Love Is Pink!

“We met by accident,” I explained. “David is only taking me along. We both need to get to Berlin urgently. It just worked out this way.” I sniffled. It was the onion’s fault.

As she rolled out the dough, the old woman pursed her lips and shot me a curious look. “There’s really nothing more between the two of you?”

“How do you mean?” I asked, still chopping apples.

“You’re very familiar with one another.”

“We’ve been through a lot these past few days. That bonds people together.”

“Hmm,” was her only response.

For a while we stayed silent.

“It definitely wouldn’t work between the two of us. David is a single father, and I am useless as a mother,” I heard myself say.

Again came the hmm. “But the child is already attached to you.”

“For no reason that I can understand.”

“All I can say is that children are like dogs. That may sound strange, but it’s true. Neither can hide their feelings. So you must have done something right.”

This time it was my turn to answer with a hmm.

I stood quietly in thought as Madame Segebade laid out the dough in a round, cast-iron pan. Together, we diced a large piece of bacon, fried it crispy, added onions and butter to it, and mixed in curd, eggs, and shredded cheese. Then we placed a thin layer of sliced apples on top of the dough, and Madame Segebade distributed the filling over it evenly.

“Done,” she said. We placed the heavy pan into the preheated oven.

For the first time, I noticed that one of the burners on the stove was turned on. Chicken was cooking in a red pot. “Oh,” I said, “did we forget that?”

“No. That’s for the dog.”

“You don’t need to cook anything for the dog,” I protested, uncomfortable.

“Your dog must get healthy as soon as possible. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. I used to breed German shepherds. After the operation, he won’t be able to hold down anything solid. The broth will do him good. And he’ll get the meat early tomorrow. It’s easily digested and will give him strength.”

I couldn’t think of a suitable response, so I simply said, “Thank you.”

Madame Segebade looked at me critically. “My dear, Michelle, you’ve gotten something on you.” She pointed to my clothes, and I saw several stains, some from cooking and others from the long trip.

“Do you want to freshen up a bit? The quiche still needs a good forty-five minutes.” She escorted me to the vestibule and pointed me toward a door in the back. Then she headed to the living room to help out David and Emma.

David’s duffel bag was sitting right there, so I took it with me into the bathroom.

I found myself standing in a beautiful marble bathroom, in front of an oversized crystal mirror with a genuine gold frame. I had neither clean clothes nor any makeup—not even a lipstick.

In the mirror, an unfamiliar, completely changed person stared back at me. Slightly disheveled, with unkempt hair and faded makeup, but . . . I stepped closer and examined myself more thoroughly. I looked younger. And, if I hadn’t known better, from the way I looked, one might have thought that I was satisfied and actually happy.

I was probably going through various phases of a post-traumatic reaction, and that’s why I was in such a confused emotional state. Or did it have to do with the wonderful castle? Or both?

I bent down and hesitantly opened David’s bag. Even though he’d told me to help myself to his luggage, I felt strange poking around in his private things.

The bag was divided into four compartments. His and Emma’s already-worn clothes were packed in laundry bags. In separate compartments were clean clothes for both of them. Clean and folded.

I told myself to praise him later for his sense of order.

I found a solid-colored T-shirt and a hoodie with a zipper that might not look completely ridiculous on me. My jeans were still semi-OK.

Before dressing, I took a much-needed shower. The moment I opened David’s shampoo, the fragrance hit me like a blow, reminding me of him with intense clarity. I suppressed spontaneous thoughts of being under the shower spray with him, and . . . well . . . the rest of it. I was sure that these fantasies were a result of my overexertion.

After drying off and getting dressed, I blow-dried my hair. Without product, my hairstyle was irretrievable. So I just tied it in a ponytail with a bright rubber hair elastic I found in Emma’s accessories. I was ready to go.

Again, I looked at myself in the mirror. Ordinary, humble, but—as already stated—satisfied and somehow happy. Man, was I done for!





31


The scene in the living room looked like a hot chocolate commercial. David and Emma had put up the tree and decorated it with all sorts of whimsical ornaments—shiny balls, tinsel, and tin soldiers. Behind it, a fire burned in the fireplace. The large table was set for four people. There were even Santas on our napkins. How totally kitschy.

I liked it!

David was busy attaching a somewhat unruly glass ball onto a branch.