Secrets
by Walter Cummins
When Paul reached the end of the tram line three miles from Elke and Kurt's village, Elke was waiting, parked in the cobblestone circle, the Opel's engine idling, the children waving eagerly from the back seat even though Paul knew they had no memory of him from the time they were neighbors in the States. Astrid had been only four when they left, Rolf two, the most beautiful children he had ever known. Their blond, blue-eyed coloring was their mother's, but Elke was not beautiful, her forehead too broad, her eyes too wide, her skin blotched red as if she had just come in from the cold. Yet Paul found her pleasant and attractive, the twisted syntax of her English charming. Smiling broadly, she reached out her hand in a firm shake. "Welcome to our land."Paul expected a quick hug like the one she had given him at the airport three years ago the evening she and Kurt and the children returned to Europe. Now her formality disconcerted him, made him unsure why she had been so eager for his visit. All through the hours of the flight he assumed his letters had revealed a craving for human warmth, that they had chosen to comfort him with friendship. "We will bring to you a cheering up" was what Elke used to say when she tapped on his door, Kurt beside her holding a bottle of chilled white wine.
When he sat in the car, his luggage in the trunk, the children turned shy, sliding close together and lowering their eyes whenever he looked back at them, still beautiful, Astrid's hair in a tight braid down to her waist, Rolf's close cut. Paul spoke to them, making his voice singsong, as if that would help them understand: "I have presents for you. In my suitcase." Elke quickly echoed, "Geschenken," and to Paul, "Their English, it is not so good any more, yes?"
The narrow road to their house took a series of steep hills, up and down beneath a canopy of tall lush trees, Paul's stomach made queasy by the rapid winding descents. Through gaps in the branches he could see great mountains rising in the background. He had the sense of being totally lost, even though Elke knew exactly where she wanted to go, driving fast, slamming brakes at the curves and then roaring off, arms rigid as she twisted the steering wheel.
The village was tiny, three rows of houses, a few shops, and some large barns, Elke and Kurt's house on a side street, grey stone with a red tile roof, a mound of logs stacked neatly beside the patio, inside all dark polished wood and tile floors, cool, bright tapestries on the pure while walls. "Very nice," Paul told Elke, disoriented, everything totally unlike his impressions from the photos they had sent.
"It cost more than we have money to afford," she said, as if the fact were amusing.
"But much better than your accommodations in the States." They had lived in adjoining crackerbox townhouses for the two years of Kurt's American job assignment, a career move, a sign that Kurt had been singled out for rapid advancement. He was having a beer in Paul's kitchen when Elke arrived a week after him, but a day earlier than expected, some confusion in the flight plans. Paul watched as she pulled herself from a taxi, in the last stage of an ungainly pregnancy, then stood on the blacktop parking area with a suitcase in each hand, looking as if she wanted to cry, two-year-old Astrid clinging to her leg. Kurt had run out and swept up his daughter, swirled her, covered her face with a dozen kisses.
That was shortly after Paul's divorce, the townhouse temporary he had told himself at the time, though he still lived there, unopened cartons stacked in the storage closet. The walls were like cardboard. Then Kurt and Elke's muffled conversations, sounds in a language he couldn't comprehend, had made him feel less alone. Now his neighbor was an old woman who blasted her tv twenty hours a day.
Elke gave him towels and pointed out the downstairs bath, a small room bright from a wide frosted window, plastic toys lined on the edge of the tub, a man's robe hanging from a hook on the door. When Paul came out, shaved and freshly dressed, Elke poured him a glass of wine and they sat by the unlit fireplace, discussing his trip -- the plane, the train, the tram -- and then chatting about others from the townhouses, people they had known in common. The children sat on the rug, quietly listening, even though he knew this talk would make little sense to them even if their English were perfect.
When evening began to fall, Elke excused herself and moved into the kitchen, spoke softly to the children while she pulled pots from a cabinet. The children began setting the table, Astrid with the silverware, Rolf carrying stemmed glasses, tiptoeing with one at a time. Paul dozed while watching the purple glow of sunset behind the mountains, startled when Elke called him to sit down. At the table, he counted the settings and saw no place for Kurt; it struck him that she had hardly mentioned her husband the whole time they had been talking. He hesitated to question, not sure he really wanted to know why. When he did ask for Kurt, Elke shrugged: "I must make his apologies for him. Today is a day that he must work very late. His company, it is very demanding of his hours."
Rolf dominated the meal, speaking constantly now, his gruff voice incongruous for such a small boy, asking Paul many questions that Elke had to translate, Astrid giggling with each one: how big was the airplane? did Paul live in Disney World? what was his favorite cartoon? "He has much curiousness," Elke said.
After dinner the children put on music, a tape of a solo flute, and they danced, Astrid in pink leotards, straining to stay on tiptoe, spinning, the long braid swirling with every movement. Rolf hopped up and down in one spot and shook his hips, Elke clapping soundlessly, trying to make them follow her rhythm. "It is their favorite thing, to dance," she told Paul.
Later, after the children took their baths and went to bed, Kurt still had not come home. Elke refused to let Paul help with the dishes: "You are to be our guest." He sat in the parlor listing to rush of water, the clatter of china, again wondering why he was there. During the months they were neighbors, they had spent many evenings together, he at sea after nine years of marriage, Elke and Kurt strangers to his culture eager to listen to his explanations; but Kurt eventually took so many business trips he saw more of the country than Paul ever had, returning with souvenirs and hours of videotape. When the family moved back to Europe, they exchanged letters, holiday cards, photos of the children, and then came Elke's surprise call with an invitation to visit, urging him to say yes, assuring him that Kurt also would be happy to see him.
When the dishes were stacked, Elke took off her apron and joined Paul with a new bottle of wine. He expected her to ask about his life, a continuation of the conversation they used to have when Kurt was on one of his trips, Elke bathing Rolf in the sink, Astrid on his lap with a coloring book, he picking apart his marriage, reliving conversations, gestures, expressions as he sought the source of its failure. Elke had been a patient listener, nodding "Ja Ja" and telling him, "It is not so good for to blame yourself so much."
And now she burst into tears, fell against Paul, clung to him, her body trembling, her thick hair in his eyes. He stiffened, not sure what to do with his hands, then laid them gently on her back, patting and rubbing, wondering what would happen if Kurt walked in the door at that moment, thinking how a mistaken appearance could complicate all their lives.
Now she sat on the sofa beside him and touched her glass to his, then looked across the room at the wall clock, saying nothing. Paul glanced down at his watch and saw the time. "Has Kurt been promoted?" he asked.
"I suppose so," she said. "We don't talk of such things. His work, it is very tedious. Why should I want to know so much about it?"
He couldn't tell if she were serious. "We used to discuss our work all the time in the States."
"That's because Americans have nothing else to talk about. You live to work. You think about only how important is your career."
"But right now Kurt isn't here because of his."
"That is what he tells me is so."
In the silence, not knowing what to say, Paul poured more wine for both of them, studied the label, commented on the crisp, fresh taste.
Elke touched his hand, her long fingers covering his, and guiding the bottle back to a tabletop. "It's not so good with us, me and Kurt."
He nodded. "I've felt that since I arrived. Did something happen?"
"It is what is not happening. Our lives we live like separate people."
"That's sad." Paul knew he should say more but couldn't find words. He was very tired -- the wine, the long trip.
"I lie awake all night thinking about what could have been," Elke said after a silence. "The life I missed. The person I missed." She paused, waiting for Paul to react, continuing only when he blinked his confusion. "He calls me now. We talk. I called him once for the first time, after many years. And now he is the one who calls."
"What person?"
"My teacher once. My teacher when I was very young. He was the first man for to make love to me."
"A much older man?"
"Not so much. He wanted me to marry with him."
"Why didn't you?"
"I was still in school. I was so young. All I cared about then was to make love."
"And now?"
"I think about him always. All the time. The terrible mistake I made for my life."
"Is that why you called him?"
Elke nodded, her large pale eyes glossy with tears. "One night, it was very late, and still no Kurt. There was no moon, just darkness. The wind made the house to shake. I dialed his old number not even knowing if it was there he still lived."
"But he did?"
"A woman answered."
"His wife?"
She shook her head slowly. "No. Some person he lives with. But I didn't care. I asked for to speak with him anyway. When I heard his voice, I cried." She started to weep now, but just sniffled, wiped her eyes, and smiled. "He calls since then. When he will call I never know . All day I wait for him to call."
"What does he say?"
"He will leave her -- that woman -- leave her for me. He wants for me to meet him in his city. He wants for to see my face."
"Will you go?"
"I don't know!" And now she burst into tears, fell against Paul, clung to him, her body trembling, her thick hair in his eyes. He stiffened, not sure what to do with his hands, then laid them gently on her back, patting and rubbing, wondering what would happen if Kurt walked in the door at that moment, thinking how a mistaken appearance could complicate all their lives.
"You have a husband," he said, "children."
"My husband, he makes me miserable." She cried even harder.
"You seemed so happy in the States," Paul said. "I was the miserable one. Just being with the two of you made me feel better."
"There we were in a world so different. Everything was different." She pulled away from him and sat back, twisted her hair into a knot. "You must tell me what I am to do?"
"Is that why you invited me?"
"Yes."
"Don't you have anyone here to talk to?"
"Here people do not talk about such things."
Paul stood up, walked to the front of the room, and looked out at the moon, hoping Kurt's car would suddenly appear on the empty street. He remembered her advice to him in the past, all the times she had said, You are not so much to grieve. He knew he owed her words of comfort but had no idea what to say. "Elke, how can I make a decision about other people's lives? Look what I did with my own."
"If I go to him," she said, "look at him just one time, I will never come back."
"And the children?"
She shook her head sadly, the hair falling loose, covering her face. "I cannot leave my children."
"What if you took them with you?"
"He, my friend, lives poorly. He has no room for children. He wants only me."
"Then he gives you the choice of being a lover or a mother." Paul spoke slowly, as if analyzing a problem that had nothing to do with actual people. He realized he did not like this unnamed man, Elke's friend.
"Yes, I can stay here to be miserable with my children. I can go to there to be miserable without them."
"And Kurt? Isn't there anything you two can do?"
"No. Nothing." She gave him a stare of defiance. "Never." Before Paul could protest, headlight beams swept across the wall and he heard the crunch of tires on gravel. Kurt was home. The car door slammed, the house door opened; Kurt dropped his briefcase on the tiles of the entranceway and called Paul's name, grinning broadly, arms spread wide in greeting. He strode across the rug and, instead of shaking hands, embraced Paul. "My friend, it's so good to see you after all this time."
Kurt had a mustache now, and small rimless glasses, his thinning hair much wispier under the glow of the ceiling lights. When he released Paul, he leaned down and gave Elke a quick kiss on the top of the head. "What a day."
"I hear your company is overworking you," Paul said, trying to make a joke of it.
Kurt gave an exaggerated sigh. "You don't know of half of it." He hung his jacket on a coat rack, loosened his tie. "Life was much more manageable in the days we were neighbors."
"So you miss the States," Paul said.
"Some things. And some things are better here. And what about you? Is your life finally better?"
Paul shrugged. "I keep telling myself I'm on the verge of taking the next step."
"And what step is that, my friend?"
"If I knew, I'd be able to take it."
Kurt laughed, loudly, as if Paul had said something very funny.
Elke asked him if he wanted his dinner, abruptly, not hiding her annoyance.
"I ate in the city with people." He saw the bottle on the table. "Some wine won't hurt." He waited for Elke to get a glass from a cabinet and pour for him. They exchanged words in their language, she abrupt, his voice rising. He handed him the glass -- "Hier!" -- and turned her back.
"And how have the children been?" he asked Elke after he sipped. Kurt's English was easier than hers, his accent less pronounced, though his vowel sounds had always struck Paul as odd.
"The children have been children all day," she said. Kurt winked at Paul, as if they shared a secret. "And sometimes the adults are children," he said. "But adults must play too, isn't that so?"
Elke looked at him. "It is time for to go to bed. I am very tired from being an adult. And you should let Paul sleep too."
"In a few minutes. I've missed my friend." He raised his glass in a toast.
Kurt watched her climb the steps and raised his glass again, to her back. Then he sat beside Paul on the sofa, reached out to squeeze his arm. This gesture, like the hug, surprised Paul; Kurt had never been a toucher before.
"So, Paul," Kurt said, "you're still brooding over your divorce."
"I miss being married, and I don't like having made a mess of things."
"Perhaps it's impossible for our lives not to be messy." Kurt smiled as if the thought amused him.
"And what about your life?" Paul asked.
"My life is very messy and very pleasant."
"Would Elke agree?"
"I have no idea, my friend. The pleasant part has nothing to do with her."
"So the messy part must."
"A man shouldn't criticize his wife." Kurt tilted his head back and drained the wine.
For a second Paul thought he should speak of Elke's unhappiness, but sensed that would be a mistake now. Instead he asked, "What happened? You two were so close in the States."
"That was living in a fantasy world. We were the only two people who spoke the same language. She gave me a son. This" -- Kurt slapped the wood of the table, pointed at the walls -- "is the real world for us."
"You have a son here. And a daughter."
"They are two of my greatest joys."
"The source of what's very pleasant?" Paul said.
Kurt laughed. "In part. Stay here. I want to show you something, my friend." He crossed the room to retrieve his briefcase, snapped it open and searched inside as he returned to the sofa, lifting out a mailing envelope as he sat again. He looked toward the stairway as if Elke might be standing there watching, then pulled two photographs from it with his fingertips. Silently, eyes glowing, lips pressed into a smirk, he passed them to Paul.
Paul took one in each hand and turned them over. They were, as he expected the moment he touched them, of a woman. One photo was a close up of a young face under meticulously waved hair, the other a shot of the same woman in a lowcut cocktail dress, the shadow of her cleavage prominent, as if she had just taken a deep breath to thrust out her chest. Paul's first thought was that she wasn't any more attractive than Elke.
"So," Kurt said, touching the edges but not taking the photos from Paul.
"Who is she?"
"The people I ate with tonight." He broke into a broad smile. "My reason for putting in such long hours. A trial of my corporate responsibilities."
Paul placed the photos on the cushion between them. "What does this mean?"
"Mean? In what way?"
"Are you in love with this woman? Will you leave Elke?"
Paul met Kurt's eyes and held his breath, aware that a simple "Yes" would change many lives. Elke would retain custody. There would be a settlement. She could force her old teacher to rethink their crisis. But Paul realized he wasn't sure he wanted that; he had no idea what would be best for these people.
"Leave Elke?" Kurt seemed shocked at the question. "Of course not. She is the mother of my children. It is very important that I be with my children."
"But what about her?" Paul pointed at the photos.
"I have great affection for her. She is a source of much joy. And she understands how it is for me."
"Do you truly love her?" Paul insisted.
"My friend, I love her enough to be happy." Kurt placed the photos back in the envelope, spread apart the clasp, and pressed down with his thumbs. "My wish for you is that you will be as happy also."
"Is it me?" Paul said. "My example that put you off the idea of divorce?"
"You? You have nothing to do with it. It's not like America here. There is no need for divorce. Not for something as trivial as infidelity."
Paul clutched the sofa with a sudden anger. "It was my wife."
"You Americans take life's games too seriously. Always in a hurry. The alternative is to let things pass with time."
"Not for me."
Kurt reached upward and yawned as he stretched, twisting his torso. "That was your mistake."
"What about Elke? What if your wife were unfaithful?"
"How would I know?"
"What do you know about her? Do you even know if she's happy?"
Kurt shrugged. "That's not something we talk about. I hope she is. Elke has her children. Why shouldn't she be happy?" He looked at his watch. "It's been a long day for all of us. Now that you are here, there will be much time for talk."
Kurt paused at the bottom of the stairway, briefcase in hand, and yawned again. Paul almost called him back, but the sound died on his lips. He had several days ahead to decide what he would reveal to the husband or to the wife.
Kurt snapped off the light when he reached the top of the stairs, and Paul looked out at the night, the shadows of tree limbs like cracks across the windows, the grey shapes of mountains in the distance. Above him he heard the creak of a mattress, Kurt lying beside Elke in the darkness. And he understood that he would not repeat a word to either of them, that he had been told these secrets because he was a man who could make nothing happen to their lives.
