Love Is Pink!

“The four hundred euros—that’s everything we have?” I let slip. “How are we supposed to get home? It’s not like you’ll be able to put snow in the gas tank, right?”


David seemed so ashamed of himself that he still couldn’t look me in the eyes. He didn’t answer. Here it was again. The huge difference between David and Valentin. Valentin would have been able to solve this problem with the blink of an eye, without burdening me in the least.

Despite my thoughts, I said, “Don’t worry about it. One thing at a time. We’ll get the car fixed, and then we’ll figure out the rest.”





15


David and I sat on the steps of a shed—a thick old woolen blanket beneath us—and watched the maestro prepare to work on our car to the sounds of Vivaldi. Wait, why was I starting to think of it as our car? This pink hunk of rust belonged to David. (At least it did for now, until some well-meaning policeman forced him to dispose of the dreadful thing in a junkyard just to get it off the road.)

Funny—the idea of the Citro?n being stripped for parts . . . I didn’t like it at all. Despite its many shortcomings, it was a comfortable ride. And the radio worked remarkably well.

I brushed aside my thoughts with a sigh. We had other worries at the moment.

Emma, who’d forced herself between us, poured hot tea from a thermos into a plastic cup. She first offered it to her father, who took a sip, and then to me. In truth, I don’t like peppermint tea, and I like it even less when it’s sweetened, but it didn’t taste half bad.

“Where did you get this?” I asked.

Emma pointed to the mechanic, who was getting ready to do the welding. Our Citro?n was waiting on the third car hoist.

“Monsieur André gave me the tea so that we don’t freeze from the cold.”

“You understand French?”

“It’s really easy. The words just sound nicer than ours. We take a course in kindergarten.”

“Kindergarten,” I repeated, taking another big sip before offering the cup to David.

He thanked me but declined with a wave, walked down the steps, and peeled off his jacket. “If I lend André a hand, we can finish up in no time.”

“Good idea,” I said as I took his jacket and rested it on top of Emma’s and my knees. I thought that and the tea would warm us up a bit.

“Papa never wants to finish early,” Emma said.

“He doesn’t?”

“No. He loves to work on old cars. He spends hours and hours in his garage at home.”

“Ah,” I said. I watched as David approached André, and then eagerly threw himself into the work. He didn’t look too shabby while doing it, either. In fact, he looked pretty damn good. Sometimes, when he stretched, his sweater rode up. And since his jeans were low-waisted, this exposed his navel and the start of his happy trail. In terms of physical attractiveness, he differed from Valentin quite clearly. But Valentin didn’t need such external attributes. He possessed far more important ones, like inner strength and values.

And that brought me back to my main problem: This good-looking man in front of me was as poor as a church mouse. Which meant we barely had enough money to get home in the pink-red junker.

I sighed again.

It was clearly up to me to get us the money. The easiest solution would be to call my bank and have them quickly transfer one or two thousand euros to a local bank. But that wouldn’t work. I was stupidly without a passport, and hence without the necessary ID—all because that Swiss Botoxed Heidi (hopefully by now she’d fallen deep into the crack of a glacier while yodeling) stole it from me.

I took another sip of tea and stared aimlessly around the courtyard. Behind a filthy windowpane, I saw an ancient telephone hanging on the wall. It was one of those antediluvian things with a rotary dial, cord, and black receiver.

Valentin.

I had to call and let him know what a jam I was in. He’d get me everything I needed immediately, I was sure. How dumb I’d been not to think of this sooner! Pregnant wife or no pregnant wife, Valentin loved me. He’d remove all obstacles that stood in my way, as he always did.

I stood up abruptly, the rest of the tea sloshing out of the cup and down my hand. I set it on the steps, and then carefully dressed Emma in David’s jacket before hurrying over to him. He was reaching to screw on some part—for which I had no name and never wanted to.

“David?” I said.

He answered with a short, “Yeah.”

“I need to make a phone call.” I pointed to the mechanic standing next to David with his hands in his pockets. He was following David’s efforts with visible interest and admiration.

“Could you ask your coworker here if I could use his office phone?” I said.

The mechanic-maestro turned to me. “Vous voulez téléphoner?”

I gathered all my courage and answered, “Oui.”

He smiled, sputtered out some words I didn’t understand, and pointed at the office.

I was fairly certain what this meant, but I asked David to confirm.

“Yes,” he said. “It’d be his pleasure if you used his phone.”