ANNA COULDN’T DESIGNATE A single romantic relationship she’d ever entered into that did not begin in sexual earnestness on the very day she’d met the man, whichever man he was. Bruno. Archie. Stephen. Her college boyfriend, Vince. They’d hooked up at orientation. Later that night he’d kicked his dorm mate out and Anna’s hand was in his pants. It’s true, she’d met Karl before that day in Mumpf. But they’d never actually had a proper conversation until Daniela’s party. A mistake made once is an oversight. But three times, four, a dozen? Dog, you are begging for the bone.
“A WHOLE MONTH!” EDITH repeated.
“Huh.” Anna said it with a matter-of-fact thud. Affairs no longer surprised her. Edith smiled harshly. She’s expecting more of a response, Anna thought, then fished for something relevant to say. “How did this, um, happen?” Anna stumbled on the word “happen.” She didn’t know what else to offer. “Are you and Otto having problems?”
Edith laughed and smiled glibly. “Oh, no. We’re fine. What Otto doesn’t know can’t hurt him. And look at my skin! It’s the best it’s been in years!” Anna didn’t deny this, though she hardly knew what that had to do with anything.
“Er, how is he?”
Edith gave her a you-must-be-kidding look. “Anna, look at him! He’s gorgeous. And young! Isn’t he amazing?” Niklas turned momentarily from his conversation and saw Edith and Anna looking at him. He raised both an eyebrow and his wineglass to the women. “It’s thrilling, isn’t it?”
Yes, Anna thought. Adultery’s a blast.
“Let’s get you one, Anna.”
“A lover?”
Edith rolled her eyes. “No. A fucking houseplant. Yes, a lover.” Edith smirked. “It’ll cheer you up!”
That’s exactly what it won’t do, Anna thought. Even weak, Anna was occasionally wise. “Are you in love?” Anna asked, in all provincial sincerity.
Edith laughed a tipsy laugh. “Heavens, no!” It sounded quaint and arcane, like something Mary would say. “It is most certainly not about love!”
ANNA’S GERMAN HOMEWORK REGULARLY consisted of vocabulary drills, verb conjugation exercises, declension practice, and the writing of many, many, many sentences.
Love’s a sentence, Anna thought. A death sentence.
11
EDITH FUSSED WITH THE COLLAR OF HER BLOUSE THEN LOOKED around and dismissed herself from Anna with a pat on Anna’s shoulder. “Other guests!” she said as she flitted away and left Anna alone to hug an empty corner of the room. The Hammers had arranged two heaters on their patio but no one was outside. Anna crossed the room as inconspicuously as she could and slipped out the back door.
Christ, I’m good at being alone. This was the truth. As a child, Anna preferred to spend most of her time by herself. Eventually her parents took her to a psychologist. It didn’t seem healthy, such remoteness in what seemed like an otherwise normal girl. Is she depressed, Doctor? Will she be all right? Their concern was legitimate. At home Anna set herself apart. Daily she retreated to her bedroom and locked herself behind the door, where she’d read or listen to the radio or write in her journal or sit in the windowsill and do nothing but stare into the street. What are you doing in there, all shut away and alone? they’d ask. “I’m studying,” Anna always replied. And dreaming, she’d think but not say. And wondering who I’ll be in twenty years. The psychologist asked three dozen questions and in the end told Anna’s parents she was fine. “It’s puberty,” he said. “It’ll pass.” Then he handed them a bill for two hundred dollars. But Anna’s aloneness didn’t blow over. After her parents died and until she met Bruno four years later, Anna lived alone.
Anna wandered into the Hammers’ yard, nursing the same glass of wine she’d been drinking inside. A mid-October chill defined the night air. Clouds hid the stars. The darkness was tense and fragmented. Anna was staring into the indeterminate sky when she heard a man’s cough. It startled her. “Oh!” She whipped around.
“Hallo, Anna.” It was Niklas Flimm.
“Hello.” It bothered Anna to hear someone she hadn’t been introduced to use her given name. It was an unfair advantage. In some indigenous tribes, a person’s name contains more than their identity, it’s the vessel of her spirit. Niklas hadn’t been given the right. Anna’s ire was already up.
“My name is Niklas.”
“I know.” His English was high-pitched and nasal and he was better looking up close than he was from a distance, and even then it was possible to mistake him for a male model. Well done, Edith, Anna thought.