He tries to step around her, but she says, “Wait.”
He never expected a kiss. Werner would have been happy with smiles and a handful of flirtatious glances. Had he been particularly bold, he would have orchestrated a way for his hand to touch hers just once during the flight. So when Irene sets her mouth at the corner of his and presses in with her small, soft lips he nearly falls backward down the stairs. It doesn’t last more than a second or two, but to him time freezes and every bit of the sensation comes rushing into his mind. He records everything, as though taking notes for a paper at school. The way her hair brushes against his ear. The way she smells of soap—nice and clean and with the faintest tang of lye. The warmth of her mouth. The buzzing of his blood as it rushes through his ears. He has been kissed. It is a shock and a wonder.
One of Irene’s front teeth is slightly crooked. He can see this when she pulls away and her smile grows wider. She is delighted by his surprise.
“Thank you,” she says, “for the flower. I kept it. I have it pressed inside a book.”
Werner is dumbfounded. He has lost all capacity for speech. Say something, you Dummkopf, he thinks. Finally, after an aching silence, he says, “I will bring you another one tomorrow.”
He isn’t sure if his voice cracks or squeaks or if he has even said this out loud until Irene laughs.
“I will look for it.”
The poor boy has no idea what to do next. Is he supposed to stay and talk to her? Should he return the kiss? Should he jump and whoop and holler and run around like he has scored the winning kick in Fu?ball? He has spent a lot of time talking with his brother about girls. He has even had a few conversations with his father. But no one has bothered to tell him what happens after a moment like this. And when he realizes that he is staring at Irene, mute and dumb, he does the only thing he can think to do: he laughs as well—high and bright and too close to a giggle for his liking—then runs up the stairs.
Werner takes them two at a time and arrives at the top with a wild bound. The wattage on my face must be blinding, he thinks. And he is half-blinded himself because it takes him a second or two to see Gertrud Adelt studying him. She has witnessed the entire thing.
THE JOURNALIST
The cabin boy looks as though he has been struck by lightning. But the second he sees her, his expression of delight drains away and is replaced by terror. Werner freezes at the top of the stairs, mouth open. It takes Gertrud only a moment to realize that she can play this to her advantage. She holds up one finger—silence—until Irene’s retreating back disappears below. It’s not fair, but what’s the point of being intimidating if she doesn’t exercise the skill every once in a while? And it’s not like he will be permanently harmed by what she’s about to do. Just startled. And really, when dealing with teenage boys, it’s best to keep them off balance.
“Are you trying to get that girl in trouble?” she demands.
Werner flinches, and she has to stuff her guilt behind an impassive expression.
“No.”
“So what are you playing at, then?”
“Nothing! I…she kissed me.”
“You’ve been flirting with her. You gave her a flower.”
The circulatory system of the adolescent male is superior to that of all other humans. There is no other explanation for the ferocious color that fills his cheeks. Adults simply cannot get that red. Gertrud isn’t sure if the boy is going to cry or faint, so as an act of mercy she places one calming hand on his shoulder. Gives him a gentle pat.
“Please don’t—”
“I won’t tell—”
“Oh, thank God!”
“I won’t tell,” she repeats, slower this time, “if you will do me one small favor.”
He may only be fourteen, but he is smart and cautious, and he frowns at her now, suspicious. “What sort of favor?”
“The kind where you do what I tell you, no questions asked.”
“I don’t—”
“The alternative,” she says, “is that I go to Irene Doehner’s father—he’s just around that corner, on the promenade—and tell him that his daughter is kissing cabin boys in the corridors. That she is keeping and pressing flowers that have been given to her. That young boys can’t be trusted, and that he ought to keep a better eye on his daughter so she doesn’t get taken advantage of. What do you think a man like Hermann Doehner would think of such things?”
Werner is quick and shrewd and thinks well on his feet. “So you would have me exchange one trouble for another?”
“If I wanted to get you in trouble I wouldn’t bother trying to negotiate. If you are as clever as I suspect you are, you will find no danger in this task.”
“And if not?”
Gertrud ponders this for a moment. “Then we will both find ourselves in a very difficult predicament. Does that sound fair enough to you?”
“It all depends on the task, I suppose.”
THE STEWARDESS