The Glassblower(151)

“When Peter gave you that gift, he was telling you that he was willing to wait for you,” she said hastily. “And I see no reason why that should have changed. But if you think he’s going to tell you he loves you another dozen times, then you’re probably wrong. He has his pride, after all. Whether you like it or not, it’s your turn now.”

“Do you really think so?” Johanna asked despondently.

Ruth nodded emphatically. “He can’t peer into your head, so you’ll have to tell him—or show him—how you feel.”

Johanna was still gazing into empty space, her expression downcast.

“I don’t know whether I can. I’m . . . not good at that sort of thing. You know that quite well.”

Ruth smiled. Johanna was right there, no doubt about it. All the same, she nodded encouragingly.

“It’s not all that hard, believe me. All you have to do is wait for the right moment and then grab your happiness with both hands and never let go.”





32

It was almost nine o’clock on Saturday morning.

Peter should have been sitting at his lamp already. Wanda had picked up the card of sample eye colors from his table the week before and thrown it on the floor. He really had to make a new set since he could hardly offer his patients a pile of glass shards from which to choose their colors. But another five minutes of rest wouldn’t do him any harm, he decided, and he lay back down. He had all day, after all, and he hoped he might have some peace and quiet too.

He could hear the clattering of pots and running water from next door—Marie was probably putting the water on for coffee. Ever since they had taken down the wall between the two workshops, he could hear most of what went on over there: Wanda crying or the sisters arguing, visitors at the door, or Marie cursing like a sailor as she worked on her sketches. If he didn’t make a conscious effort not to listen, he could hear everything. He had also heard Ruth leave early that morning—indeed, it had been more like the middle of the night. At any rate, the birds had not yet begun to sing. Instead of leaving the house quietly with Wanda, she had trotted up and down the stairs countless times, opening and closing every door in the house so that anyone might think there was an army marching through. Unless he was much mistaken, she had even opened his door and looked in. He had wondered what in the world she thought she was looking for, but just pulled the covers up over his head as far as they would go.

He plumped up his pillow and settled his head again. Women!

But Ruth’s noisy departure had been pretty typical of the entire week. He wouldn’t have been able to bear so much commotion in the house every day of the year. Even Marie had called by every half hour or so. “Should I give Ruth this bauble to take with her, or that one?” And “Do you think I should put in some of my sketches on paper as well?” Not that she had ever been happy with his answers. Every single time, she had run off to Magnus right afterward to ask his opinion too.

And all because Woolworth’s agent was coming today. And this despite the fact that they already had the order, signed and sealed, and there were only a few details left to sort out. If even that . . . Perhaps it was just that Ruth and her American prince wanted another chance to meet. Peter had been more than somewhat surprised when Johanna had told him about all that. Ruth writing letters? On the other hand, what else did she have to do with her time?

The door slammed loudly shut once more, and Peter remembered that Marie had planned to go up to the forest with Magnus this morning. They were going to gather snail shells to use in casting new molds. He made a face. That was another task awaiting him. In an unguarded moment, he had promised Marie that he would sound out old Strupp over a glass of beer or two and try to find out what went into his special mixture for the molds. He knew already that this was doomed to failure—Emanuel Strupp would never get so drunk that he would reveal his secret recipe. So they would just have to go on using their own lesser molds, even though they always eventually shattered.

Snail shells! On a Christmas tree. Peter had to grin. Was that the kind of thing that Americans would like? He would have liked to know where her ideas came from.

Then he heard the patter of feet down the stairs. Johanna, barefoot. Ever since business had taken off in the workshop, she had almost boundless energy. Although sometimes she could have done them all a favor by giving herself and everyone else a little rest. Now for example. Once she started on her chores, it would be the end of his quiet lie-in.

The next moment he heard the smashing of broken glass and a loud cry from Johanna.

He sighed and swung his legs out of the bed. Since it seemed like he would have no peace this morning, he decided to go and look in on Johanna. Now that the Steinmann sisters had robbed him of a quiet start to the weekend, the least they owed him was a cup of coffee.