His answer sounds rote, like something memorized from a marketing pamphlet. Gertrud lifts the goblet in her hand and takes a sip of the Lambrusco. She thinks for a moment, resting her bottom lip against the cut-glass rim. The bubbles tickle her nose and the glass is cool against her fingers. “My father always said that advertising is the job in which otherwise noble men learn to lie for a living.”
“I would of course beg to differ,” he says. “And I’d also argue that advertising is what pays for those newspapers you write for. As a matter of fact, you could even make the case that people like me ensure that people like you have a job.”
Leonhard’s hand has remained on her knee since they sat down, but instead of tracing lazy, seductive circles on her bare skin, his fingers tighten now in warning.
Gertrud laughs. But it’s forced, and she can hear the false note in her voice. “That is where you’re mistaken, Herr Douglas. No one would pay a single mark for a paper filled with advertisements. They pay for the news. It’s the clutter they tolerate.”
The breadsticks are hot and flaky, and the American dusts off his tie after taking another bite. He considers. “I am loathe to think that, despite our biased positions, we might actually need one another. Without me there is no outlet to print the news. And without you there is no forum to shill for my clients.”
“We’re not bedfellows.”
Leonhard takes of bite of his breadstick, so she can’t hear his muted response, but it sounds like a cheerful profanity followed by, Over my dead body.
The food, as always, is a marvel. Once the bread plates are cleared, watercress salad with peeled grapes, marcona almonds, and verjus vinaigrette is set before them. This is followed in short order by fried oysters smothered in a sauce gribiche—a concoction of wine, shallots, and fresh herbs. Gertrud tries not to moan as she plucks them delicately from the tines of her fork. Judging by the look of those seated around her, everyone is in a similar state of bliss. Amazing how a good meal can lift the spirits of so many people at once. Even the Doehner children, seated beside them, are happy, their little backs straight, napkins laid smooth on their laps. This isn’t the sort of food she would think to feed children, but they are eating it without complaint. Egon has not yet progressed to the sorts of food that don’t need to be mashed with a fork first. Gertrud is overcome by a quiet moment of guilt and terror when she realizes that Egon could get his first tooth while they are gone. That he might chew something in her absence. How many milestones will she miss because of this accursed trip? All of them, if she cannot get to the heart of this threat.
Irene Doehner is seated immediately at Gertrud’s left and she notices that the girl mimics her movements. Tries to hold her fork the same way. Lifts her glass—Gertrud assumes it is filled with sparkling grape juice—with the same three fingers. Pats the corners of her mouth instead of wiping it with her napkin.
After several moments Gertrud can no longer resist commenting. “I’m a terrible influence, young lady. You should find a better role model.” She points at Margaret Mather, seated at the far end of the table. The heiress is dignified even in the simple act of eating. “Like her. She’s quite elegant.”
Irene’s back stiffens. “I think you are pretty. And smart. Papa says you’re a journalist. Is that like a novelist? That’s what I want to be when I grow up.”
“Very different, in fact. I’m not allowed to make things up. I’m only allowed to write the facts.”
“I think making stuff up would be more fun.”
“So do I.”
“So why not do that instead?”
It’s a good question, one Leonhard has asked often enough. “I suppose, when it comes down to it, I’m quite good at finding the truth. And my mother always taught me to find the thing I’m good at and stick with it.”
“If I followed that advice I’d be a nursemaid for the rest of my life. The only thing I’m really good at right now is making sure my brothers don’t kill themselves out of pure stupidity.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being a nursemaid.”
“Do you have one?”
“What makes you think I have children?”
“You look sad. Only someone who has left a child at home could be sad on an adventure like this.”
It is a knife in the heart. Gertrud gives Irene an appraising look. Reassesses the girl. Perhaps not so silly after all. Observant. “No,” she says. “I don’t have a nursemaid.”
Irene gives a stiff nod as though this makes her point exactly, thank you very much.
“Don’t worry. You’re still young. You have plenty of time to figure out what you’re good at.”
“I hate when people say that.”
“Hating something doesn’t make it less true.”