Drawn to Life (6 page)

Chapter 8

Mia—Everything Is OK

En route to Budapest, June 2012

I grabbed my journal and a pen, ready to put my thoughts on paper. Maybe it would help, after all.

But before I could begin, my glance fell on my old sketchbook and new monolith pencils tucked into a side pocket on my backpack. My mother must have put them there. It’d been a long time since I’d done any drawing. With trembling hands, I reached for the sketchbook and slowly leafed through it.

I looked at every drawing. Dr. Weiß had encouraged me to do things I loved. He said they’d help me feel like myself again.

Just looking at the sketches wouldn’t teach me how to feel joy again, but understanding how I had seen the world might be useful. They conveyed the happiness I’d once felt and wanted to feel again, even if only briefly. As if remotely controlled, my fingers grabbed up a pencil, and I began to draw.

The implement flew across the paper. I didn’t think about what I was depicting until I’d finished.

Then I contemplated the result for a long time. Out of the palm of a hand grew a shoot. In one corner of the paper, I had written “New Beginning.” Yes, that was it. Now. Here. A new beginning.

I held on tight to the sketchbook and closed my eyes. Something inside me felt lighter. What was most strange, though, was I even felt a timid smile on my face.

I started awake with a bad cramp in my right hand.

“Damn it!” I yelled and jumped to my feet. The meds had destroyed my magnesium balance and often caused horrible spasms. If I forgot to take a single pill to prevent it, my body punished me. My stiff fingers bent at odd angles, out of my control. The worst cramping often hit me whenever I’d gripped something tightly or at night as I slept. And this was one of the worst.

I frantically shook my arm and massaged the muscles, cursing under my breath.

“Is everything OK?”

Startled, I looked to my left. A young man was sitting across the aisle. Even seated, I could tell he was tall and well built.

He gazed at me with caring big gray eyes. I couldn’t look away. Somehow, I’d become entangled in his glance, even though I was still desperately trying to get rid of the spasm.

“Is everything OK?” he asked again. His deep voice brought me back to the here and now. I must have been gawking, but I found it difficult to turn away from those eyes.

“Um . . . yes,” I stammered. “It’ll be all right in a minute.” Summoning every bit of strength, I tried to escape the magnetism of his gaze. But it was as if I were hypnotized, unable to look away. Those eyes . . . they were mesmerizing. So dark, you could barely separate pupils from irises. They were all deep gray shimmer.

I kept staring—until I finally realized who he was.

Without saying another word, I turned away brusquely and sat down again.

Chapter 9

Samuel—A New Beginning

Vienna, June 2012

I rushed up the stairs to the platform. The escalator was far too slow, and waiting for an elevator was out of the question. A heavy knapsack hung from my back, but I managed to jump on board the train before the doors closed. I would have been at the station earlier had I not stayed out so late the night before. I hadn’t slept because when I’d returned home, I’d remembered I hadn’t yet packed my stuff.

My friends had insisted on painting the town one last time. How could I refuse? There was always a good reason to celebrate with them. This time it was to bid me farewell before I departed on my new life.

The train picked up speed while I was still leaning against the wall, trying to catch my breath after the frantic sprint through the station. Eventually, my heart rate slowed. I ran a hand through my hair, inhaled deeply, and walked down the aisle. Fortunately, the train was rather empty, and there were many free rows. In one of the seats, I noticed a young woman.

I put my baggage down and sat across the aisle from her.

I eyed her curiously. She was sleeping, and a slight smile played around her lips. Judging from her expression, she was at peace with the world.

I studied her intently and observed the steady rising and falling of her chest. She was clasping a small black sketchbook with her thin fingers. They seemed almost too thin. The nails had been bitten to the quick; I could see they had been bleeding.

I realized if anyone saw me staring the way I was, I’d seem like a stalker.

But I wasn’t. I’d simply never seen a woman so fascinating that I’d wanted to study her like this. Something about this woman captivated me.

She appeared to be quite skinny, or maybe she just seemed so because her lilac blouse hung loosely on her frame. The top had long sleeves, in contrast to her gray shorts, which were quite short. Short strands of blond hair peeked out from under the gray knitted hat she wore. I couldn’t imagine why she wore a hat, given that it was June. But it looked great on her.

Her face was magnificently beautiful, with a sweet button nose and soft pink lips. But her looks weren’t everything. She emanated something very special. It was impossible to look away.

“Damn it!” she suddenly screeched. Had I not already been staring at her, I would have done so now. Other passengers twisted their necks to see what was happening, only to shrug and turn back to their conversations, books, or other activities.

Yep, that was what our society had become. Nobody cared. Everyone lived in their own bubbles, only for themselves. Had someone been shot, the reactions wouldn’t have been much different.

Maybe I shouldn’t have judged. I was just as egotistical as the next person. But not on this day. My curiosity about this woman made me more empathetic.

She frantically jerked about, shaking her right hand. I watched for a while. She didn’t even notice my newborn-stalker-self, because her eyes were still shut. Her entire body was tense, and her face contorted with pain. I could see little wrinkles crease her forehead.

“Is everything OK?” I asked.

She stopped moving and opened her eyes wide. Those eyes . . . They were vast and green. No, not green . . . emerald. Never before had I seen eyes like hers. I had already thought this woman was attractive. I had even more evidence now.

She didn’t answer, she only stared at me. She was still holding her right hand, massaging it. But her body had visibly relaxed. The wrinkles on her forehead disappeared and her shoulders dropped. A healthy pink now colored her cheeks. She looked perfect. I was hypnotized.

I rubbed my face, then my eyes, and shook my head, trying to regain control of my thoughts.

“Is everything OK?” I repeated gently.

For a brief moment, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Then there they were again . . . those huge emerald eyes. She exhaled.

She opened her mouth, blinked a few times, then closed it again. There was a moment of silence before she cleared her throat and softly said, “Um . . . Yes. It’ll be all right in a minute.”

Her voice was . . . wow. Enchanting. Bright and clear. But I could hear an underlying sadness. Although she tried to appear cheerful, that poignant tone gave her away.

I smiled at her, hoping for a smile in return. But she just widened her eyes and stared at me, as if suddenly terrified, then quickly turned away.

I was startled by her behavior, but why shouldn’t she react like that? I was a stranger, and she didn’t know what I might want from her. Why was I gawking at her like that, anyway?

All I wanted was to sit here peacefully and enjoy my alone time. But the events that had caused me to abandon my former life replayed in my mind.

Chapter 9 ½

Samuel—I’m Not Doing This

Vienna, May 2012

“Hey there, buddy.” Without knocking first, my dad, CEO of the architectural firm I worked for, entered my office. He approached behind me, then put one hand on my shoulder. Quickly, I finished typing an e-mail, hit “Send,” and turned around. I crossed my legs and leaned back in my chair.

“What can I do for you?” I asked.

“Just wanted to bring you some documents,” my father said and handed me a thick binder.

I looked at him and raised my eyebrows. “That’s what you come to my office for? Is your secretary on vacation?”

Matthias Winter laughed his deep, sonorous laugh. “No, no. These are important, and I wanted to personally ensure you got them.”

I shook my head. “Right, because Brigitte would have lost them,” I said, giving him a look. My father would have been adrift without her. She organized everything—private and professional meetings, all his correspondence. Sometimes I wondered whether she also cooked for him and did his laundry. Brigitte was more than a secretary. She was his veritable girl Friday. She would never lose any documents.

“Well, this binder was supposed to get to you earlier. But that’s not important now. What is important is I’m giving you your own project.”

I jumped from my chair with such enthusiasm that it almost toppled over.

“Really?” I asked. I had been working in my father’s architecture firm as junior officer for six months, but so far, he hadn’t let me oversee any projects. All I did was administrative work, the same as I had been doing for him since I was in college. I was nothing more than a second secretary.

“Take it easy, son. Familiarize yourself with these papers, then come to my office so we can discuss the details,” he said.

“Yessss!” I pumped a fist in the air after he’d closed the door behind him. I had been working toward this moment. Finally, I had a chance to prove myself.

I opened the binder and studied every page, then leafed through it again, more quickly. I hesitated and scrutinized the notes again. He couldn’t be serious. Was this a test?

I snapped the binder shut and paced my office. With one hand I massaged my neck, and with the other, I ran my fingers through my hair, muttering quietly, “He can’t be doing this. Is this the first time? Or have I signed off on this garbage before? I don’t look at everything in detail. Damn it.” I punched my right fist against the wall. Pain radiated up my arm. Shit. Too hard.

I grabbed the notebook and stomped out of the office. I slammed my door and stormed my father’s antechamber.

Brigitte, who was sitting behind her computer, let out a scream. “Oh my god, Mr. Winter, you scared me.” I apologized and, still in a fury, wrenched open my father’s office door, leaving Brigitte in my wake. “Mr. Winter. Mr. Winter!”

I didn’t bother turning around.

“Samuel, you can’t go in there now!”

I raised my hand, motioning for her to stop. She clammed up immediately. The only sound was the clicking of her heels on the old parquet as she retreated.

Grim-faced, I stood in the doorway. I was breathing heavily, shaking. I was livid, unbelievably livid. Why had he never said a word? I was angry with myself for having been so blind to what was really going on.

“Samuel, we’re in a meeting,” my father snapped.

I ignored his remark and entered the room. His executive board members watched me under lowered brows, but I didn’t care. I wanted everyone to know how my father was running his business.

He rose from his pretentious-looking black leather chair, straightened his tie, and buttoned his jacket. “Samuel!” he barked again in a deep voice.

I tossed the binder onto the table. His expression turned puzzled. I glared at him while he picked it up.

“What—?”

“No, not
what,
” I hissed. “
How. How
often?
How
many times have you done this?”

“Not here, Samuel. Let’s discuss this later,” he said, his voice calm. Judging from his demeanor, he felt no guilt; he had done this many times. Taken homes from people. How could I not have known?

“You feel good about yourself? How can you sleep at night?” I snapped.

My father grabbed my arm and ushered me to the door. Before we exited, he turned to his board members. “Gentlemen, please excuse us for a moment. I’ll have Brigitte serve you some refreshments, and if you like, go to lunch without me.”

The five men nodded.

Once out of their sight, my father practically dragged me through the antechamber, then opened the door and shoved me into the corridor.

“What was that all about? What were you thinking?” he growled.

I smiled bitterly and shook my head. “What was
I
thinking? What are
you
thinking? Had I known the games you’re playing, I would have never joined this company.”

“Ah, so that’s what this is about.” He stood there, motionless, not blinking an eye. How cold he was.

“You can live with this? You’re the reason for hundreds of people losing their homes, damn it. People who can’t afford to go anywhere else!”

My father crossed his arms and listened as I continued to yell. Once I’d sputtered to a halt, he said, “My son, that’s business.
Our
business. Old buildings get demolished; new ones get built. Those still living in the old buildings have to move. They’re mostly tenements, no longer profitable and already half-empty. Only old people remain, because who wants to live there? We give other people what they want. Shopping malls, bank branches—you name it. We breathe new life into dead neighborhoods all over the world.
It’s called business
.”

“Yeah, that’s what you call it. You could renovate those buildings, make them desirable again. New families could move in. That’s another way to
breathe new life
into a neighborhood. Without evicting anybody,” I spat.

“That’s not how things work, son.” he said.

I could only shake my head. I fisted my hands in my hair, unable to fathom his callous, cruel practices. That’s how he’d had made it to the top? That’s how he could afford jetting around the world? By depriving the poor and catering to the rich?

I inhaled deeply and massaged my temples, shifting my weight from one leg to the other. “Now I understand why everyone hates you,” I said. No answer. No reaction.
Nothing.

I dropped my hands, crossed my arms. We stared at each other for a long time, our stances identical. I saw my father’s matching anger in the tension in his jaw and the pulsating veins in his throat.

Did I want what he had? Could I stomach what he did? I wanted to be an architect but not at any cost. Not here. Not where the price was human dignity.

I yanked my black tie from around my neck and threw it at his feet. “I’m out of here. You can go on without me. I’m not doing this. Find another model for your ads. It makes me sick to think people will identify my face with your dirty practices.”

His expression turned even grimmer. He took a step toward me until our faces were only inches apart. He hissed through his teeth. “What do you think I trained you for all those years? Why did I encourage you to finish school early? Why did I pay for all that education, for all that you have, when you’re letting me down now? A true son doesn’t behave like this. A true son works side by side with his father in the family business and supports his decisions. I’ve built this company so that you could own it one day, lead a good life like me. And now you’re throwing it all away? That’s foolishness!”

“No, Dad, it’s not. Find another face. Find another idiot, one who doesn’t care what you do. Leave
him
all your money. I’m out of here.” I turned my back and walked away.

I heard him holler behind me, “Don’t count on any further support. From now on, you’re on your own!” And then I heard my father say, “You’re no longer my son.”

I froze, trying to understand what that would mean to me. To be on my own. Then I moved on, into a new life.