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In this way, the three-quarter-hour drive to Heidelberg passes in no time at all. With all the giggling with Pauline’s customer, who is continuing on to Mannheim, we almost miss getting off at Heidelberg’s main station.
“Whew,” I gasp as we jump off the train. “That was close!”
“Ouch!” Pauline almost loses her balance, and I can just barely grab her by the elbow.
“What’s wrong?”
“Crap, I twisted my ankle!” Leaning on my arm, she lifts her foot and moves it carefully. The sound of her sucking in the air makes me involuntarily feel her pain.
I shake my head, pointing across to the opposite track where the suburban trains back toward Mosbach and Osterburken are announced. “Then we’d better turn back. It doesn’t make any sense to keep going…”
“I think you’re nuts!” If Pauline had a hand free, she’d probably tap her forehead, as aghast as she’s staring at me right now. “I got those cards six months ago!”
“But your foot, your pain, you’re not having any fun then, and you’re torturing yourself…”
“When I have fun, it’s still me who decides!” she cuts me short, linking her arms energetically with mine. “And I just did!”
After we leave the station concourse at a snail’s pace, Pauline—while grumbling—at least allows me to hail us a cab to the location not far away.
The grumpy driver only waves me off after I have given him the address.
But Pauline, with her pitiful limp, can persuade him to take the tour despite the ridiculously short distance.
We quickly reach the sober cube of the new hotel building, in which one would not expect such an atmospheric lounge.
I pull out my wallet and generously round up the six euros fifty cents on the taximeter. “Keep the change.” I hand the driver a ten-euro bill and quickly get out to help Pauline out of the back seat.
She bounces around on one leg on the sidewalk rather haphazardly at first. After she slipped out of her murderous shoes in the cab, her foot protested by swelling against being squeezed into this confinement again.
Again, I grab her by the elbow. Half leading, half supporting her, I move her to the small wall marking off the hotel area from the sidewalk. “Why didn’t you listen to me?” I can’t help grumbling. “We would have been better off taking the next train back to Mosbach. You can have a great party at home, can’t you?”
“Nonsense, you can’t. You’re acting like my foot just fell off.” Pauline snorts as she plops down on the stone wall cover. “It looks worse than it is. Hand me your shoes.”
“My… what?” Puzzled, I look down at my black sneakers.
“We used to trade shoes, remember?” By my sleeve, she pulls me down beside her on the wall. “Or have your feet grown again in the last three years?”
“Of course not,” I concede, untying the laces. “Thirty-seven, same as ever.” I hand her the first shoe. “And you want me to walk barefoot?”
“Of course not!” she echoes emphatically, presenting me with her pumps by holding their dainty ankle straps. “You’re putting on my brand-new cuties.”
I stare at the heels. “That’s at least five inches five! I can’t take a step in these without falling over.”
Pauline stands again, testing the comfort of my canvas sneakers. “Nonsense. They have platforms in the front, so the heel is actually only three inches high.”
“My highest heels are two,” I grumble, but slip into the pumps—because walking barefoot is an even worse idea.
“You’ll see, you won’t walk in them; you’ll float in them like a goddess!”
Ha, ha. Unfortunately, I don’t stand up like a goddess, but rather like a drunken sailor in ten on the Beaufort scale. Somehow, I manage to keep my balance and dare to take the first cautious step.
“More from the hips,” Pauline comments behind me on my angular stalking. “You have to let your pelvis follow the beat by moving. Think of it as dancing.”
Dancing?Okay, Pauline and I were in dance class together back in middle school. Instead of the cool guys we had hoped for, only mummy’s boys smelling of Nivea cream took part. So in turn, we took the lead role for each other. I should still have the typical hip-swaying of rumba in my bones.
“Ohlálá!” Pauline snaps her fingers to the three-fourth beat of the rumba, cheering me on, and giggling.
“If we keep this up…” Giggling, I open the glass door to the lounge bar for her “…we won’t even need cocktails to get going.”
