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For an endlessly long time, we sit next to each other in silence.
Well, probably it is not more than a few seconds. But it seems like hours to me. Hours in which I become painfully aware of my physical closeness to Celine. I curse Jolly Jumper, who reacts so violently to her. To distract him and me I visualize the scowling features of my gray-haired piano teacher. And as hoped: her frustration at my shortcomings, poured into wrinkles and flabby flesh, frees my mind from the all-consuming waves of desire.
“Crazy,” Celine finally breaks the silence between us. Extending her index finger, she strikes the four-stroke h key. Once, twice, a third, and a fourth time.
The thin thrum of the hammer on the strings tames in its clarity the sense of my confusion.
I pick up the note, transfer it over three octaves down, and begin the first bars ofLife on Mars.Instrumental. Because my voice doesn’t even remotely come close toDavid Bowie’scrystalline sound.
“So, it’s really true, then,” Celine whispers as I finally lower my hands to my thighs. “You’re playing here at theTurquoise Piano Lounge. Where celebrated star pianists usually shake hands. Plus: I know you. Oh my God!”
Her phrase helps me out of my embarrassment at her praise. “Hey,” I say, nudging her with my right elbow. “Didn’t we settle that a long time ago? You can call me Philipp by all means. God isn’t required at all.”
Her head jerks over to me, a flash of her eyes meeting mine before she punishes me with a jab of her incomparably pointed elbow. She narrows her eyelids to slits. “Just as brazenly self-absorbed as the first day,” she chides me, but her facial expressions speak a different language. “I can’t think what came over me to lend you money?”
“The prospect of a reliable interest rate?” I suggest. “And the certainty I would never lie to my business partner?”
“Mmm,” she murmurs, “touché. It wouldn’t have been economical to turn down this investment opportunity. But as for the other point…” She scans me with high concentration. “No lies? Then tell me: did Pauline wish for the song?”
Pauline?I straighten up and let my eyes wander. “Your friend’s here, too? I haven’t seen her in a while.”
“So, it wasn’t Pauline who wanted to hear the song?”
Is there… disappointment tugging at the corners of her mouth?“I don’t know.” I shrug. Then I stretch and retrieve the note from the piano lid. “The only thing I get is this list. Maybe you recognize her handwriting?”
Her eyes fly over the lines. From her profile, I see her frown and tilt her head. “No, Pauline didn’t write that.” With a soft snort, she hands the paper back to me. “It was just a weird idea of mine, anyway. Even if it took me ages to get back from the bar with the drinks, with her broken foot, she never would have made it to you and back in that time.”
“Broken foot? What happened?”
“Oh…” Celine purses her lips. “She twisted her ankle getting off the suburban train.”
“Then that just happened?” My brain combines what I’ve heard with greater delay. “Does she need a doctor? And, why didn’t you say so in the first place? I can drive Pauline to the emergency room.”
“Pauline? Nonsense.” Celine rises quickly. “She doesn’t need you! I tried to tell her we’d turn around right then and there. Instead, she insisted it was nothing out of the ordinary. Just the combination of her scatterbrainedness, uneven pavement, and improper footwear.”
“Improper footwear?” I can’t help it. I have to smirk looking at the pumps on Celine’s feet, whose dainty ankle straps contrast starkly with killer heels. “Then what’s this?”
“This?” She looks down at herself. “These are the evildoers,” she says and moves off with teetering steps, leaving me with the ravenous feeling I said something wrong.
Just: what?
Women.The next day, I can’t get the evening out of my head which went completely wrong. Fortunately, I’m not in the parlor. As much as the scene meanders through my mind over and over again, I would hardly be able to do a clean tattoo. Instead, the final inspection of quite a few trades on the construction site is coming up.
If everything goes smoothly, we’ll be moving in two weeks. I’m not worried about the last finishing touches of the interior. Even though I’m still missing an eye-catcher for the two-story hall. Most of the effort goes into planning the inevitable housewarming party. The caterers, beverage suppliers, and the three bands I have booked seem to need my decision for every little question.
Just then, my cell phone rings again. “Sorry,” I ask for a time-out from the fitter setting up the built-in cabinets from IKEA and pull it out of my pocket.
Celine, the display reads.
The phone almost falls out of my hand as I answer it with sweaty fingers. I clear my throat and announce myself in a deliberately businesslike manner: “Desert-Ink—Tattoos by Sandtmann. You’re talking to Philipp Sandtmann. What can I do for you?”
“Hello, Philipp.” Celine’s breathing comes from the microphone. “It’s Celine.”
I know.But I don’t say that. Instead, “Hello, Celine.”She’s not for you. Taboo. Belongs to another man.
“Hello, Philipp,” she repeats herself. “I’m calling because… I wanted to ask you something.”
I thought so.“Yes?”
