The concession is demoralizing. He looks at Werner. “Water.”
Werner swaps out a glass for the mug in his hand. The water is easier to take than the coffee. Max swishes it around his mouth to warm it up and then swallows. He repeats this process, head tipped back and eyes closed, until half the glass is gone. Then he guzzles.
Max breathes deeply through his nose for several minutes once the water hits his stomach. Yes? No? He’s not sure for one long moment whether it’s coming back up, but in the end he decides it’s going to stay down.
“Coffee,” he demands, extending his hand.
He takes one sip and his begrudging respect for Xaver Maier grows by several degrees. The coffee is good. Hot and strong and smooth. He’d prefer it with a bit of sugar and a drop of cream—just enough to cut the shine—but this will do. Max takes several long, measured sips, then stands there, eyes closed, working on the coffee until the mug is empty.
“Sit down,” Maier says. He looks at Werner. “Wait a few minutes. Don’t give him anything else. I’ll cook him something.”
Max lays his head on his forearms, mumbles into the fabric of his sleeve: “Not hungry.”
“Don’t care.” Maier turns his back and pulls a skillet from the pan rack hanging above the counter.
A few minutes later the smell of bacon and fried eggs fills the small kitchen.
“The key,” Maier says, “to surviving a hangover is to trick the body back into operating like normal. Right now all of your energy is being spent on removing the alcohol from your system. Which is why you’re nauseous and addled and sluggish. Your head feels like a wheel of cheese with a chunk broken off. Your eyes have been rubbed with salt. Your throat is scorched. Too much energy is being expended in all the wrong places. It’s a waste of body function.”
Shut up. Too many words. Max’s mental protest does not stop the chef from continuing. He flips an egg in the pan and sprinkles it with salt and cracked pepper.
“I can live at a level near complete intoxication without anyone being the wiser because of three things: salt, coffee, and water. Thus,” he says, dumping the food onto one of the white china plates, “bacon and eggs. Eat up.”
THE STEWARDESS
Gertrud Adelt is obviously wearing nothing under her satin robe when she opens the cabin door. And even this covering has been hastily pulled over her body. It’s tied loosely at her waist, and she clutches the seams together at her throat. Her hair is wild, her eyes squinty, and her husband nowhere to be seen.
“Good morning, Frau Adelt.” Emilie’s voice is warm and amiable and rises at the end of this last syllable in a note of false pleasantry.
Gertrud squeezes her eyes shut, then blinks several times rapidly, trying to force away her fatigue. She looks down the corridor in both directions—it’s filled with passengers and stewards going about their morning business—and then she looks back at Emilie.
“Why are you here?”
Emilie holds her gaze and speaks slowly, as though to a child. Or an idiot. “It’s a quarter past seven. You requested that I stop by at this time to assist you. Have you forgotten?”
Though Emilie does not spend much of her free time around other women, one thing she does appreciate about her gender is that they can communicate almost entirely with their eyes. Gertrud narrows hers in understanding and says, “Yes. I must have. Do come in.”
Once Emilie is in the cabin, Gertrud leans against the door and crosses her arms over her chest. “Why are you really here?”
“I got tired of waiting for you in the dining room.”
“I’m not an early riser.”
“Your husband has already gone through a pot of coffee and a rack of bacon.”
“My husband,” Gertrud says, “agreed to let me sleep in this morning. I find myself rather cross that I did not get to do so.”
“You asked for my help yesterday in the bar. I’m prepared to give it.”
“In exchange for what?”
“The truth. You tell me why you’re looking for the man who owns that dog tag and I will give you his name.”
Emilie stands in the middle of the cabin, hands folded below her waist. It is the posture she always maintains when attending to a passenger. On the surface it appears to be one of subservience, but in reality it is a stance of fortitude. She will do what she has to do.
Gertrud circles her now, like a wolf assessing its prey. She looks the stewardess over with those sharp, watchful eyes, searching for a weakness. A clue. She finally stops in front of Emilie. Taps her slender bare foot on the floor. “Something has changed since yesterday.”