4. Berlin #2
“You aren’t supposed to make significant changes in your life for a year after a partner dies,” said Greta, “and she’s already sold her house with practically everything in it, including”—and she held up her index finger—“Dad’s drafting desk, which he promised to you .”
Bettina squinted. “I really don’t think you should be more upset about that than I am. My level of upset should kind of set the bar.”
Greta desperately wanted the Bauhaus sconces from the hallway of her childhood home, but she didn’t mention it.
Over Bettina’s shoulder two men appeared to be having a lovers’ quarrel, one holding on to a fistful of the other’s shirt.
“The suburbs are a bad place for a single woman,” Bettina said, leaning down to check on Til. “And anyway, it’s better for us to have Mom in the city.”
“I know. I just worry Tobias is having some kind of anesthetizing effect on her. He’s the last person I would have chosen to be her helper.”
Greta’s most vivid memory of Tobias Meyer was when he was ten or so, and his parents invited them to go sailing on the Wannsee.
Tobias thought it was a fun joke to fling himself into the lake, forcing his father to shout “ Klar zur wende! ” and turn the boat around to retrieve him.
They spent most of that summer afternoon sailing in circles until Tobias’s mother became enraged and threatened to tie her son to the mast. Greta’s mother had hired that reckless boy—now a grown man—to help sort out their father’s clothes and papers, to go through the attic and the basement, and to pack up for her move.
“She says he’s a godsend,” Bettina said, “which is over-the-top maybe, but at least he’s being a help.”
“If Tobias’s own father doesn’t trust him enough to work in the family business, then why should we trust him to work for our widowed mother?”
“As soon as she moves,” Bettina said, “she won’t need him anymore.” She raised a finger to the bartender, ordering another round.
“No, I can’t,” Greta said. “I’ve got a flight to hell in the morning.”
A young man in a suit was angled away from his finance pals at the bar, making eyes at Bettina; she winked and smiled at him.
“Can you focus on me for one night?” Greta said.
“So needy,” Bettina said, rolling her eyes.
“I always hoped at some point in my life I’d have the chance to live in Manhattan like you did, and it will probably never happen.” Bettina’s time in New York had completely erased whatever minimal German accent she’d had, while people often asked Greta where she was from.
“At least Emmi still gets to go,” Bettina said.
Greta took the last sip of vodka. “If she can find a place to live.”
“She will.” Bettina shifted on her barstool, crossing her long legs. “You can live vicariously through her. And as for a house swap, it’s not as impossible as you think. There are websites for these things.”
“I’m not having a complete stranger live in my home,” she said.
“Then post something on Instagram, I’ll share it with my friends.”
Greta picked up her phone and scrolled through pictures of her apartment, its high ceilings and cozy lighting. “I don’t want to,” she said.
“It’s this or a Holiday Inn on the side of a freeway,” said Bettina flatly.
Greta breathed in deeply and opened Instagram. “What do I say?”
Bettina took a cigarette out of her purse. “Something like ‘Seeking a house in Dallas beginning ASAP, ideally for one year but flexible.’?”
“I thought you quit smoking,” Greta said, composing a message. “It’s so bad for you.”
“ In exchange ,” Bettina said, “ a gorgeous ‘altbau’ apartment in Berlin’s most boring, bougie neighborhood .”
“Charlottenburg is not boring,” Greta said.
“Fine,” said Bettina, “ in Berlin’s … safest neighborhood .”
Greta wrote most desirable neighborhood . “Anything else?”
“ Perfect for anyone evading arrest. ”
Greta typed Perfect for anyone in need of an escape , adding three exclamation points at the end.
The bartender brought their new drinks and a dog bowl filled with water. After he walked away with the empty glasses, Greta pushed her martini toward the middle of the table. Bettina slid it back toward her, her eyes still following the handsome man who was mingling as if he owned the place.
“Do you know that guy?” Greta asked.
“And add a picture of your balcony,” Bettina said. “Americans get such a hard-on for a good balcony.”
Greta reviewed the photos, hating this entire idea. “What if I get squatters? I’ve heard about people who find these seemingly perfect tenants and then they can never get them out.”
“You won’t get squatters.”
“What if they don’t use coasters? What if they wear their shoes inside?”
“So you’ll refinish a tabletop and clean the floors,” Bettina said, untying the leash from the table leg. “Not the end of the world.”
She was wrong about that; it was never a good idea to tamper with the original finish of antiques unless you absolutely had to. Greta took a breath and tapped Share .
She put her phone down on the table. “But New York,” she said sadly. “Mom has so many stories about growing up there. I wanted to feel more connected to it, more at home.”
“New York’s not going anywhere,” Bettina said. She was on her phone, typing rapidly with her thumbs. “Okay,” she said. “I just reposted. Let the magic begin.” Then she stood up and took her leather jacket from the back of her chair.
Til sensed a change and got to his feet as well, his big body knocking against the table leg. Greta patted his head.
“I’m going outside for a quick smoke,” Bettina said. “I’ll only be a minute.”
“You can leave Til with me,” said Greta.
“It’s okay,” Bettina said. “He needs to pinkel anyway.” She started to follow the good-looking man to the door.
“Bettina,” Greta called after her, a knowing lilt to her voice.
“ Sei kein Baby . I’ll be right back.”
Greta watched her go and then waited, taking small sips from her drink, getting more and more annoyed the longer she sat there. Her phone pinged with an Instagram notification, and she opened the app to see a message: Hey pretty lady sexy you want sugar daddy pay money?DM me!
Trolls. Greta blocked the account.
The bar was getting louder, and Greta drummed her fingers on the table, turning to the door in search of Bettina.
The two men arguing at the next table were deep in conversation, their foreheads pressed together.
Whether this was an escalation of their feud or a reconciliation was impossible to tell.
A man walked up to her, and Greta prepared to gently rebuff his attention. But he was only asking whether he could take Bettina’s barstool.
Again, she got a notification, this time from someone who followed Bettina: My son and his six friends are looking for a place to hang in Europe while they take time off college. No home to exchange, but interested?
No, Greta was not interested. She reached for her drink and took a bigger sip this time.
She folded and refolded her cocktail napkin.
She considered leaving, but she had no desire to talk to Otto, to repack her bags, or even to sleep.
She wondered whether Bettina was coming back at all; it would not be the first time her sister had ditched her in a bar.
She was curious to know whether the two men would patch up their disagreement or go their separate ways. One minute they were kissing, and the next they were gritting their teeth in anger. How would it end?
Greta finished her drink and then started in on Bettina’s.