The Glassblower(27)

“Who knows whether that skinny goat can even have children,” Johanna said. She had hardly uttered the words before she glanced over at Marie, embarrassed. Her younger sister was at least as slender as Eva. But Marie either hadn’t heard or didn’t hold Johanna’s remark against her.

Ruth grinned. “Maybe it’s time for someone else to try. Someone who can marry the oldest son, and have his children . . .”

Johanna’s face clouded over. “You’ve hardly known the lad a month and you’re already talking about having his children! I don’t like it that you spend your whole day flirting with Thomas.”

Ruth exploded. “What business is that of yours? I’ll flirt with whomever I like. Besides, when I’m Mrs. Heimer I can make sure that old man Wilhelm pays us better. And when Thomas gets to have his say . . .”

“You’ll be old and gray before that happens,” Johanna said scornfully. “Wilhelm Heimer might get out of breath from time to time, but that’s just because of his big belly. Even you can’t believe that he’s going to let his eldest son take over the business any time soon.”

Marie looked up. “Do you love Thomas so much that you want to marry him?”

Ruth stood up, clattering her chair. “I’ve had enough. I don’t have the slightest desire to talk to you two about Thomas. I’m going out for a while. The air in the workshop was so horrid today. It’s a wonder we haven’t gone blind or gotten ill from all the chemicals we splash around.” She put on her jacket and buttoned it up.

Johanna had a headache too, but she didn’t know whether the pounding at her temples came from the stink of the silver bath or from their money worries. “You’re going out for a walk? In this cold?” she asked suspiciously.

“So what? Nobody says anything when you run off to visit Peter all the time! I can go off and be on my own for a quarter of an hour, can’t I?”

Before Johanna could think of a reply, Ruth had hurried out.





13

“I’ve never seen such a thing!” Peter said, shaking his head. “Normally a glass eye lasts about three months. But Mr. Wunsiedel wears his out so fast you can practically watch the surface cracking. It’s because his tear ducts don’t function. Even in the eye he has left . . .” Peter stopped when he heard Johanna sigh. He looked up from his work.

She looked tired sitting by the stove with her eyes closed, her back pressed up against the stove tiles to warm her, her shoulders drooping. The skin under her eyes was almost translucent. He wanted very much to take her in his arms and soothe away all her troubles.

“What’s the . . . am I boring you with my talk?” he asked, only half joking.

She opened her eyes. “Of course not. It’s just so nice to be able to sit still for a little while. And the heat’s making me a bit sleepy,” she said, shuffling up closer to the stove. “But do go on, why does this gentleman from Braunschweig have such dry eyes?”

Peter shook her arm gently. “You don’t have to pretend you’re interested. I can see that your mind is elsewhere. What’s the matter, have you been arguing with Heimer again?”

Johanna snorted. “Arguing—that rather depends what you mean by it. If you’re asking whether I’ve spoken out of turn again, then no, we haven’t argued.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“Listen, I’m your friend!” Peter said, pointing to his chest. “Instead of talking to me, you go back in your shell like a snail.”

Johanna laughed. “Well, thank you for calling me a snail!” she said, but she had perked up a little.

Peter waited. You could never hurry Johanna.

“Oh, I don’t know what’s wrong with me!” she said at last. “Maybe it’s because it’s Friday, and I miss going into Sonneberg.”

“Going begging to Friedhelm Strobel? God knows you’re not missing much there!” Peter answered scornfully. The glassblowers took all the risk, while the wholesalers made all the profits, wasn’t that it? And Strobel was the kind of man to trample his suppliers underfoot if that would get him the best prices. He didn’t care whether a glassblower almost broke his back filling an order; all he cared about was keeping his customers. And he had enough of those. Word was that there was hardly a city in the world where Friedhelm Strobel didn’t have at least one buyer for his Lauscha glassware or Sonneberg toys. Very few wholesalers gave as many orders to glassblowers and toymakers as Strobel did. So even though his terms were terrible, the suppliers hurried to meet them.