“It was not real; they do not get it right.”
“He is talking about the movie,” Helene clarified.
Herman thrust a finger straight at me. It was an aggressive gesture, but the arthritic bend at the second knuckle softened any insult. “They changed all the names to make them American sounding. They were not Americans and they did not carry their suitcases over the Alps while singing. They boarded a train to Italy. It was all scheduled and planned and dangerous enough without all that hiking, chasing, and whistle blowing.”
“Herman,” his wife said.
He waved her off. “There was no need to change the truth. They did it for the Americans; they do not understand.” He turned back to me. “But they still sing. That is true.”
“Who still sings?” I looked back to Helene.
Herman shifted into my line of sight. “The Von Trapps.”
“Aren’t they all . . .”
“They are dead, yes, but the great-grandchildren, Werner’s grandchildren. Another lie. They named him Kurt in the movie. They still sing. They make recordings and tour. They came to the Altstadt’s music hall. The Von Trapp Family Singers.”
“We saw them in concert,” Helene added, then addressed me directly. “Where are you and your friend from?”
“We’re from Austin, Texas. I work as an electrical and design engineer for a technology company, but Isabel here is an Austen scholar. This trip is part of the research for her dissertation.”
Helene brightened. “Gertrude mentioned her. I consider it very lucky to have her here. I have loved Jane Austen all my life, but I have never studied her. I only know her stories, but your friend will know what our characters should do and say.”
“Our characters?” I tapped Isabel’s arm.
“You didn’t read that part? It was on the website. You get to pick a character.”
“But Gertrude said we didn’t—”
Isabel flicked her fingers at me, breaking contact. “No matter. I picked Emma Woodhouse from Emma. We can be in the same story. What about Harriet Smith or Jane Fairfax?”
I schooled my expression.
“Well then, what about Eleanor Tilney from Northanger Abbey? You liked that book.” She added a pointed inflection to her words.
“If I get to choose, I’ll guess I’ll pick a heroine too. What about Catherine Morland from Northanger Abbey? And if you still want to be in the same story, you can be Isabella Thorpe.”
Isabella, as I’d stated the other night, was beautiful and charming. But her other attributes hung between us now—she was also a cunning and manipulative gold digger who relished adoration and flattery.
Isabel matched my flat expression. She glanced to the Muellers, then shot her gaze back to me.
“I’ve already chosen Emma.”
“I choose Catherine.” I nodded to the Muellers, as if their witnessing the decision made it final.
I liked Catherine Morland. She was young, na?ve, got carried away with Gothic romances, and made some pretty poor assumptions, but she was also honest, kind, intelligent, and eager to get things right—and she wasn’t the sidekick. From page one, with her plain tomboyish beginnings, I cheered this unlikely heroine on as she grew, learned to think for herself, question, and take ownership of her own story.
Helene looked between us. I sensed she caught our swirling undercurrents. They were so tangible I almost raised my hand to swipe them away.
She cleared her throat. “I have chosen Mrs. Jennings from Sense and Sensibility. Isn’t she fun?” Her words landed like a white flag between us. “And because I have long since married off my own children, I have little to do but . . .” She slipped a piece of paper from her pocket and read, “‘project romance upon all.’ Also I have a knack for the ‘quick discovery of attachments.’”
Isabel scrunched her face. “Austen’s description didn’t deter you? She has some fine qualities but is also marked as vulgar immediately.”
“Isabel.” I squeezed her forearm. She was annoyed with me, not Helene. She was angry that I had balked at dressing up and about something else I had noticed. Her eyes had hardened right after she’d dropped my necklace upon the dress. Isabel was ticked with me on multiple levels.
She shirked away from my grip as I addressed Helene. “I loved Mrs. Jennings. She enjoyed her daughters and life and had fun, and in the end was an incredibly practical woman.”
“I thought so too. Good common sense.” Helene’s words held hesitancy now.
“And you, Herman?” I said.
Isabel stood silent.
Herman looked confused, and his eyes clouded with worry. “I . . . I don’t remember. I haven’t read any of the novels. I don’t want to disappoint Helene. This means so much to her.”
Helene stood and looped her hand through the crook of her husband’s arm. He laid his hand over hers. I could see it whiten as he pressed hers close. No words were spoken, but by looks alone, I sensed he could never disappoint his wife. He took a breath. “She said I could play . . .”
Helene supplied the name. “Sir Walter Elliot from Persuasion.”
“She said it was okay I hadn’t read the story. Is that right?” he asked Isabel.
Helene and Herman both looked at her and waited. Isabel’s eyes flashed an entire conversation but her lips remained pressed together, before she remembered her manners and offered a flat smile.
“Are you discussing characters?” The blond joined us. “I’m Sylvia Lotte. I chose Pride and Prejudice’s Jane Bennet, and Aaron—he hasn’t read the books either, Herman—will play Mr. Bingley.” She waved her daughter over and held her so she faced Helene. “And did I hear you say Mrs. Jennings? You and Clara will have fun. There aren’t many young girls in Austen, so she will be styled as a young Margaret Dashwood from Sense and Sensibility as well.”
“You come sit with me, ‘Margaret.’” Helene returned to the love seat and patted the silk cushion beside her. Clara looked to her mom, who gave a quick, eager nod, then sat beside Helene, feet swinging a couple inches above the floor. “We will have great fun together,” Helene whispered to her.
Clara grinned. “Mama says I don’t have to be Margaret in our room, and I can play my iPad there too.”
Helene looped an arm around Clara and squeezed.
I stepped away as they talked on about characters, dress, and activities. Sylvia was keeping up with Isabel. They batted facts, impressions, and Austen trivia back and forth like players in a tennis match.
Clara came over to me and lifted a small plate.
“For me?”
“Duncan is passing these around. I tried one.”
“Thank you.” I selected a small corner of toast spread with brown. “I’m Mary, by the way.”
“You’re not going to like that.” Isabel’s voice, so close, startled me.
I popped the bite into my mouth and widened my eyes.
“See? A country paté. You should see your face.”