The Glassblower(54)

“Not here!” Ruth’s voice sounded like the crack of a whip, stopping him instantly. “You don’t really think I want to lose my virginity in this ghastly dust-filled room!” She took a step back.

“I’ll sleep with you.” And now she was looking at him like long-awaited prey. “But it will have to be in some lovely, romantic spot that suits the occasion.”

He looked at her, baffled.

“And I have one more condition: I want you to tell everybody that we are engaged, at the village dance in May. You know quite well that I will only give my virginity to the man who’s going to marry me.” She raised a hand to fend him off. “There’s no need to say anything now. You have more than a week to think it over, and I don’t want your answer until then.”





27

The sun was still shining weakly as Johanna set out for Lauscha. Just as he did every Friday, the slate-maker was waiting with his cart at the outskirts of Sonneberg to take her as far as Steinach. The man might even have agreed to take her all the way to Lauscha, but Johanna liked to walk the rest of the way; it took barely an hour and gave her a chance to enjoy the warm April air, which already held a breath of sweet summer temptation. And though she could easily have afforded it, she didn’t use the railway either.

Strangely enough, she also needed time to get herself ready for Lauscha. Though they were only thirteen miles apart, the distance in her mind was much greater than that. More and more often these days, it felt to her like a journey from one world to another. Sonneberg meant something new every day—foreigners and new faces, interesting encounters and commerce. Lauscha was home. The same dear old place, day in and day out. Johanna loved them both and could hardly wait to be back with her sisters. But all the same her thoughts kept returning to her last conversation with Strobel.

“It might be that you will have to stay in Sonneberg next weekend,” he had told her as she was leaving. “I am expecting some important clients from America. A gentleman by the name of Mr. Woolworth will be visiting us for the second time. Last year he told me that he wanted to stop in Sonneberg for at least two days on this coming visit, and his assistant has confirmed this by letter.”

Johanna had nodded. She had seen the letter with its faded American postmark.

“Unfortunately Steven Miles could not tell me in advance when exactly he and Woolworth would be coming.”

Was it just her imagination, or had Strobel actually seemed a little nervous? “Of course I’ll stay in Sonneberg next weekend,” Johanna had answered. “But only if you tell me what’s so special about this Mr. Woolworth.”

So Strobel had done just that. “Well, first of all, I confidently expect to do a tidy bit of business with him,” he had admitted, grinning. “Last year he bought hundreds of dolls, glass dishes, and glass candlesticks. All of them from the bottom of our price range, admittedly, but it adds up. Especially in the numbers that Mr. Woolworth orders. But that’s not all. The man himself is something of a phenomenon. There is even a name for someone like him in the American language; he’s called a ‘self-made man.’ The story goes that his parents had a potato farm and that he never learned a trade himself. He worked his way up from the very humblest beginnings with nothing more than ambition, and perhaps a certain hunger for power.” Strobel had shaken his head, marveling. “You have to wonder at a story like that; he started with absolutely nothing and now he owns a whole chain of stores. It sounds like a fairy tale but it’s the truth. Who knows what the man will do next?”

Johanna had never seen Strobel so carried away and he only very rarely expressed admiration for others. Next week was sure to be another interesting week, she told herself with delight.



From a ways off, Johanna saw Peter up ahead. He was waiting on the last hilltop before the descent into Lauscha, just as he did every Friday. She waved at him. Then she stopped for a moment and rubbed her sore feet. The dainty new ankle boots she had bought were certainly elegant, and the black leather fitted her as snugly as a glove, but they were not particularly well suited to long walks. She walked on toward Peter, half hobbling, half hopping.

“So? How was your week?” they both asked at the same time and had to laugh. It was the same every Friday.

“Chacun à son goût,” Johanna said.

“I beg your pardon?” Peter asked, frowning.

“It’s French, monsieur!” Johanna said, grinning. “We had the first French buyers in this week,” she explained. “It seems that the roads are clear again.”