The Glassblower(110)

“It was my pleasure, Madame.”

Ruth decided to try a little flattery. Perhaps that was the way to get him to open up. “You’re a true artist. The people of Sonneberg should count themselves lucky to have a photographer like you in their midst. I should imagine you must be flooded with work, are you not?”

The man’s face fell. “You would think so, wouldn’t you?”

“But . . . ?” Ruth raised her eyebrows and toyed with a curl of hair.

He snorted. “Dolls, glass, toys—all they think about in this town is selling!”

Ruth rejoiced inwardly. “And the foreigners? After all, that American gentleman has been in town since yesterday, and everyone’s expecting great things from his visit. I’m sure he would know the value of a fine photographer such as yourself.”

The man snorted again. “Not at all,” he said and waved a hand dismissively. “Not him. He seems to be a most parsimonious fellow.”

“But . . . I thought . . . given all that we’ve heard about this Mr. Woolworth . . .”

“Oh no! When he’s buying for business, money’s no object!” The man was clearly happy to tell Ruth his woes. “Which is why the wholesalers all bow and scrape before him. Just this morning, the two Americans walked past my studio, and the wholesalers were all buzzing around them like moths around a flame!” He adopted a mocking tone. “‘Step this way, sir! Do come in! No, this way first if you please!’ But they don’t give the rest of us the time of day. He’s even staying at the cheapest hotel in town, and they say that he orders the simplest meals on the menu.”

Ruth swallowed. That didn’t sound like the man she’d been expecting to meet. She also noted that Woolworth had apparently not come alone.

“I’ve never seen an American,” she confessed. “What does this Woolworth look like?”

“Oh, chérie,” the photographer said, taking her hand across the counter and patting it. “He looks the way middle-aged men look. An ill-fitting suit, a bit of a belly, glasses, thinning hair.”

Ruth couldn’t conceal her disappointment.

“What were you expecting?” the man asked, amused. “You know, businessmen from all over the world come to Sonneberg—after all, I ended up here as well—but I learned one thing about them long ago: whether they come from Hamburg, Rome, or New York, in the end, they’re only human like the rest of us.”

By the time Ruth left the studio, she knew that Woolworth was staying at the Sun Hotel, and she had drunk a glass of water, which assuaged her thirst.





15

Ruth spent the whole day near the hotel, keeping an eye on the entrance. But there was no sign of Woolworth at lunchtime, or all through the afternoon. Ruth’s feet ached, and the heat was making her unbearably thirsty again. She had leaned her basket up against a birch tree, but it offered little shade. As the hours passed, the shade disappeared altogether, and the heat became worse. Ruth found herself thinking of Wanda and felt like crying. The daisies in her hair had wilted and shriveled away. Ruth plucked them out, one by one, and threw them away. Her ringlets had lost their curl and hung limply, framing her face. Dark patches of sweat showed through her dress and Ruth grew more and more anxious: How would she ever make a good impression in this bedraggled state?

Passersby on the street cast curious or even suspicious glances at her, and in the end she felt so desperate that she plucked up her nerve and went into the hotel. It was so cool in the lobby that it was like plunging into cold water after the heat outside. Although she already knew that it was the cheapest hotel in town, she was struck by how sparsely furnished it was. There was only an unstaffed reception desk and a wooden bench. Ruth sat down on the bench and had hardly been there for five minutes when a door opened behind the desk and a man came toward her with a hostile look on his face.

“What do you want?”

Ruth shifted forward on the bench.

“I’m waiting for a guest,” she replied with all the poise she could muster.

The man looked her up and down.

“And are you a guest of our establishment yourself, Madame?”

“No, I—”

“You can’t wait here then,” he said, grabbing her sleeve roughly and pulling her to her feet. “We don’t want peddlers here,” he hissed in her ear.

The next moment Ruth found herself back outside in the August heat. She glared over her shoulder at the man. What a pig! It wouldn’t have inconvenienced anyone to allow her to sit on the bench a little longer.

She didn’t dare loiter about in front of the hotel any longer. That man would probably go and fetch the police if she did. Half carrying and half dragging her basket, she walked around the corner. She felt a lump forming in her throat and tears gathering in her eyes. Her shoulders drooping—both from the weight of the basket and disappointment—Ruth came to a stop.