27. New York
NEW YORK
Greta and Emmi emerged from the Midtown Tunnel into a bright, beautiful Manhattan afternoon.
If there was any gloominess to the day, it was coming from Emmi, whose mood had suddenly and inexplicably turned sour the day before.
She had barely spoken a word all day, sleeping, or pretending to sleep, throughout the flight.
She was now angled away from Greta, chin in her hand, staring out the window.
“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” Greta asked once again as their cab lurched down Second Avenue.
“It’s nothing,” Emmi said, crossing her arms. “I’m just nervous about my internship.”
Greta did not believe her. “Are you mad I came along? Because I’m not going to get in your way—”
“It’s nothing to do with you,” Emmi said. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Greta dropped it.
Their cab made two stops, the first in the East Village, where Emmi had found a sublet through a friend of a friend.
From the street, the building appeared to be in disrepair, making Greta worry about rats, roaches, and—because of the broken light over the front door—muggers.
She hugged Emmi goodbye on the sidewalk, reminding her of their dinner plans with her grandmother that evening, and got back in the cab to cross town.
It felt strange to be neither in Dallas nor in Berlin, and Greta wondered whether Lucy would find it strange too, to be taking a trip within a trip.
That morning Greta had unearthed the letter Lucy asked for.
It was buried in a box marked Private. The flap on the envelope was unsealed and the envelope itself, with its Danish stamp, looked worn, as though it had been opened dozens of times before, and yet Greta kept her promise and did not read it.
Instead, she slid the letter into a cardboard FedEx mailer and handed it to the clerk, curious to know Lucy’s secret.
Her hotel was on Little West Twelfth in the Meatpacking District, although “hotel,” as Lucy had warned, was not quite the right name for it.
There was no sign, only the number of the building above the door.
Greta used a code to let herself into the brownstone, a former brothel that, according to the website, had been renovated in a manner that stayed true to the building’s scandalous past. She pushed the door open and wheeled her suitcase inside, feeling like she was trespassing in a private home.
The entry was lit by an Art Deco chandelier and paneled in rich mahogany.
Through a beaded curtain, Greta could see the parlor with its soft velvet couches and red-tasseled table lamps.
On the far side of the room was a bar stocked with glasses and bottles of “hooch,” arranged in neat rows with hand-scrawled, hokey labels: Bathtub Gin and Bootleg Whiskey .
According to the text message she’d received, her room was on the third floor, and after walking up the carpeted stairway, lined with black-and-white photographs of women in varying states of undress, she found a door with her room number.
She entered another code and pushed open the door to…
a boudoir. Attached to a medallion in the middle of the ceiling, sheer red fabric draped over a wrought iron bed, the literal centerpiece of the room.
Greta put her purse down on a chaise lounge, upholstered in black velvet.
On the wall beside her hung framed copies of Picasso’s drawings of couples engaged in sexual acts.
The tall windows facing the street were adorned with heavy brocade drapes, and in the corner, a gold-framed mirror was tilted against the wall, reflecting the bed back at itself.
Be aroused , the room seemed to shout. Greta was not so easily manipulated.
There was no luggage rack. There was no ironing board. The lighting was dim.
She unpacked her bag, hanging her clothes on an open rod.
Her tailored blouses and slacks didn’t belong here; this room called for satin robes and silk negligees.
She brought her toiletry bag into the bathroom and perched it on the edge of the pedestal sink.
The walls were covered in dark bronze subway tiles, and there was a black claw-footed bathtub, big enough for two.
Instead of a minibar, there was a QR code.
The management offered free delivery from four restaurants, a liquor store, and a place called the Pleasure Chest. Curious, Greta clicked on the link, and when she realized it was a store for sex toys and other unmentionables, she immediately closed it again.
No, as Lucy had suspected, this hotel did not suit her.
She took Benjamin Binstock’s glossy book to the chaise and flipped it open to the colorplates.
There were five Vermeers on display at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, two of which the author claimed were painted by the oldest daughter, Maria.
No one, not even Sebastian Schultz, could stop her from going to see the paintings while she was here, from doing a little investigating for herself. What was the harm in looking?
She sat on the chaise and called Otto.
“You arrived?” he said. “ Wunderbar . How is Emmi?”
“Still grumpy. I don’t know what’s upset her.”
“I’m sure it’s only nerves,” he said. “Send me a picture from tonight. I want to see the three generations of women together in New York.”
“Good idea,” she said. “I’ll ask my mother’s young boyfriend to take it.”
Otto laughed. “You are getting some funny ideas in your head these days,” he said, “about your mother, about those paintings. You aren’t one to get caught up in Verschworungen .”
“These aren’t conspiracies,” said Greta. “They’re possibilities. They’re questions.”
“As long as you are keeping a klaren Kopf ,” he said.
“Don’t I always?” But it was true that her head was not as clear as it should be.
Although she’d stayed silent, ignoring the art editor from the newspaper who’d contacted her again, the Vermeer predicament was making her forgetful.
“Could you do me a favor, Otto? I never told that woman next door—Sylvie—that I’m missing her party.
Could you knock on her door? And tell her I’m very sorry to miss it. ”
“Yes, I will tell her. And I’m sorry I couldn’t come along with you in New York.”
“Me too,” she said. But she looked at the bed taking center stage in the room, inviting and hedonistic with its satin sheets and plush covers, and was glad Otto wasn’t there to see it. To be rejected in this setting would be too painful to bear.
Greta met Emmi in Union Square, a halfway point between her hotel and the East Village, and they took a cab uptown to meet Greta’s mother. Emmi sat, staring glumly out the window, answering questions about her sublet and her new roommates without any detail or enthusiasm.
Greta was done keeping quiet. They were in bumper-to-bumper traffic on Madison Avenue, which was the perfect opportunity to make her daughter talk. “Since you’re stuck here with me for forty-something blocks,” she said, “why don’t you tell me what’s wrong.”
“It’s nothing,” Emmi said.
“It’s not nothing,” Greta said, “and you’ll feel better if you get it off your chest.”
“I don’t want to make a thing out of it,” Emmi said, “and it’s probably Quatsch anyway.”
“So tell me,” Greta said.
Emmi turned to face her, looking more angry than sad. “I heard from someone in Berlin that Monika and Karl are together. Like together .”
“That’s absurd,” Greta said. “Monika would never— Who told you that?”
“Someone who saw them and immediately assumed they were a couple because they were so ‘close.’?”
“Maybe it just looked that way. They’ve been friends for years.”
“But you know how Monika is going back to Heiligenhafen? Apparently, they’re going to the beach together.”
Greta clenched her teeth at the idea that Monika and Karl would betray her daughter. But the last thing she wanted to do was feed the fire. “Let’s take a deep breath. I’m sure there’s been a misunderstanding,” Greta said. “You know rumors can take on a life of their own.”
“I know,” said Emmi, sounding frustrated, “and I don’t want to think the worst.” She looked out the window as the cab inched along. “So how do I find out for sure? I’m thousands of miles away—”
“You have to give them the chance to explain,” Greta said. “Be direct and ask for the truth.”
“Right,” said Emmi, a serious expression taking over her lovely face. “I should confront them.”
“Of course,” said Greta, “and then you can put this idea out of your mind because frankly, you’ve got more important things to focus on this summer.”
Emmi nodded and then turned to her. “I’m sorry I won’t have much time to see you while you’re here,” she said.
“Oh, don’t worry about me,” said Greta. “I’ve got things to do here myself. I just want to know that you’re okay.”
But Emmi had turned her attention to the passing buildings out the window, a slightly tortured look on her face.
When the cab pulled up in front of the Pierre, Greta paid, and she and Emmi stepped out into the warm summer evening.
Before they got to the door of the hotel, Greta spotted Tobias walking toward the hotel from down the street.
She hadn’t seen him in at least ten years and was surprised to find he’d graduated from the grunge look he’d sported in his twenties.
He was dressed in khakis and a navy blazer, his damp hair parted on the side and neatly combed.
She and Emmi waited until he saw them.
“Greta,” he said, smiling at the sight of her and setting down a Bergdorf Goodman shopping bag. “ Schon dich zu sehen! You look gorgeous, as always.” He kissed her on both cheeks.
Tobias’s English was spoken with a posh British accent, since he’d gone to some boarding school in the UK when he was quite young, the first of many places his parents sent him to get him in line.
“And you must be Lillian’s favorite granddaughter,” he said, turning to shake Emmi’s hand. “I think I met you once when you were a baby.”