The Glassblower(88)

“If we’re talking about having callers . . . Am I wrong, or have I seen Rita Strupp dropping in on you?”

Peter nodded.

“So?” It was just like a man, to clam up at the decisive moment.

“She likes me.” He made a face. “She even gets quite insistent sometimes. I don’t think I’d even have to make much of an effort if I wanted to . . .” He broke off when he noticed that the conversation was beginning to get rather personal. “But what would I want with Rita?”

Marie had to laugh.

“Other men wouldn’t ask such a silly question. She’s a very pretty girl, after all.”

“So what if she is,” Peter said dismissively. “I prefer a girl with a good head on her shoulders. But I don’t think it’s anything to do with Rita, really. It’s just that any other woman would only be second best for me. There’s nothing I can do about that, but I won’t settle for second best. Look at it this way: if someone forbade you from blowing glass all of a sudden, would you say, ‘Never mind, I’ll just take up crocheting’?”

“It’s rather an odd comparison, but I see what you mean. Poor Peter . . .” She gave him a friendly pinch. “Given how wrapped up Johanna is in her work, I can see how you might be having rather a lonely time of it.”

He nodded gloomily. “You’re right of course. If Johanna doesn’t come back to Lauscha by some miracle, I may as well become a monk.”





3

“Isn’t she the prettiest child you’ve ever seen?” Ruth held Wanda up. The only answer was the baby’s giggling. “Here! I’m sure Aunt Marie wants to hold you for a while.”

Before Marie knew it, she had the child in her arms. Wanda promptly stopped laughing and began to cry.

“She doesn’t want to come to me, can’t you see that?” Marie held the baby out, as though she were infectious.

Wanda took the opportunity to pick up one of Marie’s pencils and put it in her mouth.

“Leave that alone, it’s poisonous!” Marie said as flecks of apple-green drool fell onto the delicate lace collar of Wanda’s dress.

“Give her to me,” Johanna said, smiling “Your aunt Marie doesn’t have the patience for a little scrap like you.”

As soon as her hands were free, Marie tried to restore order on her worktable. She soon realized, however, that it was pointless, given all the bits and bobs that Ruth had scattered about since coming in. How could a little baby need so much stuff?

It was late on Sunday afternoon, and Marie had been planning to try to make a second clay model. The first—a long, thin pinecone—hadn’t turned out badly for a first attempt, and she wanted to see whether she would improve with practice. But by the look of things, she wouldn’t be getting any work done today.

“Where does she get the silvery-blonde hair from?” Ruth asked, stroking her daughter’s head adoringly. “Not from Thomas’s side of the family, that’s for sure. Mind you, her hair doesn’t shine the way it does on its own. I give it thirty strokes of the brush every night before bed. With very soft bristles, of course. And I only ever wash it with the lavender soap that you gave me.” She smiled. “When Wanda’s a little bit older she’ll get a silver clasp for her hair. Just like I always wanted when I was a child.”

“Don’t you remember? Mother’s hair was blonde, not as fair as Wanda’s of course, but much lighter than Father’s or ours.” Johanna closed her eyes. “I can still feel how silky smooth her hair was. She used to braid it every evening.”

“That’s right,” Ruth burst out. “We always used to squabble over who got to brush it and plait it for her. Once, I . . .”

Marie cleared her throat. “Could you go into the kitchen to talk, please? I’d really like to spend some time drawing, and . . .”

“You want to draw right now? When we hardly have any time together as it is?” Ruth replied.

“You have all week long for your sketches,” Johanna put in reproachfully.

“All week!” Marie pursed her lips. “Don’t make me laugh!”

Ruth called in every evening, claiming that it was “just for a little while” and always stayed for hours. Talking to Wanda. Talking about Wanda. Saying how pretty she was, how clever. Marie glanced irritably at her niece, who was chattering away to herself. Why did children have to be so loud?

“Why don’t you make some coffee, and I’ll join you in half an hour?” she suggested, doing her best to sound friendly.

She uttered a quick prayer of thanks once the two of them did as she had asked and the room was finally quiet once more.