Page 28 of Flight of Dreams

“Oh shit.”

Gertrud scrambles over Leonhard and stands stark naked in the middle of the room, thinking. She presses the heels of her hands against her temples, forcing her mind into submission. Forcing it to slow. Caution is not one of Gertrud’s greater attributes, and she throws it to the wind now. She checks the watch on Leonhard’s limp wrist. Two a.m. Her decision is made before she has time to stop and consider the consequences. She gathers her discarded clothing from the floor and dresses herself in the dark. Runs fingers through her hair. Pinches her cheeks.

Gertrud places a tender kiss on Leonhard’s cheek and quietly slips out the door. The bathrooms are open at all hours and well lit. Thank goodness. So she’s able to inspect her appearance with greater care before heading toward the bar. It will close in one hour, and she desperately needs a glass of wine and a good cigarette—something she hasn’t enjoyed since becoming pregnant with Egon. The doctors told her she needn’t quit, that smoking was a benign pleasure, but she had given it up anyway. The same way she’d given up coffee and drinking and a distinctly unladylike penchant for bicycling five miles a day.

“Oh. Back again?” the bartender asks. He takes in her wrinkled clothing, her disheveled hair with a curious tilt of his head.

Schulze. His name is Schulze, she thinks. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“And your husband?”

“That’s not something he struggles with. Unfortunately.”

“And what can I do for you, Frau…”

“Adelt.”

“A nightcap perhaps? I make a fine hot toddy.”

She had come for wine—Sauvignon blanc in particular—but something about the idea of whiskey and cinnamon, honey and lemon, cloves and a warm mug very much appeals to her right now. “That would be wonderful. And a pack of Chesterfields, if you have them.”

“I do have them, but I can’t give you a pack. I can bring you two to start with, and then more if needed. But the packs are not allowed out of the bar, and the cigarettes themselves stay in the smoking room. I’m sure you understand the need for this?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Follow me.” Schulze motions toward the air-lock door.

There is only one other passenger in the room, and Gertrud stops short inside the door. His jacket is off. His tie is loose. And despite the fact that there are no fewer than five empty glasses on the table before him, his eyes are clear, quite different from how he looked on the bus that afternoon. The American has dark hair, parted down the middle, and a stray piece hangs across his forehead. It has been a long day for everyone, apparently. His mustache is neat and trimmed, but his lips are pursed. He is not happy to see her. The American slides something off the edge of the table—some sort of pendant on a ball chain—and tucks it in his suit pocket.

“Forgive me,” Schulze says, “where are my manners? Frau Adelt, this is Edward Douglas. He’s traveling home to visit family in America. Herr Douglas, this is Frau Adelt, a journalist, I believe?”

She nods when he looks at her in question.

Perhaps it’s because her mind is already ticking along faster than she can control, but Gertrud makes the first move. “Pleased to meet you,” she says, extending her hand.

The American takes it. “Charmed.”

“Do you mind if I sit here?” Gertrud succeeds in summoning a perfectly guileless tone. “My husband is asleep, and I detest drinking alone.”

“Of course.” He stands and pulls out a chair from the table, the one farthest from him, she notes.

Having seen her neatly situated, Schulze returns to the bar to prepare her drink. Gertrud does not speak as she waits. Neither does the American. They simply survey one another, like two predators circling. Schulze returns with a tray and places it on the table, and she thanks him. Takes a sip of her hot toddy. Assures him that everything is to her liking.

The bartender lifts one of the cigarettes from the tray and pulls a pack of matches from his pocket. He is the keeper of flame on this airship. To Gertrud it appears as though he guards it with his life.

“May I?” Schulze asks.

“Please.”

A sweet, pungent smoke drifts from the glowing end of her Chesterfield. She inhales once to show the bartender her gratitude but then waits until the air-lock door clicks shut behind him before she speaks. She looks at the American. “Who are you?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“But I asked first.”

“You heard the introduction. I’m American. I’m traveling home to visit my family in New Jersey.”

“You’re also a very, very good liar.” She looks at the empty glasses on the table. Shakes her head.