“One never knows when one’s going to be tramping through the countryside at sunrise, after all.” Violet takes his hand.
“One never knows.”
? ? ?
AN HOUR LATER, they’re riding bicycles, which Lionel has found in a shed. The shed was in the village of Gomaringen, which they reached just as the sun crowned the rooftops and turned the distant glaciers a delicate shade of pink.
Lionel whistles as he pedals. The valise is strapped to the back of his bicycle with a length of weathered rope, also from the shed. Violet insisted on leaving a few deutschemarks behind. “You’re not cut out for this work, are you?” he said, shaking his head.
“No, thank God. I prefer my laboratory.”
“And you shall have it, my love. By God, you shall have the finest laboratory in Europe, if I have to lay each brick with my own hands.”
Violet flattens her eyebrows at his radiant mood, his happy whistling. Both bicycles are made for men, and she has gathered her skirts like harem trousers about her legs. She keeps her gaze pinned to Lionel’s gray wool back as they pedal through the hot valley. She doesn’t want to see the spectacular scenery, the triumphant surrounding mountains. After all, the landscape will exist forever.
She only wants to see Lionel.
? ? ?
IN THE AFTERNOON, as the sun burns through Violet’s blouse and the perspiration rolls down her skin, Lionel stops by a river. “It’s damned hot,” he says, dismounting the bicycle. “Let’s cool off.”
Violet balances her feet on the pedals and glances about. There’s nobody near, only the grass and trees, the broad cool river flashing white in the sun. Lionel is already pulling down his braces, unbuttoning his shirt. He looks at her and grins. “Come on, then.”
“What, without any clothes?”
“Of course, without any clothes.” He toes off his shoes and shucks his trousers from his thick legs.
“Here, in the open?”
“There’s nobody here but us.” The afternoon light covers his burly body in gold. Without waiting, he jumps into the water. A splash explodes in the quiet air. “Ah, marvelous. Come in, Violet. Swim with me.”
Swim with me. Violet shakes her head and glances at the horizon. Her muscles ache, her skin throbs with heat, while yards away, the cool river beckons. Lionel beckons, with his long brown fingers and his cheerfully wicked smile.
Violet swings her leg over the bicycle, props it against a tree, and finds the fastening of her skirt.
When she looks over the bank of the river, Lionel is paddling on his back, gazing up at the pale sky as if he’s not running for his life, hurrying to the border as fast as he can. “I thought we were in a rush,” she says, covering her naked parts awkwardly with her hands.
Lionel’s gaze finds her. He scrambles upright. “God, look at you.”
“Aren’t we in a rush?”
He holds out his arms. “You were about to topple off your bicycle. You need a rest. An hour won’t make any difference.”
Gingerly, Violet steps down the bank and into the water. “Oh, it’s freezing.”
“Come on, then. You do know how to swim, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Violet draws in her breath and pushes herself forward through the mountain-fed current, toward the radiant Lionel, whose arms are still stretched toward her.
Later, as they scramble dripping on the riverbank, Lionel drags her face against his. “You do believe me, Violet? You trust me, don’t you?”
She can’t answer. How can she answer, when his body is against hers, when they are soldered together like this?
He holds himself still and hot against her skin. “Violet, tell me you trust me.”
She takes his face between her palms and kisses him.
“Violet cannot let a lie,” he says, in his softest voice.
Violet’s eyes are closed. Lionel’s skin is warm beneath her cheek, smelling of grass and clean water. A drowsy bee lingers near her hair; she is too spent to brush it away. “It doesn’t matter. We’re together, here, right now. Does it matter if we can’t read each other’s minds?”
“I can read yours.”
“And what do you read there?”
“Doubt.”
“Yes. Can you say to me honestly, can you promise you’ve told me everything? There’s nothing else?”
He lifts himself away and reaches for his jacket pocket. “To answer your earlier question,” he says, lighting a cigarette, “it does matter, practically speaking. This isn’t a holiday. We’re on the run, Violet. If we get in another tight spot, like we did on the train, you’ll have to do exactly as I say. Obey me without question.”
She wraps her arms around her bare skin and watches him, the way the sun touches the tip of his nose, the sprinkles of hair on his unshaven cheek. “I obeyed you on the train, didn’t I?”
“Why?”
“Because I know you wouldn’t hurt me. You must have some sort of use for me, some feeling for me, or you’d have left me in Berlin.”