The Woman Who Married a Cloud: The Collected Short Stories (20 page)

They had been together four years and he knew very well she had found most of
his
secret places in the early months of their relationship. That in itself was all right because he loved and trusted her. What was not all right was, for the first time, for one vicious and utterly shocking moment, he loathed her. He loathed her charm, her good-naturedness, her willingness to put up with his tedious moods and disappointments. She didn’t know the extent of it, but she’d saved his life more than once. Saved it with her strength, humour, and infinitely generous love. He hated her because her completeness was so wasted on him, a passable but second-rate man. It went without saying that she had found all of his secret places. If he had been George Reynolds’s apartment, she would easily have found all five hundred of the cigars. Why
did
she love him? He’d asked himself this question before and now
he
knew part of his bitterness came from knowing for certain there really was no good reason. She loved him because of some strangeness in herself, not a secret strength or special quality in him. For so long he had hoped she would be able to teach him to do what she did so well: to live generously, to be patient, and finally to show him what was rare in himself. But there was nothing rare. It was in those moments of silence between them that he understood with miserable finality who he was in her universe: never a teacher, never a storyteller. Forever the audience.

I
’D JUST FINISHED GOING
through a time in life when one day bled into the next. Nothing worked, nothing smelled good, nothing smiled, nothing fitted. Even my feet grew a little, for some mysterious reason, and I had to buy three pairs of new shoes. Figure that. Maybe my body was trying to burst out of its old, failed skin like a snake and form a new one.

In the middle of this black mess I met Celine Davenant. She lived in Munich, five easy hours away from Vienna on the train. With her beautifully smooth and reassuring voice, she worked reading the news on an English language radio station up there.

On Friday evenings after work I’d hurry over to the Westbahnhof and catch “The
Rosenkavalier
” to Munich. That really was the name of the train.

Sometimes Celine came to Vienna, but made no bones about the fact she didn’t like the city one bit. I told her the train trip was a pleasure for me and I looked forward to it. So we silently agreed for the time being to leave things as they were: she’d meet the train at the Munich Hauptbahnhof at eleven-thirty and our weekend would begin there amidst startled pigeons, travellers, the jerk and hoots of trains.

My first excited trip West, I made the mistake of buying a first-class ticket. But even there, the compartment was crowded with weekend people and their many bags. What I subsequently learned was to buy a second-class seat, arrive early, and go directly to the dining car. If I sat there until the town of Attnang-Puchheim, the train would have emptied and, strolling back to second class, I could have my pick of empty places.

The arrangement worked out well, particularly because the railroad served good food. It was delightful to sit eating by those large windows and watch the Austrian countryside slide by. Perchtoldsdorf, St Pölten, Linz. Stationmasters in red caps waved. Farmers in old pick-up trucks, blank-faced. Unmoving people stood frozen at small stations, rural crossings, in the middle of who cares, watching us click by. Dogs barked silently. I often saw deer grazing. Rabbits darted zigzags across open fields.

It took me away from my life; it took me closer to Celine.

What is the name of that pink and white lily that smells so strongly of pepper and spice? I can’t remember, but it’s one of my favourites. When they entered the dining car that evening it was the first thing I noticed. Both of them were wearing that marvellous flower in their hair. Maybe it was the second thing I noticed: it was hard not to be wide-eyed about their uniquely different beauty.

The woman was tall and splendid. She looked as if she’d been an actress earlier, or at least held perfect champagne glasses and looked out of high windows at the Manhattan or Paris skyline. Now in her late thirties or early innings of forty, she’d come through the game strong and unimpeded. If there were lines on her face they made her look sexier, more knowing. The flower behind her ear said she had a sense of humour, could give the world a smile. The flower behind her daughter’s ear said here was an attentive, pleased mother. A rare combination.

The girl had the same russet-coloured hair and wide round eyes as her mother. At least I assumed it was the mother. They looked too much alike—senior and junior versions of the same great face. The face the girl would grow into in twenty years if she had luck.

I spent a good portion of every day thinking about Celine and how things would work out between us. I wanted them to work out and was hoping she did too. We hadn’t talked about long range plans because that sort of discussion comes after you have surveyed the new lands of your relationship and given long thought to where you want to drive in the first permanent posts. We liked many of the same things, couldn’t get enough of each other in bed but, best of all, knew there was almost always something to talk about. Very few quiet spaces in our time together, and if they came, it was only because we were savouring the silent hum of contentment that is the real electricity of love.

When I started thinking about Celine, almost nothing could distract me. And I was thinking about her when the mother and daughter came into the dining car. So it shocked me to realize all thoughts of my friend had disappeared while I watched these two stunners cross ... to my table.

“Do you mind if we sit here?”

The car was about a third full and there were a number of empty tables. Why did they want to sit here? I am a good-looking man and women generally like me, but they don’t cross rooms for me. Particularly when they looked like this one.

“Please.” I half stood and gestured to the empty chairs. I could smell the flowers in their hair. The little girl was blushing and smiling and wouldn’t look at me. Snatching the chair out so hard that it almost tipped over, she had to grab it with two hands at the last moment.

The mother laughed and put her hands to her cheeks. “Poor Heidi. She wanted to make such a good impression on you. She saw you walk down the platform at the station and actually jumped out of the train to see which car you went into. She made us wait till now so we wouldn’t look too eager.”

The girl looked daggers at mother; her secrets were being told, laughed at. I didn’t think that was funny and tried to tell her with a smile and a small, friendly shrug. She was sunburn-red and wouldn’t look at me after one fast, furtive glance.

Mama shook her head, still smiling, and put out her slim hand. “I’m Francesca Pold. This is my daughter, Heidi. And you are ...?”

I said my name and shook the woman’s warm hand. She held on a few seconds too long. I looked into her eyes to see if she was telling me something with that, but saw only, “Wouldn’t
you
like to know!” there. Her smile spread and she sat down.

Hmmmm.

“What are you reading?
Albanian Wonder Tales
? That sounds interesting.” Without asking, she picked it up, opened it, and started reading aloud. “ ‘Whether you believe it or doubt it, no matter. May all good things come to you who listen!’ ”

Both mother and daughter burst out laughing. The laughter was exactly the same except that one was high and young, the other deep and more experienced. It was charming.

“What a funny way to start a story! Are they fairy tales?” She put the book down on the table and the girl picked it right up.

“Yes. I like to read them. It’s a hobby.”

The woman nodded. Her expression said she fully approved. I’d scored points.

“What do you do for a living?”

“I sell computers to the East bloc.”

“You sell computers and read fairy tales? A well-rounded man.”

“That’s nice to say, but it’s probably only a bad case of arrested development.”

That got a chuckle and another approving smile.

She raised a hand for the waiter and one swept down on the table like a hawk. The world can be divided between people who can get a waiter’s attention and those who can’t.

Those who
can
have only to raise a tired or lazy finger and waiters lift their heads as if some secret radio signal has suddenly been beamed out on their private frequency. They arrive seconds later.

Those who can’t resort to finger-snapping and other embarrassing things, but it does no good. They are unheard, invisible. They might as well rot. Francesca Pold got waiters. It wasn’t surprising.

The two of them ordered and our chat continued. The girl pretended to be deeply involved in my fairy-tale book, but I often saw it slip down and her eyes—all attention and interest—watch carefully. Beautiful eyes. Large and smart, they had a kind of liquidness to them that made you think she was on the verge of crying. Yet that very quality made them more singular and attractive.

The mother was a gabber and, although what she said was mostly interesting, it was easy to tune in and out on her monologue. More and more I found myself looking at the daughter. When their food came, I saw my chance.

“What’s your favourite subject in school, Heidi?”

“Ma-ma-math-e-ma-ma-matics.” Her jaw trembled up and down.

“Is that what you want to do when you get older?”

She shook her head and pointing at me, smiled. “C-C-C-Computers.”

She had a torturous, machine-gun stutter that grew worse as she got more excited. But it was also very plain she wanted to talk to me. Her mother made no attempt to interrupt or explain what Heidi said, even when some word or phrase was largely unintelligible. I liked that. They’d obviously worked it out between them and, handicapped as she was, the girl would grow up in a world where she was used to fighting her own battles.

I’d already had dinner but joined them for dessert when I saw how big and fresh the strawberries were they ordered. The three of us sat there and spooned them up while the sky lost the rest of its day. It was completely dark outside when we got up from the table.

“Where are you sitting?”

I smiled. “You mean what class am I in? Second, I’m afraid.”

“Good, so are we! Do you mind if we sit with you?”

I liked to look at the woman, but was growing tired of her motor-mouth. More and more looks passed between Heidi and me. I would have happily sat alone with the girl and her stutter for the rest of the trip to Munich (they were going there too), if that had been possible.

Despite being able to call waiters, Francesca appeared to have the mistaken idea that beauty also means licence to go on about anything, ad infinitum. I pitied her daughter having to put up with it every day of her life.

But what could I say: no, I don’t want to sit with you? I could have, but it would’ve been rude and essentially wrong. We would sit together and Francesca would talk and I’d try to make Heidi’s ride a little more pleasant.

As usual, most of the compartments were empty. Once settled, Francesca reached into her purse and took out a pack of cigarettes. That was surprising because she hadn’t smoked at all till then. The brand was unfiltered Camels and she drew smoke way down into her lungs. While she puffed, Heidi and I talked about computers and the things she was doing with them at school. The girl knew a lot and I wondered what she would do with the skill when she grew older. That’s one of the nice things about working with computers—you don’t have to
say
a word to them and they’ll still do your bidding. Even if Heidi retained her stutter in later life, computers would be a good thing for her to pursue because she could do wonderful, productive things without uttering a word.

To be young and suffer the kind of affliction she carried on her tongue must have been as bad, in its way, as having a case of the worst acne. Only pimples usually go away when we get older. Stuttering stays around and doesn’t pay much heed to a person’s birth-date or self-esteem.

She tried so damned hard to speak. No matter what subject we were discussing, there was something she wanted to say, but her words came out so slowly and painfully that at times I literally forgot what we’d been discussing after watching Heidi strain her way through the sentences.

Once when we were discussing computer games she got completely hung up on the title of her favourite and her mother had to come in and help.

“The game she likes so much is called ‘Panic Hand’. Have you ever played?”

“No, I’ve never even heard of it.”

The girl tried explaining how it worked, but when none of it came out the right way, gave up and slumped in her seat. I knew she was about to cry. She’d tried but lost another game to her inner enemy: in living contrast to her gorgeous mother who had only to sit there and carry on her own boring, unending monologue.

But even mother was silent a while. The girl looked out through the window, flushed and tight-lipped, while Francesca smiled at me and smoked one cigarette after the other.

Suddenly Heidi looked at me and said, “Don’t you th-th-think cigarette s-s-s-smo—king is c-c-c-c-ool? I d-d-d-do.”

I shrugged. “Tried it when I was younger but never got the hang of it. I think it looks good in the movies.”

Hearing this mild rebuff, the girl cringed down into her seat as if I’d hit her. Was she
that
sensitive?

I was looking at her and trying to catch her eye and wink when her mother said, “I’d like to sleep with you. I’d like to sleep with you right now. Right here.”

“What did you say?” I looked at Francesca. She had her hand on her blouse and was unbuttoning it.

“I said I want to sleep with you. Here.”

“And what about your daughter?”

“She’ll go out in the corridor. We can pull the curtain.” Her hand continued to climb down the buttons.

“No.”

The blouse was open and a nice lilac frilly bra showed through against the stark white of her secret skin in there.