Emilie sets a hand against his cheek. His skin is soft below the day’s worth of stubble. “Well,” she says, her voice just a notch above a whisper, “I’ve not been acquainted with the other, but I like your face just fine.”
Max leans into her touch. The softness around his eyes and the curve of his mouth suggests he can’t help himself. “This is where I prove myself to be smarter than young Herr Becker.”
“It’s not hard, but pray tell, how do you plan on doing that?”
“By keeping my trousers zipped.”
There is an easiness in the way she relates to Max that Emilie finds alarming. Easy anger. Easy laughter. Easy companionship. It has been a long time since Emilie has felt these things, and she does not know how to surrender to them. She meets Max’s steady gaze with all the bravery she can muster. “Now, what was it you wanted to show me?”
“Cologne,” he says.
THE JOURNALIST
Damn German men and their cast-iron livers, Gertrud thinks, damn them all. Leonhard included. The more she drinks, the more she talks, and the more she needs to pee. But she’s not the one who needs to talk, it’s Colonel Erdmann, and he’s zipped up tight, laughing at her with his eyes as he eats the last of his pastry.
“I’m going to the bar,” she says abruptly. Gertrud pushes her plate away and stands up. She’s wobbly, but she steadies herself easily enough by holding on to the back of her chair. Leonhard and the colonel jump to their feet out of courtesy, both startled. “And you’re welcome to come with me.”
“Where else would I go, Liebchen?” Leonhard asks. His tone is soft. Indulgent.
She can think of a number of ways to answer that question—all of them impudent—but she says none of them. It’s one thing to be charming and pert and amusing in front of the colonel, but she will not be disrespectful to her husband. She won’t shame him. She’s tipsy, not stupid. Not only would it hurt Leonhard terribly—he is a man, after all, and his ego is nothing to toy with—but she would lose all the advantage she has built with Colonel Erdmann over dinner.
“You will join us, Colonel?” he asks. “I assure you my wife is quite entertaining when she’s good and fully drunk.”
“Entertaining? Or talkative?” The wry one-sided smirk suggests that the colonel is not as irritated by the prospect as he sounds.
“They are often one and the same.”
“In that case I’d be honored.”
Leonhard tucks Gertrud’s hand beneath his arm. She leans into him, unstable, and he gives her a fond smile, but there is a warning glint in his eyes. Do not push the colonel too far, it says. Play nice. Remember who you’re dealing with. Their marriage is young, just two years old, but they’ve learned to read each other remarkably well in that time. To speak with the slightest movements. To communicate with little more than a drumming finger or a long stare. It is a rare gift in marriages, one they capitalize on often.
Leonhard guides them out of the dining room, down the corridor, down the stairs, and onto B-deck. He pauses for a moment outside the toilets when Gertrud squeezes his arm to let him know she needs a moment of privacy.
“Forgive my wife,” she hears Leonhard say as the door swings shut. “She has the bladder of a tiny bird.”
The colonel follows with some rejoinder about his own wife, and she knows that they are fast becoming friends. The toilet is tiny, made of some shiny, lightweight metal, and cold enough to make her gasp. She finishes her business quickly and tidies up in front of the mirror. Another coat of red lipstick. She wipes the mascara smudges from beneath her eyes. Smoothes her hair. Something in the roundness of her eyes, the exhaustion written there, reminds her of Egon, the way he looks when she puts him to bed at night. She is struck with a pang so deep she struggles for breath. Gertrud has not thought of her son in two hours. Not once during dinner. Guilt. Sadness. Anger. All of these things are written on her face, on the brightness of her cheeks. Leonhard sees the emotion clearly when she joins them in the hallway, and he gives her hand a questioning squeeze. He won’t ask her here, but she knows he has marked it mentally.
The corridor takes a sharp left and then an immediate right, depositing them directly in front of a heavy glass door. Leonhard raps on the door sharply with his knuckles and steps aside as a steward pushes it open. There is an immediate hiss of air and Gertrud’s ears pop. The steward holds the door as they enter. It is ingenious the way they have designed this part of the airship. Safety, beauty, and practicality all rolled into one. The cramped antechamber into which they enter is in effect little more than an air lock monitored by the bar steward. To one side is a fully stocked bar, shaped like a banquette with room for one man to stand, but there are no chairs. No tables.