in the Cranach gallery. I’m cross with myself. But I can’t quite face going back.
The rain comes on heavier, sheeting down, so my hair and my shoulders are drenched. I know I’m being stupid. I turn, retrace my steps. When the doorman sees my ticket, he lets me back inside.
The Cranach room is still crowded. But at least there’s no one sitting on the sofa where I sat. I can’t see the umbrella. Perhaps I put it down on the floor; perhaps it slid under the sofa. I feel disproportionately upset: lost, homesick, and shivery; unsure where to catch the tram that will take me back to Schottentor. I have such a yearning for Brockenhurst, for my mother.
I kneel, peer under the sofa, feeling very self-conscious. People will think I’m crazy. The umbrella isn’t there.
I straighten. The room spins: I take a step backwards to steady myself. I feel myself bump into someone; briefly, I feel all the warmth of the body I bumped against pressing into my back.
‘Oh.’
I’m intensely embarrassed. I spin round.
‘I’m so terribly sorry,’ I say.
A man – perhaps ten years older than me; tall, thin, dark-haired, with rather studious wire-rimmed glasses. Startled.
‘Oh. Are you?’ His face falls, rather comically. ‘I don’t think I am,’ he says.
He’s standing so close I can see the gold flecks in his eyes. He has pale skin and a pensive look, his head slightly turned to one side, like the listening Jesus in the
Landauer
Altarpiece
. He’s beautiful.
He takes a step back, to establish a more appropriate distance between us.
‘But perhaps we should start again? With a slightly more formal introduction?’ he says.
He has a complex expression – surprise, interest; something else, something more perilous.
I nod. I can’t take my eyes off him.
‘I’m Harri,’ he says. ‘Harri Reznik.’
‘I’m Stella Whittaker,’ I say.
It’s as though I can still feel the warmth of his body going through me.
‘You’re English?’ he says.
I’m appalled that he can tell so easily.
‘Is my accent really that bad?’
He laughs a little.
‘No, it’s very good indeed. But Stella Whittaker is an English name, I think?’
I have a sudden doubt. Should I be speaking to him like this – to a stranger, a man I don’t know, and so openly, in a public place? I push my doubt from my mind. I’m intensely aware of the scent of cedar that hangs about him. I have a strange sensation; it’s as though I’m suspended in some high place, perhaps on the Ferris wheel in the Prater, with below me, a great glimmering fall of bright air.
‘I came here to study. I’m a music student,’ I say.
‘What kind of music?’ he asks. ‘No, don’t tell me. Let me guess.’
He studies me – that look he has, pensive, his head on one side. I feel the flare of a blush in my face.
‘You’re not a singer, I suspect,’ he tells me. ‘Singers tend to be rather flamboyant…’
I feel a sag of disappointment. I wish I was flamboyant. I would like to be Anneliese, with a damson-coloured fedora and the highest, spindliest heels.
‘Show me your hands,’ he asks me.
I hold out my hands. They are shaking slightly. I know he notices this. He smiles, as though my hands please him.
‘A pianist,’ he says, very definitely.
This is dazzlingly clever. I think briefly of the gypsy woman at the Westbahnhof – how she scared me.
‘How on earth can you tell?’
‘Long fingers,’ he says. ‘And a pianist has to be solitary – you have to spend a lot of time on your own.’ His voice seems to resonate in my body. ‘Pianists are often quite retiring. And I think you’re a little reserved? Perhaps a little shy? Except when you go round bumping into perfect strangers, of course…’
We stand there for a moment, looking at one another. My hair is drenched; a wet strand falls into my eyes. He reaches out and pushes the hair from my face; his finger just grazes my skin, but I can feel the warmth in him. My breath is taken
The rain comes on heavier, sheeting down, so my hair and my shoulders are drenched. I know I’m being stupid. I turn, retrace my steps. When the doorman sees my ticket, he lets me back inside.
The Cranach room is still crowded. But at least there’s no one sitting on the sofa where I sat. I can’t see the umbrella. Perhaps I put it down on the floor; perhaps it slid under the sofa. I feel disproportionately upset: lost, homesick, and shivery; unsure where to catch the tram that will take me back to Schottentor. I have such a yearning for Brockenhurst, for my mother.
I kneel, peer under the sofa, feeling very self-conscious. People will think I’m crazy. The umbrella isn’t there.
I straighten. The room spins: I take a step backwards to steady myself. I feel myself bump into someone; briefly, I feel all the warmth of the body I bumped against pressing into my back.
‘Oh.’
I’m intensely embarrassed. I spin round.
‘I’m so terribly sorry,’ I say.
A man – perhaps ten years older than me; tall, thin, dark-haired, with rather studious wire-rimmed glasses. Startled.
‘Oh. Are you?’ His face falls, rather comically. ‘I don’t think I am,’ he says.
He’s standing so close I can see the gold flecks in his eyes. He has pale skin and a pensive look, his head slightly turned to one side, like the listening Jesus in the
Landauer
Altarpiece
. He’s beautiful.
He takes a step back, to establish a more appropriate distance between us.
‘But perhaps we should start again? With a slightly more formal introduction?’ he says.
He has a complex expression – surprise, interest; something else, something more perilous.
I nod. I can’t take my eyes off him.
‘I’m Harri,’ he says. ‘Harri Reznik.’
‘I’m Stella Whittaker,’ I say.
It’s as though I can still feel the warmth of his body going through me.
‘You’re English?’ he says.
I’m appalled that he can tell so easily.
‘Is my accent really that bad?’
He laughs a little.
‘No, it’s very good indeed. But Stella Whittaker is an English name, I think?’
I have a sudden doubt. Should I be speaking to him like this – to a stranger, a man I don’t know, and so openly, in a public place? I push my doubt from my mind. I’m intensely aware of the scent of cedar that hangs about him. I have a strange sensation; it’s as though I’m suspended in some high place, perhaps on the Ferris wheel in the Prater, with below me, a great glimmering fall of bright air.
‘I came here to study. I’m a music student,’ I say.
‘What kind of music?’ he asks. ‘No, don’t tell me. Let me guess.’
He studies me – that look he has, pensive, his head on one side. I feel the flare of a blush in my face.
‘You’re not a singer, I suspect,’ he tells me. ‘Singers tend to be rather flamboyant…’
I feel a sag of disappointment. I wish I was flamboyant. I would like to be Anneliese, with a damson-coloured fedora and the highest, spindliest heels.
‘Show me your hands,’ he asks me.
I hold out my hands. They are shaking slightly. I know he notices this. He smiles, as though my hands please him.
‘A pianist,’ he says, very definitely.
This is dazzlingly clever. I think briefly of the gypsy woman at the Westbahnhof – how she scared me.
‘How on earth can you tell?’
‘Long fingers,’ he says. ‘And a pianist has to be solitary – you have to spend a lot of time on your own.’ His voice seems to resonate in my body. ‘Pianists are often quite retiring. And I think you’re a little reserved? Perhaps a little shy? Except when you go round bumping into perfect strangers, of course…’
We stand there for a moment, looking at one another. My hair is drenched; a wet strand falls into my eyes. He reaches out and pushes the hair from my face; his finger just grazes my skin, but I can feel the warmth in him. My breath is taken
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