Thrown together by chance, two unlikely people. Pieter–with Spranger’s memoir–and Karo–the translator. In Dutch art there are many pictures of lovesick maidens. That is not Karo’s problem. She doesn’t know whether she’s coming or going. The New Year’s Eve celebration in Salzburg’s fanciest hotel didn’t go quite right. Well, at least not in the beginning. Is Karo lovesick as Jan Steen’s Dutch maiden?
“That’ll be all,” I signed the bill after two espressos. The second bottle of wine was left unfinished.
The view from the suite was stunning, as I’ve never seen it before. The old town and the river shimmered with festive lights. But Karo was quiet. Then, about to remove my jacket and loosen my tie, she ran and buried her face in my shirt.
“I’m not sure… this is so unreal, being with you. A fairy tale.” She took my silk kerchief from my front pocket, and blew her nose.
The women in my past were all clear-cut. Enticingly charming, often charismatic, they craved my wealth.
“What did I do wrong?”
“It’s not you, Pieter. I’m afraid of losing you. You couldn’t possibly be real. My last boyfriend was nice. A bit younger than I, we were grad students together. He was handsome. Very. But, I could never trust with whom he had slept when he came home late, saying that he was in the library. What a charmer, but soon every explanation became a crafted lie. I wanted something more permanent. Perhaps it exists these days.”
I wiped her face with the flat of my hand. “But I’m not your boyfriend.”
She searched for words, but instead her eyes swelled with more tears.
“I always fantasized about falling in love with a tall, blond man, gentle and generous, who would scoop me in his arms, and become part of me. I would love him forever, because I couldn’t live without him. I would look into his eyes, and see why he loved me. And he would do the same, no matter what I did. Why? Because he’d understand why I am the way I am. Happy or sad, distant or close, but never losing the bond of my love for him…
“Karo, you’re a bit nuts! Too complicated for me at times. I understand things differently. It’s a Rembrandt or not. It’s sunny or cloudy. The ‘in betweens’ don’t matter, really. But I’m willing to understand you. Can you believe me?”
She rubbed her wet nose in my shirt, and nodded.
“How about a nice bubbly bath?”
Soon, steam rose from the bathroom, and I heard light splashes now and then. A distant onlooker like Spranger, I watched Karo in the tub, sliding back and forth, until the water splashed on the floor, weaving her hands through her blond hair, with her bosom rising and falling under the foamy surface.
I removed the cork from a bottle of Cognac and filled two glasses. I had planned to open it later, instead of a Champagne, but the time was now.
“Geez,” Karo took a sip, visibly relaxed. “What beautiful tumblers! I’m not an expert, but this stuff tastes special. I’ve never had anything that cost more than 30 Euros… for a bottle.”
Try 4,000 British pounds, instead. “It’s from home.”
“And the glasses?”
“Those, too.”
“You’re incredible. How is it that you think of everything?”
“If I didn’t, I’d not be here with you now.”
“Can I see the bottle?” Carefully, she took it out of my hands, and read the label. “Fine Champagne. 1878. Camus Freres Cognac. This isn’t real, is it?”
I knelt down by the tub and placed the bottle on the floor.
“It’s real, as is my love for you, Karolina Světlá. Can’t you get that clear, like your pretty name, in your stubborn little head? Could you try to love me back?”
She giggled, and placed my hand on her breast. “You won’t ever be a Rudi or Berti, or my old boyfriend, will you?” Could she trust me now?
A funny thought hit me now.
For what followed, here’s a clause from Karo’s translation of Spranger’s memoir.
[A missing page here, or perhaps more?]
The fireworks were spectacular, but not as memorable as my night with Karo.
We parted much closer, but with a heavy work schedule in the new year…”