The American Lady (33 page)

27

The second day of the journey was just as wonderful as the first. With every mile, the landscape became more and more like the pictures in the books that Johanna used to send to her in America: there were the snowcapped peaks of the Alps, the deep-blue sky with its white cotton-candy clouds, the light-brown cows with their great dark eyes. Waterfalls along the side of the train tracks splashed down the steep mountainsides to the left and right. Wanda felt that the closer they came to Brenner Pass, the closer they came to Heaven itself, and she was overjoyed. Their fellow passengers were amused to hear Wanda break out into new raptures every five minutes or so.

Richard had his own way of appreciating the magnificent landscape outside. He glanced out the window, then down at his sketchpad, then back again. Later he told Wanda that he hadn’t expected the journey itself to be such a source of inspiration. She told him that since it was, they should plan to travel regularly in their future life together.

The other passengers had already decided they must be newlyweds, and smiled at them indulgently or wistfully. To be so young, and so much in lov
e . . .

The hotel in Bozen was more elegant than the boarding house the night before and had a much grander dining room where almost all the tables were taken. This time, it was Richard who insisted that they go and explore the town. Once they had found their rooms and freshened up a little, they walked hand in hand through the narrow streets. It was a warm evening, and it seemed that everyone in Bozen wanted to spend it out on the street: children were playing, women in aprons were sitting together scrubbing vegetables, and men were chatting animatedly on street corners, the smoke from their cigarettes wafting through the air. Wanda and Richard sometimes found it hard to make their way through the crush. Though winter had only just ended in Lauscha, it already felt like early summer here.

“This is just how I imagined the south would be!” Wanda pointed to a long row of flowerpots bursting with bloodred geraniums, and a black cat sitting in front of them grooming himself. “The smell of summer in the air and the deep-blue sea!”

Richard laughed. “I can’t see the sea from here.”

“Spoilsport!” Wanda nudged him in the side. “You have no imagination.”

A moment later they came upon a piazza, and whatever answer Richard might have been about to give died on his lips. In front of them was the most beautiful fountain either of them had ever seen. Within a broad sandstone basin, countless cherubs cavorted in various poses, each holding a cornucopia from which the water poured out.

“Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?” Wanda asked, amazed. She put a hand in front of her mouth. “That must be hundreds of years old, don’t you think?”

“I think it must be from the Renaissance,” Richard answered. He sounded just as impressed.

When they got closer, they saw that coins filled the bottom of the basin.

“It’s a custom here. You throw a coin into the fountain, shut your eyes, and make a wish. Then the wish comes true. Drat it all, I must have some small change somewher
e . . .
” Wanda said, and began scrabbling around in her purse.

Richard took her hand and drew her toward him. “My wish came true long ago,” he murmured and kissed the palm of her hand.

Later they ate roast squab with garlic potatoes in a little trattoria. They drank a Chianti wine that warmed them from the inside. They laughed, they talked, they touched hands across the table, and every movement meant more than it ever had before; every twinkle in their eyes was a message meant for the other alone; every gesture was a secret that shut out the rest of the world.

He is
my man,
Wanda thought all the while, almost bursting with pride and happiness.

They left the trattoria with the last of the other customers, and then, finally, they were standing in front of their rooms, each with a key in hand. When Richard kissed Wanda good-night, she clung to him with all her strength.
Don’t leave!
She didn’t want to be alone—she wanted to be with him, to feel him with her as never before.

The air between them was almost sparking with desire. It would be so simple to spend the next few hours together! But they had made a promise back home in Lauscha. And besides, they had to leave early the next morning; Richard’s train to Venice and Wanda’s train to Milan both left shortly after seven. They ought to get a few hours’ sleep. More embraces and more kisses followed, and then Wanda and Richard parted, their hearts heavy.

Wanda sat in her camisole at the old-fashioned dressing table that took up almost the whole wall in her little room and stared forlornly at her image in the mirror. She couldn’t summon the will to open her suitcase and look for her nightgown. Even though Richard was just on the other side of the wall, she missed him already!

Ever since he had told her how he felt on New Year’s Eve, so suddenly and with so much certainty, they hadn’t been apart for even a day. His trust in her, his good humor and tender caresses—how empty the days to come would be! Lost in thought, she ran her hand over her bosom but felt nothing. When Richard touched her there she shivered all over. When would she be back in his arms again—and happy? Richar
d . . .

Perhaps her longing would not be so bad tomorrow when she could look forward to seeing Marie again, but tonight, the idea of being without him for even a day or two was more than Wanda could bear.

She stood up so suddenly that the shellacked stool tipped over backward. She cringed, knowing that a noise like that at such a late hour would annoy the other guests. Then she went to the glass doors that led out onto the balcony and opened them. Just to get a breath of fresh air. To gather her thoughts.

Just that.

She wasn’t the least bit surprised to see Richard standing on the balcony next door. All the same her eyes widened when she saw what he was doing.

“You’re smoking?” She pointed at the glowing cigarette in his hand, astonished. He was one of the very few glassblowers in Lauscha who did not smoke. Whenever one of his friends offered him a cigarette in the tavern or on the street, he replied that he didn’t care for tobacco.

Now he grinned wryly. “You won’t go telling anyone, will you?” He took one last puff, then threw it to the floor and ground it out with his foot.

Wanda nodded and said nothing.

For a moment they stood there, silent, each leaning against the balcony railing, staring fixedly out at the houses opposite. There was a sharp smell in the air, perhaps rising to their balcony from the hotel kitchen. The tension between Wanda and Richard grew and grew.

Wanda swallowed. Then she said slowly, “I won’t tell anyone.” Her heart was hammering like crazy. A moment later she heard herself say, “I’ll keep your secret if you’ll keep mine.”

After that everything happened quite naturally. Without even thinking about it she opened the door for Richard. Tonight she wanted to be his woman. She’d never wanted anything so much.

When they were facing one another, she lifted her arms and pulled her camisole over her head. It fluttered to the floor and lay there. Then she reached behind her back. It took her a moment to open the hooks on her brassiere, her hands were trembling so, but it soon lay beside the camisole. Then she took off her panties. Unhurried and unashamed. The tension was thrilling, these moments of waiting so sweet!

She knew that she was beautiful. Ever since she had grown into womanhood a few years ago, men had looked at her admiringly—and women enviously. She knew the reason why. But she had never felt so beautiful as she did now, the first time Richard saw her naked.

He looked her up and down with awe in his eyes, more reverently even than he looked at his beloved glassworks. Without being asked, she turned round in front of him like a dancer on a music box. He drank in her nakedness like wine, and she in turn grew drunk on his admiration. Now she could hardly wait for his touch. Her skin was growing warm just from his gaze, and she felt hot flushes ripple across her body. Wanda wrapped her arms around Richard, nestling into his shirt, but he pushed her away gently but firmly. Without taking his eyes off her, he began to undress. Involuntarily she wondered whether she was the first woman he had ever undressed for. Once, early on, she had asked him whether he had ever courted another girl—apart from poor Anna—but he had never answered. She didn’t doubt, however, that—unlike her—he was experienced in matters of love; he had always been so certain in his caresses, had never lost control, and he was a fantastic kisser.

Wanda passed her tongue over her lips expectantly as Richard knelt down and untied his shoes. Her thighs were trembling almost unbearably, so she had to sit down on the bed. Richard unbuckled his belt briskly, and his pants fell to the floor.

A sigh escaped from Wanda’s throat. Was it acceptable to tell a man how beautiful he was? She didn’t dare. He was just as muscular as she had imagined he would be, without being bulky. With his broad chest that tapered down to a narrow waist, he had a physique like those of the male ballet dancers in New York. Wanda glanced downward. Without his pants, his legs were more sturdy than she had expected.

Once he was quite naked she found herself to be a little afraid after all. Afraid not of the unfamiliar sight of a naked man, but rather of her own desire for Richard, which almost smothered her. She wanted to pull him down on top of her, put his hands on her breasts; she wanted t
o . . .
she blinked hastily to dispel the seductive visions.

“You’re s
o . . .
manly,” she whispered hoarsely.

Richard had seen what she was looking at and grinned. “All the muscles are from the hard work at the bench and lamp.”

“And where’
s . . .
that from?” Wanda’s eyes were half-closed as she pointed at his erection, which was straining upward, pulsing with strength. The brazenness of her question made her blush. What must Richard think of her!

“That’s your doing. All you,” Richard murmured, his voice choked.

A moment later, his arms were around her and his lips were upon hers. His lips roamed to her ears. She bowed her head. His tongue lapped at the hollow between her shoulders and back up to her neck where his warm breath stirred the small soft hairs.

Wanda was breathing faster with every kiss. She could not hold herself back any longer but ran her hands over his body and kissed him, tasting the salt on his skin and breathing in his scent. By now they were lying together on the narrow bed. It groaned reproachfully under their weight and they laughed.

With every kiss, every caress they spun a cocoon of passion more tightly around themselves. Nothing outside that cocoon mattered. The nearness of their breath, velvet skin, gentle moans, their hearts beating together, her soft curves and his strong arms around her, the pleasure and the pai
n . . .

Wanda surrendered herself entirely, felt the cresting waves of passion lift her higher and higher, washing away the pain and leaving nothing but this joyous appetite.

Any thought of the other guests in the hotel was long banished from Wanda’s mind as she screamed from the depths of her soul, “Hold me tight! Foreve
r . . .
”

“Help m
e . . .
I can’t take it anymore!”

Marie’s scream ripped through the room. Her torso bucked and thrashed, the searing pain in her abdomen ripping through her even worse than before. Whatever was happening couldn’t be right. It was too painful. She was being torn in two. Sh
e . . .

“You have to keep still! Eleonore
is
helping you! The
bambino
will be here, soon, soon!” Patrizia’s face was dripping with sweat; her face was set in rigid lines as though she shared in Marie’s pain. She looked impatiently at the midwife who was standing between Marie’s legs. What was taking so long?

The midwife’s right hand was hidden inside Marie. She was concentrating, feeling for the child who refused to be born.

“Send her away! I don’t want this. It hurts so muc
h . . .
” Hot tears ran down Marie’s face. Then she howled as another wave of pain ripped through her before she had recovered from the last.

The young midwife had only ever delivered four babies before now. She drew back her hand, covered in blood, and Marie’s groans diminished a little. Eleonore’s face showed clearly how helpless she felt as she took a damp cloth and dabbed at Marie’s forehead.

Theoretically she knew exactly how to take hold of the child and turn it so that the head was in the right place. But the textbook hadn’t told her anything about what to do when the mother was thrashing like a mad thing! Whenever she had hold of the head, Marie bucked and twisted and the head slipped out of her grasp. When she had studied with the
matrona
, all the women had stayed calm and done what the old midwife had told them. “Let them scream as much as they like,” the
matrona
always told her. “Screaming helps.” Well, this German woman was screaming until it seemed her throat might burst, but it didn’t seem to be making the birth one bit easier.