Then she remembered the woman shemet back in Salzburg telling her that Mom had been working as an itinerantlanguage tutor.
London gasped aloud.
Is it possible … ? she wondered.
She pushed aside the tangle ofmessages to view the entire note.
Language tutor for hire.
I teach mostly English, butother languages as well, for students at all levels, children and adults.
Contact Fern Weh.
London’s heart sank. That was nother mother’s name.
But she asked herself—what did sheexpect?
To accidentally come across apersonal ad left by Mom herself? That would have been too amazing to believe.
Fern Weh, she thought.
She wondered whether the namemight be Asian.
She turned and saw that her tourgroup all seemed ready to leave.
Without quite knowing why, shetore off one of the little dangling tags with Fern Weh’s phone number and putit in her pocket. Then she and Emil gathered the group together, and they allheaded back to the Nachtmusik.
London was glad to see that the passengers all looked well-fedand satisfied.
The next leg of this trip should be smooth and easy, shethought. At least as far as the passengers are concerned.
She’d been warned that tomorrow’s leg of the trip might berougher going. But surely their brand-new high-tech riverboat would be up toany challenge.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Nachtmusik was sinking.
London felt it again—that oddsensation of slowly dropping downward. And she knew it wasn’t just her imagination.
It was very late at night, and shewas standing at the rail on the open top deck of the ship. All she could seewas a massive, blank concrete wall that was weirdly illuminated by massiveindustrial floodlights.
Sitting by her side, Sir Reggie letout an unsettled little whine.
“I know, Sir Reggie,” she said. “I’mhaving trouble getting used to it too.”
The Nachtmusik was slowlydescending, foot-by-foot, down into a lock on the Main-Danube Canal.
This was the ninth lock the boathad passed through since navigating from the Danube into the canal earlier thatday. London had never been on this canal before, but she knew its route. Itstretched between the Danube to the south and the Main River to the north,making it possible to travel by water all the way from the Black Sea to theNorth Sea. The Nachtmusik’s remarkable itinerary, rare among river tourboats, would be impossible without it.
She was finding it a strangeexperience, especially in contrast with their trip until now. Completed in1992, nothing about the canal felt “Old World.” It felt very modern, very man-made,and very different from the river cruise so far.
The canal carved a narrow,monotonously direct route through the hills, forests, and cities of Bavaria. Infact, it sometimes seemed more like a modern highway than a river. In places,the canal rose above the level of the land surrounding it. The waterway evenbridged some highways on its own overpasses. More than once, London had glanceddown from a deck or a window to see cars driving below her.
And then there were the locks.
Boats eventually had to be raisedto more than 3,000 feet above sea level to cross this countryside. So from timeto time the Nachtmusik had to stop between massive gates where the waterwas adjusted to the next level. At first the locks had lifted the Nachtmusikhigher and higher. But now the ship was descending, and it would continue todescend until its arrival in Bamberg.
Tonight the strange sounds andmotions had made it impossible for London to sleep, and Sir Reggie had beenrestless too. They had joined a handful of passengers up here on the Rondodeck, where they could at least see what was going on. Now the others hadwandered away, to bed or perhaps to the bar.
London stood listening to therumbling and churning of the water and massive machinery as the boat slippedlower and lower along the wall of the lock. Sir Reggie whined again and nudgedher ankle, so she picked him up in her arms.
“It will be easier going after weget to Bamberg,” she told him. “I promise.”
In a way, this descent seemed aneerie contrast to the tour group’s underground visit to the DocumentNeupfarrplatz. The descent into that archaeological site had taken the groupdeep into European history, while this descent seemed to lead …
Where?
Nowhere, I guess.
For the first time since she’d arrived in Europe, London feltlike she was a long, long way from home.
But where was home, exactly?
She didn’t ask herself the question very often. But whenever shedid, she realized she simply didn’t know the answer. She’d been traveling foryears and didn’t have a permanent home anywhere.
And now she felt a growing desire to reach out to someonefamiliar.
A couple of nights ago, while the Nachtmusik was sailingbetween Gyor and Vienna, she’d gotten a call from Dad, who still traveled theworld as a flight attendant. He’d called her during a layover in Tokyo.
Should I give him a call? she asked herself.
But she didn’t know where in the world he might be right now orwhat time of day or night it might be for him.
Then there was London’s older sister, Tia.
London had been visiting Tia and her three kids in Connecticutwhen she’d gotten the call offering her the job of Social Director aboard the Nachtmusik.She glanced at her watch and calculated that it was late afternoon in Gaitling,Connecticut.
Sitting on a deck chair, she put Sir Reggie back down, then tookout her cell phone and dialed Tia’s number.
The phone rang a couple of times, and she heard Tia say “hello.”But before London could reply, she heard an alarming crash, followed by thesounds of explosions and gunfire.
“Tia!” London exclaimed.
After a lot of clattering noise, Tia spoke again.
“London. Is that you?”
The sound of gunfire and explosions continued.
“Tia, are you all right?” London asked.
“Sure. Bret just overturned the end table. But nobody got hurt.”
Then she said to her son, “Bret, Mom’s talking with Aunt London.Go play with your sisters, OK?”
London realized that the clamor sounded the same as when she’d beenat her sister’s house just before this trip began. Seven-year-old Bret was Tia’syoungest child. And now London realized that the ongoing racket must be Tia’sdaughters, ten-year-old Stella and twelve-year-old Margie, playing a video wargame. Tia somehow managed to maintain her calm, or her detachment, thorough itall.
She heard Bret complain, “I want to
