38. Berlin
BERLIN
Adam had given himself a stern talking-to when he’d returned to Berlin.
This was the start of a new chapter. He had left New York City behind for good, bringing all his earthly possessions with him, and he was officially on his own now.
This was it. It was time to settle into Berlin and build a meaningful life.
He had a friend in Greta, so that was a good start.
They had, by sheer coincidence, flown back to Berlin on the very same day, running into each other in front of their building as they got out of their respective cabs, Adam with four huge suitcases and duffel bags and Greta with nothing but a handbag, swollen eyes, and a wadded-up tissue in her fist. He was worried about her, but he hadn’t pried that morning.
Eventually she’d told him, with her usual grace and kindness, that she and Otto were going their separate ways, that she was heartbroken, but no one was to blame, that she would always care about him.
One Saturday, after they’d been back long enough to settle in, he invited her for dinner.
This was not a date. Yes, he was single now, and Greta was too, or was in the process of becoming single, but this was decidedly not the right time for either one of them, especially for her.
He knew this. He felt so strongly about it—the importance of setting his all-consuming, heart-pounding crush on Greta to the side—that he’d invited Bettina for dinner as well, just to make sure there was no misunderstanding.
He put on a clean shirt and brushed his teeth, and then went to the kitchen, where he opened a nice bottle of Sp?tburgunder to let it breathe.
He set the table for three with the new place mats he’d bought for the occasion and took the pork tenderloin and roasted vegetables and Hasselback potatoes—a meal he’d spent the entire day preparing—out of the oven.
There was a gentle rap on the door, and Greta let herself in.
“Hey, you,” he said, finding her in the entry with a box of chocolates in her hand.
“Wow, knockout.” The words slipped out before he could stop himself.
Because Greta was, in fact, a knockout. She was wearing a silk blouse and skirt and shoes that highlighted the curve of her calves.
“Sorry,” he said. “I only meant it’s great to see you.
And yeah, you happen to look great too.”
He was blushing as he kissed her on the cheek, willing himself to cool it.
“Bettina gave me this blouse,” she said, “right off her back actually.”
“It suits you,” he said. “And I love chocolate, thank you. Come on in.” He led her to the kitchen and cleared his throat, saying as casually as he could, “ Was mochtest du trinken? Ein Glas Rotwein? ”
“ Gerne ,” she said, and then looked up, astonished. “Adam, you’re learning German?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, shrugging it off. “I live in Germany, so…”
“That’s wonderful,” she said. “ Wunderbar .”
“ Danke ,” he said, pouring them each a glass. “It’s important, at work especially, but I’m terrible at it.”
“ Gar nicht ,” she said. “I think you sound lovely.”
He was relieved to hear her say that. He’d found a Humboldt University student who agreed to tutor him twice a week and promised he wouldn’t let Adam sound stupid or embarrassing.
“Then I guess I’ll keep at it.” They clinked glasses and went out to his balcony, where it was still warm enough to sit.
He took a matchbox from the windowsill and lit the candle on the table between them.
“How was your day?” he said. Not a scintillating start, but he really did want to know.
“Consequential,” she said. “Vanessa Schultz arranged a meeting with her grandfather at the museum. I had my one chance to lay out the theory about the Vermeer to both him and the director.”
“Greta!” he said, taking in the excitement that flashed in her eyes. “Amazing. Did they listen?”
She shrugged but looked pleased. “I hope so. I guess I’ll find out soon enough.”
“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I think the theory that Vermeer’s daughter painted it makes perfect sense, especially given the hidden figure of the man in the painting. When I looked for it, I could see exactly where he would have been, right behind Maria’s head.”
She turned in surprise. “You went to see the collection?”
“Of course. I’ve been twice actually. Once while you were in Dallas right after it opened. And I went again last week, so I could understand what you’d said about the background of the Vermeer.”
“Thank you, Adam.”
“Oh, it was a pleasure. I’d like to go again sometime—with you,” he said.
“You promised a tour.” At the museum, he’d stood in the middle of the room, turning slowly, to study the paintings, one woman on each canvas, from a pregnant Madonna to a naked prostitute.
“Your collection…,” he said, searching for the right words.
“I don’t know much about art, but I think it’s impressive the way you ask the viewer to consider the role of women and definitions of beauty.
And you must be so proud of the centerpiece, the portrait of the girl with the red headscarf. ”
“Self-portrait,” Greta said, an eyebrow raised.
“Yes,” he said, “self-portrait.”
“Painted by an artist who may never get the credit for it.”
The light from his living room was making Greta look radiant, and her hair was so silky he wondered what it would feel like to bury his face in it.
“I’m on a mission now,” she said, “and I won’t stop until the label beside the painting has Maria’s name on it.”
“I’ll look forward to seeing that,” he said, and raised his glass to her.
A dog was barking from a neighboring apartment.
“Have you heard from Lucy?”
“I talked to her earlier today,” she said. “She and Mason and the girls might go to Troms?, Norway, for a few months. There’s a research institute there that wants him to adapt his DustBunny drones to deice solar panels.”
“So… IceBunnies?”
She smiled. “I guess so, yes.”
A rowdy group of young people walked by on the street below, laughing and singing, wearing matching red and yellow shirts.
“There’s a big soccer game tonight,” she said. “Union Berlin is playing FC Bayern.” Adam could see that her grief, so evident when she first returned from Dallas, seemed to be lifting.
“Maybe we should go to a game sometime,” he said. He would lean into soccer, the same way he was leaning into Currywurst and Wei?bier and everything else Berlin had to offer.
“It’s a lot of fun,” she said, “but it’s hard to get tickets. Bettina and I have gone before.”
He glanced toward the kitchen. “Should we give Bettina a call? Find out what’s keeping her?”
Greta took a sip of her wine and put the glass down. “Actually,” she said, “I forgot to tell you. It turns out Bettina can’t make it tonight.”
“Oh,” he said, “I thought— Is she okay?”
“She’s fine,” Greta said. “Something came up. I hope you’re not too disappointed.”
“Not at all. More food for us,” he said. Was it possible this was the stupidest remark he’d ever made?
The candlelight flickered, and she was watching him with a look he couldn’t read, and then she abruptly stood up. “To be honest, I’m not hungry,” she said.
“Oh,” he said. “I’m sorry, Greta, are you…?” He couldn’t bear to think he’d somehow upset or offended her. He got up as well. “Please don’t go. We can just sit here.”
“I don’t want to sit here,” she said. “I want…” And she stopped herself. Her hands were trembling.
“What? Tell me,” he said, trying to come up with something to say to set her at ease. “What do you want?”
“I need—” She took a step closer, gazing at him with curiosity, with hope. “Are you really asking?”
“Of course,” he said. “Anything.”
She put her hands on his shoulders and slowly pushed him back into his chair.
And—as he caught his breath—she sat on his lap and began kissing him, his face, his neck, his lips.
Kissing Greta had been his fantasy ever since he’d first met her, but now, feeling her hair brush his cheek, her breath warm his skin, he was almost too stunned to kiss her back.
“Are you sure?” he said, pulling back to look at her; her eyes were shining, eager. “This? This is what you want?”
But Greta was not interested in talking and so neither was he.
She pressed her mouth to his as he pulled her body closer to him, and closer still, until the rest of the world around them—the city, the people, the dog barking, the candle flickering, and the dinner he’d made for her with devotion and pure love—faded away.
As far as Adam was concerned, they were the only two people in Berlin.