Sea Air (33 page)

“And then, our project failed.”

“Exactly. I flew to Riga again to check if the offer still stood. My colleague was thrilled and cleared out two days of his schedule to walk me through everything.”

“And everything is final?”

“Yes.”

“When will you sign the contract?”

“I already signed it.”

“You already . . .”

“There’s no turning back. I’ll admit, I wanted to get it over with quickly, because—”

“Once you got back to Germany you would have caved in to pressure again,” I said.

“Something like that. I knew as soon as I saw you, I’d change my mind.”

I sat frozen in my chair, trying to wrap my mind around all he’d just said. Mathis was moving to Riga and from now on, he’d be far away. Would he forget me?

“I need to go now, Nele.” Mathis stood and walked to the front door while I was still processing his words. I staggered after him, feeling numb.

“When will you go . . . to Riga?” I asked.

“Next week. I’ll probably come back to Germany again to settle a few things. I . . . Nele?”

I heard Mathis call my name as I collapsed, then everything went black. When I came to, I was in Mathis’s arms, and he was stroking my head. I buried my face in his sweater and let my tears flow. I cried and cried until Mathis gently lifted my head and looked deep into my swollen eyes. Then he said in a low voice, “There’s one thing I forgot to ask, Nele.”

“What is it?” I asked through my agony.

“Will you come with me to Riga?”

“Say that again. He’s going
where
?”
Sandra stood on the terrace wearing rubber boots and garden gloves, surrounded by garden equipment. She was looking at me now, her eyes wide. She’d planned to take advantage of the beautiful autumn weather and restore her somewhat shabby-looking flower beds, but my appearance had given her something more urgent to consider. She pushed aside the garden tools and pulled off her gloves. Then she arranged two chairs for us to sit in, so the sun would shine on our backs.

“To Riga,” I replied in a weak voice as I sat in one of the chairs.

“Just like that—on a whim?”

Just like that, on a whim?
I thought back on the long explanation Mathis had given me.

“Not on a whim,” I said. “He has his reasons.”

“I see. And they are . . . what, exactly?” Sandra gave me a dark look that seemed to say,
So, you fell for his story after all
. She clearly couldn’t imagine that there could be a valid rationale for Mathis’s behavior. No, she didn’t understand—but how could she?

“It’s not easy to explain,” I said. “I’d have to tell you his whole life story.” I gave her a lopsided grin. “And I’m afraid it’s quite long and complicated.”

Sandra raised her eyebrows. “I don’t get it at all. But it doesn’t matter—the fact is, he’s going, right?”

“Yes, he’s going next week.”

“And he’s not coming back.”

I shrugged.

“Well, that’s just great. He just gets to go off and leave everything and everyone hanging—you, Paula, his children, his job. This guy Mathis of yours is quite a catch.” Sandra jumped up and started to yank weeds out of her flower bed. “And what do you think about all this?” She chucked a stray, rotten apple over the garden fence.

I sighed. If only I knew the answer to that question!

“He asked whether I’d like to come with him,” I said.

“Whether you . . . want to come with him?” Sandra looked over at me, stunned. “You’re not going with him to Riga?” From the look on her face, this possibility appeared unthinkable to her.

“Well, why not?” I asked.

“Because you don’t just up and take off to Riga—with or without Mathis!” Sandra said. “Do you know what would happen if everyone just decided to move to Riga?”

“No,” I shot back. “What?”

“Nele, you know this is ridiculous, right? Think of Paula, your job . . .” Sandra made a sweeping motion with her arms. “And everything you have here. Why would you give it all up for a guy who is so completely unpredictable? Because the next time he takes off, you’ll be left alone in a foreign land, without friends . . .”

I nodded. Maybe Sandra was right—or maybe not. All I really knew was that I had to make a decision. Mathis was serious about his proposal. After he’d asked me to go with him to Riga, we’d sat together as he urged me to seize the day and start a new life with him. I had promised I would think about it—and then he was gone. Now here I was, unable to think clearly.

“And what about Steffen?” Sandra asked.

“What about him?” I said. “What does Steffen have to do with anything?”

“Oh, Nele, he has quite a lot to do with things—you know that as well as I do. Steffen loves you, and he would give you anything you wanted. He’d be the perfect man for any woman, but the poor guy had to fall in love with you—a woman who doesn’t appreciate him at all. Not that that stopped you from going to bed with him. And why—just to mess with his mind? What’s gotten into you, Nele, to make you run after a man like Mathis? I know he’s nice, handsome, and successful. But he’s also a flake and a dreamer who’s determined to look for happiness everywhere except in his own life. He’s not right for you, Nele!

“But this isn’t just about you—you also have to think of Paula. Remember when she had her accident? Mathis was nowhere to be found. He was off roaming around the world, completely unreachable. He didn’t give a shit what happened to you here! Steffen was there for you: he took care of everything and you could reach him anytime, day or night. But instead of snatching him up, you sent him packing so you could follow this flaky guy to Scandinavia.

“And now this! Mathis disappears for days, leaving you worried sick, sitting on a mountain of problems—and what happens when he comes back, begging for forgiveness? Good old—and sorry, but it’s true!—
stupid
Nele falls for it and decides she wants to emigrate with him to Riga. Do you hear how ridiculous that sounds? What on earth do you want, Nele? What can Mathis give you that Steffen can’t?” Sandra gave me a challenging look.

“Freedom?” I said in a quiet voice.

“Freedom!” said Sandra. “Come on, Nele, grow up! We all have responsibilities we can’t run away from, and that’s going to be true no matter where in the world you live. Think about Paula. She needs security, not a mother who’s always dreaming about running away. Steffen can give you the kind of security that Mathis Hagena isn’t capable of offering.”

“Maybe I don’t want any damned security!” I said. “Maybe I just want to live my life, Sandra, and that doesn’t necessarily
have
to happen here.”

“You’re getting yourself all worked up over a crazy idea, Nele. It’s time to come back down to earth.”

“Oh, shit, I don’t know.” I stomped my foot in frustration.

“Nele, be sensible.” Sandra’s voice suddenly became gentler. She took my arm. “I only want the best for you.”

“I have to think about all this,” I said in a dull voice.

“Take your time,” she told me. “This isn’t a decision that can be made lightly. If I can help you in any way . . .”

“Could you . . . ?” I hesitated. “Do you think Paula could stay with you for a few days? I’d like to go away—some quiet place where I can have some time to think. Like you said, this is a big decision.”

Sandra hesitated, then nodded. “Peace and quiet is probably just what you need now. Of course I can take Paula—the whole week, if you want.”

“That’s sweet of you, thanks. I’ll check with Marco first, to make sure that’ll work, and I’ll let you know.” I kissed Sandra on the cheek as I left. On the way home, I couldn’t help but wonder why this guy had been sent to me.
If only I hadn’t driven to the North Sea all those months ago,
I thought. Then my life wouldn’t be such a mess now.

T
he accordion player smiled in my direction as he put his instrument down on a chair, finally taking a well-deserved break. I’d been listening as he’d played upbeat Parisian chansons for the better part of an hour, barely pausing between each one. I loved the music, and I loved the sunny spot I’d found on the steps of the Sacré Coeur, high above the rooftops of Paris—a place I thought of as “my city.”

I lived in Paris for some time after graduating from college, and ever since my arrival this morning, two thoughts kept popping into my mind: How had I gone for so long without experiencing the feeling evoked by the unique atmosphere of this glorious city? And why had I ever returned to Germany? I experienced so many happy hours here, both with my friends and alone. I fondly remembered sitting with a book in my hand, sipping café au lait and nibbling a croissant in one of the cafés in the Latin quarter, near the Centre Pompidou, the world before me alive with street performers, dancers, and laughing children. It was the same here, in the artists’ district of Montmartre, where I’d often sat on the steps of the Sacré Coeur. That had been a wonderful time in my life. When Marco asked me where I planned to go, I had replied instinctively, “Paris.” Yes, this was the right place to think about the rest of my life.

“Why are you so sad, young lady? The sun is shining in the sky and it’s a beautiful day,” the accordion player called out to me. He made a gesture as if wiping tears from his eyes.

I ran my fingers over my eyelids and was surprised to find that they were, in fact, all wet! I hadn’t even noticed that tears were running down my face. Embarrassed, I grinned at the young musician. He looked so nice, in his red-checkered shirt and jeans that only reached to his calves. He looked like he hadn’t shaved in about three days, and his dark hair fell in waves over his shoulders. He walked over and sat down next to me.

“Sad?” He reached out and stroked my cheek.

“I’m okay,” I replied in a quiet voice. Strangely, it didn’t bother me that he’d touched me. I felt as though I’d known him forever.

“
L’amour
?” This one phrase contained his entire question.

I grinned. The French really knew love. “Yes,” I said. “Of course it’s love—what else?”

“I’m taking a break now. Why don’t we buy something to eat and have a picnic?” He pointed to a small stall nearby where baguette sandwiches were sold.

I nodded. “I’d love to!”

A few feet away, a juggler whirled balls through the air. The accordionist signaled for him to look after his things, and then we climbed up the stairs and headed to the stall. This tradition of buying a baguette from one of countless stalls and eating it in a crowded square was quite familiar to me from days past.

The vendor greeted my companion with a hearty, “
Salut,
Eric!” The two men exchanged a few quick words in French.

“What do you want to eat?” Eric asked, and I opted for a tuna baguette and a Coke.

“Your new girlfriend?” asked the vendor, nodding in my direction, but Eric laughed and shook his head. “No, just a sad girl from Germany who needs comfort.”

Embarrassed, I looked down at my shoes.

“Oh la la, l’amour!”
The vendor batted his eyelids and raised his arms in mock desperation, and then he grinned at me. “Eric is the best comforter in Paris,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye. He started to laugh, and Eric and I joined in. Already feeling better, I jumped down a few steps with Eric and we sat with our food near his accordion. I took a hearty bite of baguette and enjoyed the view over the city for a few minutes. It was a beautiful autumn day—probably one of the last days of the year when one could, without concern for the weather, go outdoors to make music, juggle, or paint. I decided to enjoy it to the fullest.

Eric gave me a sidelong glance. “You came to Paris alone?” he asked after a while.

“Yes. I wanted to think a little bit.”

“
Oui
. This is a wonderful place to ponder,” Eric said. “I come here often.”

“And what do you do when you’re not playing the accordion?”

“
Hmm
. Sometimes I play the saxophone, too.”

“Nothing else? I mean, you’re not studying or something?” He looked very much like a student to me.

“Oh, I’ve tried a few times to study, but sitting in front of dusty books and reading about what others once thought—that’s not the life for me. No, uh . . .” He gave me a questioning look. “What’s your name?”

“Nele.”

He pronounced my name slowly a few times, but the result sounded more like “Nolo” than “Nele.” I didn’t correct him; it sounded really cute.

“You see, Nele,” he said, “I’ve decided to do what I enjoy—and so, I play music.”

“And you make enough to live on?” I threw a skeptical glance at the hat sitting in front of his accordion, which had only a few small coins in it.

“
Mais, oui
, it’s enough for everything that I need to stay alive. More than that, one doesn’t really need.”

He was probably right about that. “But what do you do in the winter, when it’s all cold and wet and windy?”

“I move south, like the birds. The birds and I—we are vagabonds.” He bit into his baguette and looked toward the church, where a group of children was happily jumping on the steps, playing tag, and laughing freely in the way only children can.

“Look at these kids. See how they laugh and how free they must feel. It’s a wonderful feeling, but it won’t last much longer. They’ll get bigger and bigger and . . .” Eric gave me a meaningful look. “They’ll get imprisoned a bit more every day, until one day they’ll no longer be free and open—and then their laughter will die.”

At his words, I felt a chill creep over my body. I pulled my jacket tighter around me, and Eric looked at me more closely. My reaction to his words had not escaped him.

“Do you want to tell me why you’re so sad?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s a long story and . . .” I paused. “Actually, it’s not that long,” I said. “Just a little bit complicated, perhaps—maybe not even that.” All of a sudden, I no longer knew what to make of my own story—the story of Mathis and Nele. As I stood next to Eric the vagabond, everything suddenly seemed easy, uncomplicated, and insignificant. But I knew this short time with Eric was only a reprieve. Once I went back home to Germany, everything would fall apart again—unless I could find a solution in the meantime. But it needed to be
my
solution.

“If you have time, I’d love to tell you my story,” I said.

“Vagabonds have all the time in the world.” Eric laughed and jumped up. “But first, we should enjoy the sun and honor it by making a little music. After all, we have to be thankful for every day we have on this beautiful earth.”

He grabbed his accordion, strapped it around his shoulders, and began to play and sing. His songs were filled with such zest for life that tears rose in my eyes again. I could hardly believe there really were people in the world who succeeded at simply enjoying life—and Eric was one of them.

Drawn in by his ebullience, a large crowd gathered. Some people clapped, some sang along at the top of their lungs, and others danced happily around Eric as he played. At some point, I saw him signal with his eyes for the juggler to approach me. Before I knew it, the juggler was offering me his hand and pulling me to my feet. Laughing, he spun me in circles, and I followed his lead without thinking. When it was all over, I had no idea how I’d managed not to stumble down the steps while dancing.

When the juggler finally let me go, I felt breathless and sweaty—and infinitely happy and free. I hugged the juggler first and then threw my arms around Eric’s neck as far as the accordion would let me. The crowd applauded wildly and I beamed at everyone, feeling positively radiant.

For the next few hours, Eric continued to make music on the steps, and I just sat and listened. I got up only once, briefly, between songs to buy a postcard. I’d promised to write to Paula, and I knew that if there were any chance of her getting it before I returned home, I’d have to send it off that day. By the time Eric finally packed up his stuff, dusk had already fallen, and the temperature was cooling down quickly.

“
Allons
,” Eric said. “Let’s go. What would you like to do now?”

I thought it over. “Is there a nice little restaurant where we can drink red wine and talk a little?”

“There are hundreds of restaurants exactly like that,” said Eric. “But I’ll show you a really special one.” He started up the stairs and I followed. “Let’s go over to my place first so I can drop off my things and put on a sweater.”

“No problem.” I was curious to see where and how he lived. We wound our way through the streets, Eric lugging his accordion on his back. Suddenly he turned down a tiny alley and, after a few feet, unlocked a door. In the narrow stairwell, a wooden spiral staircase snaked tightly upward. Eric stopped at the third floor and pulled another key from his pocket. We entered a small, unadorned hallway with four doors. He unlocked the first door on the left.

“Come.” Eric took me by the hand. “I want to show you something.” He pulled me into a small room furnished with only a worn sofa and a small television, then put his accordion away. At the end of the room was a glass door. Eric opened it and stepped out onto a balcony that at first glance appeared to be quite small. But as we walked around the corner, I realized there was much more to it than I’d realized.

“Oh!” I gasped. “This is amazing!” I was standing on the most beautiful rooftop terrace I’d ever seen. Everything around me was green and blossoming. Palm trees were planted in huge terra-cotta pots, and there was a colorful freestanding hammock. But best of all was the view: a panorama of the entire city, its lights coming on one by one in the darkness.

“Eric, this is . . . just fantastic,” I whispered. “Incredible!” I turned to him, but he was gone. I let myself sink back into the hammock and gazed out over the city. In the distance, I saw the profile of the Eiffel Tower. Just as I was about to look elsewhere, its lights flashed on, one after another, until the last one burned at the top. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any better, soft saxophone music began to play behind me. I turned around and there was Eric, his eyes closed as he played a beautiful tune. Spellbound, I closed my eyes, too.

“
Pour toi
,” Eric said, when he finally put down the saxophone. “For you, so you won’t be so sad anymore.” I jumped up and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you!” I whispered in his ear.

“Now let’s go,” said Eric, rubbing his belly. “I’m hungry.”

I was hungry, too—famished, actually—but it was difficult to tear myself away from the terrace. I shrugged off my regret and followed Eric back out to the street, where a young woman greeted him with a beaming smile and a couple of light kisses on each cheek. They exchanged a few pleasantries, and I got the feeling that they were neighbors. The woman looked at me, obviously curious.

“This is Nele, from Germany,” Eric said. “Nele, this is Aurélie.”

“Hi,” I said and stuck out my hand to her. But she ignored my hand and instead—as if we’d known each other for a long time—hugged me and planted two kisses on each of my cheeks before saying good-bye.

“You live alone in your apartment?” I asked Eric after she’d gone.

“I share it with my brother, Dominic. He travels a lot and . . . well, I’m not there most of the time in winter. Sometimes we don’t see each other for months. It works quite well.”

After we’d walked past a few streets, Eric stopped at a nondescript-looking door and I followed him through it. As my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, I looked around the small, brightly painted room, which was packed tightly with eight small tables, leaving only a very narrow passage for people to walk through. Each table held a single candle, and there was room for no more than two people at each one.

“It’s not very big,” Eric said, “but the food is wonderful.
Délicieux!”

Two tables were free, and we chose one close to the counter at the end of the room. Eric ordered from the menu for both of us, and from the first bite, it was clear to me that he’d been right: the food was fantastic. As I struggled with some escargot, Eric put his hand on my arm.

“I hope you are feeling better than you were this morning?”

“Much better!” I smiled. It had been a good idea to take time away from my hometown, with all its petty problems, and to go to Paris for a few days. I gulped down some red wine and decided to take Eric’s question as an invitation to talk about my sadness, as he called it.

At first, I wasn’t sure how to start. But after some initial hesitation and stumbling, I managed at last to tell my whole story. I explained about my vacation with Mathis on the North Sea and our common professional work; I told him about Paula, and about Marco and Ines, Sandra and Christoph, our city and its politicians—and, of course, Steffen. Finally, I shared my frustration and my anger over Mathis’s sudden disappearance and his reappearance from Riga, and I told Eric that Mathis had asked me to come with him.

“So that’s everything,” I said after a half hour or so. Eric had sat and listened quietly the whole time, not interrupting even once. The only reaction I noticed was that, as time went on, his expression became increasingly pensive, and a deep wrinkle slowly appeared on his forehead. I thought I detected a certain lack of understanding in Eric’s dark eyes. Minutes passed without him saying anything. After a while, I grew nervous and started to trace pictures on the tablecloth with my knife.

“
Et alors
?” he asked quietly, after a while. “And then?”

I looked at him. “What do you mean, and then? Is that all you have to say?”

Eric smiled almost imperceptibly. “You expected more, perhaps?” I felt a strong desire to yell at him. I had just confessed my whole life story and all my sorrows, and all he could say was “And then?” I felt torn between the urge to cry and the impulse to leave, and then Eric posed a question that made me stop and think.