The American Lady(30)

She climbed down from the bench, ignoring the startled looks from passersby.

“Israel has the young Russian hero say that,” she said, making a face. “It was just his bad luck that the New York Times gave the play a bad review, though. They thought it was a romantic potboiler. And it was my bad luck too: I was working for him as a stagehand at the time—I was very short of cash, as it happened.” She sighed. “When I think about it . . . I’ve actually had quite a lot of different jobs. But all that was before I managed to get the money together for my dance studio,” she added.

“I was wondering how you managed to learn whole speeches from a play by heart!” Marie said. “All the same—you’re beginning to scare me, just a little.”

The three of them got up from the bench, laughing, and Pandora linked arms with Wanda and Marie.

“If it’s any consolation: I have my weak spots too. One of them is that I don’t know how to handle money, meaning that I can’t even pay the rent this month, and I’m always having to scrimp and save. Which is why I suggest that we stop somewhere for a glass of white wine on our way home, and you can pay!”





8

It was early July. Marie could hardly believe that she had arrived in New York only a few weeks ago. She had settled so easily into her New York routine that it was as though she had never lived anywhere else.

Most days she and Ruth breakfasted late and then went shopping. They didn’t always buy something significant like a dress or a hat. Ruth was quite capable of spending hours choosing one of ten different hatbands. Or trying on dozens of silk flower corsages, and then settling for a simple rose of pale-gray tulle. Marie simply couldn’t understand how anyone could spend so much time on things they didn’t really need, but then she remembered that even when they were girls Ruth could spend hours on end in front of the big shard of mirror that hung in the laundry shed at the back of the house. Even back when she had had little more than a couple of lace collars, some bead necklaces she had strung herself, and a few hairbands, she had spent ages making herself look nice. It had made Marie and Johanna furious!

Once a week Ruth had a morning appointment at the hairdresser, and she insisted that Marie come along and have her hair styled too. At first Marie dug her heels in and protested. She would never have considered going to the hairdresser back in Lauscha, even if the village had had a hairdresser—which it didn’t—so she would have had to walk to Sonneberg. But in the end she gave in and even had to admit that all the salves and lotions they used at the salon really worked, and smelled wonderful to boot. Her hair had never shone so brightly in her life. It was usually a rather faded brown, but now it had a warm glow, like coffee with a drop of cream. And then there was the powder they put on at the end, so that she carried the scent around with her all day like a breath of spring.

Ruth usually spent her afternoons planning the menu and table decorations for her dinner parties. Most of the time the dinner guests were important clients for Miles Enterprises who were passing through town. Steven was firmly convinced that there was no better way to network than to sit down to an elegant dinner. Ruth was a born hostess and eagerly embraced the idea. Whether it was a small gathering or a banquet for twenty guests, she tackled every task with the same enthusiasm.

So in the afternoons Marie had time to do as she pleased. Ruth undoubtedly would have been shocked to learn that her sister sometimes did nothing more than wander the streets and breathe in the city scents. Or that she could spend hours sitting on a bench in Central Park, watching the world go by, enjoying the sunshine and the shimmering haze on the black asphalt paths, listening to the birdsong echo down from the tops of the shady chestnut trees.

For the first time in her life, Marie did not have to spend her days following the strict timetable of a glassblower’s workshop: mornings at the bench and lamp, afternoons designing new baubles or drawing pictures for the samples catalog. Now that she didn’t have to concentrate on working the glass in front of her, she found her thoughts wandering all over the place like paper boats drifting on a pond. It was a strange feeling, and she didn’t quite know whether she even liked it. But she let it happen, just as she let all the other experiences wash over her, and welcomed the new impressions. She still hoped in vain that all these new sights and sounds would reawaken her imagination and bring it back to life.

But so far . . . nothing.

Sometimes she found herself remembering the terrible nightmare that had led, as much as anything, to her trip to America: how she had been trapped inside a bauble like a glass prison. Did I bring my prison here with me? she wondered.