She doesn’t catch the steward’s first name when he shakes Leonhard’s hand, but she hears his last: Schulze. “This room and the one beyond,” he points at the door opposite, “are pressurized, you see. To prevent any trace amounts of hydrogen from entering. Otherwise no one would be allowed to smoke on board.”
Schulze leads them to the opposite door, also glass, and into the smoking lounge. If the rest of the ship is luxurious, this room is opulent. Priorities, Gertrud thinks, the Zeppelin-Reederei knows whom to indulge. Leather benches and armchairs line the perfectly square room, leaving the center open. Hand-painted murals of early hot-air balloons decorate the walls. Small square tables are set with playing cards and poker chips. Carpet, such a dark blue that it looks like spilled ink, covers the floor. The place smells faintly of sweet pipe tobacco, and also the bitter smoke of cigarettes and cigars, though she can tell they’ve gone to great pains to air the room out. Wall sconces fill the space with warm yellow light. And then, of course, the starboard wall is an entire bank of windows. The same as elsewhere on the airship, slanted outward at waist height so you can lean over them and see the ground below. This is where she gravitates while Leonhard and the colonel choose a table. There is so little to see at this time of night that Gertrud is drawn to every prick of light. There the headlights of a vehicle. There the light in a farmhouse window. And on the horizon a luminous string, like a glowworm, hinting at some looming piece of civilization.
Schulze sets the cocktail menus on the table. “These rooms are open until three a.m.,” he says. “You will find that we have all varieties of wine and alcohol on board. Cigars. And tobacco as well, though we do not provide the pipes. Our menu is generous, and I can make anything to order, though, if I might be so bold, I highly recommend the Maybach 12. It is a drink of my own invention and is excellent, if I may say so.” He glances at Gertrud as if to measure her tolerance for alcohol. She must appear wanting, for he adds, “Though it is of considerable horsepower. I will be in the bar when you’re ready to order.”
They settle into a table near the window, and Leonhard and the colonel begin to discuss the finer points of some obscure brand of Scotch. In the end they both decide to try the LZ 129 Frosted Cocktail, some ridiculous concoction of gin and orange juice, so they can save the straight liquor for the end of the night when they are good and sauced and their taste buds have thrown in the towel for the day. Gertrud orders the Maybach 12 just to spite everyone. Leonhard dutifully delivers their order to the bar, and when her drink arrives several moments later it is completely devoid of spirits. So he’s decided to enable her on this fool’s errand after all? The man does surprise her. The look she gives him lasts no longer than a blink, and his answering shrug could be misconstrued as the shift of an aging man trying to get comfortable in his seat.
“We’ll be approaching Cologne shortly,” the colonel says, looking at Leonhard. “You are from there, correct?”
“Yes. My family moved from Dortmund to Cologne when I was seventeen.”
“You make it sound so prosaic. Tell him why your family was forced to move.” When Leonhard grins but does not speak she turns to the colonel. “My husband tried his hand at writing at a young age. He published his first novel at seventeen, and it caused such a stir that he lost his apprenticeship as a bookseller in Kleve. What did you title your book, darling?”
“Werden.”
“That doesn’t sound so threatening,” the colonel says. “There’s nothing particularly obscene about willpower.”
Gertrud laughs. “Perhaps it was the lack thereof that had the censors riled. Leonhard’s book was filled with teenage sexual experiences.” She whispers this last word as though imparting a juicy bit of gossip.
Leonhard shrugs. “I was seventeen. And curious.”
“Lucky for me you still are.”
He pulls an ice cube from his glass and crushes it between his teeth. “It ended up being a good thing. I went to work for another bookseller once we got to Cologne, and then I started writing for the newspapers.”
“A rather inauspicious beginning to a successful career,” the colonel notes.
“And look at you.” Gertrud cannot disguise the pride in her smile. “Thirty years later and you’re still causing trouble.”
The colonel settles into his chair and sets the rim of his glass against his lower lip. “Do you make it back to Cologne often?”
“Not directly. I only visit in letters these days.”