush tie, silk shirt with matching cuff links, a handkerchief and light brown Italian shoes.  His features were chiseled, suntanned (or a tanning bed?), with a hooked nose, which lent him an animalistic, but not an aggressive air. 

He was elegant in the extreme.  His ensemble must have cost him at least in the four figures.  This was the type who could easily have played an older woman's lover in ‘The Love Boat’ or something. 

Norman introduced me as the wife of his best friend, and the professor nodded as if he already knew Daniel personally.  I asked if I might be imposing, and our host promptly replied:

“Absolutely not, Miss.” This annoyed me somewhat.  Had he already forgotten that I had been introduced as a married woman?  And even if I hadn't, I wanted to be addressed as one.

“You must stay, you see I live alone and it brings me great pleasure to speak with young and intelligent people,” he continued.

I decided to overlook his prior indiscretion and seated myself next to them.  From now on I was to call Norman's professor by his first name.

“Please Miss, call me Erich,” he said, “that's what all my students call me.”

‘Erich, Miss.’
The silly Germanized version of American forms of greeting.  OK, so be it. 

“Miss
Juliane, what would you like to drink?  Naturally you are both my guests.”  Well then, I could go ahead and splurge without damaging my budget.  I opted for an Aperol Spritz, which I had tried once on holiday.  As it turned out, I was spot on with my choice, because he invited us directly to dinner and I was already equipped with my aperitif. 

Norman and Erich proceeded to talk at length about some technical things.  I recognized some key vocabulary from Daniel such as “microprocessor,”
“ Ethernet.” Surprisingly, I even knew how these were spelled, along with other mumbo-jumbo.  Erich gave Norman a few pointers, and corrected some of the paperwork that he had brought with him. They were both so immersed in their discussion that all I could do was sit there and be bored to tears.  Granted, the dinner and wine were exquisite, better than anything of the kind that I had sampled previously. 

When Erich had left the table for a toilet break (“I have to go wash my hands,” how sophisticated), I asked Norman if Erich did this with all of his students. 

“Yes, he's very generous, he likes to dine well and constantly has meetings here or in other exclusive restaurants.”  In other words, this was the professor's office. 

During dessert, Erich concluded the conversation with Norman and turned to me.

“My apologies, if we were discourteous with you,” he said.

“Norman and I seldom get the chance to talk, so we have to make the most of it.  But now we're done, and I'd very much like to enjoy your company and savor the rest of this pleasant afternoon.  What do you do, Miss
Juliane?”

I intended to speak generally about my life, but for some reason, all that came out of my mouth was:

“Psychology, I'm studying it, fifth semester.” Was I slurring my words?  Why couldn't I string a simple sentence together?  I did the math: an Aperol Spritz and two glasses of red wine.  That was already enough for a good buzz.  Later, when the bill came, I would see the words “Campari Soda” so there must have been another drink I hadn't reckoned with.  The buzz was a little heavier than was called for on a Monday night.

“You're studying psychology.  Interesting, tell me more about it.” Then we talked for another half hour about everything under the sun and in the world.  It was a world in which Daniel had no place.  When it was Norman's turn for a toilet break, he said
,  “would you please excuse me a moment,” (he had sounded a little more direct back in his apartment).  Erich regarded me with his soft gray-blue eyes.  He had small wrinkles around his eyes, laugh lines is what they looked like to me.  They were endearing. 

“Would you give me the honor of your company again tomorrow afternoon?  I would be interested in hearing more about your studies in psychology, a field which has always fascinated me.”

I hesitated:

I'm not sure, I think I may have a seminar to attend tomorrow at midday, I don't have my diary on me.”

“Oh, well if tomorrow midday doesn't suit you, then could I invite you to dinner?  We could drive to the Irenenhöhe near the Drachenfels Mountains.  It would bring me immense pleasure, please accept.”

The
Irenenhöhe?  That was a four-star restaurant, so expensive and exclusive that you probably needed written permission from the prime minister to get in.  Why did this intimidate me so much?  I kept waffling:

“I'm not sure that I can accept such an invitation, I wouldn't even know what to wear.”

At that he gave a hearty laugh:

“You really shouldn't let that worry you; there are people who go there in jeans.”

Well, what do you know?  In the meantime, I could see Norman making his way back from the far end of the room. 

“Please think it over.  Here is my card with my phone number, feel free to call me.”  I slipped the card into my pocket without looking at it, and turned back to Norman who was now
back in his seat.

As the bill arrived, I held my breath.  It noticed it cost 360   euros for a lunch?  That was as much as my rent.  Once outside, we headed over to the car park, where Erich took his leave. 

“Please do not forget my offer, Juliane,” he said with an affable smile as we shook hands.  Then he got into a wine-red Jaguar, with three times as many cylinders as the car next to it.

My jaw dropped.  Where did he get the money?  A professor usually had a W4 salary level, which was 70,000 Euros per annum at most, likely less.  Not a bad sum, but could he afford to take droves of students out to lunch and buy an outrageously expensive car like that? 

I was silent as I teetered back to the city center with Norman.  I wasn't all too steady on my legs after all. 

“So, our Erich impressed you, didn't he?” Norman said teasingly. 

“Well, I'm curious as to where he gets the money.  And he wants to meet with me again and drag me off to the Irenenhöhe or whatever you call it,” I replied.

Norman laughed:

“Yeah, that’s our good old Erich.  We get a real kick out of him.  He only stayed at the university because there was no room for him at his parents' factory.  They own a cookie factory close to the town of Dueren.  And now it's his sister who runs the business and Erich only has to show up at the shareholder's meetings to count his millions.  His folks wanted him to study business administration, or at least law, so that he could take over the business himself later.  He was too stubborn, though, and ended up becoming a scientist.  Half of the factory still belongs to him, but according to the will he can't run it.”

That explained it.  I knew the cookie factory by name, they were literally swimming in money, and spent it like there was no tomorrow.  That was the rumor anyway.  It had been in the papers.

“And the fact that he invited you,” Norman went on, “well you're not the first one and definitely won't be the last.  I know lots of girls  who he's taken to that restaurant.  He adorns himself with them, that's how he put it to me one day.  He would look silly going alone, and because he likes to eat well, he'll occasionally invite a female student to go with him.  Naturally, she has to be good-looking,” Norman said.

“So why doesn't he just take a prostitute,” I asked in a huff.  I had felt unique and special, and now I was told that this oaf just wanted me as a showpiece.

“He wouldn't dare.  He's very clear about this.  He only wants cultured people with whom he can discuss highly intellectual matters.  And if those at the Irenenhöhe were to get wind of his bringing an escort, they would throw him out.  Besides, as far as I know he has always dutifully brought the women home afterwards.  At any rate, he has never forced himself on any woman, and those  who I know, have always spoken favorably of him.  He’s a gentleman and whatnot.  Plus, you're not exactly the shy type, are you?”

I looked at him and asked naïvely:

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well you and I have had the pleasure of few times, and apart from that someone saw you together with Frank.”

I must have blushed deeply because he suddenly burst out laughing:

“C'mon, it's nothing to be ashamed
of, everybody needs someone to hold sometimes.”

Frank, I totally forgot to mention him. He’s a guy from our home town, who now worked in Cologne.  One afternoon about two weeks ago I had bumped into him and we had ended up in his bed together.  Well, there wasn't much to report on that front and I had filed it away under “operational glitch.”

“How did you know about that?” I asked nervously. 

“Renate told me.  She lives in the same building as Frank.”

Ouch!  If Renate knew about it, then the whole town in my home area must have found out.  My knees were a little wobbly, and I asked Norman to accompany me to my place, which was on his way.  As we got to my door, he looked me briefly in the eyes.  I shook my head.  The Frank thing was a cheap shot.  It was stupid of me, too.  As Norman said goodbye, he kissed me on the mouth and I walked up on my own to the third floor.

The emptiness in the apartment fell over me like a dark shroud.  I was alone, again.  I had missed today's lecture at school, but then again I had been enjoying the lunch too much, and the alcohol had made me too tired to go in the end.  And if I hadn't gone to that lunch, chances are I would have lapsed once more into depression.

   At 6 p.m., I woke up to the barren silence of the apartment.  Usually, Daniel called at 7 o'clock, and I waited anxiously for the phone to ring.  But 7 o'clock passed, then  7:30, then  8, and still no call.  I tried him in Stuttgart, but nobody picked up, then I tried his cell phone but only got his voice mail.

Then it became 9 o'clock, then 9:30.   I slumped in front of the
TV.and watched whatever was on. It was some mindless cop show called “German Crime Scene.”  There were two “police inspectors” spouting loser lines and attempting, although they were older, to look tough.  If I were a detective, I would be utterly embarrassed to be played by these two wimps. 

At 9:45 p.m., I was really annoyed and switched the TV off.  I reached into my purse and found Erich's card. It was impressive, as it read:  “Prof. Dr. Erich” and so on.  Thick white paper, embossed gold lettering and an emblem up in the left corner.  It made quite an impression. 

At 9:50 p.m., I dialed the number and Erich picked up the phone.  I introduced myself:

“Hello,
it's Juliane, we had lunch together today.  I'm calling about your invitation for tomorrow.”

“I'm delighted that you called,
Juliane.  I was certain that you wouldn't forget my invitation, and you're sure to have a wonderful evening.”

We made an appointment for the following day.  He was to pick me up at my door at 8 p.m.   Only when I hung up did I realize that this could lead to some serious gossip. 

‘
An older man came to pick up Juliane in a huge luxury car, did you see that, Mrs. Meier?’

I pictured Mrs.
Köfer from the first floor, the old gas bag.  Her name was actually Köfer-Schmalz, because she had been married to a Mr. Schmalz, but he had run for the hills long ago.  No wonder, with that voice of hers.  Even worse, at the baker's and hairdresser's she wanted to be addressed as “Headmistress.”

But whining didn't
help, I had already accepted the invitation. I could always come home with the subway afterwards.  And anyway, Daniel should have at least called. 
He leaves me here alone and I'm supposed to lock myself up at home, like a nun?  He's probably in bed with some bimbo, enjoying his “freedom,” the jerk that he is.
Angry and dejected, I got ready for bed. 

The following day, I was faithfully
back in class, listened to the lecture, took notes and discussed my coursework with the tutor. 

By 6 p.m., I was back in my all too silent apartment.  It was a quiet place in Cologne.  Some people would pay a fortune to be able to live in a peaceful spot like this. Instead, I was griping.  Well, the location of the flat
was
lousy. 

As I started to think about the evening out, I felt panic setting in.  I was going to such an exclusive place and didn't know what to wear.  So I began hectically rummaging through my wardrobe. In the meantime, a voice in my head was saying:
“defense mechanism,” “displacement activity,” “repression”...
This was all useless trivia from my college lectures. I ignored the voice, but noticed a nagging sensation growing in my stomach.  They were guilty feelings is what you would call them.  I paused for a second, thought about it and asked myself aloud: 

Why do I have guilty feelings now, and when I'm with Norman I don't have any? 
And what about with Frank?  With Frank I also had these pangs in my belly.  But only afterwards. So why not with Norman?  Perhaps because I know him, I trust him and besides, didn't Daniel hand me over to him? 
That settled it.  I had rationalized.  That must be the reason. 

Well, OK then, I was going to assume that Norman had told me the truth.  No sex with the professor and by midnight I'd be home, by 11 p.m., even.  And Norman had better not have lied to me, or else I was going rip his head off and more.

At 7 p.m., the phone rang.  It was Daniel.  I hadn't counted on his phone call so early.  I still didn't know what I was going to wear that evening. 

“I'm so sorry,” he said, “we had some problems with our design department and we were up until 2 a.m., in a video conference with colleagues from California.”

That clarified things, no bimbo or anything of the kind.  We talked for half an hour, I told him that I missed him and he said the same.  When he asked me what I was up to this evening, I told him that Renate was coming by and that we were heading to the Cafe Muckel for some girl talk.  He was silent a moment then wished me a pleasant evening. 

“Can I reach you on your cell phone?” I asked him. “I’ll call you when I’m
back home.”

“Sure, all night.”

“Then I'll call you tonight, before I go to bed.”  We kissed over the phone and hung up. 

At 7:45 p.m., I stood in my panties in front of my wardrobe, which offered an astoundingly bleak selection of clothes: a low-cut summer dress, too light for the occasion; two pairs of jeans, blue and black, and two other outfits from the Stone Age.  I opted for a tight pair of black pants and a white blouse. It was a little transparent, but since my bra was also white, you couldn't see too much. 

As a precaution, I checked my supply of condoms; you never know.  If he were really to pounce on me, then I would at least demand that he wear one. 

At 8 o'clock, I slipped into my pants, buttoned my blouse, threw on a jacket, and put my flat shoes on.  At some point I would have to treat myself to a pair of high-heels.

Five past 8 and silence, there was no sign of him.  I looked out the window, no Jaguar to be seen.  Ten past 8 ticked on, had he stood me up?  What was I going to do?  Or was I mistaken about the day of our appointment?  Should I call him to confirm?  Had we really agreed on today, or was it next week instead?  The panic wasn't going away. 

At  8:15
p.m., the doorbell rang.  I looked outside and saw a Jaguar parked on the opposite side of the road since there was no room for it on this side. 

I dashed out the door and ran breathlessly down two flights of stairs. 

Wait a minute, what am I doing 
I stopped suddenly then continued at a slower pace.

‘He shows up late and you run to him like a groupie?  Take it easy
,’ I thought to myself.  As I walked across the street Erich stood there and laughed.  He was obviously very happy to see me and proceeded to open the passenger door. 

No apologies for being late?  What was I thinking, of course not, he was a professor and when a professor sets a time, then it might as well be considered “c.t.,” which stood for “cum tempore” in Latin, and underlined the fact that professors were more or less omnipotent.  In practice, this simply meant that they were always 15 minutes late.  In other words, Erich was on time.  Then, a naughty little thought came to mind:

‘
I wonder if he comes 15 minutes late in bed as well’. 
Enough, I had already decided not to go to bed with this man, even if, despite his age, he looked damn good.  He looked somewhat like George Clooney, but considerably older.

On the way to the restaurant, we chatted a little; he asked me what I had done with my day and I told him about my lecture.  It was about clinical psychology, psychopathology and so on.  He knew nothing of these fields and showed considerable interest.  When I mentioned that I planned on doing an internship at a psychiatric clinic in Bonn, he turned to me surprised, and inquired:

“Isn't that dangerous for a beautiful young woman like you?”  I had to laugh at that and reassured him that no, there was no danger in it.  Then he asked how I could be so sure, and so forth.  I hadn't met such a curious person in a long time.  He really wanted to know everything about my studies. 

The
Irenenhöhe restaurant was located in a sprawling park district, accessed through an iron gate.  The gate opened automatically as we approached in Erich's car. It was very impressive, like a Hollywood movie.  We drove in and found a spot in the gravel car park next to the entrance.  A glass door, as big as a church gate, towered atop a broad set of steps.  The entire affair looked like a former industrialist's villa. 

Years ago a celebrity chef had acquired the property and had since been working doggedly to earn his third Michelin star.  A year ago he had lost his second and had had to start anew.  Apparently, he had now earned his two stars back.  I knew as much because I had casually inquired at my college cafeteria (where students went to eat food, that is, if it qualified as food) and my classmates had seemed to know quite a bit about it.

As we entered, we were received by a waiter in a dashing black uniform.  A livery is what it's known as, if I recalled correctly from our lunch at the Riemerschmidt.  He wore a moustache; his hair was gelled back.  I could hardly believe it.  He introduced himself as “Louis,” which sounded utterly goofy to me.  I wondered if he had gelled his hair back in order to play the “Louis de Funes” (a French actor) of the establishment.  He welcomed us in a thick dialect, which the Cologne natives now seemed to consider High German, and carried himself casually as he led us to a beautifully laid table, or rather, a dining table, in an alcove next to a window.

I had once read in a book on social etiquette, that one could tell the status of a guest in an elegant restaurant by how far his table was from the restroom.  There was no restroom in sight, so I could safely assume that Erich was a guest of honor, at the very least.  Once again, I was impressed.  What struck me about the place was how unaffected the waiters spoke and behaved.  This seemed
light years from the cramped and haughty manner of the overpriced city restaurant.

Erich chatted at length with the waiter, and introduced me as “Miss
Juliane, one of my students.”  The “Miss” irritated me again, I would have to remedy that as soon as possible, or else start addressing him as “young fellow.” I was just about to say something to that effect, when Louis turned to me, and in his quaint Cologne dialect, said the following:

“Welcome to our establishment, we hope you are comfortable, and we will endeavor to make your evening a pleasant one.”  And so on.  Anyone who has seen some ‘
Millowitsch’ theater, a local comedy stage, knows the game.  For my part, I found it decidedly funny.  And so, for the moment I even forgot to set my “young fellow” straight about his indiscretion.

The seats were exceptionally comfortable and well upholstered, real armchairs in dark red velvet, armrests rounded off in a flourish, plush seat cushions and so on.  The high-arched windows afforded a delightful view of the park, the trees in bloom and a small fountain. 
This could turn out to be a pleasant evening
, I thought to myself. 

On the table stood several glasses, silver cutlery whose various pieces I could not quite classify, and a tablecloth that appeared to be out of damask cloth.  For somebody like me, who came from a small-minded Protestant household, this was an unprecedented luxury.

“Sir, I would just like to...” I began, as I recovered from the sight and wanted to straighten out the matter of how I had been addressed. 

“Please, there is no need for the 'Sir,'” he interjected. “I'm Erich, and you are...” He offered his hand across the
table.

Too surprised to object, I simply nodded and mumbled an
embarrassed “Juliane,” as if he didn't already know.

He laughed, and in the course of the evening he would do so again and often, a charming, spontaneous and jovial laugh with which he could very clearly win people over. 

Erich resumed his barrage of questions from the car ride, until Louis returned to the table.  The process of ordering the meal, with the foreign terms and all the fuss surrounding it, was something I had already seen on TV, where an “establishment” like this one (or “etablissemang” as Louis pronounced it), was being portrayed.

The evening went splendidly.  I was sitting next to a well-dressed older man in one of the most expensive restaurants in Germany and felt totally at ease.  As it turned out, my outfit was not out of place, and I even saw some patrons wearing more or less casual clothes, though no jeans.  Name brands were everywhere.

Erich had taken off his suit jacket, and I saw the black cuff links on his blue shirt.  I could have sworn that there were diamonds in them.  Instead of a tie he wore a silk neckerchief with a blue and red pattern.  He looked stunning.  His blue-gray eyes, together with his graying temples set me daydreaming...

‘
Enough of that, you're not having sex and least of all with a stranger who you just met yesterday,’
I heard my alter ego announce. 

The evening unfolded with engaging conversations, interspersed with the various courses of the meal, carried to and fro by a bevy of waiters.  The wine alone had its own waiter, who wore a metal saucer around his neck.  The sommelier, Erich informed me. 

We had just completed the second course, when I looked down at my watch.  It was already 11 o'clock.  I was shocked at how fast the evening had flown by without my noticing it.  And we hadn't even had dessert yet!  I vaguely recalled that I had promised Daniel I would call him, so I excused myself from the table, saying that I wanted to “freshen up a little.”  How refined I sounded, after only three hours in this man’s company.