Authors: Marya Stones
In the meantime, she was traveling primarily on the continent, with many overnights in the metropolitan cities of Europe: Hamburg, London, Athens, Warsaw, Madrid, Stockholm . . . all included. And she and Mike were in contact, some days very actively – as many as twenty messages and a Skype-date. Then she didn’t hear anything from him for days, a situation that really didn’t suit her. She laid out arguments for herself, trying to figure out why he was like that. She still didn’t quite understand him; he had a side that she couldn’t fully grasp. He was often distant or seemed so secretive that one had to consider it “fishy.” Greta tried to reassure herself that she was imagining all this. Up to this point, there had always been an explanation for his behavior.
Finally, after many weeks had passed, the message that she had so long been waiting for arrived: “Greta, my angel, Venice calls to us. Can you hear it?” He gave her a couple of tentative dates for appointments, hotels, and connections – and that was it. No follow-up questions as to whether the dates would work, or if she still wanted to go. Although Greta had hoped that they would see each other again in Venice, the way he dictated the terms of the trip fell short of her expectations in every way.
I’m certainly not his secretary or some casual pick-up that he can order around.
Once again, the feeling that she got from Mike now and again welled up – he made the plans and she had no input; she was simply expected to follow along. Like a little girl, or someone who didn’t have anything to contribute, someone that didn’t have to be taken seriously.
If only I didn’t want to see him so much. If only I didn’t fret about him all the time.
No, she tried to put on the brakes, even if the sex was so incredible.
I can’t allow the reins to be taken out of my hands so easily. Sex isn’t everything.
Nathalie had demonstrated that with her story. The physical became important when the time was ripe . . . but would the time ever come for Nathalie and Marc? Greta pondered her and Nathalie’s completely different life-plans. She came to the conclusion, first, not to answer Mike. She did want to go to Venice in the worst way and the schedule was planned far enough in advance that she could organize everything. But she was put out. He could at least have asked if it was a convenient time for her, too.
Three days later, Mike had not been in touch again; but she agreed to his schedule - with mixed feelings.
The last few days before the trip and the reunion in Venice was a roller-coaster ride for Greta – up/down, up/down. Moments full of anticipation, butterflies in the stomach and waves of happiness. Then again, doubt. What if he doesn’t show up again? If he drops everything because of his brother? And what if, in the big picture, he’s simply not the right one? Oh, what’s the difference, she said to herself: Everything happens for the best.
Greta was packing her suitcase, and on her way to the bathroom when the telephone rang. Nathalie’s number lit up the display.
Thank God, it’s not Mike!
She wouldn’t have been able to deal with a cancellation of plans very easily at this point. On the other hand – Man, I’m in a bad way here. I’m glad that he’s not calling because he could cancel on me? Really sick, right?
“Hello, Nathalie, what’s up?”
“Well, I’m on my way to Capetown.”
“What? You can’t be serious. When is your flight?”
“This evening. We had a long conversation again last night on Skype and it’s definite. I’m going down for a week, and then we’ll see what happens next.”
“Man, I’m crossing my fingers for you. And I hope it’ll be lovely, no matter what the end result.”
“Thank you. It’ll be good, I feel it. No matter what happens – the experience will still be valuable. I’m clear about that and that’s also why I can do this – why I can have this adventure. What’s happening with you? You’re probably packing, right?”
“Yes, and I’m totally trying to get my bearings, to decide if I’m doing the right thing. The guy truly does me in. And then, I’m completely overjoyed at seeing him again.”
“Oh, Sweetheart, we both have a really important trip in front of us now. When we see each other again, we’ll both know more. I’ll be in touch in the meantime. Take care of yourself. Bye.”
“Take care and see ya soon.”
Greta hung up and didn’t feel like packing. Too many thoughts were racing through her mind: Am I taking myself, and the situation with Mike, too seriously? Why do I let myself get so involved? Aren’t other things in life more important? And she thought again about the story of David Rose that she had read on the Internet in New York. But wasn’t it that story that had led her to the church – and there he was? Oh, I’m not going to find the answer now, she thought. Maybe Nathalie is right, and we’re both taking a trip now that will lead to decisions. Anyway, everything always happens for the best.
She finished packing her suitcase. She didn’t hear anything else from Mike.
Her flight the next day left in the morning. The plan was that Mike was to come to Venice from Rome and they would meet at the Giardino ex Paradopoli, a square and a little park at the entrance to the city. Greta was anxious, wondering if it would work out this time. Mike had promised that he would definitely let her know if he was running late or if there were any other delays. Nonetheless, Greta couldn’t get rid of a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach. As always – they were to go from the meeting place to the hotel together and then plan the rest of the day. In case of emergency, Greta had memorized the hotel’s address –in case he stood her up again.
When she arrived in Venice, everything went according to plan. The weather was mild and dry, which didn’t mean anything at this time of year, however: Venice was known to have to deal with sudden floods in the fall- and winter-months. But today, no rain was predicted. Greta took a taxi from the airport into the city, a trip that took about a half hour and was very “Italian.” The driver spoke not a word of English – or any other language except his mother tongue. Greta showed him on a map where she wanted to go, he nodded, and put her little roll-on into the trunk. The ride took her through various suburbs, all of them very lively and full of traffic. Now and then, the driver yelled at pedestrians or other drivers. Greta found all of this very normal and expected - “Italian.” Then the road became a long kind of bridge, the link between the mainland and the city of Venice. An interminably long bridge. At its end, one could see the city -- everything in the light haze of the sun, which was trying to break through the low fall clouds. It looked somewhat mystical and full of secrets, but also seductive and romantic. What did the city have in store for me? drifted through Greta’s mind. At a kind of turn-around by a parking lot, the driver motioned to a garden nearby. That was the anticipated destination. Greta paid the fare and proceeded on her way, dragging the roll-on behind her. Mike couldn’t see her as yet and a quick look at her watch confirmed that she was ten minutes early.
Everything is still on course . . .
To get to the garden, Greta first had to cross a bridge. Although the steps leading to it were wide apart, the roll-on suitcase bounced over them pretty well. At the junction of the bridge, Greta stopped and watched the passing water taxis: a busy industry, with many smaller and larger boats, laden down with groceries and drinks, and then a kind of bus-boat, and she even recognized a couple from the Fire Department and the Sanitation Department. Greta was completely engrossed in the traffic and concluded that here in Venice everything had to be transported over water. Of course, she thought to herself, the streets are too narrow; cars don’t have a prayer of getting by. Totally lost in her thoughts and taken in by the daily to and fro of the city, she didn’t hear a honking horn that was becoming louder and louder, dominating the area surrounding her. “The Italians are really loud,” was the only thought that semi-consciously crossed her mind. She looked at her watch again.
What? A whole hour has passed? I’ve been standing here that long? If he stands me up again, then that’s that. I’ll wait another five minutes –
The resounding horn tore her away from her thoughts and her glance was directed to the source of the noise: a water taxi. One of those elegant ones, with a cabin and an open covered deck in the back. George Clooney and Diane Kruger were seen in one on TV during the Biennale. That can’t be, Greta thought. She looked again, a little more closely . . . Mike was standing on the boat and waving to her. Yes, sure enough, it was him. She could now easily recognize him, and waved back, feeling as if a stone had fallen from her heart. Up ‘til now, she hadn’t been sure that he would show up. The shock in New York had made a deep impact and her trust in him hadn’t yet returned. She grabbed her roll-on and marched toward the little walkway at the end of the bridge. Mike came up to meet her. He looked fabulous. Could have passed for Italian if he hadn’t had those boots on. Yup, that’s my cowboy, Greta thought, and beamed at him. The weeks of separation were wiped away and all her doubts about him too. They hugged, holding one another fervently for a long time. His scent again was what Greta loved so much about him: a little like leather, like fresh air, and a breath of after-shave lotion – which actually couldn’t be since he sported a three-day stubble. Besides that, he had jeans on and a light-colored shirt that was open down his chest. Over that his leather jacket, which Greta recognized. No matter what he had on, the guy was a really cool man, a man that other women turned around to look at. A man that one remembered, one who left tracks. Hopefully they’re tracks that I like, popped into Greta’s mind. And then the kiss – the trip was worth it for that alone. She melted in his arms and was so happy that she glowed.
“You’re finally here. I already saw you from far away, but you didn’t hear the horn. Come, we’ll ride into town in the taxi. Are you hungry, do you want to eat something? We can have the baggage delivered. What do you think?
“It doesn’t matter to me – everything sounds super.”
“Good. Then we’ll be on our way.”
Mike gave the taxi driver directions in Italian. It still seemed a little strange for Greta to hear him speak another language although he had said that he knew how.
“How come you know Italian?”
“It’s from the time with Daddy Coo. Meditation made it possible for him to learn various languages. I know that it sounds completely crazy again. But I can’t explain it any other way. There were about six languages that he could suddenly speak fluently. For me it was “only” Italian. I swear, I’ve never learned the language; I could simply speak it.”
“To tell you the truth, you’re sometimes uncanny. It’s not entirely normal. You have to admit that yourself.”
“You’re right, Greta, I know it. That’s why I can’t tell everyone about it.
He was quiet and his look traveled somewhere into the distance. Greta knew that she couldn’t follow him there; and probably didn’t want to, either.
After a few minutes of traveling in silence, the water taxi turned into a large wide canal.
“This is the Grand Canal.”
“It’s incredibly beautiful. These old buildings, this scene, and the colors.”
Greta was quiet for a moment, completely taken by the surroundings. It was loud again, the racket on the water was just like the hubbub in the streets of the suburbs that she saw on the way into the city. Everything was alive and in motion.
It’s fabulous. So special. Enchanting.”
“It’s nice that you like it so much too. This city completely captures me every time. Come, we’ll get out and I’ll show you around a little. We can freshen up a little later, okay?”
Mike signaled to the driver to stop at the next footpath, but asked him to take the baggage with him. Greta assumed that the driver would take everything to the hotel.
Then Greta and Mike wandered through the streets of Venice hand in hand. They let the city lead them on. Only now and again, they made a short stop: a quick visit to a typical café, with delicious little baked goods, and a mini-shopping trip through the boutiques. Then it was over one of the countless bridges again to the next church. Mike knew a little story to tell her everywhere they went. It was more wonderful than Greta had even dared to dream. The hours flew by. Mike really knew his way around and it soon became clear to Greta that he had been here often. Knowledgeable about the city and sure of his way in the streets, he led her down ever smaller alleys and alley-ways. She had completely lost her orientation.
Finally Mike said, “We’ll be there in a moment. The view from above will no doubt please you.”
“How come the view from above? Are we at the hotel? Do we have a room with a view?”
Greta was surprised. How could he already know what kind of a room they were going to get? He had only just arrived too.
Or maybe not?
They stopped in front of a mansion, one of these lordly patrician houses, a little palazzo.
“This isn’t a hotel,” burst out of Greta’s mouth.
“Yes, that’s right, it isn’t a hotel. But there’s a wonderful appartemento with a terrace on the roof. We’re Sigi’s guests once again. He isn’t here, but left me his keys. Come in, now the appartemento belongs to us.”
“Oh . . . Sigi.” Greta didn’t know what she should say.
“I’ve full-checked again. Of course, your real estate friend from Salzburg. I’m still not entirely prepared for your surprises.”
Greta didn’t know how she should react. Mike held all the strings in his hand. Should she just completely give in to him? She had the feeling that she was about to lose complete control. Mike was the one who directed everything. He decided from here on out, without taking her into account in his decisions. On the one hand, it was very nice and she didn’t want to complain. But it left a bit of an aftertaste.