The American Lady(2)

Exhausted, she lay back down, not even sure that she wanted to go back to sleep.

Magnus looked at her with worry showing in his face.

Marie closed her eyes so that she wouldn’t have to talk. What a way to start a birthday!



“Marie! I hadn’t thought I would see you here today,” Alois Sawatzky said, bowing before her. “Allow me to wish you all the very best on this happy day.” He helped her out of her coat and hung it on a rickety hook behind the door.

“It’s very kind of you to remember . . .” She wiped a few raindrops from her forehead. There were damp patches on her sleeve where the rain had soaked through her overcoat, but they didn’t seem to bother her.

Sawatzky had never known her to visit his bookshop and bring an umbrella along. Apparently Marie Steinmann thought that carrying an umbrella was more trouble than getting wet.

“What a great shame that the weather is so poor on your birthday. Is there anything worse than March rain, day after day?”

“Unfortunately that’s not the only thing that spoiled my birthday mood,” Marie said with a sigh. “I’d better tell you straight out: I’m in a terrible temper today.”

Sawatzky raised his eyebrows questioningly. She didn’t say anything more, though, so he asked, “What about a cup of tea? I’ve just brewed a fresh pot.”

“It certainly won’t hurt.” Without further ado Marie flopped down into one of the shabby old leather armchairs that the bookseller had set out for his clients. Sawatzky smiled to himself as he noticed that even on her birthday, she was wearing her usual work clothes. Marie Steinmann wore pants and had done so for years; she could put any of those daring young things in the Berlin or Munich art world into the shade—but oddly enough, people hereabouts seemed to care even less about what she wore than where she worked. Or perhaps it was just that nobody was surprised at anything Marie Steinmann did anymore.

With a practiced hand he carried two cups of tea through the narrow confines of his shop, never once brushing up against the piles of books that reared up on all sides, as high as he was tall. He put one of the cups down on the low table in front of Marie and then sat down across from her and sighed. His arthritis had been giving him such trouble in the morning that he had toyed with the idea of keeping the shop closed today, but now he was glad that he hadn’t succumbed to that moment of weakness. Marie was more than just a loyal customer. They had known one another for nineteen years now, and she had become something like the little sister he never had.

He stirred his tea thoughtfully and Marie did the same. For a moment there wasn’t a sound aside from the gentle chime of candy sugar against the sides of the cups.

A customer could sit and browse or read an entire book in this cozy part of the shop. This was where his most passionate customers met to rediscover the classics, or to indulge in heated debates about the works of the latest writers. Alois Sawatzky’s little circle of intellectuals was well-known far beyond the town of Sonneberg. As was his bookshop, which stocked such a range of high-quality titles that it rivaled any of the big city shops.

“You look rather tired,” he said as he sipped his tea. “Did you begin celebrating your birthday last night already? Isn’t that supposed to be bad luck?”

Marie waved away the suggestion. “I would even welcome a bit of bad luck if it would shake things up a little. Apart from the fact that Johanna and the others insisted that I take the day off, it’s been a day just like any other.”

Once again he was surprised at how serious this young woman was about everything. He would have loved to see Marie Steinmann really make a day of it. She should put her hair up, put on a pretty dress, and let her sweetheart take her out somewhere, instead of sitting here with an old man.

“We shall have to do something about that!” He stood up and vanished into the depths of his shop. He came back a moment later with a bottle and two glasses. “It’s early in the afternoon, but may I nevertheless invite you to a glass of sherry?”

He didn’t wait for Marie’s answer but poured two fingers of the rich, golden-brown liquid into each glass. He knew that where tea was no help, sherry usually did the trick.

“To your health!”

She took the glass from him. “And to yours,” she replied.

He leaned forward in his chair. “Well then. Now you must tell me what’s on your mind. And don’t try to pretend that everything’s fine.”

Marie grimaced. “Everything really is fine, though. I mean, it’s ridiculous really, but . . .” She hesitated for a moment and then told him about her dream.