Someday We'll Tell Each Other Everything by Daniela Krien, Jamie Bulloch Page B

down by the river, looking at the water; Frieda at the gate, looking along the road. And me, over and over again.
    We hardly talk anymore, all I hear now is: “The light is perfect, sit over there. No, no, no, not like that. Look to the right. No, Maria, with your eyes, not your head!” In fact Johannes doesn’t see me anymore, all he sees are pictures.
    Until a few days ago I would have done anything to win back his attention. I’d have talked, charmed, ranted, whatever you do when your loved one turns his back on you. But I behave calmly; with apparent generosity I allow him to indulge in the magic of his new passion. I’m quite indifferent. My only real interest lies in the man on the neighboring farm.
    I wander through the yard, the note in my right hand. Alfred shuffles past me into the barn. There’s a twinkle in his tiny eyes; his cheeks are sunken as he barely has any teeth. When he’s gone I read the message. This time there’s no envelope. It’s the same piece of paper with the sentence: “He lay awake at night, desiring her, and he had her.” Underneath he’s written, “Tomorrow I’ll come get you!”
    Tomorrow—that’s today. My calm evaporates.
    Marianne and Gisela are in the shop. They seem to be getting to know each other; they talk about their children and Hartmut’s twenty years without his family, which nobody can ever give back to him. I leave them be. There are some things that are so difficult to say, every word is a struggle; I’d only be disturbing them.
    I can see Hartmut outside. He’s wearing one of Siegfried’s blue boiler suits and heading for the sawmill. The children are skipping along behind him. What an adventure this must be for them.
    Frieda is in the kitchen with Volker. She’s summoned him from town because Hartmut wanted to see his other brother, too. But the feeling is not mutual. Volker has hardly been able to look Hartmut in the eye, and for years he’s been giving Siegfried a wide berth. He doesn’t seem to notice that I’m there. His dull expression only seems to come to life when drink is put on the table. I can definitely see thesimilarities between Volker and Alfred. Volker’s so different from his two brothers. There’s something shifty about him, something that makes me distrust him. Acrid alcoholic fumes are polluting the entire kitchen. All that’s missing is Alfred. From day one I sensed that Alfred didn’t like me; I seem to disturb him somehow. Maybe he had become used to the fixed set of people in the family. And then I came along.
    If Henner really does come for me I’d like to give him a cake, so I stay in the kitchen and bake my first cake without any help. Volker and Frieda move to the parlor. Six eggs, three hundred and sixty grams of sugar, the same amount of butter and flour. No baking powder. The grated zest of one lemon, the juice of four lemons, some vanilla, a pinch of salt. Bake for sixty minutes: forty minutes at 350 degrees, twenty at 400 degrees, checking that it doesn’t brown too quickly on top—this is what Frieda’s always told me.
    I feel very grown up here in the kitchen. The windows that face the yard are open. Alfred glances inside, snuffles, nods and smiles inscrutably. The others are scattered all over the farm. Then everything happens as if by magic. The cake comes out of the oven, golden brown and smelling fantastic, and I can hear his voice in the shop and the women laughing. I bet he’s flirting with them. I’m instantly envious of Gisela. She’s wearing a dress today, too, and her blond hair falls in fragrant waves across her white shoulders. She smells fantastic. We couldn’t work out what it was. Some mixture of rose and sandalwood, but we’re too embarrassed to ask. She must think we’re peasants, Marianne and me.
    I can’t make out what he’s saying, but now Marianne is calling my name. “Come over here, Maria!” she says. “Henner’s got his horses with him.” I’ve already cut the cake and