“WE SHOULDN’T have separated. I knew it wouldn’t work.”
“Marek hasn’t showed up yet either.”
“We should’ve just boarded and that’d be that. Now we’re standing around here cooling our heels and looking silly.”
“We’ve seen a lot, though. And as punishment for our mistake, let’s finish these off.”
“What are they called again?”
Katja had opened the little white cardboard box and now held it up so she could read the blue printing: “Lux-em-bur-ger-li, Sprüng-li.”
“Is that who makes them, or what they’re called?”
“Probably Sprüngli because they spring right up into your mouth.”
“The pink ones are the best.”
“Have another.”
“Should we save at least one for each of them?”
“Oh, we’ll buy some more.”
“Do you have that much money?”
“They only cost a couple of francs. We’re not going to think about money today.”
“Funny, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“That we’ve got the kind of money now that will get you anything? Does that already feel normal to you?”
“These Sprüngli here,” Katja said as she chewed, “are beyond description—ice cold inside and melting, and suddenly you think it’s done its thing, and then you bite into something hard, that’s the wildest experience.”
“And the mountain peaks, snowcapped, and that glow as if heaven were peeking through. I sometimes think Adam lives on another planet. I stand here looking at them and I’m happy—and him, he doesn’t see a thing.”
“Well, you did give him a hard nut to crack.”
“He acts like he’s the first and only person on earth.”
“And you really haven’t spoken to each other since?”
“Nope.”
“Not a word?”
“Nothing, zilch.”
“Does he want the baby? He must have said something, didn’t he?”
“He asked who the father is. And then he said he’d have to think about it.”
“Dead silence for ten days now?”
“Five. I couldn’t bring myself to do it, couldn’t get the words out.”
“I can’t imagine how you can go five days without talking to each other. He was cheerful enough earlier today, him and Marek.”
“It wasn’t exactly the perfect moment, maybe. He had been writing job applications, a slew of applications. But everyone tells him that doesn’t do the trick. You have to appear in person, present yourself, get acquainted with people. I told him he’s got to try harder, to make the extra effort—because we’re expecting a baby. The baby part was the last straw.”
“What a shame, I’d hoped—”
“He takes off somewhere every night, or almost every night. The stairs creak something awful—by the time he’s at the bottom, our fine hosts are sitting bolt upright of course in their pillows and asking themselves what’s happened now. Eberhard was even convinced Adam was going to set the house on fire. Twice I woke up, and there he stood in his pajamas at the foot of my bed. Oh, dammit, it’s so beautiful here, and he manages to louse this up for me too.”
“It’s really incredible. Have you ever heard about the green light? It’s the rarest light there is, it’s only when the air is very very pure and you watch the sun sink into the lake, and suddenly there’s a burst of turquoise-green, a brief supernatural glow. Let’s link arms, maybe something will happen now.”
“And if Marek shows up, and he’s still not here?”
“Then we’ll come up with a plan. You need to tie your scarf, you look frozen to death. I think Adam was truly shocked when he saw the bill.”
“He needed that feeling again that lunch was on him.”
“But then he chose that Terrasse place or however you pronounce it. We could have gone Dutch.”
“Let him be, it’s okay. You guys paid for the trip. That’s his car money. The sooner he spends it, the better. Best thing would be we’re completely broke, maybe he’ll catch on then.”
“His hands were a little clammy.”
“He smells different somehow too. I’m not allowed to say ‘somehow’ when he’s around, but it’s the case all the same.”
“That’s your pregnancy nose.”
“No, he really smells different.”
“Adam’s been given a tough role to play.”
“Stop it. He should take an example from Marek, who just forged on ahead—he even had to learn German, and now he’ll soon have his diploma in his pocket. Marek is a treasure—I’d turn Catholic for him.”
“I don’t think he’s Catholic, at least I haven’t noticed any telltale signs yet.”
“Adam can’t get his nose out of some ancient bird and plant guides he found in the car. Of late he’s been visiting the zoo. And if I ask him what he does there, he says he’s ‘taking a walk.’ He could at least sew something for me, maternity things, dresses, pants. The water’s so clear here.”
“You just have to have an idea, and then you’ll make it, easy. Marek has a friend who buys the chicest clothes at Zurich flea-markets, and then she marks them up and resells them in Munich—it’s evidently going very well.”
“I thought everything was more expensive here?”
“They wear things here twice and then give them to their cleaning lady, who turns them over for a few quick francs.”
“Ah, I just want everything to be normal again, so that it’s perfectly natural to go into shops here and buy Sprüngli. Will we ever get to the point where we can stroll along here and say: ‘That hat there, that’s mine now.’ ”
Katja unlinked and ran toward the bridge. Marek spread his arms wide. Evelyn turned her head away. The bus to Küsnacht opened its doors a second time to let a woman board. Then she looked out over the lake. The bluish clouds were threaded with narrow orange veins. She heard Katja laugh. Katja called her over.
“Marek has something to tell us, come here!”
Evelyn’s steps slowed as the two of them went into another hug.
“Have you heard?” Marek asked. “You really haven’t? You didn’t notice the newspaper headlines? Everybody’s talking about—that’s all they can talk about.”
“Okay, but what is it?” Katja asked. “Spit it out.”
“Have you seen Adam?” Evelyn asked.
“I thought you were going to do the boat ride together.”
“We’ve been waiting here for forty-five minutes.”
“Look, it reads: ‘These are to be enjoyed on the spot’—and that’s what we did. You’re too late.” Katja split open the empty Sprüngli box.
“The wall is gone,” Marek said.
“Who’s been spreading that nonsense?” Evelyn asked.
“Everyone. On TV they’re showing nothing but Berlin, how everyone’s running across, it started late last night. You’re the last ones to know! I swear it’s true.” Marek raised one hand. “Wait a sec!”
“Marek, no, please.”
Marek walked over to an elderly couple. “Excuse me, my girlfriend here doesn’t believe that the wall has been torn down in Berlin.”
“Oh, indeed it has,” the man said. The woman nodded. The man touched the brim of his hat. They walked on.
“So then,” Marek called across. “Do you believe me now?”
Evelyn and Katja had already turned away. They were gazing across the water to the mountains and the sunset, whose colors now filled the entire sky.