A double treat with today's Free Kindle Nation Short!
First, it's sponsored by a favorite author among Kindle Nation citizens, Karen Fenech. Karen's novel Gone was immensely popular when it was featured here earlier this summer, and today's sponsorship features her beautifully plotted medieval romance Betrayal.
First, it's sponsored by a favorite author among Kindle Nation citizens, Karen Fenech. Karen's novel Gone was immensely popular when it was featured here earlier this summer, and today's sponsorship features her beautifully plotted medieval romance Betrayal.
Second, here's the set-up for a generous 9-chapter excerpt from Christa Polkinhorn's Love of a Stonemason:
The young painter, Karla Bocelli, is no stranger to loss. When she was five years old, her mother died in a car crash in the south of Switzerland. Her Peruvian father lives at the other end of the world, and a year ago, her aunt and guardian passed away. Now, at age twenty-four, Karla almost gets hit by a speeding car. As if this wasn't fateful enough, Andreas, the driver, turns out to be a sculptor and carver of tombstones. In spite of his profession, Andreas is anything but morbid. Quick-tempered and intense, he exudes a rough-and-tumble energy. After a tumultuous start of their relationship, Karla comes to see in Andreas the "rock in her life," the perfect antidote to her fears of abandonment and bouts of depression. Andreas, however, wrestles with his own ghosts: an alcoholic father who abused him as a child and his own fits of anger. Together, the two artists must confront the demons that haunt them.
Love of a Stonemason
is a story about the struggle of two artists with their past, their family, their creativity, and their love for each other. Told from the point of view of Karla, it depicts the world through her painter's sensibility. It takes the reader on a journey full of sights, smells, tastes, and sounds from the south of Switzerland to Italy and the Peruvian Andes.Scroll down to read the free excerpt
by Karen Fenech - $2.99 in the Kindle Store
To save her son and people from a deadly enemy, Lady Katherine Stanfield marries her former betrothed, a man she'd betrayed but has never stopped loving.
Katherine has never revealed her reason for the betrayal and now, five years later, believes her secret is safe. Someone won't let the past rest. Someone with a secret of his own. She must stop that "someone" because he wants Katherine and her new husband dead.
Also by Karen Fenech:
"This one's a keeper!"
--- New York Times Bestselling Author Kat Martin
"An excellent read."
--- Donna M. Brown, Romantic Times Magazine
To save her son and people from a deadly enemy, Lady Katherine Stanfield marries her former betrothed, a man she'd betrayed but has never stopped loving.
Katherine has never revealed her reason for the betrayal and now, five years later, believes her secret is safe. Someone won't let the past rest. Someone with a secret of his own. She must stop that "someone" because he wants Katherine and her new husband dead.
Also by Karen Fenech:
Copyright © 2010 by Christa Polkinhorn
and published here with her permission.
Karla Bocelli hated the painting. She had worked at it off and on during the past year and never managed to finish it. But no matter how much she disliked it, she couldn't convince herself to destroy it. It seemed to haunt her.
It was warm and muggy in early June in the south of Switzerland. Patches of mist hugged the mountains behind Lago Maggiore. Karla clasped her artist's portfolio under her arm and brushed a strand of hair from her damp forehead. She was on the way to the old part of Locarno, thinking, once again, of the troublesome picture.
She saw the car just as she stepped into the crosswalk. An old beat-up Fiat screeched to a stop within a few inches away from her. Karla jumped back and dropped her portfolio, spilling its content onto the pavement. Her heart thudded and she took deep breaths, trying to calm the queasy feeling in her stomach. That smell. Burnt rubber.
A young man got out of the car and stared at her, stunned. "Are you all right?"
Karla, still dazed, nodded. She bent down and began to pick up her drawings. A few pedestrians stopped but when they realized that nothing major had happened they walked on.
The driver's dark voice rose to an angry pitch. "Jesus Christ. What's the matter with you?
You practically threw yourself in front of my car. I could've killed you. Are you suicidal or something?"
"I'm sorry, I wasn't watching." Karla slid the papers back into her portfolio.
"Yeah, well, that's obvious. Wake up, for heaven's sake."
His belligerent voice angered Karla, who was gradually regaining her composure. She stood up, flipped her long dark hair back over her shoulders, and faced him. "I said, I was sorry."
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and husky, with longish dark tousled hair and green eyes, which now glowered at her. He must have been her age or a little older, perhaps in his mid twenties. As Karla continued to pick up her drawings, he approached and bent down to help her.
"You're an artist?" he asked in a friendlier tone as he looked at one of the charcoal sketches.
"Yes." Karla snatched the paper out of his hand.
"I hope your pictures aren't ruined."
"What do you care? Why do you have to drive like a maniac?"
"Great," he shouted. "Now it's my fault?"
"This is a pedestrian zone, in case you haven't noticed." Karla grabbed her portfolio and stepped back onto the sidewalk. Her heartbeat had slowed to almost normal but her knees still felt wobbly.
"Do you always jump in front of moving cars without looking?" He turned around and walked away. "Airhead," he mumbled, shot her a last angry look, got into the car, and slammed the door. He revved the engine which died several times. The car finally started and he drove off, leaving a cloud of stinking smoke behind.
"Jerk. Perhaps a new muffler would help. Never heard of air pollution?" Karla crossed the street after carefully checking the road for traffic. Still shaken, she made her way through the old part of Locarno toward the art store to drop off her drawings to be framed for the upcoming opening.
Karla was a young artist whose first exhibition of her paintings and drawings opened the following Friday. The gallery belonged to a friend and patron of hers. Silvia and her husband were art lovers and devoted some of their time and money to help fledgling artists show their work.
Having recovered somewhat, Karla was able to take in the sights of the old part of this city she loved: the boutiques and small shops along the narrow cobblestone streets, the quaint houses painted in ocher, orange, and pink, the piazzas with their pots of cornflowers and red and white geraniums, the small simple Romanesque and the more ornate Baroque churches.
Karla inhaled the mixture of scents so familiar to her from her childhood when she came here often with her mother and grandmother: the smell of espresso, of grilled meat and fish as well as herbs and spices from the restaurants, stores, and coffee bars.
When Karla arrived at the gallery after dropping off her drawings at the art store, she looked through the tall shop window at the row of paintings on the wall. It was only now that the momentous event began to sink in. She was overcome by a surge of pride and excitement. My first exhibition. She knocked on the window. Silvia, who was already in the gallery moving chairs and folding tables, turned around and waved at her.
"So, what do you think?" Silvia stepped back and motioned at Karla's paintings. She was a woman in her fifties with a wild mane of graying hair. Her outfit was a mixture of femme fatal and hippy--low-cut, tight black top and long flowery skirt.
"Great. I like the way you arranged them." Karla studied the row of pictures. There were a few watercolor and acrylic landscapes with a calm Zen-like feel while many of her oil paintings exploded in fiery reds, yellows, and browns with a volcanic intensity. In addition, Karla had chosen a few more experimental pictures: landscapes which clashed with foreign objects, such as scrap metal, a computer sticking out of a flower. She wanted to strike a balance between paintings that might appeal to regular visitors and those that would receive more attention from art collectors.
"I hope somebody shows up." Karla sighed. "I've been looking forward to this, but now I'm getting nervous. Do you really think I put the right paintings up?"
"Sure you did, they're great. Relax."
"The last few of my drawings should be framed and ready by Thursday," Karla said.
"Good. I left space on the back wall for them. I ordered the snacks and the wine. So we're ready. Don't forget the bios. And don't worry, the opening will be fabulous." Silvia gave Karla a hug, enveloping her in a cloud of patchouli perfume.
* * *
By the time Karla arrived at the stone cottage she rented in the small village at the beginning of the Maggia Valley, the air had thickened. In the direction of Saint Gotthard, the mountain that divided the south from the north of Switzerland, towering heaps of dark clouds were churning, first signs of a thunderstorm.
Karla filled the espresso pot with water and finely ground coffee and set it on the stove, then went into her studio, a room with a skylight and a window facing south. The owner, an artist himself, had the skylight installed since the windows in this typical southern Swiss house were small and the lighting wasn't good enough for painting. Sitting in front of her easel, Karla began to mix her paints. The picture she was working on was the one she had been thinking about earlier that morning when she almost got hit by the car.
The half-finished oil painting was different from her normally intense colorful landscapes.
It was a stark, somber picture, almost devoid of color. It showed the stylized outline of a woman in black, a dark, lonely figure standing at the edge of the canvas who covered her face with her hands. The rest was empty space, except for a glowing spot of color at the right upper corner.
Karla had started the painting after the unexpected death of her aunt the year before. She had been Karla's only remaining blood-relative, aside from her father, who lived in Peru and whom she barely knew. Her aunt had raised Karla since she was five years old after her mother and grandmother had been killed in a car crash. She and Karla had been very close and her death had been a devastating blow.
Scanning the picture with half-closed eyes, Karla picked up a brush, dipped it in a mixture of grey and green paint, then stopped to examine the painting again. The slender, dark figure looked forlorn and lost. Not even the color in the back was comforting. It was orange-red, the sun of the evening, which had lost its warmth.
Why do I even bother with this thing? Frustrated with the timid and self-effacing woman in the painting, Karla tossed a sheet over it and put the picture once again into the storage room next to her studio.
The espresso pot hissed on the stove and the scent of fresh coffee filled the room and dispelled the smell of paint. Karla poured herself a cup and decided to drink it black; perhaps it would ease the tension in her head. The slight headache she had woken up with had intensified during the day, in part due to the change of air pressure before the storm and in part, perhaps, because of her tumultuous morning with the young man.
Karla stood by the kitchen window, sipping her coffee, savoring its slightly bitter taste. She tried to picture the man again, his muscular figure, his longish dark hair and, particularly, his expressive green eyes. Too bad they hadn't met under more pleasant circumstances. In spite of his angry outburst, she felt a certain curiosity about him.
A breeze kicked up and shook the azaleas in front of the house. The large creamy-white and red flowers of the horse chestnut trees swayed back and forth. Karla stepped outside. It smelled of rain, damp and musty. The meadows in front of the house were filled with blue, purple, and yellow wildflowers and down the hill the birches, ashes, and tall hazels along the river Maggia leaned into the wind.
Karla went back inside and began to prepare a canvas for a new painting. She pulled the cloth tightly across the stretcher bars with the help of canvas pliers and fastened it with staples. After covering the canvas with a base layer of gesso, she set it aside to dry. She turned on her computer and printed out a stack of bios for the exhibition.
Outside, daylight was fading fast as smoky gray storm clouds were beginning to darken the sky. After a quick dinner of soup and bread topped with cheese, Karla tried to do some sketching but nothing came of it. She was tired and her head still ached. She took an aspirin and went to bed early. Listening to the wind whooshing through the trees, she fell asleep.
* * *
Later in the night, Karla woke up drenched in sweat. The bursting of broken glass and a woman's desperate scream for help were interrupted by claps of thunder. At first, she was unable to distinguish between the noises in her dream and the sounds of reality. A whiff of burnt rubber and acid hung in the air.
Karla peeled back her down comforter and sat up, pushed herself to the edge of the bed,
and lowered her feet to the floor. She brushed a tangle of hair from her wet forehead and took a deep breath. It had been the same nightmare she had suffered from since childhood, but the thunder and lightning were real. The grandfather clock in the next room struck eleven times. She must have just fallen asleep when the thunder woke her.
Karla got up and looked out the window. Lightning lit up the sky and the shadows of clouds swept across the meadows. The trees bent over and swayed in the gusts of wind. She went into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water, then sat by the window. Sipping the cold liquid, she tried to squelch the shreds of troubling images her dream had left her with: the mangled bodies, the blood, the broken glass, the fire.
"Mama?" Karla whispered into the dark. Her eyes filled with tears. "All I have of you is a scream for help. I barely even remember what you looked like."
There was no answer, only the thunder in the distance. Karla got up and opened the door to the patio. She stepped outside as it began to rain. First, large individual drops hit her arms and face, then the clouds burst. She bent her head back, closed her eyes, and let the rain pound on her face for a few seconds, enjoying the harsh cleansing sensation. The water soaked through her T-shirt. She began to shiver and went inside, pulled off her top and grabbed a towel to dry herself. Back in bed, she listened to the now steady and peaceful sounding rain and fell asleep again.
Chapter 2
The sky was a clear blue after the thunderstorm of the past night with only a few fleecy white clouds in the north and streaks of sulfur-yellow etched on the horizon in the south.
The air felt fresh and clean. It promised to be a beautiful early-summer day.
Karla stepped outside and inhaled the sweet scent of the wisteria bush in the courtyard.
However, no matter how hard she tried to enjoy the day, she felt out-of-sorts and depressed.
Her nightmare, her inability to finish the painting she struggled with, and the unsettling feelings after her near-accident the day before all seemed to have banded together and attacked her, full force, in her sleep.
Painting didn't help, either. She wanted to go back to her colorful landscapes, drown her dark mood with globs of fiery paints but the newly stretched canvas merely stared back at her. It was glaring in its whiteness, hostile. Finally, Karla gave up trying to work. She would pay a visit to Lena and get some roses for her mother's grave.
Lena cultivated and sold roses and was known all over the valley and the nearby cities for her beautiful rose fields. She had been one of Karla's closest friends for many years.
Having known her mother well, Lena had often babysat Karla when she was little. Karla had spent the first five years of her life in the Maggia Valley and had moved north to live with her aunt after her mother's and grandmother's death. After Karla's aunt had passed,
Lena had encouraged her to move back to the Vallemaggiaand had invited her to stay with them until she found a place of her own. Lena and her husband Luigi and their four children had become like a family to her.
On the way to Lena's, Karla passed by the rose fields which were in full bloom, although some damage from the thunderstorm was visible. A few of the bushes had been knocked to the ground and the field was strewn with rose petals, which looked like big confetti. But even so, the flowers were dazzling. Shades of red, from crimson to purple to mauve, different hues of orange, multicolored roses as well as the simple white and yellow ones sparkled in the sun and formed a pleasant contrast to the dark green of the pines in the background and the vineyards on both sides.
Normally, Karla couldn't walk by the rose fields without stopping to admire the abundance of colors. Today, though, she barely glanced at the flowers, although their sweet fragrance was almost overpowering.
Karla found Lena in the large shed next to her home, busy preparing for the upcoming market. She was putting roses on the conveyor belt of a machine that separated the flowers by length, so they could be arranged into bouquets more easily. Lena was a stout motherly woman in her late forties with lively blue eyes and thick brown hair streaked with grey.
"Hi there." Lena gave Karla a quick smile, then continued to watch the roses glide by. She occasionally picked one up and set it aside, then turned off the machine. "How are you?"
"I don't know. I got up on the wrong side of the bed." Karla blinked as the tears rose to her eyes.
"Oh?" Lena peered at her, then took her by the arm. "Come on, the coffee is still fresh. I need a break."
They went inside and Lena poured them each a cup. She sat down next to Karla and put her arm around her. "So, tell me, what's bugging you?"
The motherly gesture broke the dam that held back Karla's tears. All the pent-up emotions of the past couple of days flooded her. Lena waited patiently until Karla was able to stop crying. She hugged her and gently patted her back, as if to comfort a child. "What's the matter, Karla?"
"I just had one of those miserable dreams again and yesterday I almost got run over by a car," Karla finally managed to say between sobs. She told Lena of her near-accident, her inability to deal with one of her paintings, the nightmare. "It all just brought it back again.
I'm lonely; Anna died, I have no family left, and ..." She burst into tears again.
"Honey, I know, it's hard. But why don't you come to us when you feel bad? You know, you always have family here. You're not alone."
"Thanks, Lena. I know. It's just one of those days."
"Talk about family. Have you heard from your father lately?" Lena gently brushed a strand of hair out of Karla's face.
"Not in while. It's my turn to write. I just haven't been up to it. I've run out of things to write to him about. Problem is, we haven't seen each other in ten years and you start to lose track."
"I understand. Perhaps, you should plan a trip to see him."
"Yeah, I know. I should." Karla wiped the tears from her face. "I've been busy saving my money for painting, but I guess I could stay with his family. He even offered to pay for my plane ticket. It would be great to visit Peru again." Karla hugged Lena. "Thanks for listening to me. It does make me feel better." She managed a weak smile and got up. "I actually came down here to get some roses for Mama's grave."
"Pick as many as you want. And take one of the vases here." Lena reached for a vase on the kitchen cabinet and handed it to Karla. "And if you're up to it, come and help me bake this afternoon. Luigi is with the lambs and the kids are in school. I could use some help. I'm making a few loaves of braided bread. Unless you've painting to do?"
"No. Baking sounds wonderful. Just what I need, to get my mind off my problems."
Karla walked the short distance to the cemetery. The sweet aroma of her bouquet of roses brought a smile to her face. It's going to be a good day, she tried to convince herself.
The river Maggia on the other side of the street roared with gusto, spilling its waters in swirls and rapids toward Lake Maggiore. The noble chestnut trees in front of the graveyard were in full bloom and their long yellowish catkins exuded a strong pungent scent.
Scattered by the wind, the abundant pollen of the male blossoms covered the ground and graves with a film of fine golden dust.
As Karla climbed the few steps to the graveyard, she brushed against an overhanging branch of a wet hazel bush that showered her with a rivulet of water. She spotted two men working on the plot next to her mother's grave. One of them was in the process of leaving.
He loaded a cart with tools and pushed it toward the exit. The man who stayed back was crouching before a freshly planted plot, wiping off what seemed to be a new gravestone. A shock of dark hair hung over his face. When Karla put down the vase with the roses on her mother's grave, he stood up.
They stared at each other.
"You?" Karla asked.
"Oh, my god, it's the woman who jumps in front of moving cars." A sarcastic smile teased his lips as he glared at her with his green cat eyes.
"It's the maniac who ignores pedestrian zones. What are you doing here?"
"I'm your local stonemason. I put up one of those." He brushed a strand of hair from his forehead and pointed at the newly planted stone.
The gravestone stood out somewhat from the others. It was made of polished grey-green gneiss. The top edge, however, was left in its original unpolished shape, giving the tombstone an artistic flair. The text was carved in a simple italic font and the only decoration was a bunch of grapes chiseled into the stone.
"That's beautiful," Karla said.
"Thanks." He pointed at the stone on her mother's grave. "Someone close to you?"
"My mother."
"Oh, sorry." He squinted his eyes and looked at the stone more closely. "That was a long time ago; you must have lost her early."
"Yes, I was five when she died. A car accident."
"A car accident? Jesus. Seems to run in the family."
Karla glared at him. "I don't think that's funny at all. You sure have a warped sense of humor."
"I'm sorry, that was stupid. I didn't mean it that way. It just struck me as a strange coincidence. I almost ran you over and now ... I apologize. And I'm sorry I yelled at you yesterday. I was wrong. I was driving too fast." He stretched out his arm.
Still angry, Karla hesitated. But seeing his imploring look, she gave in and shook his hand.
It was large, but in spite of the rough work his palm felt soft. "It was my fault too. I should've been more careful," she admitted.
She was struck again by the unusual color of his intense green eyes. They changed from verdigris to shades of blue according to the way the sun touched his face. He was handsome, in a rough kind of way. I'd like to paint him. Realizing she was staring at him, she quickly averted her gaze. A breeze kicked up, buffeting the leaves in the trees and tugging at her hair.
"Look, we started out all wrong. Can we just forget about yesterday? And go out for coffee or a movie or dinner or something? My treat."
"You sure move fast. Yesterday, you called me an airhead and now you ask me out?"
He gave a guttural laugh. "Well, yesterday was yesterday. I'm glad I didn't run you over, a beautiful girl like you. By the way, I'm Andreas."
"Karla."
"So, what do you say?"
"I don't know. I'm really busy this week. I'm preparing for an arts exhibition on Friday, but if you're interested, here is an announcement." Karla pulled a card out of her purse and handed it to him.
"Oh, that's right; you're an artist. Great, I love paintings. Had to do quite a bit of drawing as part of my training." He studied the card that showed a couple of Karla's paintings.
"Interesting work."
Karla liked the sound of his voice, deep and throaty, even a little tender, now that he wasn't yelling or making sarcastic remarks. "So what do you do aside from making tombstones?"
"All kinds of stone work but also some metal sculptures. I just can't make enough money with that kind of stuff yet. So it's mainly tombstones for a living. Talk about making a living, I better get back to work. I have to plant a few more of these at another cemetery."
He pointed at the gravestone. "Three people died the same week."
"Oh? Well, you should be pleased." Karla chuckled.
He raised an eyebrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Good business for you. More tombstones."
"And I'm supposed to be the one with the warped sense of humor, huh?" He gave a snort and laughed, then picked up the rag with which he had wiped off the gravestone and stuffed it into the back pocket of his tattered jeans. As they walked toward the exit, Karla noticed his beat-up Fiat parked on the other side of the road.
"Okay, see you Friday." He lightly touched her arm.
Karla nodded. "Drive carefully. Don't run over any pedestrians," she called after him.
He turned around and opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind, shook his head and grinned. He waved at her as he got into the car. The engine started right away this time.
Karla looked after him as he drove away. He must have had his muffler fixed.
* * *
Lena's rustic kitchen looked like a bakery. The heavy cherry wood table was covered with pans of dough and a thin layer of flour. On the walls hung black iron pots and the typical copper bowls and pots popular in the south of Switzerland. Lena was busy kneading the dough for braided bread.
"It smells delicious." Karla inhaled the warm yeasty scent.
"Cut yourself some. I made this one earlier." Lena pointed at one of the finished loaves.
"There is butter and jam over there, and I just made fresh coffee."
"You don't have to tell me twice." Karla cut a thick slice of the freshly baked honey-colored loaf. The inside was buttery yellow and soft and Karla gave a sigh of pleasure as she bit into a piece slathered with Lena's homemade blackberry jam. "Heavenly."
Lena gave her a cursory glance while kneading the dough vigorously, occasionally slapping it onto the table to make it smooth and springy. "You seem to be feeling better."
"Yeah, I am." Karla licked a drop of jam from her finger, then put on one of Lena's aprons.
She picked up a slab of dough and began to knead. "Guess what? I ran into the guy who almost hit me with his car yesterday."
"You're kidding? Where?" Lena divided her piece of dough into three equal parts and began to braid them.
"At the cemetery. He was putting up a gravestone. He's a stonemason. His name is Andreas."
"Andreas O'Reilly?" Lena looked up, then dipped her hands into the flour and continued to pull and punch the dough.
"I don't know his last name. You know him?" Karla stopped kneading and stared at Lena.
"Yes. He made a few gravestones for our cemetery. In fact, he carved my grandmother's stone a couple of years ago. He does beautiful work. So he is the guy who almost hit you? Strange. He doesn't seem like the careless-driver type."
"I think we were both at fault. At first, I thought he was a real jerk, but today he seemed more pleasant. What do you know about him?"
"Not that much, just the little bit he told me or I heard about him. Some problems with his family, I don't know any details. He was raised by his aunt and uncle. He's quite an accomplished sculptor, considering how young he is. He was hired to put up some stone sculptures in the area."
"He said he was coming to the opening on Friday. He asked me out," Karla said.
"You must have made quite an impression on him." Lena chuckled.
"I don't know." Karla stopped kneading again and glanced out the window. "I've had more than my share of questionable dates. I'm not too eager to get involved with anybody. I don't have much luck with men. Anyway, we'll see if he shows up on Friday."
"You're not paying attention, Karla. Come on, let me finish." Lena smiled and shook her head. She grabbed the hunk of dough that Karla had been working on. "Why don't you apply the egg wash instead?"
"Sorry, Lena, I'm not much help today." Karla sighed. She removed the towels from the loaves, which had risen to full size. She gently poked one of the plump, smooth braids with her finger, then picked up a baking brush, dipped it into the mixture of water and egg, and glazed the tops of the breads with even generous strokes.
"Nice job." Lena pointed at the loaves Karla had just finished. "You definitely have more talent handling a brush than kneading dough." There was a cracking sound outside. Lena looked up. "Another thunderstorm?"
Karla watched through the window as the wind carried off a small branch of the apple tree behind the house. She felt the familiar pressure in her head. "No, not a thunderstorm. The wind is changing."
Chapter 3
"How do you feel seeing all these people admire your work?" Silvia handed Karla a glass of white wine.
"It's exciting. A little scary . . . It makes me feel exposed." Karla looked around the gallery where friends and strangers had gathered. Some of them were examining her paintings, others stood around and chatted, sipping their drinks and picking at the appetizers. A couple of Karla's artist friends talked animatedly. A girl dressed in black, wearing high dress boots, with strands of purple in her short hair, waved at Karla, who went to join her.
"Hey, great stuff." The girl with purple hair, pierced nose and eyebrows motioned at the paintings. "How did you manage this? I mean getting this venue? I'm looking for a place for my own work."
"Geez, Sarah, don't waste any time congratulating Karla on her success. Be your usual pushy self and only think about Number One." A gangly young man with a pony tail shook his head and sneered.
"Oh, Jason, don't be such an ass. Karla knows I'm happy for her." The girl gave Karla a hug. "I didn't know you did that kind of thing." She pointed at Karla's more experimental paintings. "That's cool. I love that one with the PC sticking out of the flower. I'll get us some wine. Don't go anywhere; I need to talk to you." Sarah pointed her finger at Karla, then marched over to the table with the snacks.
Karla wondered how Sarah managed to walk in her tight mini-skirt and the high-heeled boots. At that moment, she spotted Andreas, who was looking at her paintings. He must have come in as she was talking to her friends. At first, she barely recognized him. He was wearing slacks and a jacket and had evidently made an attempt to comb his unruly hair.
"Listen, guys. I'm sorry but I have to say hello to someone." Karla waved Sarah off, who returned with two glasses of wine. "Later, Sarah."
"You look distinguished tonight." Karla said as she walked up to Andreas.
Andreas appeared to feel uncomfortable dressed up. The outfit had seen its best days. The
jacket seemed too tight for his muscular body, the sleeves were a little short, and the slacks bulged slightly at the knees. He gave the impression of a caged tiger.
"I don't feel distinguished at all. In fact, I feel rather foolish in this monkey suit, but I thought I couldn't very well attend an opening in my torn jeans." He grinned and pulled at his poorly knotted tie.
"Oh, it suits you very well," Karla tried to reassure him.
"I love your art." Andreas squinted his eyes as he studied one of Karla's oil paintings. "The luminosity in this picture . . . . It reminds me of an exhibition I saw not long ago, of paintings by Giovanni Segantini and others."
"Yeah," Karla said, excited. "He is one of my favorite painters of that era. I love the Swiss and Italian divisionists. The way they created the illusion of light emanating from the canvas. They didn't mix the paints but applied threads or dots or flecks of pure complementary colors next to each other. I kind of play with their technique sometimes."
Andreas motioned at Karla's scrap metal landscapes. "Interesting. Very different from your other work."
"I'm still experimenting. I'm not sure yet where I'm going with those."
"What's wrong with that? Why limit yourself? That would be boring." Andreas peered at her. "I like painters or artists in general who have the guts to experiment. Art is a constant search for new ways of expressing yourself, isn't it?"
"I guess, you're right." Karla nodded.
"Hey, Karla, aren't you going to introduce me?" Sarah, who had come up behind Karla, poked her lightly in the back and gave Andreas a flirtatious look.
Karla was getting annoyed at her friend. Sarah could be irritating sometimes, but today, she was outright obnoxious. Not wanting to create a scene, she introduced Andreas.
"So what do you do, sexy?" Sarah winked at him.
Andreas kept a straight face, folded his arms in front of his chest. "What do I do? That should be obvious. I'm here to look at Karla's art."
Sarah gave a toss of the head. "I don't mean that. What do you do for a living? Are you an artist or something?"
"If you want to interview me, you have to make an appointment. But I warn you, I charge a lot." Andreas still kept a straight face, but there was a gleam of amusement in his eyes.
"Okay, you want to be that way. Knock yourself out." Sarah turned around on her heel and marched to the other side of the gallery.
"Your friend obviously doesn't appreciate my kind of humor, either." Andreas gave a quick
throaty laugh.
"I guess not." Karla smiled.
They walked over to where Karla's watercolors hung. Andreas studied them quietly for a long time. "You really caught the effect of the light. They're fascinating."
"Thanks." Their eyes met and Karla felt a tingling sensation somewhere between her throat and stomach. I guess he can be sensitive.
"That mountain." He pointed at a painting of Monte Sosto, a mountain in the Blenio Valley, a side valley of the Leventina just south of Saint Gotthard. Karla had forced herself to get up early one morning so she could catch the special quality of the sunlight piercing through the mist at dawn. It was one of her favorite aquarelles.
"I used to live in Olivone and looked at Monte Sosto almost every day," Andreas continued. "I got so used to it that I didn't even see it anymore. This painting brings out the mystical quality I noticed when I first saw it. I believe that art makes us see things we normally merely look at."
"Monte Sosto has always fascinated me, because the minute I saw it, it reminded me of Machu Picchu in Peru," Karla said.
"Really? You know, I think you have a point. I've seen pictures of Machu Picchu. Yes, there is a certain similarity. So, you've been to Peru? Fascinating. I'd love to go to Peru. They're famous for their ruins and stonework-Uh-oh, here is your friend again. I think she's in trouble." Andreas motioned at someone behind Karla.
When Karla turned around, Sarah was walking unsteadily toward them followed by Jason, who tried to hold her back. "I'm sorry guys, I'm plastered." She stumbled and fell against Andreas, who caught her. Sarah threw her arms around him and started to cry. "My life is a mess. It's going nowhere. Nobody loves my art. I'm going to kill myself."
Andreas tried to hold her away from him. "No, you're not. It'd be a real pity if you did."
"Do you really . . . think so?" Sarah's face was a mess. Her black eye-liner was running down her cheeks.
Andreas, still holding her at a little distance, spoke vehemently. "Yes, you're a very pretty woman, once you wash that stuff off your face. And don't let anybody make you doubt your art work."
"Oh, you're such a sweetheart." Sarah tried to embrace Andreas again.
Leave it up to Sarah to create a scene and steal the show. Karla was peeved.
Jason pulled Sarah back. "We're going home. Sorry, guys, this is really embarrassing." He shook his head. "She's had a rough time."
"I'm so sorry." Sarah began to weep again and hugged Karla. The mixture of alcohol and a sweet-smelling perfume was overpowering.
Karla patted her back, trying not to inhale. "It's all right, Sarah. I understand. Let's talk when you feel better."
Sarah nodded. She was still crying when Jason led her away. People were staring at them.
"Poor girl. What's her problem, anyway?" Andreas asked.
Karla shrugged her shoulders. "She's had all kinds of problems, mainly with money and trying to promote her art. She's actually an interesting artist. She makes these huge paper mache sculptures, but so far she hasn't been able to find anybody who would give her a chance to exhibit them." Karla watched as Sarah stumbled outside with Jason holding her up.
"Is Jason her boyfriend?" Andreas asked.
"No." Karla shook her head. "Jason is gay, but he's Sarah's closest friend. I'll talk to Silvia.
Perhaps she'll be able to help. Silvia is the owner of the gallery," Karla explained. "Just makes me realize how lucky I've been."
Andreas, who watched as Sarah left, shook his head. "It's not just luck. It's also hard work, talent, insistence, and patience and yes, I guess, lots of luck." He motioned with his head toward Sarah. "She's quite young and if she's already that disillusioned, she is in the wrong field. Art is a tough business. And if she keeps drinking like this, she'll end up ruining her life or killing herself."
"That sounds pretty negative," Karla said.
"It's not negative, just realistic." Andreas narrowed his eyes. "Believe me, I know what alcohol can do to a person." He paused. "My father was an alcoholic."
"Was?"
"He doesn't live with us anymore. I don't know where he is or if he's still alive. I have no contact with him."
"Sorry."
"It's all right. Let's not talk about it."
Karla remembered Lena mentioning something about problems in his family.
"Sorry, Karla, I've come to kidnap you. The press is here." Karla smelled Silvia's patchouli perfume before she felt her arm around her. "A man from the local newspaper wants to talk to you."
"Oh, no," Karla said. "What am I supposed to say?"
"Come on, Karla. You better get used to this." Silvia chuckled. "You're on your way to fame and glory."
Chapter 4
The day after her first exhibition, Karla got up earlier than usual, eager to paint. The opening had been a success. Several of her paintings had sold. To her pleasant surprise, Andreas had bought the aquarelle of Monte Sosto. In addition, Karla had an appointment with the person in charge of buying works of art for one of the major banks in the area. He liked her large colorful canvasses and he wanted to order some for his bank subsidiaries.
Karla pulled on a pair of shorts and a work shirt, tied her long black hair into a pony tail, and stepped outside. A thin veil of early-morning mist hovered over the fields and the part of the river Maggia she could see from her house. The pines were a rich green and the leaves of the birches along the river quivered and sparkled in the sun. The colors seemed particularly vivid this morning.
Aside from the mild climate, it was above all the quality of the light and the colors which drew Karla to the south of Switzerland. Each season had its own special coloration, ranging from the diffuse tones of winter with its elongated shadows to the lively hues of spring, the fiery reds and purples of a summer sunset and, finally, the shades of mist and the mellow light of fall.
Karla sat down in front of her easel and squeezed globs of oil paints onto the palette. This was one of those moments when it became clear to her once again why she painted. The empty canvas, when everything was possible and nothing was decided yet. The excitement in the beginning, when her hand first felt the texture of the canvas or paper, the smells, the colors, the sensation of the brush gliding through the paint on the palette. Then the first creative impulse when the brush touched the canvas, the initial few brush strokes, perhaps hesitant at first, then more and more determined, taking control, then letting the painting guide her, taking control again, until she was so absorbed that she forgot time. When the doorbell or the phone rang, she looked up briefly, shook her head, and went right back to painting, ignoring the disturbance.
At noon, Karla took a break. She showered and dressed and got ready to drive to Bellinzona to do some shopping. Bellinzona, the capital of the canton Ticino and a city with an interesting past dating back to Roman times, was about a thirty-minute drive from the Maggia Valley. Its three castles on the hill above the town dominated its skyline and gave the city a distinct medieval flavor.
For Karla, the castles had a more personal significance. They reminded her of a happy time during her childhood, when her mother and grandmother were still alive and took her on outings to the castles. She had been fascinated by the thick stone walls, the narrow windows, the steep stairways. Her mother had told her stories of knights and damsels in distress, of ghosts haunting the castles, and Karla had spent hours drawing and painting those scenes. Now, she looked at the castles with a feeling of nostalgia.
Just as she got ready to drive home, she remembered that Andreas's studio was in Bellinzona. At the opening, he had told her he would call her to show her some of his sculptures and other stonework. Karla pulled out his business card. His workshop was in a former factory building in the industrial area of Bellinzona. On an impulse, she took the freeway exit toward the south of the city. It didn't take her long to find the place. She parked the car nearby and walked toward the square, yellowish brick house. The door to Andreas's part of the building was open and she heard the grinding sound of a machine.
There was a sign above the door: Andreas O'Reilly - Scultura. A few stone and metal sculptures in different stages of completion stood outside.
Karla stopped at the corner, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. She didn't want to give Andreas the impression she was so eager to see him that she couldn't wait for his phone call. She decided to just take a peek to find out what his workshop looked like. He probably wouldn't even hear or see her with the machine running. She advanced to the open door and carefully looked inside. A light smell of stone dust and a whiff of exhaust drifted her way.
Andreas was sitting on a low stool with his back toward her. He was wearing goggles and a mask and was holding some kind of power tool with which he polished the surface of a piece of rock in front of him. He was dressed in blue workpants and a yellow undershirt.
Karla watched him for a while and couldn't help but admire the play of muscles on his tanned arms and shoulders as he held on to the grinder which slightly vibrated in his hands.
Suddenly, Andreas turned off the machine, removed his mask and goggles, and wiped his forehead. As Karla stepped back, she realized that she cast a shadow next to his chair.
Andreas wheeled around on his stool and looked at her puzzled. "Hello. What a surprise. What are you doing here?" He got up and wiped his hands on a towel and dried his face.
There were goggle marks around his eyes.
"I . . . I was in the neighborhood and remembered your workshop, so I thought I just drop by." Karla, caught in the act of snooping on him, felt the heat rise to her face. "And I wanted to thank you for buying a painting," she quickly added.
He gave her a wide smile. "Welcome. You're actually the second woman who dropped by today. I didn't know I was that popular with the ladies."
"Oh? Who else dropped by?" Gee, this isn't really any of my business.
"Your friend. The one who got tanked at your exhibition."
"Sarah?"
"Yeah, that's her."
Karla was stunned. "Really? That's odd. What did she want?"
"She was probably just overwhelmed with me and couldn't keep away." He grinned. "Just kidding. She apologized for being a mess the other day. She said she wanted to see my workshop and invited me to check out her art work."
"Are you going to?" It was out before Karla could stop herself.
"Don't you want me to?" His grin widened. He obviously enjoyed her discomfort.
"I don't care." Karla was getting irritated, not just because she was making a fool of herself but because she suspected that there were other reasons behind Sarah's visit than a casual meeting between artists. It wouldn't be the first time that Sarah stole one of my boyfriends.
But he isn't my boyfriend. So, why should I care?
"You look upset. What's the matter?" He peered at her with a serious face.
"Nothing." She tried to sound casual. "I guess I better go."
"You just got here. Come on, I'll show you the studio. Want some coffee?"
Karla nodded and forced a smile. "Coffee sounds great."
While Andreas washed two cups and turned on the small espresso machine next to his desk, Karla looked around. Along the walls were shelves with stone samples of different types of granite, gneiss, marble, serpentine, verrucano, and many more, in shades ranging from black to blue-gray, sea-green, orange, red, terra-cotta, and a muted gold. On the other side of the room was a shelf with all kinds of stone cutting tools as well as goggles and masks to protect from the dust and stone splinters. Another machine stood in the corner next to a half-finished tombstone.
Karla touched some of the rocks, feeling their different textures, the smoothness of a piece of green alabaster, the rough surface of granite. "I didn't even know there were that many kinds of stones. Where did you get them all?"
"This is just a minute collection of what's out there. Some of them I bought, some of the smaller ones I collected while hiking." He picked up a piece of blue speckled marble and caressed it with his hand, then gave it to Karla to hold. It was polished and smooth on one side and left raw on the other.
"How beautiful. I always thought of marble as being smooth. But it's actually quite rough," Karla said, brushing her hand over the unpolished side.
"Yes, in its natural state. It takes some work to make it smooth and polished. Just like with us humans, huh?" He put the stone back on the shelf.
"I think I like the unpolished side better," Karla said.
"Stones or humans?" Andreas winked at her, then walked over to the coffee machine.
Karla shrugged her shoulder. "Both, I guess."
"Good, that gives me some encouragement. Not much polishing here." He handed her a cup of espresso. "It's quite strong, you might want some sugar."
"No, I like it strong, thanks."
"Well, that's me. Strong and unpolished." Andreas grinned.
Karla laughed and felt herself blush. She took a sip of coffee and pointed at a group of small stone fountains, some plain, others with elaborate carvings. "These seem to be very popular these days."
"Yeah. That's the kind of stuff that sells. Just like gnomes or frogs, which I refuse to make.
Too kitschy." Andreas lifted one of the heavy fountains seemingly without effort and moved it out of the way. "But let me show you some of my other stuff." He led Karla into the second room which contained several stone and metal sculptures. There were a few stone mandalas of grey-black or greenish granite with fine carvings, green and purplish stone figurines, a rounded shape made of bronze, and several other delicate metal sculptures as well as a combination of wood and metal. Each work was unique. Form and material of the sculptures fit together perfectly. There was no doubt, Andreas was extremely talented.
Karla walked around for a while looking at the different works of art. She gently touched one of the small stone mandalas. "How beautiful. . . . So delicate and yet so powerful."
Andreas smiled. "Thanks."
"Do you ever show your work?"
"I've been in a couple of group shows. I'm going to be in one in August. It's an exhibition in Ascona of students from the Scuola di Sculptura di Peccia.
"You studied at the sculpture school in Peccia? That must be an excellent school. I heard they attract students from all over the world."
"Yeah, I took a few workshops there as well as in Carrera, Italy."
Something tickled Karla's nose and she sneezed.
"Bless you; it's the stone dust," Andreas said. "There's always some around, after I use the grinding or polishing machine."
They stepped outside, where the late afternoon sun was just about to disappear behind the tall building on the other side of the street. The last sunrays bounced off the metal roof.
Karla touched one of the granite slabs sitting next to the door outside, which felt warm, having absorbed the heat of the day. She looked at her watch. "I guess, I should get going, otherwise I'll hit rush hour traffic." She turned to face him. "Thanks for showing me your work. That was a real treat. I'd like to see more."
"Glad you liked it. Most of my work is in someone's garden or in a park. I can give you a guided tour of O'Reilly's art work, if you're interested." Andreas laughed his typical throaty laugh. "How about next Saturday?"
Karla nodded. "Yes, that would work."
Andreas gave her a warm smile. "How about if I pick you up?"
Karla handed him one of her business cards. "Okay, here is my address. I live just up the hill from Lena's place. It's called Casa di tre Angeli. You can't miss it."
"Tre angeli? Three angels, huh. Any connection to you?" The humorous glint in his eyes was back.
"None at all . . . though I could use one once in a while." Karla smiled wistfully.
Andreas followed her to the car. "Karla." She turned around. He pulled her close and kissed her. His breath smelled of coffee, smoky and slightly bitter. "See you Saturday."
Before Karla could do or say anything, he turned and walked back to his workshop in his leisurely wide-legged swagger. Karla opened the door and got into the car. She waited for a while before starting the engine, then slapped the steering wheel.
"Damn. I don't want to fall in love."
Chapter 5
A gust of wind swept into the yard, shaking the leaves of the chestnut trees and the rhododendron plants.
"Not again!" Karla exclaimed. She held on to her easel and canvas.
The Nordfoehn, a dry northern wind, had been blowing on and off all night. This wind was the only disadvantage in the otherwise ideal environment. Once in a while, it had an invigorating effect on Karla, but most of the time it made her feel irritable, anxious, even depressed, and gave her a headache.
"All right. I guess I wasn't meant to paint outside this morning," she muttered, as another blast swept down on her. She gathered her painting tools and put them into her studio. She didn't feel like finishing the painting inside, so she grabbed her sketch pad, sat down by the window, and thought about what to draw. She made several attempts, but was unable to concentrate.
It wasn't just the annoying wind. Ever since yesterday, she had been thinking of Andreas, his sculptures, his kiss. It had been more than a kiss between friends and it had stirred up emotions she didn't care for. After a series of unsuccessful short-term relationships, Karla had decided to stay away from men for a while. And then this fierce, irritating, but oddly endearing guy with his biting humor had to turn up and unsettle her again.
And the thing with Sarah. What was the real reason behind Sarah's visit? Was it really just to apologize and talk about art?
Sarah and Karla had had an on-and-off friendship for several years. They exchanged ideas about art, went to museums and galleries together, and sometimes critiqued each other's work. The friendship, however, had cooled Karla had caught Sarah sleeping with one of her boyfriends.
Was Andreas attracted to Sarah? He had shown concern for her but Karla didn't think he had more than friendly feelings for her. But then you never knew. And why should I even care? Karla tossed her drawing pad aside.
The wind was blowing fiercely now, howling around the corners of the house and slamming one of the shutters close. When Karla stepped outside to fasten it again, she saw that the sky was a deep clear blue, the wind having wiped away all the clouds.
Karla sat down again and forced herself to get a least one drawing done. She picked up her pad and a piece of charcoal. Almost automatically, she began to sketch Andreas, as she remembered him sitting in front of the stone slab. She realized she was out of practice drawing human figures, having focused mainly on landscapes. After several attempts, she ended up with a sketch she liked. It depicted his muscular body bending over the stone, a strand of hair hanging into his face. She left out the mask and goggles, wanting to show his face in profile.
Perhaps she would give it to him on Saturday. Feeling more at peace again, she was ashamed of her anger at Sarah. She was her friend, after all, and Karla hadn't even called her to find out how she was feeling after her breakdown at the opening. She picked up the phone and dialed Sarah's number. It took a while before she answered.
Sarah's voice sounded tired. "I'm trying to take a nap."
"Sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you; I just wanted to know how you were," Karla said.
"I'm okay."
Sarah's distant and cool voice irritated Karla. You make an ass of yourself at my first opening. You could at least apologize. "I heard you went to see Andreas."
"Yes. I did. I wanted to apologize."
"Oh, I see. Was that the only reason? You were all over him at the opening."
"So? What do you care? Are you two an item or something? How did you find out I went to see him?"
Karla felt anger rise in her like bile. "He told me. He's my boyfriend, Sarah." Gee, what a lie.
It was quiet for a while at the other end. Karla could hear Sarah's breathing. Then her voice again, friendlier now. "Karla, look, he's great. I felt really low the last few days. Just talking to him made me feel better. I have no intention of interfering in your relationship. You're lucky to have him as a boyfriend."
Karla started to feel ashamed but she still distrusted Sarah. "It wouldn't be the first time."
"Oh, Karla, why bring up that old stuff. You weren't even interested in the guy anymore."
"Yeah, but you didn't know that when you jumped in the sack with him."
"Karla, you know what? You're so fucking petty."
"Sarah, let's not fight." It was too late. Karla heard the click at the other end.
Why can't I keep my mouth shut? Karla lowered her head on her arms and sighed. Not only had she lied to Sarah about her relationship with Andreas, she had begrudged her friend the little encouragement he had given her as an artist.
Perhaps Sarah was interested in Andreas. At least she was honest about her feelings. Karla, on the other hand, had appropriated Andreas, although she wasn't even sure how she felt about him or how he felt about her. He had kissed her, he wanted to meet her again, but that was all. And Karla's feelings for him? She liked him, she was even attracted to him, but she wasn't sure she was ready to get involved.
* * *
The following morning, it was raining, the Nordfoehn having collapsed the night before.
The rain felt soothing after the harsh, dry northern wind and the sky was a lively display of towering dark clouds. The mountain tops were hidden behind layers of white mist. Stormy landscape, Rembrandt, Karla thought as she scanned the horizon. It had cooled off somewhat and the air smelled of burning wood from the neighbor's oven.
Later that day, Karla made an effort to clean out the storage room, which was overflowing with canvasses of half-finished and finished paintings as well as sketches on paper. She resisted this periodic chore. It forced her to decide which pieces she considered worth keeping and which she wanted to discard or paint over. Not an easy task; it required ruthless honesty and a discerning eye.
Karla kept pulling paintings out of storage, putting them back in, pulling them back out again. In the process, she came across the canvass with the dark woman she had been struggling with. She glanced at it, shook her head, and decided to hang on to it. One day, perhaps, she would be able to finish it.
In the evening, there was a pile of discarded sketches in the recycling bin and several canvasses that could be reused. The clean-up gave Karla a feeling of freedom. She took a deep breath and stepped outside to watch the evening settle in. It had stopped raining and the heavy clouds had thinned. The southern sky was pink with tints of purple and the evening breeze brought a whiff of wet grass.
Chapter 6
When Karla woke up on Saturday, she was surprised how quiet it was. The previous few mornings, she had been roused from sleep by the patter of rain on the stone roof, the swooshing of tree branches, or the wind howling around corners.
She pushed back the shutters and was greeted by a clear blue sky with only a strip of haze on the horizon. A mild breeze from the Maggia River brought the resinous scent of pines.
The dewdrops on the chestnut leaves in the courtyard glittered in the sun.
Karla opened the door and stepped outside barefoot. She skipped across the courtyard, taking big steps, since the stone slabs underneath the chestnut trees were still cold, and sat down on the low granite wall. Hugging her knees to her chest, she bent her head back and let the sun warm her face. Summer, finally.
Inside the house, it smelled of paint and turpentine. Karla opened all the windows and put the espresso pot on the stove. After taking a shower, she stood in front of her closet, sorting through her clothes, trying to decide what to wear for her "tour of O'Reilly's art work," as
Andreas had called it. She picked out a pair of jeans and her favorite top and checked herself in the mirror. Karla had inherited her mother's tall slender figure and the reddish highlights in her shiny black hair. Her Latin father's influence was visible in the high cheekbones, the wide-set dark eyes, full lips, and the bronze hue of her skin.
After a light breakfast, she put on her painting apron, lugged her easel out onto the patio, set up a large canvas, and started to mix her paints. She tried to paint one of the colorful pictures the representative of the bank had ordered. She began to outline the scenery in front of her, then filled it with blobs and dots of yellow, red, and blue to suggest the meadow of wild flowers.
Boring, she thought and shook her head.
She added a row of oak trees with gnarled branches to make the composition more interesting. After a while, she put her brush down and sat back. Commission painting proved to be a lot more difficult than she had thought. She felt constrained and hemmed in and her picture seemed lifeless to her.
A couple of hours later, she stepped back and examined the painting again. It wasn't bad; the colors of summer-red, orange, and cornflower-blue-were pleasing. The contrast with the twisted branches of the oaks was, well, somewhat interesting. Colorful but still boring, she mused with a sigh. Then again, it might just be the kind of painting that would enliven the sterile atmosphere of a bank. If it wasn't for the money, I wouldn't bother with it.
She heard the familiar sound of the Fiat engine. Andreas drove his car up the hill and parked it in the driveway. Her first reaction was to hide the painting, then she changed her mind. Just the fact that she wanted to hide it showed her how dissatisfied she was with it.
Perhaps, Andreas could give her some ideas.
Andreas took out a package from the backseat of his car and put it on the granite table. He greeted Karla with a hug and stood next to her, examining the painting. She liked the delicate scent of his aftershave.
"Tell me what's wrong with it." Karla said.
He looked at it without saying anything, then put his hand on her shoulder. "You don't like it?"
"No."
"Neither do I."
Karla glanced at him. "You sure are direct."
"You asked for my opinion." He shrugged his shoulder. "You're a talented painter, so I can be honest. This painting isn't you. It's too tame; it lacks energy."
"I agree." Karla sighed and got up. "This is going to be a problem. I've never painted anything on consignment." She told him about the contract. "He wants colorful paintings for his bank subsidiaries."
"I assume he saw your other paintings."
"Yes. He came to the opening."
"Did he give you any specific instructions as to what to paint?"
"No, not really."
"Then he likes the way you paint, so why are you trying to paint differently?"
"I don't really know. I was just thinking 'bank,' what would be appropriate for a bank, you know something . . . for everyday people."
"Well, well, Ms. Snooty. You mean for those dummies who don't understand art?"
"I didn't mean that. You're terrible." Karla felt the heat rise to her face. Here he is again with his biting humor.
"Karla. He picked you because he liked the way you paint. That's what he wants, not some dumbed-down version. Just because he's a banker doesn't mean he doesn't have a feeling for art." Andreas's green eyes sparkled with mirth.
"You're right, I guess," Karla admitted, then shot him a roguish look. "But you sure can be irritating."
Andreas laughed out loud. "I've been called worse. But let me try to make it up to you." He pointed at the package on the table. "I think you liked this one."
Karla peeled off the wrapping. It was one of the mandalas she had admired. "That was my favorite. Thanks a lot. It's great." The mandala was of grey granite speckled with white and black mica. Karla traced the delicate carvings with her finger.
Andreas looked around the courtyard. "Nice place. Do you live here by yourself?" He pointed at the group of stone cottages which bordered the yard.
"I'm just renting one of the houses. The rest of the place belongs to the landlord."
"I love rustici. I wouldn't mind living in one myself," Andreas said. "Problem is, they are usually small, too small for me to work in. Which means I'd have to rent two places and that's too expensive."
"Where do you live now?" Karla asked.
"I have a makeshift apartment in the back of my workshop." Andreas shrugged a shoulder.
"It's convenient for right now."
"I know what you mean. It's a little cramped here, although I don't have that many tools and the kind of machines you have. One day, perhaps, I'll be able to rent one of the other rustici and use as a studio."
"I'd love to own one, before the damn German Swiss buy them all up." Andreas sneered.
Rustici were former stables in the south of the country, which had been renovated and converted into living quarters. With their walls made of natural stones, their granite roofs, and their rustic flair, they were the all-time favorite vacation homes for the people from the north of Switzerland and Germany.
"Be careful what you say. I'm part Swiss German myself." Karla laughed.
"That's all right. I'll focus on your Peruvian heritage. It's the Latin element that gives you that special something."
"Thanks. I take that as a compliment. Talk about heritage," Karla said. "You have an unusual last name. O'Reilly? Are you of Irish background?"
"Yeah, on my father's side, but that was several generations back. I think my great-grand-father emigrated from Ireland to the United States. Then my father moved to Switzerland."
"So you're American?"
"No, I'm a Swiss citizen. I was born here and my mother is from here." His tone was dismissive, slightly abrupt. He picked up a piece of stone lying next to the chestnut tree and turned it over in his hand, then put it down again.
Better change the topic. "Well, let me show you around," Karla offered. She picked up the stone mandala, which turned out to be quite heavy. Andreas took it out of her hand, carried it inside, and set it up on the mantelpiece above the fireplace.
Karla's house had two stories. On the lower floor was her studio and next to it a living room, kitchen, and bathroom. The living room was long and of irregular shape, sparsely but tastefully furnished with an oak-wood table, a couple of chairs, and a sofa. Next to the fireplace stood a large old wooden closet with beautiful carvings. A few of Karla's paintings hung on the wall. The sofa was covered with a patchwork quilt Karla's grandmother had made for her.
Andreas lightly tapped the wooden closet door with his knuckle. He brushed his hand along the granite surround of the fireplace, looking at it closely. "Nice work. Real granite. In some of the newer places, they use imitation rock. It's cheaper, but it seems so fake."
He pointed at two pictures above the sofa. They were painted in a traditional realistic style and showed a winter landscape and a scene next to a lake. "Who painted those?"
"My grandfather."
"Hmm. So, you inherited his talent."
"I don't know about that. But he has always been an inspiration to me, particularly the way he portrayed light and shadows. Unfortunately, I never met him. He died, before I was
born."
"Is your grandmother still alive?"
"No. She died in the same car crash as my mother."
"Good lord."
"Yeah. I was in the car as well, in the back, strapped into my booster. By a miracle, I wasn't hurt at all, at least not physically."
"That must have been horrible. You must have had a shock."
"Yes, I did. I went into shock." Karla cleared her throat. "In fact, to this day, I can't remember anything of the actual accident. It surfaced more later on, when I started having nightmares."
"And your father?"
"My parents weren't married. My mother met my father as a young woman when she was traveling in Peru. I've only seen my father twice."
"I'm sorry. And I thought I had a difficult childhood." Andreas embraced Karla and held her close.
Overcome by the loving gesture, Karla felt tears well up in her eyes. She swallowed.
"Fortunately, I still had Anna, my aunt. She was great; I owe her a lot. She really supported me in my art work. Thanks to her, I have some savings and am able to take time off to paint. . . . But she, too, died last year."
"That must be the aunt mentioned in the article. Have you read it?"
Karla surreptiously wiped away a tear and tried to steady her voice. "You mean the article from the journalist who interviewed me at the opening? No, I haven't received my copy yet."
"I have it in the car. I'll get it for you," Andreas said. When he returned, he handed her a copy of the local newspaper. "It's really good."
The article was on the second page, next to a photo of Karla.
Exhibition by a Peruvian-Swiss artist. The young and talented painter, Karla Bocelli, had her first exhibition in a gallery in the old part of Locarno. The dynamic and colorful oil paintings, inspired by her Peruvian heritage and her mystical Zen-like aquarelles make
Karla Bocelli one of the contemporary young artists to be reckoned with . . . ."
Karla blushed, then put the paper down and smiled. "He writes a lot better than I talk. But let's go. I'd like to see more of your art work."
They first drove to Peccia, a village of fewer than one thousand inhabitants at the end of the Maggia Valley, where one of Andreas's sculptures was exhibited. Peccia was best known for its vast marble and granite quarries, its sculpture school, and its sentiero delle sculture, a sculpture trail leading through the village. Each year, works from different artists were displayed at the piazzas and along the road through and around the village.
The narrow street to Peccia led through a picturesque landscape with vineyards and small dairy farms and past waterfalls cascading down cliffs.
"Be careful, the road ahead is windy and kind of dangerous," Karla warned Andreas.
"Don't worry." Andreas gave a quick smirk. "In spite of what you might believe, I do know how to drive." He shifted down and steered his car skillfully around the tight curves.
They stopped for a farmer who led a herd of goats across the road. It was quite a chore; the skittish animals bucked and jumped back and forth, but eventually, with some begging, shouting, and prodding by the goat herd, they ended up on the other side. Karla rolled down the window, inhaled the scent of fresh grass, and waved to the farmer.
Andreas chuckled. "See, that's why I drive carefully. I learned my lesson the other day. You can't trust those cute animals, neither the four-legged nor the two-legged ones." Karla
punched him. "Ouch." He rubbed his arm.
When they approached the turnoff to the Peccia Valley, the road narrowed and got steeper. Andreas's car complained with a loud roar but made it up the hill.
As they walked along the sculpture path, Karla, who had never been there before, was
surprised at how some of the sculptures were so well integrated into the landscape that they were almost indistinguishable from the countryside. Others formed an interesting contrast to their environment. In a field outside the village, she discovered a wooden structure next to a series of blooming trees. The color of the sculpture was the same as the tree trunks, whereas its angular form set it apart. Next to one of the churches stood a longish oval shape of white sandstone, which, though beautiful by itself, also emphasized the elegant shape of the church tower.
"Isn't it amazing?" Karla said and pointed at the sculpture Andreas had carved, a tall obelisk-like structure of black and white marble, which stood in front of a tall, plain stone building. "I wouldn't even have noticed that house by itself without your sculpture in front of it. Together with the sculpture, it becomes much more interesting."
"I think that's one of the reasons why the people of Peccia love the sculpture path,"
Andreas said. "It's not just because it makes their small village up in the mountains a little bit famous, but because they see their environment in a new way. They discover things they didn't notice before or took for granted. That's what's great about art." Karla had never seen Andreas so animated. He waved his hands and his eyes shone with excitement.
"The people here may not 'understand' a sculpture the way an art critic or expert does," he continued. "But they know if they like something or not and they're not squeamish about expressing their preferences." Andreas chuckled. "I don't know what they say about my marble pillar. But, hey, if it makes them appreciate the building behind it more, it's worth putting it up. I think works of art shouldn't be stuck in museums or galleries. They belong in our everyday environment."
"Even in a bank," Karla said.
"Particularly in a bank." Andreas grinned and put his arm around her.
After leaving Peccia, they drove to Locarno. Most of the sculptures Andreas had carved stood in private gardens of rather well-to-do people. Some were in churchyards, one in the garden of a hospital, and one in a school yard.
"I love this one." Karla touched one of the sculptures in a small park in Locarno made of Andeer gneiss, a green stone sprinkled with white and grey. It showed a smoothly polished animal-like shape on a rugged base. "It reminds me of something, but I'm not sure of what.
Some creature stuck in stone, struggling to escape but unable to get away."
"Very perceptive," Andreas said. "I called it 'Trapped.'"
"Interesting." Karla gently stroked the stone. "What prompted you to create this particular shape? Sometimes when I paint I have a general idea of what I want to paint and sometimes
I just let the painting evolve on its own and I am surprised by what comes out. It often tells me something about myself I wasn't conscious of before."
"I know what you mean. That happens to me, too. In this case, it was a dream." Andreas hesitated, then continued. "I used to have nightmares when I was little. They often had to do with my father and my fear of him. I'd see a man approach and would try to run away but couldn't. I was usually in this in-between-state when you know you're dreaming but no matter how hard you try you can't wake up. I guess I was trying to express that feeling."
Andreas brushed through his hair.
Karla detected a touch of pain in his face. She was taken aback by Andreas's unexpected remark. "You were afraid of your father?"
Andreas hesitated. "Yeah. He was a real bastard." He gave her a furtive glance.
"I'm sorry. I don't mean to intrude, but since you brought it up . . . ."
He nodded. "I know; it's okay. Want to walk for a while, down at the lake?"
They walked down a narrow cobblestone street toward the lake. The promenade was busy with local people and tourists strolling along Lago Maggiore and enjoying the balmy evening. They eventually found an unoccupied bench, where they sat down and watched as the sun slid behind the mountain range bordering Italy, pouring its last light in a river of silver across the lake.
"My father . . ." Andreas cleared his throat. "My father is . . . or was-I don't even know if he's still alive-a former U.S. marine who kind of got stuck here when he met my mother.
He never managed to assimilate. He was an alcoholic and abusive to both me and my mother. She finally divorced him. He moved back to the United States. I don't have any contact with him."
"I'm sorry."
Andreas turned his hands with the palms facing up in a "that's-how-it-goes" gesture. "That was long ago. Fortunately, I have a very loving aunt and uncle on my mother's side. Once they realized what was going on at home, they took me to live with them."
"And your mother?"
"After the divorce, she came to live with us as well. Still lives with my aunt and uncle, never got married again. I guess one time was enough for her. So I sort of grew up in an extended family. I owe a lot to my aunt and uncle. Without them, I don't know where I'd be today." He stopped talking and looked down at his large hands.
Karla watched him quietly. She was moved by his vulnerability, so unlike his normal cocky self. She noticed a thin scar on his cheekbone and gently touched the spot below his right eye. "Did you get this while cutting stone?"
He took her hand and held it. "Yeah. It's from a stone splinter. When I was younger I didn't always wear protective gear. I probably felt it wasn't macho enough. I learned fast, though."
"Lucky it didn't hit you in the eye."
He nodded with a quick smile, then put his arm around her and pulled her close. He kissed her, first leisurely, then with increasing intensity. Karla felt the heat spread to her chest and abdomen. She pulled back. They looked at each other. His eyes had a brownish tint in the fading light of the evening. She smelled again the faint scent of his aftershave.
"Karla?" His voice was tender.
She felt he was going to make some kind of declaration about their being together, perhaps about making love. She turned away and looked out onto the lake.
He took his arm off her shoulder and lightly touched her hand. They sat next to each other for a while, gazing onto the water, which by now was a mass of dark indigo blue with only the flickering reflection of city lights along the shore and a narrow strip of brightness above the mountains.
"It's getting late. Want to have dinner somewhere?" He sounded matter-of-fact, but not unkind.
Karla nodded. "Yes." She breathed a sigh of relief and felt disappointed at the same time.
She had spoiled the moment of intimacy. Normally, she wasn't shy or inhibited when it came to sex and there had been quite a few men in her life. With Andreas, however, she felt something deeper stirring in her, something she had no control over, and it scared her.
Chapter 7
When Karla came home from shopping, there was the typical laconic message from Sarah on her answering machine. "Call me." Karla called her back, but Sarah seemed to be out again, so she left another message.
Afterwards, she tried to paint but she had a difficult time. Her mind wandered. She was thinking of Andreas, their outings, the kiss down at Lago Maggiore, the dinner. Since the day of the sculpture tour, they had been to an art exhibit at the local museum and to a
couple of movies.
Andreas, having noticed her hesitation at the lake the other day, had pulled back somewhat.
He was kind, kissed and hugged her but not with the earlier intensity and she herself hadn't initiated any further intimacies. She had to admit, though, that she liked him more and more and her determination not to get too deeply involved was waning with each subsequent visit.
Karla was torn. Her heart and body wanted him; her mind cautioned her. You'll just get hurt again.
She applied a few brush strokes, dipped her brush into paint and stood there, gazing out the window, until she realized the paint was dripping on the floor. Shaking her head, she picked up a rag and wiped the floor clean, knocking over the bowl with paint thinner as she got up.
She cleaned up the mess just as the phone rang. It was Sarah.
"Listen. I ran into Andreas the other day and invited him, so he could take a look at my sculptures. I told him to bring you along. Just so you know. So you don't blame me again for trying to steal your lover." Sarah said with a sneer in her voice.
"Sarah, please. I'm sorry for what I said. And as far as Andreas and I are concerned-."
"Sorry, Karla, there's someone at the door. Got to go. See you on Wednesday." Sarah hung up.
Karla picked up the brush and got ready to paint, then put her brush down again, opened her portfolio and pulled out the drawing she had made for Andreas. She wanted to give it to him as a gift. She chose a steel-blue mat, cut it to the right size, and carefully mounted the drawing, then wrapped it in silk paper. Smiling, she gently touched the package.
Back at painting, she forced herself to concentrate. When the sun was about to set, she was almost done with one of the large canvasses for the bank. She stepped back and nodded.
"This is going to be good."
There was a knock at the door. She saw him through the window. Having been concentrating on her work, she hadn't heard him drive up the road. She opened the door.
"What a surprise; I didn't expect you."
Andreas shrugged his shoulder. "I was in the neighborhood and I went to see Lena." His voice was cool and he didn't smile or hug her.
Karla was startled by his cold behavior. "Come in. Want something to drink, coffee, wine?"
"No. Nothing. Thanks." He looked around. "You've been painting?"
"Yes. I've been working at one of the paintings for the bank." Karla motioned at the canvas.
He nodded, gave the painting a cursory glance but didn't comment on it. Karla started to feel uncomfortable. His odd behavior dampened the joy of seeing him. "Sarah called. She wants us to visit her on Wednesday. She must have told you." Karla made another attempt to pull him out of his strange mood.
"Yeah, I know."
"Andreas what's the matter with you? You seem upset."
He had been looking out the window. Now he turned around and faced her. "So, we're lovers." His lips curled into a sardonic smile.
For a split second, Karla thought he was talking about Sarah and him. She felt a stab in her chest. But no, that couldn't be. "Who are you talking about?"
"About us; who else?" Andreas glared at her. "Funny thing is, I didn't even know about it. I must have had a blackout when all this happened? I mean, us being a pair, having hot and passionate sex, you know, whatever belongs to a relationship."
Karla finally understood. "What did Sarah tell you?"
"What did you tell her? That's the more appropriate question."
"Andreas. I'm sorry. I told her something I shouldn't have, but I never went into any detail. Sarah tends to exaggerate. I only told her you were my boyfriend."
"Yeah, right. At a time when we barely knew each other. I mean, I wouldn't even mind, if I had known about it."
"Andreas, please, let me explain. When Sarah was all over you at the exhibition-,"
"She was drunk, Karla. It didn't mean anything."
"Let me finish. Then the next day, she came to visit you and I was afraid . . . I liked you, too
. . . and Sarah once slept with a boyfriend of mine. Oh, this is all ridiculous; I'm a complete idiot. I don't even know how to explain this."
Andreas folded his arms in front of his chest and glowered at her. "Well, let me try to explain. So you thought she wanted to snatch me away from you, although we hadn't anything going between the two of us, so there was nothing to snatch. But you figured, just to be on the safe side, in case you'd eventually wanted us to get closer, you kind of put a 'reserved' stamp on me or something like that. You know the kind of thing, when you go to a store and you pick out a suit or a dress and you aren't quite sure about it, they can put it on 'layaway' for a while."
"Andreas, please. I admit, it was dumb."
"You know. What I really don't get, if you want us to be a pair, why can't you let me know?
Why play games? I think I made it pretty clear during the few times we were together that I liked you. But you kind of hemmed and hawed, got hot and cold on me. And just to make something clear, I'm not interested in Sarah. But I do respect her as an artist. You, on the other hand, turn me on. But now . . . I don't know . . . . you don't seem to be the person I thought you were."
"Anyway." He brushed through his hair. "Once you make up your friggin' mind how you feel about me, then let me know. In the meantime, don't come around and confuse me with your stupid games. Good night." He walked toward the door.
"Andreas." Karla was shocked at the intensity of her scream. She lowered her voice.
"Please don't leave. Not like this." She began to tremble.
Andreas turned around and looked at her surprised. "What's the matter?"
"Don't yell at me like that and then just walk off. I admit, it wasn't the smartest thing to do, but you're blowing it all out of proportion. It wasn't as if I'd called you something nasty behind your back. Calling you my boyfriend may have been premature, but it meant I liked you. What's so terrible about that?"
"That's not what makes me mad. It's saying one thing and doing the opposite. I'm allergic to people who play games, who aren't honest with me." He came back and stared out the window.
"Andreas, I've been hesitant to get closer to you not because I don't like you, but quite the opposite. I felt I was falling in love with you and I was afraid."
"Afraid of what?" His tone was less aggressive.
Karla pressed her hands together, trying to stop them from trembling. She tried to swallow.
Her mouth felt dry. "I'm afraid of . . . . I don't know. It seems that whenever I love somebody, they leave or die . . ." A sob rose from deep in her chest. She sat down on the sofa and covered her face with her hands. "And I'm so tired of it all." Her voice broke.
Andreas sat down next to her. She felt his arm around her. She leaned her head against his chest and let the tears run down her face without bothering to wipe them away. Andreas didn't say anything, just held her close. Finally, Karla lifted her head.
Andreas put his hand on hers. He sighed. "So, you're afraid if we get involved, I'll die or leave as well?"
"I know, it's irrational." Karla grabbed a wad of Kleenex and blew her nose.
"Well, I guess it's possible. I may leave one day for whatever reason. I may die. Or it may happen to you. How do we know? But to go through life without love, because you're afraid of people leaving you, of being hurt. You can't be serious?" Andreas brushed a tear off her cheek. "We're talking about living without love for fifty, sixty, seventy years, depending how long you live." He wrinkled his forehead. "That's an awful long time. Think about it."
Karla had to smile at his attempt to make her see the absurdity of it all. "I know."
"Look, I don't have the magic love potion. I'm no expert when it comes to relationships. I haven't had the most encouraging experiences in that department, either." Andreas put his hand on Karla's shoulder. "All I know is that I'd like to go on seeing you. I like you a lot.
I'm not exactly the romantic type, but-"
Karla gently put her hand on his mouth, then kissed him.
He took her face into his hands. "Is that a 'yes?'"
Karla nodded and sighed. "I guess. Yes. I'll give it another try."
Andreas gave a little smile. "Not the most enthusiastic response."
"Andreas. I really like you. You just have to give me time."
"All right, but no more games."
Karla shook her head and hugged him.
Chapter 8
Karla didn't know where she was when she woke up. Her head was pounding. She was lying in bed in her underwear. When she tried to get up, she felt nauseated and fell back on the pillow moaning.
What happened last night? She looked around the room. The dress she had worn the night before hung neatly folded over the back of the chair. All she could remember was that she had been at a party with Andreas at the house of a friend of his who was a musician and had his own band. They had been listening to the music and dancing. There had been all kinds of food and different types of drinks. Karla usually didn't drink much alcohol, but there was some kind of concoction of fruit, sugar, and red wine that she really liked. She drank quite a lot. Then everything became hazy. The last thing she was conscious of was that she felt
very unsteady on her legs, her head was spinning, and she asked Andreas to take her home.
Now, she had no idea how she got home, how she got undressed and into bed. The effort of trying to remember made her head throb. She gave a resigned sigh, closed her eyes, and fell back to sleep.
When she woke up again, she smelled the aroma of fresh coffee. She forced herself to get up and went downstairs, holding on to the wooden railing of the staircase. Someone had filled her coffee pot with the automatic-brew feature and set it for ten o'clock. She looked at her watch. It was five past ten.
In the bathroom, she splashed water on her face and glanced at herself in the mirror. She looked deathly pale and her hair was a mess. She went back into the kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee, took a sip, and sat down next to the window. The sun was up and she heard the daily noises: the rattling of the garbage truck, a car driving up the hill, the neighbor calling her dog. These otherwise familiar and comforting sounds now seemed to worsen the pounding in her head.
The phone rang. When she answered, her voice sounded hoarse, as if it didn't belong to her.
It was Andreas. "Hey, wild woman. How are you this morning? Feel any better?"
Karla groaned. "I feel terrible. I have a splitting headache and I can't remember a thing.
What happened last night?"
Andreas chuckled. "Well, you got tanked and ended up dancing naked on the table. It was
quite a sight and-"
"Andreas. Stop it. This isn't funny. Tell me what happened."
"Okay. It wasn't quite that bad. You drank too much of that sangrÃa and then some nocino and I think that's what did it. Dangerous combination."
"Darn it, why didn't you warn me? I hardly ever drink more than a glass of wine, but that sangria. It tasted so good."
"Sorry about that. I didn't realize how much you drank. I was too busy dancing with you and kissing you."
Karla could just imagine the grin on his face. "And then what happened?"
"You asked me to drive you home. You fell asleep in the car and I had a hard time waking you up. Finally I got you into the house and up the stairs to your bedroom. I saw your automatic coffee maker in the kitchen, so I filled it up and set it for ten o'clock in the morning. I didn't think you'd wake up any earlier."
"And then?" Karla asked.
"Then I left. I had to leave the door unlocked since I couldn't take the key with me, but I felt it was safe to do so in your neighborhood."
"So . . . nothing else happened?" Karla asked, still suspicious: "I mean between us?"
There was silence; then Andreas guffawed. "You don't remember?"
"No, of course not. Else, I wouldn't ask, would I?" Karla was getting irritated. The heat rose to her face and her mouth felt parched.
"Oh, boy. Too bad you don't remember anything. It was quite a night. You were incredible."
"This isn't funny. I'm not in a joking mood. My head is killing me and you're starting to piss me off."
"Calma. Calma. Calm down. Of course, nothing happened between us. What do you take me for? I don't take advantage of passed-out women. Not that I wouldn't have wanted to. You are beautiful, even when you're drunk. However, I'd like you to at least be conscious when we make love." Andreas laughed out loud again. His booming voice aggravated Karla's headache.
"Not so loud, please. My head. Tell me, seriously now, and stop making stupid jokes. Did I do anything embarrassing?"
"It wasn't too bad. After you dumped a glass of sangria on the host's pants, you stumbled toward me and asked me to take you home." He sniggered.
"Andreas. Please."
"All right, I won't torture you any longer. No, you didn't do anything embarrassing. It was a great evening."
"What about my car? Where is my car?"
"Your car is safe. I had to take it back with me, since I wouldn't have had any other way of getting home. Remember, we went in your car to the party? If you don't need it during the day, I'll bring it tonight. Stop worrying. Take a nap and sleep it off. I'll see you tonight."
"Okay. Thanks." Karla put down the receiver and let herself fall down on the sofa with a sigh. I can't believe it. Never got that drunk before. And then to ask if we had had sex. Idiot.
Finally, Karla dragged herself to the bathroom, took a shower, and got dressed. After another cup of coffee, she started to feel a little better and decided to go outside and get some fresh air. She sat down on a stone bench in front of the house looking toward the mountains. It promised to be a clear day. A bank of benign white cumulus hovered on the horizon.
Karla stretched out on the granite bench and closed her eyes. She thought back to the evening, to the part she still remembered. The sun on her face and the hardness of the stone reminded her of Andreas's firm body and his kisses. I should invite him for dinner, she thought, as she was dozing off.
* * *
There were a few people at the grocery store, chatting with each other and with Gabriela, the owner of the store. The couple of stores and the few inns, called grotti, were the meeting places of the villagers as well as the tourists who came here to swim and camp along the river Maggia.
"You look a little pale today," Gabriela said. "You're not feeling well?"
"I had too much to drink last night," Karla admitted.
"Oh, I see." Gabriela smiled. "Try a few spoonfuls of honey. I heard that helps. Never tried it myself, but it can't hurt."
"Thanks. I'll give it a try." Karla bought the groceries and a bottle of wine. Although she couldn't possibly stomach any alcohol that day, she thought that Andreas might like some.
At home, she unpacked the groceries and stacked the fireplace with wood, in case they would want a fire in the evening. Then, she began to prepare the sauce for the spaghetti. She sautéed onions and garlic, added tomatoes, fresh basil, oregano, spices, and a shot of red wine and let it simmer.
Karla put on a CD and stretched out on the couch to relax. When the clock struck seven, she realized she had fallen asleep. The house smelled of tomatoes and spices. Karla got up and turned off the stove, then sat down at the window to wait. Although it was still light, dark clouds had begun to gather over the mountains.
Just as it started to rain, Andreas pulled up in Karla's car. It was only now that Karla realized that he had no way of getting back to his place unless she drove him, since he didn't have his own car with him. Andreas brought her a big bunch of roses.
"What beautiful flowers. Thanks a lot. They look like Lena's."
"Yes," Andreas smiled. "I got them from her. But how are you, wild party girl? You look lovely tonight. You must be feeling better." Andreas kissed her, then looked up and sniffed.
"Something smells very good here. Are you cooking?"
"Just some spaghetti sauce. I thought you might be hungry. Would you like a glass of wine? I'll pass for today, for obvious reasons, but you're welcome to one."
"Actually, I can do without. Some water will do. I drank enough last night myself."
"Would you mind lighting the fire?" Karla gave him a box of matches. "It's getting cool with the rain." She went into the kitchen and brought out some appetizers-salami, olives, and mixed pickles-and a bottle of mineral water.
When she came back, Andreas had taken off his jacket and was kneeling in front of the fireplace, lighting the newspaper and rearranging the logs with his bare hands. Sparks were flying but this didn't seem to bother him.
"Don't burn yourself," Karla warned him.
Andreas laughed and gave a last tug to one of the logs, then rubbed his hands and sat back.
"That should do it." He flicked a spot of soot off his forearm. The flames shot up high and soon the fire was burning full force.
Karla sat down next to him on the soft padded rug, putting the plate with the appetizers between them. Andreas picked up the plate and set it aside. He put his arm around her and pulled her close. "Now, what were you dreaming we were doing last night?" He looked at her with an impish glint in his eyes.
Karla tensed inwardly. She was anxious. I feel like a virgin.
Andreas kissed her, then pulled back a little. "Nervous?"
Karla nodded. No use denying it.
He brushed her hair out of her face, kissed her throat, then moved his lips to her ear, nibbling her earlobe. "So am I," he whispered.
Karla was surprised at the change of mood in him. The teasing smile was gone from his face. The expression in his eyes was deep, tender, and vulnerable. She embraced him and they sat quietly for a while, their arms entwined, looking at the fire, listening to the rain slapping the windows and the hissing of the wood. They kissed.
Andreas pulled off his T-shirt. Karla touched his broad, almost hairless chest, moving her hand over his muscular arms. He took her hand in his and kissed her palm, then brushed his lips along the inside of her arm to her elbow. He helped her slip off her top, pulled her bra aside, and kissed her breasts. They undressed quickly and in the dim light of the candle and the fire they explored and tasted each other.
Andreas moved slowly, caressing her, flicking her skin with kisses, waking every nerve in her body, making her quiver with desire. Karla, being used to hurried sex with her short-time boyfriends, was overwhelmed by his care and sensitivity. She pulled him down on her, suddenly impatient, wanting more of him.
Andreas reached for his pants and pulled a condom out of the pocket.
Karla shook her head. "You don't need this. I have an IUD. Besides, I hate these. They smell awful."
Andreas looked at her surprised. "I'm not crazy about them either, but are you sure it's safe?"
"Positive."
"All right, here it goes." Andreas got ready to throw the still wrapped condom into the fireplace.
Karla grabbed his hand. "Don't. I can't stand the smell of burnt rubber. It makes me sick."
"Oh? Okay." Andreas put the condom aside and kissed her again. He gently lowered her onto the padded rug and moved on top of her. A tangle of hair tickled her face. His breath had a warm musty scent. "God, you're sweet." His eyes were dark with desire.
Karla pressed herself against him. When he slid into her, she gasped.
He paused for a moment. "Am I hurting you?"
Karla shook her head. "No, go on, please," she whispered.
As Karla adjusted to Andreas's steady strokes, she gave in for the first time with a man to a part in herself where gales of lust mingled with the gentler waves of love and compassion.
After she came, her face was wet with tears.
Andreas kissed her, then touched her face. "Are you all right?"
Karla nodded and stifled a soft sob. "I feel great."
Andreas slid off of her and put his arm around her. They were lying quietly next to each other, listening to the rain tapping on the stone roof. Andreas raised himself partly on his elbow and looked down at her. The light of the flames from the fireplace danced across his face. His eyes were olive-green in the half-dark. "Tell me," he said in his deep, throaty voice. "Do you always cry when you come?"
Karla brushed through his hair and shook her head. "No. This has never happened before.
I've never made love like this. It was overwhelming . . . in a good way." She paused.
"Before, with other men . . ." she searched his face and hesitated to continue.
"Yes?" he asked.
"It's been kind of disappointing, just physical. With you, it's different. It makes me feel alive, fulfilled . . . and a little scared. I don't know what to call it." She felt a knot in her throat and turned her face toward the fireplace.
Andreas put his hand under her chin and forced her to look at him. "Why not call it love?"
Karla nodded and blinked, tears welling up in her eyes. "I guess it is."
A gust of wind splashed more rain against the western windows. The pine logs crackled and popped in the fireplace, and it smelled of burning wood.
Andreas got up and put another log on the fire. After he lay back down, Karla gently stroked his belly. He put his arm around her and pulled her on top of him. He kissed her breasts, then gave her a mischievous smile. The flickering flames reflected in his eyes.
"Were there many? Other men, I mean?"
Karla laughed. "You had to ask." She paused. "Only a few . . . and you? What about you?"
"Nope. No men at all. Only a few women."
"You're impossible." Karla gave him a playful pat on the rump, then straddled him.
"Oh, Jesus," he groaned.
* * *
Karla shivered when she woke up. While asleep, Andreas had pulled the blanket off of her.
She heard the grandfather clock chime nine times. The sun shining through the small window in the east of the living room spilled onto the mantelpiece above the fireplace and created a mosaic of light and shadow. The smell of burnt wood and cold ashes reminded her of the scent of a certain kind of black tea whose name she couldn't remember. Karla tried to carefully pull the cover toward her.
Andreas woke up. "I'm sorry. I'm hogging the whole blanket." He yawned and covered her again, then stretched and yawned again loudly.
"Your yawning sounds like the growl of a bear." Karla laughed and brushed through his tussled hair.
"Well, I tell you one thing. I'm hungry like a bear. Do you realize we haven't eaten since lunch yesterday? At least, I haven't. I hope you have some food in the house, or I'll have to eat you up."
"You're right. We forgot to eat. I have eggs in the refrigerator. I can make us an American breakfast."
"Sounds good to me, whatever that is." Andreas got up and stretched again, then bent down to pick up the still wrapped condom on the floor. He looked at it and put it aside, then glanced at Karla. "What's this thing about the smell of burnt rubber?" He sat down again and stroked her hair, letting the strands glide through his hand.
Karla sat up. "Ever since I was a child, I get nauseated whenever I smell something that reminds me of burnt rubber or latex or something similar, like the smell of tires after a sharp brake. It must have to do with the car accident I was in. The car started to burn and from what they told me, they pulled me out of the wreck just in time." Karla pulled her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her knees. "That's the worst part of the nightmare I occasionally have, the smell of burnt rubber. That and my mother's screams and the fears . . ." Karla's voice gave out. "Sometimes, I'm afraid of waking up one morning and absolutely nobody is around anymore," she whispered.
Andreas embraced her. "I'm so sorry."
Karla nodded and gave him a weak smile. "It's all right. I don't have the nightmares as often as I used to."
"Have you ever had professional help?" Andreas asked.
"Yes, right after the accident, of course. Since then I've seen several shrinks. It helps for a while, but then I stop. For one thing, it's expensive. And so far none of the analysts were able to help me recall what actually happened. According to them, it's kind of a survival mechanism. A child who experiences a trauma only remembers as much as she or he can deal with. That makes sense, but I'm an adult now. I think remembering would be a great relief. Perhaps, my nightmares would disappear . . . and my feelings of guilt toward my mother, my fear of being abandoned again, all this irrational stuff."
"I understand." Andreas took Karla's hand and kissed it.
"Well, now at least you know, you're involved with a crazy person."
"That makes two of us, considering my wonderful past." Andreas gave a snort.
Karla took a deep breath and smiled. "Anyway, what about that breakfast? By now, I'm kind of hungry, too. Even crazy people have to eat."
After showering and dressing, Karla prepared a meal of eggs, bacon, bread, butter, and jam and soon the smell of fried bacon and freshly brewed coffee filled the small kitchen.
"Wow. That's food for a hard-working peasant. Do you eat like this every day?" Andreas asked as he picked up a piece of crispy fried bacon and dunked it into the egg yolk.
"No, just once in a while, when I have guests. It reminds me of the United States." Karla poured him a cup of coffee.
"United States, Peru. You've been all over the world, haven't you? I feel very provincial next to you, world traveler."
"That was a long time ago. My aunt used to live in New York when she was young and she took me along for a visit once."
"Is that the aunt who passed away?" Andreas asked.
"Yes."
"Hmm. So many deaths." Andreas looked at Karla thoughtfully, then continued to eat.
"What?" Karla asked.
"Nothing." Andreas shook his head.
"Come on, you wanted to say something."
"Well . . . okay. It's just kind of ironic. You experienced so many deaths in your life and
now you're dating someone who makes tombstones for a living."
"It's odd, isn't it?" Karla smiled.
Andreas shrugged his shoulders. "Sounds like fate to me." He scraped up the left-over egg with a piece of bread and licked his fingers. "This is excellent, by the way." He pointed at his plate. "I could get used to this."
"I'm glad you like it." Karla said, amused by his appetite.
Chapter 9
In early fall, Andreas took Karla to meet his family. His aunt, uncle, and mother lived in a small village in the Blenio Valley. Andreas had told Karla quite a bit about his aunt and uncle, but had rarely mentioned his mother. Karla, who had always wondered about that, was curious to meet her.
Aunt Maria and Uncle Alois greeted them warmly. Andreas's uncle was exactly the way Karla had pictured him: a short, jovial, portly man with a booming voice who embraced and kissed Karla enthusiastically. His aunt was an equally plump, hearty, and vivacious
woman.
"So, you're the beautiful girl my nephew has kept hidden from us all this time." Uncle Alois slapped Andreas on the back. "He was probably afraid I was going to snatch you away from him."
"Yes, you'd love that, wouldn't you?" Maria smiled and shook a finger at him.
It was only now that Karla noticed a third person in the room, a thin, quiet, unassuming woman, probably in her fifties. Andreas introduced her as his mother. She greeted Karla with a shy smile. After saying hello, she seemed to disappear among the other people. Karla was amazed how little mother and son resembled each other.
Aunt Maria had prepared a typical dish of the area for lunch: coniglio and polenta-rabbit stew with slices of corn mush fried in olive oil and topped with parmesan cheese-as well as vegetables and salad. It was a very tasty meal, but Karla, who by nature wasn't a big eater, had to constantly stop Maria from putting more food on her plate.
"Cara, you're much too thin; you have to eat." Uncle Alois tried to put another piece of meat on Karla's plate.
"Leave her alone, for god's sake," Andreas finally intervened. "You know, Alois, not everybody can eat as much as you do. You could actually do with a little less yourself. You must be twice as fat as when I saw you last time."
"Don't be fresh, young man." Uncle Alois grinned. "Here, have some more wine." He poured Andreas another glass.
After lunch, Maria suggested they have coffee on the patio. While Andreas turned on the espresso machine, Karla stepped outside and sat at a large granite table under a pergola, covered by a trellis of grapevines full of plump ripe grapes. Not being used to drinking alcohol in the middle of the day, she was getting sleepy. She sat with her back against the granite wall behind her and closed her eyes.
All of a sudden, Karla heard Andreas's angry voice from inside the house, followed by his mother's quiet, subdued one. She opened her eyes and looked around. Maria and Alois brought out cups and liquor glasses.
Maria shook her head. "He's at it again. Why can't he leave her alone?"
Andreas stepped outside, his faced flushed from anger. "She drives me crazy."
"What's the matter?" Alois asked.
"Why doesn't she just kneel down in front of this damn photo and pray to it? Stupid woman."
"Andreas, she's your mother. You owe her some respect." Maria faced him squarely. "Go get her and apologize while you're at it. You should be ashamed, making a scene in front of your guest."
"I can't help it, she just-."
"Andreas, please. Come on." Alois touched his arm. "Go get her."
Andreas shook his head but turned around and went inside.
"Don't mind them," Maria said to Karla, as she brought out the espresso pot. "They just have to fight once in a while."
Andreas came out again, followed by his mother. His face was still flushed while Emilia's was pale. Andreas sat down next to Karla. He exhaled deeply, put his arm around her. "I'm sorry."
Although the mood was subdued for a while, Alois and Maria managed to cheer everybody up again with jokes and stories. After finishing his coffee, Alois opened a pouch of tobacco, stuffed his pipe, and lit it. He closed his eyes, sucked at the pipe, and blew the smoke toward the sky. Karla watched the small ritual fascinated.
Alois winked at her. "My little vice."
When Maria began to collect the empty cups and glasses, Emilia and Karla got up to help.
"You sit down and relax." Maria told them, then motioned at Andreas. "He can help."
"Yes, ma'am." Andreas gave a cursory smile.
Emilia sat down on a chair at the end of the patio. Karla, feeling sorry for the quiet woman who seemed out of place among her vivacious and short-tempered relatives, went to join her. "I love Monte Sosto," she said, as they both looked at the mountain. "I got up early one morning and drove to Olivone to paint it."
"Yes, Andreas told me you were an artist." Emilia gave her a warm smile.
They continued to gaze at the mountain. Then Emilia did something that took Karla by surprise. She took her hand and squeezed it. "I'm happy he met you." Emilia's eyes lit up for a moment. It was the first time Karla saw any similarity between her and her son. It wasn't the color of her eyes, which were blue, but their brilliance, emphasized by dark eyelashes, and the expression of tenderness she sometimes saw in his eyes as well.
* * *
"If you hadn't told me she was your mother, I would've never guessed," Karla said to Andreas, as they were driving home. "You two are so different."
"True." Andreas sneered. "I have my father's looks, although not his character, at least I hope not."
"Your mother is so shy and quiet; you almost feel sorry for her."
"Yeah, you're right. If you can believe it, though, she's a lot livelier now than she used to be. When I was a kid, she was practically a non-entity." Andreas sounded bitter.
"That's a harsh thing to say about your mother."
"Well, it's true. It took me many years to halfway forgive her for letting my father brutalize us the way he did."
"Didn't she try to protect you?"
"Yes, but she wasn't very effective. Whenever she tried to stop him from beating me, he just lashed out at her as well. We both ended up with welts and bruises. It was horrible."
"Perhaps she was too weak. He must have been a strong man."
"Weak is right. I mean emotionally. Nobody expected her to stand up to him physically. However, she tried to hide the fact that he was beating us. That's what I blame her for. Do you realize that after all this time and all the mean things he did to us, she still keeps a photo of him in her bedroom? She hides it whenever I come over, because she knows I get furious. I think in a way she still loves the jerk." Andreas hit the steering wheel with his hand.
"That sounds like the typical 'battered-woman-syndrome.' Was that the reason you were arguing?"
"Yeah. I know, I should just shut up and leave her alone."
Karla quickly changed the subject, not wanting to get Andreas upset again. "Your aunt and uncle are wonderful people. I hope they weren't insulted that I didn't eat more."
"Oh, no, don't worry; they always try to make people eat more than they are able to. It's their old-fashioned way of showing hospitality. No, they like you a lot." He glanced at her with a quick smile.
* * *
The next time they visited Andreas's relatives, Emilia showed Karla a few baby pictures of Andreas. They were alone in her bedroom, paging through a photo album. When Emilia put it back on the chest of drawers, Karla saw the photo. For a moment, she thought it was a picture of Andreas, but when she looked more closely she realized that it must be his father as a young man. She was shocked at the similarity: the same broad shoulders, the same dark disorderly hair and green eyes.
Emilia took the photo and shoved it into the drawer. "He probably told you about his father."
"Yes, it must have been a bad time for him . . . I guess for both of you."
"Yes." Emilia sighed. "Andreas still blames me, you know. I don't think he really loves me. I mean, not the way a son loves his mother." Her voice trembled.
On the way home, Karla told Andreas of the incident in the bedroom. Andreas shook his head.
"Yup, that's my mother. She still has this victim mentality."
"Andreas, is it true you don't love her?"
"I love her in my own way." His voice sounded curt.
"Do you have any pleasant memories of your father at all?" Karla asked a while later. The moment she asked the question she realized she shouldn't have done it.
"Please drop the subject, Karla."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean-"
"It's okay." Andreas drove on in silence, then got off the main road and stopped at a parking lot next to the lake. "Let's get out for a moment."
They walked over to the boardwalk and looked out onto the lake. The afternoon breeze rippled the surface, and the water, reflecting the sun rays, shimmered like pearls. Andreas leaned against the railing and stared into the distance. He put his arm around her. "Look Karla, I know you mean well, but please don't ask me about my father anymore. Perhaps one day I'll be able to tell you more, but right now I don't want to talk about it. All right?"
"Yes, of course. I'm sorry."
"And as for my mother. Yes, she's right. I don't love her the way she wants me to. I can't help it. To this day, she hasn't really accepted and acknowledged the fact that she failed me as a mother." Andreas stared down at the water, then glanced up at Karla from under his dark lashes. It struck her once again how much he looked like the man he seemed to hate so much.
"I won't mention your dad again, Andreas. But I can't help feeling sorry for your mother. It must be very hard for a mother to know that her child doesn't love her, or doesn't love her enough."
"She should've thought of that earlier," Andreas said with an icy voice. "She obviously didn't love me enough as a child either or she would've asked for help. It was more important to her what the neighbors thought than the fact that her son got beaten to a pulp. The whole time, she kept pretending that nothing was wrong. My uncle had to threaten her to get the court involved, before she finally agreed to let me live with them."
Karla felt him seething with suppressed anger.
"Damn." He slammed his fist down on the railing in front of him. The iron bars trembled.
He has his father's rage in him.
Andreas exhaled deeply, then gently touched her arm. "I'm sorry, Karla. Let's not talk about it anymore. It brings out the worst in me. Let's go."
They got into the car and drove on in silence.
I'm in love with a powder keg. That's just my luck. I heard that men who are abused as children often abuse their own children. Great prospects.
... continued ....
* * *
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