London felt a spasm of indecision.
Should I sit at the table with him? she wondered.
Given how distantly he’d been behaving lately, she wasn’t at allsure she’d be welcome.
She walked over to his table and asked cautiously, “May I joinyou?”
Emil looked up from his book as if surprised to be spoken to.
“Of course,” he said with a slight smile, then went right back tohis reading.
He looked and sounded almost as if London were a stranger and hewas only trying to be polite. She wondered whether it might be best to look forsomeplace else to sit, but she figured that just walking away would make thingseven more awkward than they already were.
As London slipped into a chair on the other side of the table,she saw that Emil was reading a collection of poems by Rainer Maria Rilke. Shehappened to like the early twentieth-century Bohemian-Austrian poet, althoughshe’d only read his work in translation. She was tempted to break the ice byasking Emil to read her a poem aloud in the German original.
But Emil seemed to be taking no notice of her presence.
Instead, London picked up the menu and started to look it over.
She was relieved when a waitress dressed like their hostess in ablack dress, white old-fashioned apron, and white fluffy hat came over and tooktheir orders. Then the two of them fell silent again.
London was feeling more awkward by the moment.
“Emil, is there something wrong?” she asked carefully.
Emil lowered the book and squinted at her curiously over hisreading glasses.
“How do you mean?” he asked.
Yes, that’s what I’d like to know, London wanted to say.
Instead she said, “Well, things seem to be … a little off betweenus.”
Emil tilted his head and knitted his brow.
“Off?” he said. “How so?”
London stammered, “I—I’m not sure, exactly. But you’ve been veryquiet. Toward me, I mean.”
Emil leaned back as if in surprise.
“Really? I was not aware of that.”
He sat looking at her as if he expected her to explain herselffurther. For a moment, London didn’t know how to put the matter into words.Then she remembered something Amy had said to her yesterday.
“Maybe he doesn’t like being accused of murder.”
Of course, as she’d told Amy at the time, London hadn’t accusedEmil of anything.
But even so …
She took a deep breath and said, “Emil, I’m sorry I ever imagined…”
“Imagined what?”
“Well, that you might have been guilty of … you know.”
Emil’s lips formed into a flicker of a smile.
“Oh, there is no need to apologize. You simply had to followclues wherever they happened to lead you. And as it happened, they temporarilyled you toward me. It could hardly be helped. It is—what is the Englishphrase?—‘water under the dam,’ as far as I am concerned.”
Of course, London knew he really meant to say “water under thebridge.” Sometimes she’d gently correct him over little mistakes like that. Butthat didn’t seem like a good idea right now.
He shrugged slightly and added, “As for my being quiet … well, itis just my personality, I suppose. I can get quite introverted at times. Pleasedo not let it bother you.”
Then he lifted his reading glasses and went right back to readinghis book.
Does that explain it? London wondered.
She’d only known Emil for a few days, which was hardly longenough to get a sense of his moods. And he certainly wasn’t being deliberatelyunpleasant toward her, at least not at the moment. In fact, he seemed to bequite sincere.
I guess I’d better get used to his moods, she thought. Shedidn’t plan to get involved with him, or anybody else right now. But she didhope to regain their good working relationship.
She gazed around at the rest of the people she’d brought on thistour. They were chattering and smiling and seemed to be having a goodtime—which meant that, between the two of them, she and Emil had been doing agood job. Even Audrey Bolton seemed to be carrying on a conversation with herlunch companions.
It was a lovely setting here on the bank of the beautiful Danube.Those spectral eddies swirling around the pilings of the ancient bridge made italmost easy to believe the fanciful story Emil had told about how it had gottenbuilt. And the aroma of sausages on the grill promised that a satisfying mealwas well on the way.
In fact, the waitress soon returned and placed their orders onthe table. As London looked down into a dish of sauerkraut topped off with agenerous row of grilled sausages, she wondered briefly whether she could eatthe entire meal.
Well, I am pretty hungry, she realized.
Then she took a bite of thebratwurst. The taste of garlic was rich without being overwhelming, and themeat was smoky from being prepared on an open grill. Her taste buds detectedjust the right flavorings of pimentos, cloves, and marjoram. Elsa Schricker’slegendary mustard was pleasantly flavored with honey and horseradish, and thebed of yeasty sauerkraut was also delicious.
She sipped the clear, foamy lager,which was cold and refreshing after the morning’s activities. Everything seemedto be just right.
Yes, she decided, I can eat it all.
By the time London finished herlunch, Emil had gone back to reading his Rilke poems, and neither of themseemed to have anything to say to each other. Seeing that others in the tourgroup were still enjoying their meals and multiple drinks, she got up to take alook around the little restaurant building.
Peeking inside, she saw that thecooks were working cheerfully over their fiery grill. The hostess andwaitresses bustled back and forth, keeping their customers happy.
On the outside wall of the buildingwas a large bulletin board covered with a collage of messages andadvertisements, including a poster announcing the line-up for the upcomingBavarian Jazz Weekend. Some of the smaller messages advertised boat rides andpersonal tour guides and classes of all kinds.
Just before she turned away, onethumbtacked message caught London’s eye. Although it was mostly covered over byother notices, its opening words captured her attention.
Sprachleher zu mieten.
Translating aloud, London said, “Languagetutor for hire.”
For a moment, she wasn’t sure whythose words gave her a peculiar
