He held her gaze for a moment.
“Right, you should get going,” she said, unlocking the door for him.
He hesitated in the vestibule, eyeing the falling snow, painted blue and green by the awning’s gentle light.
He bundled up his jacket and stepped outside. “So.” He yawned. It was contagious.
“Good night, Andreas,” she said, fighting her own yawn.
A few snowflakes caught on his beard as he looked up at the lightening sky. “Good morning, Sterling.”
Sterling stopped at Room 13 and in a sleepy daze typed on a piece of paperTall, handsome, short hair, red shirt, mustache. Crying outside church at 3:15.
Fernando’s childlike sketch of the Third Man was pinned on the murder board’s ground floor, by the entrance. His description was below.Tall, handsome, long hair, ponytail, chin mole, white shirt.She connected both figures with a piece of twine and scrawled a question mark on a card between them.
She locked the library, then stopped by Rita’s room, tucked her in, and rubbed her back until she snored.
On her way out, she kissed the white porcelain elephant at the foot of Rita’s bed and whispered, “Keep her safe for me.”
Back in her room, she leaned by the window, watching sunrise glint off Andreas’s pale footprints in the snow. Halfway down theblock, they looped back for a moment, then spun around again and proceeded forward in a line of darker tracks. As if he’d turned and stared at the Hotel long enough for snow to fill his first stretch of footprints. As if he’d considered coming back. As if… for her.
Her thoughts spun back to a few hours ago, like the dial on a rotary telephone, like Andreas’s footprints in the snow, recalling how he’d boxed her in against the wall, his forearm flexing. Like he was holding back. She didn’t let the realization settle.
Her skin tingled, aching for a lover’s touch. She eyed her little black book on her nightstand, flipped open to a random page, and dialed the first number with a coffee cup drawn beside the name, her signal for someone available for morning dates. In this case, more than one someone.
— 31 —Einunddreißig
A serenade ofEine Kleine Nachtmusikroused Sterling. The bright sky said it was afternoon. Her alarm clock had the audacity to agree.
She rose to dress. A few minutes later, Fernando entered with his key.
He skipped greetings and went to make himself tea in the kitchenette. Sterling was still American enough to own a microwave but European enough to boil water in an electric kettle. For hot toddies, darling, not tea. Her fridge was stocked with cheese, and Rita brought fresh bread every two days. Not a vegetable in sight. The only fruits were limes on the bar. So, at least she wouldn’t die of scurvy. Cirrhosis, perhaps.
She emerged from behind her dressing screen, fastening her green work uniform. Fernando was on the couch in his bellhop jacket, stress-cleaning everything within reach.
“You don’t need to do that,” she said.
“Well, someone does,” he said.
She pointed to his tea and offered him something stronger,then settled beside him, pouringMarillenschnapsinto two chipped Murano glasses. They both downed theirs.
He removed his purple bellboy cap, which left a circular indent on his brown hair, set it aside, and took her hands in his.
“Schatzi, sugar tits, darling-dearest-love-of-my-life,” he said.
“Yes,Spatzerl?” she said.
“I fucked up. It’s time I tell you. Please, remember I adore you,” he said.
“Of course. I love you more than ice cream,” she said, squeezing his hands.
“And I love you more than blow jobs. I made a mistake a long time ago. Before you. I was involved with… a woman.”
Sterling gasped, hand to her chest. “You? With awoman?”
“Two, actually.”
She couldn’t picture it. Well, she could but didn’t want to. “Don’t tell me you have akid,” she said. “I’m too young and poor to be an exotic rich auntie.”
