The Ludwig Conspiracy(75)

“This passion for books,” Sara asked, suddenly interested, “does it run in your family?”

Hesitantly, Steven nodded. “My . . . my father was a well-respected lecturer on literature in Boston, specializing in German Romanticism. I was always surrounded by books—my mother probably changed my diapers on a pile of them.” He laughed, but it sounded slightly forced. “She was always reading me German fairy tales and poems when I was a child. Then, when her parents died, we went back to Germany, to her parental home. I was six then. We always had a large library, first in the States, then in Cologne.”

Sara grinned. “I guess the only book my own mother possessed was a stained copy of One Hundred Cocktails to Mix at Home. But she never read aloud to me out of it. That would have been rather boring.”

This time Steven’s laughter was genuine. “I’m beginning to see why the Internet means so much to you,” he said finally. “It must have been a good, knowledgeable friend. Did your father at least read books?”

Sara smiled, but her eyes were curiously vacant. “My father . . . left us quite early. I see him only occasionally. When I do, I always take him a couple of illustrated art books.”

“Your father is interested in art?”

“Yes . . . oh yes, he is. Sometimes more interested than is good for him.”

Steven felt Sara’s attention slip away. In her thoughts, she seemed to be somewhere infinitely distant. Only after a while did she shake herself as if coming out of a cold shower.

“And your own parents?” she asked suddenly. Her voice sounded cheerful again, as if to drive away her own dark mood. “Let me guess. You visit them every week in their little house by Lake Starnberg. You have a cup of tea and read Shakespeare’s sonnets aloud to one another. And there’s probably a nice fire burning merrily in the hearth.”

Steven jumped. It was as if those last words had obliterated all the beauty around him: the shade of the beech trees, the red and yellow leaves on the woodland floor, Sara on the bench beside him. For a moment he closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

The crackling flames, single pages of books brightly illuminated. Thin gray layers of ash falling. The screams from the library as the firefighter carries the yelling, struggling boy away from his hiding place, out to the street swarming with onlookers. The hatred in the eyes of the blond girl, the soot on her braided hair, the charred hem of her dress . . .

“My God, what’s the matter?” Sara asked, looking at him in dismay. “You’re white as a sheet. Have I said something wrong?”

“It . . . it’s nothing,” Steven murmured. “Or, rather, yes, it is something.” Suddenly he decided to say more; it was far too long since he had talked about it. Too long since he had been inside his memories.

“There . . . there was an accident.” His mouth was dry as dust. The past broke over him like a wave. He had suppressed the images for such a long time, but now they were back. Nausea rose in him, and his throat felt constricted. “My parents . . . They died very early,” he whispered. “I was still a child.”

He got to his feet, unsteadily, and paced a few steps up and down. For a moment he felt as if he were in a ship at sea caught in a heavy swell.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry.” Sara jumped up, too, and took him by the shoulders. “What possessed me to ask such a question?”

“You couldn’t have known.” Steven stopped under the canopy of a beech tree and looked up at the branches overhead. A single red leaf sailed down to him. Finally he tried a slight smile. “What’s more, at the age of forty I really ought to have gotten over it—or finally decided to spend some money on a therapist.”

“There are some things you never get over, even with therapy.” She stroked his cheeks, and he realized that it felt good. “And believe me, we all have our dark places. I mean, look at me. I’m a whole bundle of complexes. The best psychiatrist in the world couldn’t get rid of them.”

Steven couldn’t hold back an involuntary grin. “Well, that would mean letting someone get close to you for once. Are you capable of that?”

“It might be worth a try.”

Gently, Sara ran her fingers through his hair. Then her lips were on his, just a fleeting touch, but all the same Steven felt the little hairs on the nape of his neck stand up. Then the moment was over.

“I . . . I’m afraid it’s not the right time for this sort of thing,” Sara said, taking a step back, almost as if she herself were startled by what she had just done. For the first time, Steven saw something like awkwardness in her eyes.