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Title: Die Sprache der Blinden 15b/?
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
laguera25
Fandom: Rammstein
Rating FRM
Pairing: Richard Kruspe/OFC
Disclaimer: Richard Z. Kruspe is a real person, with family and friends who love him. I am not one of them. I do not know him. This is a work of complete fiction, and should be read as such. No defamation is intended. For entertainment only.
Part I Part IIa Part IIb Part III Part IVa Part IVb Part V Part VIa Part VIb Part VIIa Part VIIb Part VIII Part IX Part Xa Part Xb Part XIa Part XIb Part XIIa Part XIIb Part XIIIa Part XIIIb Part XIV Part XVa
He hadn't called her until late in the afternoon on the twenty-sixth, while Khira had been treating herself to a spa treatment, and that had been to tell her that he wouldn't be home on the twenty-seventh as he'd originally planned.
"Ah," Calliope had said when he'd broken the news, the furtive creak of ice just before it cracked with a sound like gunfire.
He'd shifted uncomfortably on the edge of the bed on which he sat. "I'm sorry, Calliope, but Khira wants to stay a few days more, and she doesn't ask for much."
Oh, that's rich, Caron had scoffed inside his head. She'd ask for the moon if she thought you could get it for her, and sad, desperate sap that you are, you'd try to give it to her. You've spoiled her rotten from the beginning, and God forbid you tell her no. She plays your guilt like a Stradivarius, and you're so afraid of losing her that you let it happen. You'll die old and alone if that's her say so, and never mind who you hurt. Your precious little prude might as well get used to being alone now.
A beat of silence, and in it, he'd heard the unspoken disappointment. The guilt had come, gnawing and hot, and he'd fumbled in his pants pocket for his cigarettes and tapped a nervous staccato on his knee.
"Well then," she'd answered with resolute cheerfulness, "family is family and duty is duty, and I am neither." Another strangled beat of silence, and the floundering loneliness had been palpable, had prickled along his skin like the tickling rush of static electricity. "I suppose there's no need to ask if you're having a good time."
And I suppose there's no need to ask if you're not. He'd increased the tempo of his tapping and fought the urge to get up and pace. "How was your Mass?" he'd asked.
"Oh, it was lovely," she'd said breezily, voice stretched thin, and he'd recalled her text message, sent like a message in a bottle. "The outside of the church wasn't much to see, but the inside was gorgeous, especially the apse. Anyway, Mass was lovely, though it sounded a good deal more ominous in German."
"Most things do."
"Hmm. The priest was a rather sleepy-eyed soul, but the congregation was a nice lot. Old birds, mostly. One old hen invited me to dinner at her flat, bless her, and damn if I didn't think about it. It might've been odd, but it was-in the end, I went back to the apartment and made sugar cookies."
He'd thought again of that text message. Dammit, Kruspe, would it have killed you to reply? "Were they good?" he'd asked
"The cookies? There were some left over, but I'm probably going to finish them tonight, so I guess you'll never know."
"I'd still very much like to do something special together when I return," he'd said, plaintive and reedy with anxiety, a boy calling on his first crush. "Have you found a place that suits your fancy?"
"In truth, it's been too cold for much rambling. I've mostly stayed indoors with a book and some hot tea."
Oh, great. While I've been hitting the slopes, she's been staring at the walls and asking herself why she flew all the way to Berlin to play bed warmer to some hotshot playboy with just enough time to fuck her and leave. His tap-tap-tapping had trebled its pace, and his feet had twitched and flexed with the impulse to join his fingers in their fretful percussion. "I really will be back on the twenty-ninth, I promise."
Ha. Just like you swore to yourself that you'd call often and told her you'd be back on the twenty-seventh. You're oh-for-two on the promises kept front, Richard, and that's a lousy record this early in the game. You're trading on credit you haven't earned yet. It's typical Richard bullshit, and she'll get tired of it soon enough.
"You'll come home when you come home," had come the reply, and he hadn't been sure if it was wounded bravado or genuine indifference.
"I've missed you," he'd offered tentatively in an effort to gauge the magnitude of the damage he'd done with his carelessness.
She'd snorted. "Now you're being disingenuous," she'd retorted. "I'd wager you haven't had much occasion to miss me."
"That isn't true," he'd countered, but it had been, and they'd both known it. He'd narrowly suppressed a sigh. "I will be glad to see you again."
"Now that I believe," she'd replied, and his shoulders had gone slack with relief. "And I'll be glad to see you. I told you I'd be here when you got back, and I will be. So stop worrying and go wallow in your merry Christmas."
You deserved a merry Christmas, too, he'd thought, but he'd said, "I meant what I said, Calliope. Anything you like."
"Yes, yes, yes," she'd tutted. "Honey and wine and candied apples on a platter. There's no need to offer up the fatted calf because you spent the holidays with family. A vacation's no good if you don't relax. Go prune in the hot tub or put chilled cucumbers on your eyelids, and we'll worry about later when it comes." Warm now, though he'd sensed the lingering loneliness behind it.
"I'll call you tomorrow."
"Until then. Goodbye, Richard."
The worry and guilt had receded then, but they hadn't disappeared entirely, and they had flared into renewed life when his promised call had gone unanswered the following day. He'd listened to the muffled atonal burr of the phone in his ear and wondered if Calliope had been sitting on his couch, steadfastly ignoring his paltry, long-distance friendship in favor of the closer comfort of her trusted books. He'd also considered the possibility that she had reconsidered her position, packed her bags, and left for friendlier, livelier environs. He'd certainly given her precious little incentive to stay. The certainty had only grown when subsequent calls had gone unanswered, and by the time he'd stuffed his and Khira's luggage into the car, he'd resigned himself to the fact that his schoene Hexe had quitted the dance.
It's probably for the best that it ended now, before it ever really started. If she can't handle a minor change in plans, then she certainly wouldn't have been able to hack it when touring and promotion devoured you whole for weeks at a time, he'd told himself, but the practicality and truth of the thought were no comfort when he considered the stark emptiness that had waited for him at his deserted flat. He'd lapsed into a brooding funk from which not even Khira could rouse him, and she'd grown so exasperated with his silence that she'd harrumphed and retreated into her earbuds.
Now I've got two upset women on my hands. I'm on a fucking roll, he'd thought peevishly as he'd shifted gears and cast sidelong glances at Khira as she sprawled in the passenger seat and hummed along to the tinny music that tickled her ears.
The atmosphere in the car had grown increasingly more oppressive as they'd neared Berlin and the home Khira shared with her mother, and the thought of his fallow, cold apartment had inspired a sour, childish dread. He didn't want to stay there without Calliope to breathe life and laughter into it. He'd contemplated asking Khira to extend their holiday yet again, but even before he'd fallen into his strop, he'd sensed that she'd been tired and eager to resume her customary routines with friends.
I could check out the clubs in the Pankow district. I haven't been there in a while, but they probably haven't changed much. If nothing else, I could find a willing woman or two to pass the time until it's time to go back to the studio.
The desultory silence inside the car had endured until he'd coasted to a stop in front of Khira's flat, and then there had been the bustle and jostle of shifting baggage as Khira had clambered out of the car and collected her suitcases and her mementos from their holiday. A hug and a kiss and a promise to get together for lunch before his mistress recalled him to San Francisco, and then he'd been alone in the small parking lot while Angela gazed expressionlessly at him from the front window, curtain pulled aside like a bridal veil. He'd shuffled idly beside the car for a few moments after Khira had disappeared into the secure nest of her everyday life, and then, because there'd been nothing left for him there in front of the modest, nondescript flat that held his greatest treasure, he'd slipped into the car and out of her life again.
He hadn't wanted to face his empty flat and yet another failed relationship, and so he'd driven aimlessly through the city, his stereo cranked to drown out the listless sense of melancholy that filled his bones like mercury and made them both too heavy and too brittle and the excited rattle of the packages in the backseat. They'd been gifts for Calliope, picked up while he'd browsed the various shops. Nothing fancy, just some journals and a brown betty teapot, but he'd had them wrapped in delicate silver paper and red satin bows that had reminded him of the woodcut witch of his Midtown daydream that fall, when he'd seen his witch bent over the sunny pyramid of peaches. There had been a bottle of Eiswein, too, a rare find since the mild winters of the past few years. He'd planned to drink it with Calliope after he'd indulged her wish for a friendship toast. Now he'd supposed he'd have to drink it himself while he fiddled about in his studio.
He'd fumbled his cellphone from the car's center console as he'd idled at a red light and pressed the number allotted for the concierge desk of his building. A click, and then the phone had begun to buzz muddily in his ear. After scarcely a ring, Walther had picked up.
"Prenzlauer Berg Flats. This is Walther Bruening. How may I be of service?" he'd said crisply, and Richard had imagined him seated behind the sleek battlement of his desk, headset positioned before his mouth like a flimsy visor.
"Hello, Walther, it's Richard. I'm on my way home. Can you see to it that the flat is ready for my arrival, perhaps order a curry?"
"Ah, Mr. Kruspe. Of course I can, sir, though Miss Connelly has been keeping it rather tidy by the housekeepers' accounts."
"Miss Connelly has been in my apartment while I was gone?"
"Yes, sir." Slowly, as though he'd been caught in some impropriety. "Should I have removed her?"
"No, no, it's perfectly all right. It's just that she hasn't answered my calls."
"She's only just returned a few hours ago, sir. She'd gone to Munich to see the city."
He'd been dizzy and dry-mouthed with relief. "Is she there now?"
"I believe so, sir. Shall I page her?"
"No. I'll be home shortly."
"Very good. Shall I see to the cleaning and the takeaway, then?"
"No, I'll take care of it, Walther, thank you."
"Not at all, sir. Will there be anything else?"
"No, Walther, thank you."
"Very good. Good evening, sir," he'd said, and hung up with a soft click.
He'd made the rest of the drive home with his heart fluttering in the back of his throat and his fingers cramping with the urge to tap a staccato on his thighs or his knees, and by the time the BMW had glided into its parking space in front of his buildings, he'd been so nervous that his knees had become greased ball bearings that threatened to spill him unceremoniously onto the blacktop as they'd done upon occasion when too much drink had transformed solid earth into a vast and roiling sea. He'd stepped out of the car with the exaggerated care of a drunk and retrieved his packages with trembling, geriatric hands. He'd handled the teapot and the wine with special delicacy, afraid that his treacherous hands would lose their uncertain grip and send them tumbling to the unforgiving asphalt. He'd felt curiously numb, as though he'd ingested a massive dose of mercury, but beneath the needling numbness had been a weightless, febrile terror.
He'd been here many times before, the remorseful apostate come to beg forgiveness of his angry goddess with gifts. With Caron, it had been a frequent occurrence, gone as he'd been on cocaine and the grind of recording Mutter while the legion of demons inside his head had divvied him up as a spoil of war. He'd done the same for Margeaux, too, and for others with whom he'd hoped to share his life. His gifts had appeased them for a while, but there had always been another sin, another lapse--a late night, a broken date, too much time spent in the clubs and hot spots, too many leaked photos of him in the arms of another, heavy-lidded and stumbling and too lost in a tide of booze to realize the insult he'd dealt to hearts that had done their best to show him kindness. There are insults no gift can soothe, and eventually, the last of their patience had been spent and they'd left him to lie in the bed he'd made for himself.
Calliope had thusfar demonstrated no predisposition to unforgiving anger or the desire for his abasement in return for her affections, but the dance had been young, the quick, light steps of a lively waltz. They had not yet ventured the more intricate, complex steps that wove and wheeled within the graceful box step; he had not swept her into his arms and dipped her, gazed into her eyes and asked her to trust him as he held her over unyielding marble. He had not spun her or swept her off her feet while the music swelled and surrounding faces blurred into insignificance. They had not yet danced to music only they could hear, danced with no assurance that there was earth beneath their feet. They had scarcely begun truth be told, had still been searching out the rhythm and settling into unfamiliar touch. This had been their first wobble, and he'd found that adversity was quick to reveal the truth behind honeyed promises and smiling face.
He'd entered the lobby, dragging his baggage behind him, and flinched at the dry, hot-stone heat. Walther had spotted him through the glass and hurried toward him, rubbing his well-manicured hands together with the sussurating, sandpaper rasp of dry palms. "May I help you, sir?"
He'd wordlessly relinquished the handle of his rolling suitcase, and the veteran concierge had smoothly retracted the sturdy, plastic handle and lifted it off the ground. "After you, sir," he'd said, and waited, silent and straight and face carefully blank.
Richard had taken a moment to stretch his calves and his back, stifling the urge to groan in relief as warmth had flooded his knotted muscles, and then he'd readjusted his duffel bags and his grip on Calliope's parcels and trudged toward the stairs. He'd been more exhausted than he'd cared to admit and dismayed by the fusillade of crackles and creaks emitted by his joints and vertebrae, and he'd thought ruefully of his youth, when he'd been able to spend five days chasing Khira through the childish wonderland of her choosing, sleep for six hours, and immediately hop a plane to Japan with no ill effects. As he'd lumbered up the stairs and steadfastly ignored the dull ache in his right knee, he'd suspected those days were long behind him and growing more distant by the moment.
When they'd reached his door, Walther had set his suitcase beside it and stepped back. "Do you need me to carry your bags inside, sir?" he'd inquired.
"No, I've got them. Thank you."
"Not at all, sir." With a quick nod, Walther had turned smartly on his heel and marched back to the stairs and his post in the lobby.
Richard had shifted Calliope's parcels from on hand to the other and dug his keys from the front pocket of his jeans, but the key had scarcely scraped the lock when the door had flown open to reveal Calliope.
"Richard!" she'd exclaimed, and the obviously glee in her voice had caused his heart to stutter inside his chest. Another step, and she'd enfolded him, her sudden weight knocking him onto his heels. He'd winced at a warning twinge from his knee and shifted to keep the bag containing her gifts and the bottle of wine from tumbling to the floor. She'd given him a squeeze and buried her face in the fabric of his sweater.
He'd smothered the boyish impulse to laugh at her unfettered exuberance. "Hallo, Calliope," he'd managed breathlessly. The greeting had fallen into her hair like dreaming dust, and he'd felt her smile contentedly against his chest. "Been waiting long?"
She'd raised her eyes to his, and the point of her chin had been a pleasant weight against his breastbone. "Actually, I just got back from Munich a few hours ago," she'd confessed, and he'd thought he'd detected a trace of wary embarrassment, as though she expected him to be offended. "It just felt awkward being in your apartment without you. I felt like some high-rolling squatter. I would have left on Christmas morning, but the trains weren't running, so I left on the twenty-sixth."
"I know. I tried calling you many times."
Her brow had furrowed in confusion. "You did? But my phone never-oh. You mean on your phone, don't you?"
"What other could I mean? I thought your mobile didn't have an international SIM card."
"It doesn't. That's why I bought one of those disposable phones. I didn't give you the number?"
He'd shifted in her embrace, but when she'd moved to break it, he'd curled an arm around her waist and splayed his hand against the small of her back. "No."
Her eyes had widened. "Oh, my God, I'm sorry. I could have sworn I emailed it to you from the train." Stricken.
"Hey. Sssh. You probably did. I haven't checked my email in days. I tend to get wrapped up in whatever I'm doing, especially when my daughter is involved."
She'd opened her mouth to protest further, but he'd stopped her with a soft, open-mouthed kiss. "You're on holiday as much as I am, and you should go wherever you please," he'd murmured when the kiss was finished. "Perhaps we should go inside? It's been a long drive, and I'm sure I need a shower."
"Mmm, you smell amazing," she'd mumbled into the fabric of his shirt, but she'd released the fierce hug and pivoted gracefully on her hip to retrieve his suitcase. She'd extended the handle and dragged it inside, and then she'd set it neatly beside the door.
He'd retrieved his dangling keys from the lock, and then he'd followed her inside and let the duffel bags slide from his shoulders and sink to the floor, stones cast into a still pond, and then he'd stood in the short foyer with the bag of Calliope's gifts dangling loosely from his fingers and let the sensation of home wash over him in a gentle, lapping tide. "How was Munich?" he'd asked.
Calliope had bustled into the brightly-lit kitchen, where his small stove had been dominated by an enormous pot, from which had wafted the rich, meaty smell of stew. Calliope had lifted the lid and stirred the simmering contents with a wooden spoon.
"Stew," she'd explained unnecessarily, and scraped the spoon on the side of the pot. "My mother's recipe. Comfort food, I guess. I was going to make some roast beef sandwiches to go with it, but if that's not what you're up for..." She'd shrugged and worried her bottom lip with her teeth.
"It's fine, certainly better than the curry takeout I was planning to order." He'd shifted the bag from one hand to the other.
She'd brightened. "Oh, good. I just thought that since you were home, you might want more homestyle food."
"New York is my home, too," he'd reminded her.
"There's home, and then there's home, she'd said, and then she'd shaken her head as though to clear it of a troublesome thought. "Anyway, Munich was lovely. I think I ate my weight in lebkuechen and marzipan. "Oh, and I had the most amazing reisbrei. Dammit, but I meant to get the recipe." She'd huffed and stamped her foot.
He'd dissolved into helpless laughter. After six days of cultured civility and staid lodge fires, her pique had struck him as so unthinkingly American, unapologetic and benignly oblivious and loud as a brass band crashing headlong into a strings concert.
"What?" Plaintive and a trifle wounded as he'd snickered and snorted and scratched the tip of his nose with a folded knuckle.
"Oh, mein Schatz," he'd managed, and ambled into the kitchen. He'd carefully set the bag on the counter, far beyond the reach of jutting elbows and absently-swinging arms, and then he'd wrapped his arms around her waist. Don't ever change, he'd thought fervidly. Don't ever lose your impossible brightness and zest for the adventures of this world. He'd brushed her hair aside and nuzzled her temple. "Unless you were at some hausfrau's home," he'd murmured between soft kisses trailed over her cheek and along her jaw and pressed to the side of her sweet, yielding neck, "I doubt you would've gotten the recipe. German bakers guard their secrets jealously."
"It was delicious," she'd lamented, but she'd exposed her throat more fully.
"Mmm," he'd breathed as he'd savored the suppleness of warm, clean skin beneath his sensitive lips. "I'm sure the Internet is full of recipes."
"How many of them are good?" she'd groused, but her voice had been dreamy, slurred with contentment.
"There's bound to be at least one," he'd reasoned, and scraped his teeth along the delicate join where ear met jaw. "Besides, it's probably in your best interest to mix some protein with your sugar intake," he'd teased.
"Hey," she'd protested, "I had some roast suckling pig the day after Christmas. "I think it was left over from Dickbauch."
He'd thought again of her unanswered text message from Christmas Eve. He'd wanted to ask her just how lonely the holiday had been, but he hadn't wanted to ruin her happy mood, and so he'd tightened his grip and fiercely kissed her crown.
"The stew's got some time left if you want to take that shower."
He'd placed two fingers beneath her chin and gently turned her from her scrutiny of the bubbling pot. "Thank you." He'd dipped his head and sucked her lower lip between his teeth. Then he'd straightened and left her with a final caress of her cheek. "I won't be long," he'd promised.
"No hurry," she'd called after him as he'd padded toward the waiting comfort of his tub. He'd turned for one last look before he'd disappeared into the corridor and seen her at the stove, shrouded by steam and surrounded by the happy detritus of domesticity. She'd looked up from sniffing the contents of the pot. "Not quite what you wanted to come home to, huh?" she'd said, and cast a woebegone glance at the flour-spattered counter and the bunch of tomatoes that waited for the attention of her knife and the loaf of crusty French bread that lay on the counter behind her, the loaf end peering timidly from the end of the paper bag in which it hid, a prick awaiting circumcision. Cutting boards, pans, and plates had cluttered the sink, their edges and lips jutting above the steel basin like stones in a shallow stream.
"I couldn't think of anything better," he'd replied truthfully, and left her to her little pot of home.
It had occurred to him as he'd stepped out of his clothes and bent to turn on the tub's tap that despite his best intentions, the black waters in which he'd vowed never to swim again had swept him up and borne him on their dangerous currents. Somewhere between the front door and the bathtub, he had fallen in love with his witch of the wood, and the realization had made him light-headed with a mixture of elation and terror. He'd known he shouldn't have done, not with so many demands on his time, but it had been too late. She had stolen his heart with a joyful noise and a pot of stew, and he hadn't wanted to take it back.
I hope you know what you're doing, had said a voice that sounded disturbingly like Till.
A bitter bark of laughter. "Do I ever?" he'd asked.
The Till-voice had made no reply, and Richard had sighed and watched the steam rise from the water that had filled the tub with a steady, gurgling splash.
Author:
laguera25Fandom: Rammstein
Rating FRM
Pairing: Richard Kruspe/OFC
Disclaimer: Richard Z. Kruspe is a real person, with family and friends who love him. I am not one of them. I do not know him. This is a work of complete fiction, and should be read as such. No defamation is intended. For entertainment only.
Part I Part IIa Part IIb Part III Part IVa Part IVb Part V Part VIa Part VIb Part VIIa Part VIIb Part VIII Part IX Part Xa Part Xb Part XIa Part XIb Part XIIa Part XIIb Part XIIIa Part XIIIb Part XIV Part XVa
He hadn't called her until late in the afternoon on the twenty-sixth, while Khira had been treating herself to a spa treatment, and that had been to tell her that he wouldn't be home on the twenty-seventh as he'd originally planned.
"Ah," Calliope had said when he'd broken the news, the furtive creak of ice just before it cracked with a sound like gunfire.
He'd shifted uncomfortably on the edge of the bed on which he sat. "I'm sorry, Calliope, but Khira wants to stay a few days more, and she doesn't ask for much."
Oh, that's rich, Caron had scoffed inside his head. She'd ask for the moon if she thought you could get it for her, and sad, desperate sap that you are, you'd try to give it to her. You've spoiled her rotten from the beginning, and God forbid you tell her no. She plays your guilt like a Stradivarius, and you're so afraid of losing her that you let it happen. You'll die old and alone if that's her say so, and never mind who you hurt. Your precious little prude might as well get used to being alone now.
A beat of silence, and in it, he'd heard the unspoken disappointment. The guilt had come, gnawing and hot, and he'd fumbled in his pants pocket for his cigarettes and tapped a nervous staccato on his knee.
"Well then," she'd answered with resolute cheerfulness, "family is family and duty is duty, and I am neither." Another strangled beat of silence, and the floundering loneliness had been palpable, had prickled along his skin like the tickling rush of static electricity. "I suppose there's no need to ask if you're having a good time."
And I suppose there's no need to ask if you're not. He'd increased the tempo of his tapping and fought the urge to get up and pace. "How was your Mass?" he'd asked.
"Oh, it was lovely," she'd said breezily, voice stretched thin, and he'd recalled her text message, sent like a message in a bottle. "The outside of the church wasn't much to see, but the inside was gorgeous, especially the apse. Anyway, Mass was lovely, though it sounded a good deal more ominous in German."
"Most things do."
"Hmm. The priest was a rather sleepy-eyed soul, but the congregation was a nice lot. Old birds, mostly. One old hen invited me to dinner at her flat, bless her, and damn if I didn't think about it. It might've been odd, but it was-in the end, I went back to the apartment and made sugar cookies."
He'd thought again of that text message. Dammit, Kruspe, would it have killed you to reply? "Were they good?" he'd asked
"The cookies? There were some left over, but I'm probably going to finish them tonight, so I guess you'll never know."
"I'd still very much like to do something special together when I return," he'd said, plaintive and reedy with anxiety, a boy calling on his first crush. "Have you found a place that suits your fancy?"
"In truth, it's been too cold for much rambling. I've mostly stayed indoors with a book and some hot tea."
Oh, great. While I've been hitting the slopes, she's been staring at the walls and asking herself why she flew all the way to Berlin to play bed warmer to some hotshot playboy with just enough time to fuck her and leave. His tap-tap-tapping had trebled its pace, and his feet had twitched and flexed with the impulse to join his fingers in their fretful percussion. "I really will be back on the twenty-ninth, I promise."
Ha. Just like you swore to yourself that you'd call often and told her you'd be back on the twenty-seventh. You're oh-for-two on the promises kept front, Richard, and that's a lousy record this early in the game. You're trading on credit you haven't earned yet. It's typical Richard bullshit, and she'll get tired of it soon enough.
"You'll come home when you come home," had come the reply, and he hadn't been sure if it was wounded bravado or genuine indifference.
"I've missed you," he'd offered tentatively in an effort to gauge the magnitude of the damage he'd done with his carelessness.
She'd snorted. "Now you're being disingenuous," she'd retorted. "I'd wager you haven't had much occasion to miss me."
"That isn't true," he'd countered, but it had been, and they'd both known it. He'd narrowly suppressed a sigh. "I will be glad to see you again."
"Now that I believe," she'd replied, and his shoulders had gone slack with relief. "And I'll be glad to see you. I told you I'd be here when you got back, and I will be. So stop worrying and go wallow in your merry Christmas."
You deserved a merry Christmas, too, he'd thought, but he'd said, "I meant what I said, Calliope. Anything you like."
"Yes, yes, yes," she'd tutted. "Honey and wine and candied apples on a platter. There's no need to offer up the fatted calf because you spent the holidays with family. A vacation's no good if you don't relax. Go prune in the hot tub or put chilled cucumbers on your eyelids, and we'll worry about later when it comes." Warm now, though he'd sensed the lingering loneliness behind it.
"I'll call you tomorrow."
"Until then. Goodbye, Richard."
The worry and guilt had receded then, but they hadn't disappeared entirely, and they had flared into renewed life when his promised call had gone unanswered the following day. He'd listened to the muffled atonal burr of the phone in his ear and wondered if Calliope had been sitting on his couch, steadfastly ignoring his paltry, long-distance friendship in favor of the closer comfort of her trusted books. He'd also considered the possibility that she had reconsidered her position, packed her bags, and left for friendlier, livelier environs. He'd certainly given her precious little incentive to stay. The certainty had only grown when subsequent calls had gone unanswered, and by the time he'd stuffed his and Khira's luggage into the car, he'd resigned himself to the fact that his schoene Hexe had quitted the dance.
It's probably for the best that it ended now, before it ever really started. If she can't handle a minor change in plans, then she certainly wouldn't have been able to hack it when touring and promotion devoured you whole for weeks at a time, he'd told himself, but the practicality and truth of the thought were no comfort when he considered the stark emptiness that had waited for him at his deserted flat. He'd lapsed into a brooding funk from which not even Khira could rouse him, and she'd grown so exasperated with his silence that she'd harrumphed and retreated into her earbuds.
Now I've got two upset women on my hands. I'm on a fucking roll, he'd thought peevishly as he'd shifted gears and cast sidelong glances at Khira as she sprawled in the passenger seat and hummed along to the tinny music that tickled her ears.
The atmosphere in the car had grown increasingly more oppressive as they'd neared Berlin and the home Khira shared with her mother, and the thought of his fallow, cold apartment had inspired a sour, childish dread. He didn't want to stay there without Calliope to breathe life and laughter into it. He'd contemplated asking Khira to extend their holiday yet again, but even before he'd fallen into his strop, he'd sensed that she'd been tired and eager to resume her customary routines with friends.
I could check out the clubs in the Pankow district. I haven't been there in a while, but they probably haven't changed much. If nothing else, I could find a willing woman or two to pass the time until it's time to go back to the studio.
The desultory silence inside the car had endured until he'd coasted to a stop in front of Khira's flat, and then there had been the bustle and jostle of shifting baggage as Khira had clambered out of the car and collected her suitcases and her mementos from their holiday. A hug and a kiss and a promise to get together for lunch before his mistress recalled him to San Francisco, and then he'd been alone in the small parking lot while Angela gazed expressionlessly at him from the front window, curtain pulled aside like a bridal veil. He'd shuffled idly beside the car for a few moments after Khira had disappeared into the secure nest of her everyday life, and then, because there'd been nothing left for him there in front of the modest, nondescript flat that held his greatest treasure, he'd slipped into the car and out of her life again.
He hadn't wanted to face his empty flat and yet another failed relationship, and so he'd driven aimlessly through the city, his stereo cranked to drown out the listless sense of melancholy that filled his bones like mercury and made them both too heavy and too brittle and the excited rattle of the packages in the backseat. They'd been gifts for Calliope, picked up while he'd browsed the various shops. Nothing fancy, just some journals and a brown betty teapot, but he'd had them wrapped in delicate silver paper and red satin bows that had reminded him of the woodcut witch of his Midtown daydream that fall, when he'd seen his witch bent over the sunny pyramid of peaches. There had been a bottle of Eiswein, too, a rare find since the mild winters of the past few years. He'd planned to drink it with Calliope after he'd indulged her wish for a friendship toast. Now he'd supposed he'd have to drink it himself while he fiddled about in his studio.
He'd fumbled his cellphone from the car's center console as he'd idled at a red light and pressed the number allotted for the concierge desk of his building. A click, and then the phone had begun to buzz muddily in his ear. After scarcely a ring, Walther had picked up.
"Prenzlauer Berg Flats. This is Walther Bruening. How may I be of service?" he'd said crisply, and Richard had imagined him seated behind the sleek battlement of his desk, headset positioned before his mouth like a flimsy visor.
"Hello, Walther, it's Richard. I'm on my way home. Can you see to it that the flat is ready for my arrival, perhaps order a curry?"
"Ah, Mr. Kruspe. Of course I can, sir, though Miss Connelly has been keeping it rather tidy by the housekeepers' accounts."
"Miss Connelly has been in my apartment while I was gone?"
"Yes, sir." Slowly, as though he'd been caught in some impropriety. "Should I have removed her?"
"No, no, it's perfectly all right. It's just that she hasn't answered my calls."
"She's only just returned a few hours ago, sir. She'd gone to Munich to see the city."
He'd been dizzy and dry-mouthed with relief. "Is she there now?"
"I believe so, sir. Shall I page her?"
"No. I'll be home shortly."
"Very good. Shall I see to the cleaning and the takeaway, then?"
"No, I'll take care of it, Walther, thank you."
"Not at all, sir. Will there be anything else?"
"No, Walther, thank you."
"Very good. Good evening, sir," he'd said, and hung up with a soft click.
He'd made the rest of the drive home with his heart fluttering in the back of his throat and his fingers cramping with the urge to tap a staccato on his thighs or his knees, and by the time the BMW had glided into its parking space in front of his buildings, he'd been so nervous that his knees had become greased ball bearings that threatened to spill him unceremoniously onto the blacktop as they'd done upon occasion when too much drink had transformed solid earth into a vast and roiling sea. He'd stepped out of the car with the exaggerated care of a drunk and retrieved his packages with trembling, geriatric hands. He'd handled the teapot and the wine with special delicacy, afraid that his treacherous hands would lose their uncertain grip and send them tumbling to the unforgiving asphalt. He'd felt curiously numb, as though he'd ingested a massive dose of mercury, but beneath the needling numbness had been a weightless, febrile terror.
He'd been here many times before, the remorseful apostate come to beg forgiveness of his angry goddess with gifts. With Caron, it had been a frequent occurrence, gone as he'd been on cocaine and the grind of recording Mutter while the legion of demons inside his head had divvied him up as a spoil of war. He'd done the same for Margeaux, too, and for others with whom he'd hoped to share his life. His gifts had appeased them for a while, but there had always been another sin, another lapse--a late night, a broken date, too much time spent in the clubs and hot spots, too many leaked photos of him in the arms of another, heavy-lidded and stumbling and too lost in a tide of booze to realize the insult he'd dealt to hearts that had done their best to show him kindness. There are insults no gift can soothe, and eventually, the last of their patience had been spent and they'd left him to lie in the bed he'd made for himself.
Calliope had thusfar demonstrated no predisposition to unforgiving anger or the desire for his abasement in return for her affections, but the dance had been young, the quick, light steps of a lively waltz. They had not yet ventured the more intricate, complex steps that wove and wheeled within the graceful box step; he had not swept her into his arms and dipped her, gazed into her eyes and asked her to trust him as he held her over unyielding marble. He had not spun her or swept her off her feet while the music swelled and surrounding faces blurred into insignificance. They had not yet danced to music only they could hear, danced with no assurance that there was earth beneath their feet. They had scarcely begun truth be told, had still been searching out the rhythm and settling into unfamiliar touch. This had been their first wobble, and he'd found that adversity was quick to reveal the truth behind honeyed promises and smiling face.
He'd entered the lobby, dragging his baggage behind him, and flinched at the dry, hot-stone heat. Walther had spotted him through the glass and hurried toward him, rubbing his well-manicured hands together with the sussurating, sandpaper rasp of dry palms. "May I help you, sir?"
He'd wordlessly relinquished the handle of his rolling suitcase, and the veteran concierge had smoothly retracted the sturdy, plastic handle and lifted it off the ground. "After you, sir," he'd said, and waited, silent and straight and face carefully blank.
Richard had taken a moment to stretch his calves and his back, stifling the urge to groan in relief as warmth had flooded his knotted muscles, and then he'd readjusted his duffel bags and his grip on Calliope's parcels and trudged toward the stairs. He'd been more exhausted than he'd cared to admit and dismayed by the fusillade of crackles and creaks emitted by his joints and vertebrae, and he'd thought ruefully of his youth, when he'd been able to spend five days chasing Khira through the childish wonderland of her choosing, sleep for six hours, and immediately hop a plane to Japan with no ill effects. As he'd lumbered up the stairs and steadfastly ignored the dull ache in his right knee, he'd suspected those days were long behind him and growing more distant by the moment.
When they'd reached his door, Walther had set his suitcase beside it and stepped back. "Do you need me to carry your bags inside, sir?" he'd inquired.
"No, I've got them. Thank you."
"Not at all, sir." With a quick nod, Walther had turned smartly on his heel and marched back to the stairs and his post in the lobby.
Richard had shifted Calliope's parcels from on hand to the other and dug his keys from the front pocket of his jeans, but the key had scarcely scraped the lock when the door had flown open to reveal Calliope.
"Richard!" she'd exclaimed, and the obviously glee in her voice had caused his heart to stutter inside his chest. Another step, and she'd enfolded him, her sudden weight knocking him onto his heels. He'd winced at a warning twinge from his knee and shifted to keep the bag containing her gifts and the bottle of wine from tumbling to the floor. She'd given him a squeeze and buried her face in the fabric of his sweater.
He'd smothered the boyish impulse to laugh at her unfettered exuberance. "Hallo, Calliope," he'd managed breathlessly. The greeting had fallen into her hair like dreaming dust, and he'd felt her smile contentedly against his chest. "Been waiting long?"
She'd raised her eyes to his, and the point of her chin had been a pleasant weight against his breastbone. "Actually, I just got back from Munich a few hours ago," she'd confessed, and he'd thought he'd detected a trace of wary embarrassment, as though she expected him to be offended. "It just felt awkward being in your apartment without you. I felt like some high-rolling squatter. I would have left on Christmas morning, but the trains weren't running, so I left on the twenty-sixth."
"I know. I tried calling you many times."
Her brow had furrowed in confusion. "You did? But my phone never-oh. You mean on your phone, don't you?"
"What other could I mean? I thought your mobile didn't have an international SIM card."
"It doesn't. That's why I bought one of those disposable phones. I didn't give you the number?"
He'd shifted in her embrace, but when she'd moved to break it, he'd curled an arm around her waist and splayed his hand against the small of her back. "No."
Her eyes had widened. "Oh, my God, I'm sorry. I could have sworn I emailed it to you from the train." Stricken.
"Hey. Sssh. You probably did. I haven't checked my email in days. I tend to get wrapped up in whatever I'm doing, especially when my daughter is involved."
She'd opened her mouth to protest further, but he'd stopped her with a soft, open-mouthed kiss. "You're on holiday as much as I am, and you should go wherever you please," he'd murmured when the kiss was finished. "Perhaps we should go inside? It's been a long drive, and I'm sure I need a shower."
"Mmm, you smell amazing," she'd mumbled into the fabric of his shirt, but she'd released the fierce hug and pivoted gracefully on her hip to retrieve his suitcase. She'd extended the handle and dragged it inside, and then she'd set it neatly beside the door.
He'd retrieved his dangling keys from the lock, and then he'd followed her inside and let the duffel bags slide from his shoulders and sink to the floor, stones cast into a still pond, and then he'd stood in the short foyer with the bag of Calliope's gifts dangling loosely from his fingers and let the sensation of home wash over him in a gentle, lapping tide. "How was Munich?" he'd asked.
Calliope had bustled into the brightly-lit kitchen, where his small stove had been dominated by an enormous pot, from which had wafted the rich, meaty smell of stew. Calliope had lifted the lid and stirred the simmering contents with a wooden spoon.
"Stew," she'd explained unnecessarily, and scraped the spoon on the side of the pot. "My mother's recipe. Comfort food, I guess. I was going to make some roast beef sandwiches to go with it, but if that's not what you're up for..." She'd shrugged and worried her bottom lip with her teeth.
"It's fine, certainly better than the curry takeout I was planning to order." He'd shifted the bag from one hand to the other.
She'd brightened. "Oh, good. I just thought that since you were home, you might want more homestyle food."
"New York is my home, too," he'd reminded her.
"There's home, and then there's home, she'd said, and then she'd shaken her head as though to clear it of a troublesome thought. "Anyway, Munich was lovely. I think I ate my weight in lebkuechen and marzipan. "Oh, and I had the most amazing reisbrei. Dammit, but I meant to get the recipe." She'd huffed and stamped her foot.
He'd dissolved into helpless laughter. After six days of cultured civility and staid lodge fires, her pique had struck him as so unthinkingly American, unapologetic and benignly oblivious and loud as a brass band crashing headlong into a strings concert.
"What?" Plaintive and a trifle wounded as he'd snickered and snorted and scratched the tip of his nose with a folded knuckle.
"Oh, mein Schatz," he'd managed, and ambled into the kitchen. He'd carefully set the bag on the counter, far beyond the reach of jutting elbows and absently-swinging arms, and then he'd wrapped his arms around her waist. Don't ever change, he'd thought fervidly. Don't ever lose your impossible brightness and zest for the adventures of this world. He'd brushed her hair aside and nuzzled her temple. "Unless you were at some hausfrau's home," he'd murmured between soft kisses trailed over her cheek and along her jaw and pressed to the side of her sweet, yielding neck, "I doubt you would've gotten the recipe. German bakers guard their secrets jealously."
"It was delicious," she'd lamented, but she'd exposed her throat more fully.
"Mmm," he'd breathed as he'd savored the suppleness of warm, clean skin beneath his sensitive lips. "I'm sure the Internet is full of recipes."
"How many of them are good?" she'd groused, but her voice had been dreamy, slurred with contentment.
"There's bound to be at least one," he'd reasoned, and scraped his teeth along the delicate join where ear met jaw. "Besides, it's probably in your best interest to mix some protein with your sugar intake," he'd teased.
"Hey," she'd protested, "I had some roast suckling pig the day after Christmas. "I think it was left over from Dickbauch."
He'd thought again of her unanswered text message from Christmas Eve. He'd wanted to ask her just how lonely the holiday had been, but he hadn't wanted to ruin her happy mood, and so he'd tightened his grip and fiercely kissed her crown.
"The stew's got some time left if you want to take that shower."
He'd placed two fingers beneath her chin and gently turned her from her scrutiny of the bubbling pot. "Thank you." He'd dipped his head and sucked her lower lip between his teeth. Then he'd straightened and left her with a final caress of her cheek. "I won't be long," he'd promised.
"No hurry," she'd called after him as he'd padded toward the waiting comfort of his tub. He'd turned for one last look before he'd disappeared into the corridor and seen her at the stove, shrouded by steam and surrounded by the happy detritus of domesticity. She'd looked up from sniffing the contents of the pot. "Not quite what you wanted to come home to, huh?" she'd said, and cast a woebegone glance at the flour-spattered counter and the bunch of tomatoes that waited for the attention of her knife and the loaf of crusty French bread that lay on the counter behind her, the loaf end peering timidly from the end of the paper bag in which it hid, a prick awaiting circumcision. Cutting boards, pans, and plates had cluttered the sink, their edges and lips jutting above the steel basin like stones in a shallow stream.
"I couldn't think of anything better," he'd replied truthfully, and left her to her little pot of home.
It had occurred to him as he'd stepped out of his clothes and bent to turn on the tub's tap that despite his best intentions, the black waters in which he'd vowed never to swim again had swept him up and borne him on their dangerous currents. Somewhere between the front door and the bathtub, he had fallen in love with his witch of the wood, and the realization had made him light-headed with a mixture of elation and terror. He'd known he shouldn't have done, not with so many demands on his time, but it had been too late. She had stolen his heart with a joyful noise and a pot of stew, and he hadn't wanted to take it back.
I hope you know what you're doing, had said a voice that sounded disturbingly like Till.
A bitter bark of laughter. "Do I ever?" he'd asked.
The Till-voice had made no reply, and Richard had sighed and watched the steam rise from the water that had filled the tub with a steady, gurgling splash.