The American leans into this morsel of information. “Complicated how?”
THE STEWARDESS
It is early afternoon and Emilie is in desperate need of coffee. Her one vice. She rarely drinks and has never dabbled in other recreational substances, but she freely admits that coffee is her addiction. It’s not something she intends to apologize for, however. Or give up. As far as fixations go, it’s rather benign. Quitting gives her a headache. Overindulgence gives her the jitters. So she places herself firmly in the middle, avoiding either extreme. The easiest place to secure a cup would be the kitchen, but she has no interest in facing Xaver—or his questions. So she makes her way to the bar instead. The coffee there isn’t as good, falling somewhere between adequate and pitiful, but under the circumstances she doesn’t feel that beggars can be choosers.
Schulze has just arrived at his station and is arranging bottles when Emilie knocks on the air-lock door. He greets her with a jovial grin.
“Another patron! And a lovely one at that.”
“A boring patron, I’m afraid. And one whose break isn’t nearly long enough. So it will be coffee for me, if you don’t mind.”
“How do you take it?”
“Black.”
“Easy enough. Why don’t you take a seat in the smoking room while it brews. You’ll have it almost to yourself.”
Emilie hadn’t counted on anyone else being here so early in the day, and she hesitates as the bartender moves to open the interior air-lock door.
“Julius—”
He stops. “No one calls me that.”
“It’s your name.”
“Not the one I go by.”
Most of the crew call him by his middle name. Max. But there are far too many Maxes on board to suit her. The same with Werners, Alfreds, Fritzes, Kurts, Wilhelms, Walters, and Ludwigs. When it comes to naming their children, Germans seem to be highly unoriginal. And Emilie, despite her fantastic memory, has a hard time keeping them straight. So to her Schulze has always been Julius.
He offers that broad, generous smile she is so fond of. “You’ve only room for one Max in your life?”
“Be warned, that’s not a name I’m fond of at this particular moment.”
Schulze is no fool. “The thing about bartenders,” he says as he pulls the smoking room door open, “is that we know when to pry and when to keep our mouths clamped shut. After you.”
Emilie has a habit of observing rooms at different times of day. Lighting can alter not only the ambiance but the aesthetics of a space dramatically. At night the smoking room is exotic. Rich. Sensual. But in the afternoon, with natural daylight streaming through the observation windows, it looks rather like a funeral parlor. Dark and somber. Somewhere you would go to whisper in hushed tones while grieving a loss. It fits her mood splendidly.
“Do you smoke?” Schulze asks.
“Afraid not.”
“Will you mind if she does?” He points to the pretty journalist who sits at a round table in the middle of the room, one shoe kicked off and her legs crossed at the knees.
“No. I’m quite used to it.”
“I’ll get your coffee, then.”
Rules. There are always so many damned rules to be considered. Technically Emilie is not working at the moment, but she is in uniform. Approaching the journalist as an equal would be inappropriate, but ignoring her would be worse. She hesitates only until the journalist laughs.
“Please, have a seat. I don’t bite.”
Emilie accepts the invitation with a nod and pulls out a chair at the table. She settles into it with relief. Her feet are tired. Her lower back aches.
“I owe you an apology. I was quite horrid to you yesterday,” the journalist says. She extends her hand in official greeting. “Gertrud Adelt. I am, believe it or not, quite pleased to meet you.”
“Emilie Imhof.” There is nothing limp about Gertrud’s shake. She has a man’s grip. Confident. Firm. Abrupt. Emilie returns it the way her father taught her. As one professional to another.
“You need not apologize. It’s not an easy thing this…flying. Most people are uncomfortable with it.”
“Are you?”
“Sometimes. When I think about it logically. It doesn’t seem as though such a structure has any business floating through the air.”
“Ah, but an engineer would say that it makes all the sense in the world. They would cite any number of facts about the lifting power of hydrogen versus the weight of steel. You’d be bored senseless and no less comfortable with the prospect, so I advise that we avoid the exercise entirely.”
Emilie can feel her face soften as her smile spreads wide. “I generally do.”
“How do you live with it, then, if it makes you uneasy?”