The American Lady (19 page)

“That’s right,” Wanda answered firmly. She hadn’t thought that her aunt would broach the topic so soon. “
I . . .
does m
y . . .
does my father know that I’m on my way?” Her heart hammered as she spoke, and she chided herself for being so nervous.

“I have no idea. Most likely he does. Everybody knows everybody else’s business in Lauscha. Somebody will have told him that you’re coming, although it wasn’t one of us.” Johanna looked thoughtful, as though she was trying to decide what to tell Wanda.

“We don’t have much to do with the Heimers anymore; we each went our own ways a long time ago. Though that’s mostly because we make Christmas tree decorations and they make housewares. We don’t have anything in common, do you see?”

Wanda nodded, though she knew from Marie that that was only half the story. After Ruth had left, there had always been a certai
n . . .
antipathy between the two families.

“It must have been something of a shock to you to find out about Thomas, wasn’t it?” Johanna asked gently.

Wanda nodded again. There was a lump in her throat now, and she swallowed painfully. “Do you think h
e . . .
” She stopped.

What had she wanted to say?

Do you think he’ll meet me at the station?
After everything Marie had told her about her biological father, she knew that he certainly wouldn’t do that.

Or:
Do you think he’ll come and visit?
Was he going to come and visit her at her relatives’ house and talk to a family who had been his sworn enemies for almost two decades now? He wouldn’t do that for the world.

Instead of pressing her, Johanna talked on, unwittingly repeating almost exactly what Marie had said on the roof of the apartment building several weeks earlier. “Thomas Heimer isn’t a bad sort. But don’t expect too much. He’s not a straightforward man. He never was, and that certainly hasn’t changed with age. He didn’t grow up in a loving home; he and his brothers had to lend a hand with the work even when they were very little. Nobody ever asked how they felt or whether they missed their mother. More work than wurst, as we say hereabouts. When I think of how our father spoiled us, it was quite the opposite. Life’s hard and you have to be hard yourself
—
I think that was an unwritten motto for the Heimers. They were an unloving, hard-hearted family, and that’s what your mother found so hard to bear. But how could Thomas ever have learned to behave any differently? Especially when you think what
his
father’s like! And nobody can help the way they’re born, can they?” Johanna seemed almost surprised as she spoke, as though this were the first time she had allowed herself such thoughts.

“That rather sounds as though you’re speaking in his defense,” Wanda said. Although Johanna had only meant well, Wanda felt a heavy sadness in her breast. Somehow it had been easier to bear when her mother had raged bitterly about Thomas Heimer.

Johanna shrugged. “Now that you say i
t . . .
perhaps I am. You know, I see some things differently these days. When I was younger I always used to laugh at him for being such a lout, and even despised him a little for being so much under his father’s thumb. In Lauscha we’re used to seeing a glassblower’s son make his own way in life at some point. But the Heimer boys never did. Today I feel sorry for Thomas because of that. If you never look farther than the end of your nose, how will you ever get anywhere in life?”

Wanda frowned. What did Johanna mean by that remark?

It was just before eight o’clock when the train stopped in Lauscha. Since Wanda had so much luggage, Johanna suggested that they wait until the crowd had thinned before disembarking. She knew almost everybody who went by, and chatted a bit with some of them. Wanda watched, glassy-eyed, as dozens of women all carrying huge baskets on their backs vanished into the dimly lit station building and then into the foggy night air beyond.

When it was finally their turn to get off the train, Wanda had to cling tightly to the iron railing so as not to tumble down the steps. Her legs were trembling wildly all of a sudden. She was in Lauscha. She had followed her dreams all the way here.

A man waiting with a horse cart drove them home from the station.

“Mind your head!” Johanna called from outside the house—just as Wanda’s forehead hit the door frame. She stood quite still for a moment, dazed, while Johanna told the driver where he should put Wanda’s luggage. Two of the cases were placed next to her on the stairs, and the rest could spend the night in the storeroom. Then Wanda could decide in the morning what she needed most, as Johanna said there was no way they would be able to fit everything into the wardrobe they had cleared out for her.

Wanda’s eyes gradually adjusted to the dim gaslight in the hallway, whose faded wine-red carpet showed dirty footprints by the door.

So this was the house where Mother was born!

There was a smell of onions frying, and suddenly her nose began to run. Could it be that it was even colder inside the house than out?

“And this is your cousin, Anna.”

Wanda had only just broken free of her uncle’s bear hug, and now she held out her hand to her cousin. Anna’s hand was rather cold, and she had a very firm handshake. For a moment Wanda thought that Anna might give her a clumsy hug as her brother Johannes had done, but she didn’t.

“So you’re the famous glassblower who spends all night long at the lamp! I’ve heard a lot about you. Marie is full of praise for your work, you know.” Wanda spoke in glowing tones, or at least tried to. There was a persistent tickle in her nose, and she found it hard to breathe. Was she coming down with a cold, or was it just the smell of the workshop getting to her? Marie had warned her about the chemicals used to apply the decorations to the glass, but she hadn’t expected everything to smell of rotten eggs this wa
y . . .

Anna looked at her mother for a moment as though seeking permission to respond.

“I just do my job; that’s all there is to it,” she answered earnestly. “You are most welcome to Lauscha, cousin.”

Oh my goodness, I’ll have a hard time seeing eye to eye with this one,
Wanda thought, and she was relieved when Magnus put out his hand to greet her a moment later.

7

Every morning when Marie woke up, the first thing she saw was the patch of sunshine across her bed.
How can the sun still be so warm this late in the year?
she wondered sleepily. Back in Lauscha it would be snowing in early November. She shifted out from under Franco’s arm, which was lying heavily across her belly, until the sun was shining directly on her face. Just one more minut
e . . .

“
Mia cara
, come back here,” Franco muttered, then scooted over to her side of the bed. “How is my princess?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“And how is our baby?”

“Hmm.” She kissed his mouth. Don’t say a word. Keep quiet and let the day come.

Marie loved this moment between sleep and wakefulness more than any other time of day. In bed with Franco, with a thin curtain between them and Genoa—close to the bustle of the city where the fishwives, housewives, tradesmen, and schoolchildren were all going about their business on the streets, but just out of earshot—she sometimes imagined she was back on Monte Verità, and she felt that same lightness and freedom that had flooded her there. At such moments, she was sure she must be in paradise.

She found daily life in the palazzo rather less heavenly. There was no freedom then—quite the opposite, in fact. There was a great long list of unwritten rules specifying what she could and could not do. It would have been quite impossible, for instance, for her to go and fetch a glass of water from the kitchen. First she had to ring for a maid, tell her what she wanted, and then wait for the order to be carried out. And nobody seemed to care if Marie was dying of thirst in the meantime! She had told Franco right at the start that she could air the bed linen herself. In fact she felt quite awkward when the maids came and did it for her. It was also most irritating to have the maids burst into the room when she was working and didn’t want to be disturbed. Franco couldn’t understand her concerns. “Just let them take care of everything while you enjoy life!” he had said. And that was that. When Marie suggested that she could prepare breakfast for herself and Franco, his mother, Countess Patrizia, couldn’t have been more shocked if Marie had volunteered to scrub the toilets.

“Dolce far niente!”
Franco stretched like a cat. “It wouldn’t be such a bad thing just to lie in bed for a while, now would it?” He kissed Marie’s nose.

“Can you read my mind?” she asked, burying her face in the hollow between his chin and throat. His rough stubble scratched her cheek, but she snuggled closer. “Back home in Lauscha they say it’s work that makes life sweet, not lying about doing nothing.”

“You Germans have no idea.” Franco ran the index finger of his right hand gently around her breast. “Though I could perhaps be persuaded to go from lying around doing nothing to, well, lying around doing something.” He had already pushed Marie’s nightgown up and now closed his lips over her nipple. A thousand tiny sparks shot through her body.

“And what will your father say when we don’t come down for breakfast again?” she murmured once she could finally breathe. Without waiting for an answer, she sprinkled the back of his neck with kisses. But soon that wasn’t enough and she dived down beneath the covers. She grasped Franco’s manhood with both hands and began to stroke it, then smiled when he gasped impatiently.

“Slowly now,
mia cara
,” she whispered. Two could play at that game after all.

“Are you going to have coffee with Mother today?” Franco asked with feigned indifference as he put on his socks.

Marie looked over at him from the bed. How handsome he was, her Italian! She stroked her belly, which was just beginning to grow round, with both hands.

“I don’t think so,” she said just as offhandedly. “As you know, I want to finally finish the
Four Elements
.”

“She would be pleased if you did. You could have a chat, get to know one another a little better. Perhaps if you showed her your new glass pictures, drew her in a little, so to speak, she might be a little less confused about what it is you actually d
o . . .
”

“Your mother is perfectly welcome to come by anytime she likes,” Marie said, glancing over to the door that led to her glass studio. She knew perfectly well, however, that she could wait until she was blue in the face before the countess would ever deign to visit! She was astonished how little she cared that Franco’s mother disliked her. Nothing could break through the cocoon of happiness that enveloped her and Franco and their child.

“Marie, why do you always have to be so hard on her?” Franco asked, coming over to the bed and kneeling down next to her.

“
I’m
hard on
her
?” Marie snorted. Who stared at her all the time as though she had just crawled out from under a stone? Who was it who barely spoke a word to her unless Franco was in the room? “You have no idea,” she said quietly.

“It’s not easy for Mother to get used t
o . . .
how things have changed. And she was shocked to find that her daughter-in-law works with her hands. But once the child is bor
n . . .
”

“How’s that going to change anything? Do you think I’ll abandon my bench and lamp?” Marie asked, sitting bolt upright. “Remember what you promised me. I wouldn’t hav
e . . .
”

“Of course, of course,” Franco soothed her, then left the room, his hands held high, as though surrendering.

Marie frowned and watched him go. She would have liked a little quarrel just then—at least he would have stayed with her. What she didn’t want was to have to make one more painful attempt to cozy up to Franco’s parents. She lay sulkily back down in bed.

It wasn’t that the count and countess treated her badly—at least not so anyone would notice. But they had other ways of showing her that they were anything but pleased with Franco’s sudden, secret wedding. As she walked down the hallways, doors closed in front of her face as though by an invisible hand. Conversations were hastily broken off or reduced to whispers at her approach. The count treated her politely enough at mealtimes—he was almost friendly, albeit in a cool and distant way—but Patrizia acted as though Marie simply weren’t there. Marie also sensed that her mother-in-law spoke deliberately fast to make it difficult for her to take part in a conversation. Patrizia had received the news of Marie’s pregnancy with marked indifference—contrary to Franco’s expectations. She had given Marie a rather startled look and then rattled away in Italian to Franco. Marie had only caught one word.
Vecchietta.
Old woman.

Marie grinned sourly and stroked her belly. Old, indeed! The word could never hurt her now. She felt younger than she ever had in her life!

Never mind all that. They could mutter in corners as much as they liked. The palazzo was big enough for them all to keep out of one another’s way. For the time being at least.

Perhaps she would become closer to Franco’s mother after the child was born. That always happened in the stories—a dear little baby was born and melted the mother-in-law’s stony heart.

And if not? Marie saw no reason why they should live here forever, however big the palazzo was. There were other houses in Genoa.

Marie dawdled awhile rather than venture into the breakfast room and endure Patrizia’s frosty glances. She had learned that the countess usually went out into the garden by ten o’clock. Marie decided to go down into the kitchen and ask the cook for a few slices of bread with a jar of honey and a glass of milk. She would have a quick breakfast at the kitchen table while the maid chopped herbs or jointed a hare or cleaned mussels at the table next to her. Marie probably could have asked to be served a late breakfast in the salon, but she didn’t much care where she ate. Heaven knows she had wasted enough time with fine linen and tableware when she was staying with Ruth in New York. Here in her new home she wanted to use her time for what really mattered: her work.

It was nonetheless nearly eleven o’clock by the time Marie finally sat down at her workbench. In front of her lay the flat, square glass picture that she had begun a few days earlier, the last in a series of four depicting the elements. Earth, water, and air were already propped up on the windowsill, glowing in the November sunlight. Marie looked at the picture of air with a critical eye. Perhaps she should have used fewer shades of blue, and put in a shard or two of transparent glass here and there? There had been days on Monte Verità when the sky really had been one vast unbroken expanse of blue. But wasn’t there more to air than just the sky? Wasn’t wind a part of it too? Sweet tender breezes and fierce cold gusts alike? She should have thought of that before. It was too late to change it now, Marie thought irritably as she picked up the last of the four.

Glass was the hardest taskmaster of any material an artist could work with. It made no difference whether the work was glassblowing, glass painting, or another technique. An artist only ever had one chance to get it right, and even the smallest lapse meant starting all over again. Any slip would be visible forever after. That was precisely what had always drawn Marie to the work, though.

She looked at the element of fire and concentrated. She had chosen the image of a tree in the fall, its leaves glowing with bright autumnal colors on branches spread all the way across the picture. A little more crimson here. And perhaps just a touch of ocher, but no more than that. The picture already blazed with all the colors of a crackling log fire.
The tree of life,
she thought, and smiled. It was time to breathe life into the image now.

A deep, warm happiness spread inside her. How had she survived these past few months without her work?

Once she had put the pieces of red and ocher glass into place, she struck a match. But instead of lighting the glassworker’s lamp as she used to whenever she sat down at her bench, she held the match tip to a soldering torch.

From glassblower to glass artist! Sometimes Marie couldn’t quite believe that she had dared try out all these new techniques. But as she wound a length of wire around the edges of a leaf-shaped piece of glass and then soldered the ends together, she felt as though she had never done anything else.

It had all started on Monte Verità, during a visit to the glassmaker Katharina. After much idle talk, they had finally managed to seek her out. As soon as Marie and Pandora had opened the door of the modest-looking wood cabin, they found themselves in a wonderland of glass, where thousands of sparkling shards and mirrors glittered among artworks made with an array of materials ranging from feathers and silver wire to shells and pearls. And Katharina von Oy was the queen of this wonderland, cloaked like a sorceress in a silk garment in all the colors of the rainbow. When she heard that Marie worked with glass too, she was delighted to discuss the various techniques she used. Some of them were quite new to Marie—such as the way she combined glass with shells and pearls. Suddenly she was almost ashamed to think that it had never even occurred to her to combine glass with other materials. Glass and silver, glass and stone, glass an
d . . .
the possibilities were endless. Some of the pieces fascinated her so much that she came back to them again and again, gazing, running her fingers over them. There were others that she felt didn’t really work, such as the glass snake that wound its way around a carved wooden apple. The contrast between the rough wood and the sensuous glowing red snake was too great, Marie decided.

Nor had she cared for Katharina’s painted glass pieces, at least at first. The figures were too flat and clumsy and the landscapes too one-dimensional, but she didn’t say so, of course, since she didn’t want to be rude. And she did like the way the pictures glowed when she held them up to the light so that Katharina’s simple designs shone with a life of their own.

Though Marie had been deeply impressed by her visit to this wonderland, she had no intention of making anything of the sort herself. After all, she had promised Johanna that she would work on some new Christmas ornament designs once she got to Genoa. But then matters had taken their own course.

When they had arrived in Genoa, a little workshop was truly ready and waiting for her in the room next to their bedroom. It had a gas lamp and a burner, a bellows with which to mix in a stream of air to raise the temperature of the flame, some tongs, and a set of files—so far, so good. But whoever had chosen the glass clearly had no idea that glassblowers needed hollow rods to work with if they were to make anything like Christmas tree ornaments. Instead she found panes of colored glass in every conceivable shade. There was also a whole army of paint pots lined up behind the bench. Marie had looked at the supplies, half-amused and half-shocked. What in the world was she going to do with all this?

She hadn’t gotten around to doing anything about it during their first few days, since she and Franco were out and about all the time—he wanted to show her every nook and cranny of the magnificent city he was so proud to call home.

After the first week had passed, though, Franco and his father regularly shut themselves away after breakfast in the ebony-paneled office in the front wing of the palazzo. Marie was happy to have her work so that she did not have to spend much time with the countess.

From the first moment, she felt right at home in her new workshop. It was on the ground floor, with windows all along one wall and double doors that led directly into the garden. At a right angle to the room was a large conservatory that Franco told her was called the orangery; evidently, the orange, fig, and lemon trees within bore fruit even during the winter months.

Inspired by the view, Marie had tried her hand at painting. She took a pane of pale-yellow glass and painted it with green foliage and orange fruit, but she was not happy with the clumsy and amateurish result. Next she tried breaking a pane into narrow strips. Perhaps she would be able to make her own rods? But that didn’t work either.

It was Franco who finally gave her the answer.