Czytaj książkę: «The German House»

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Author’s Note

A Note from the Translator

About the Author

About the Publisher

PART ONE

THERE HAD BEEN ANOTHER fire last night. She smelled it the moment she stepped out, without a coat, a thin layer of snow blanketing the quiet Sunday-morning street. It must have happened near her house this time. The sharp odor cut through the familiar smell of damp winter air: charred rubber, burned fabric, and melted metal, but also singed leather and hair; some mothers used lambskins to protect their newborns from the cold. It was not the first time Eva wondered who could do such a thing, who could sneak through backyards to break into apartment buildings and set fire to the strollers parked in the entryways. Must be a lunatic—or a bunch of hoodlums! many thought. Fortunately, none of the fires had spread to the building. No one had yet been hurt. Other than financially, of course. A new baby carriage cost 120 marks at Hertie’s. No small peanuts for young families.

“Young families” echoed in Eva’s mind. She paced nervously up and down the sidewalk. It was freezing out. Although Eva wore no more than her new, light blue silk dress, she wasn’t cold—she was sweating with excitement. She was waiting for none other than, as her sister teased, the “apple of her eye,” her future husband, who would meet her family for the first time today, the third Sunday of Advent. He had been invited to the midday meal. Eva checked her watch. Three minutes past one. Jürgen was late.

The occasional car crawled by. It was snowdusting. Eva’s father had coined the term to describe this weather phenomenon: tiny ice flakes came sailing down from the clouds, as if someone up there were shaving an enormous block of ice. Someone who made all the decisions. Eva gazed up at the gray skies over whitish roofs. She discovered then that she was being watched: standing at the second-story window—above the sign that read “German House,” above the letters “ou”—was a beige figure looking down at her. Her mother. She appeared unmoved, but Eva had the feeling she was taking her leave. Eva quickly turned her back on her. She swallowed. That was all she needed right now. To start crying.

The door to the restaurant opened and her father came out, heavy and dependable in his white chef’s coat. He ignored Eva and opened the display case to the right of the door, to place a supposedly new menu in it, although Eva knew there wouldn’t be a new one until Shrove Tuesday. Her father was actually very worried. He doted on her and now jealously awaited the unknown man making his way there. Eva heard him softly singing one of those folk songs he delighted in butchering, pretending everything was normal. Much to his own dismay, Ludwig Bruhns was utterly unmusical: “While a-clownin’ at the gate, a little song comes to meeeee. Under the linden treeeeee.”

A younger woman with teased, light blond hair appeared next to Eva’s mother at the window. She overeagerly waved at Eva, but even at this distance, Eva could tell she was depressed. But Eva did not blame herself. She had waited long enough for her big sister to marry. Then Annegret turned twenty-eight—her waistline expanding with every passing year—and following a secret discussion with her parents, Eva decided to break with convention. Before it was too late. She was practically on the verge of becoming an old maid herself. She hadn’t had many admirers. Her family couldn’t understand it. Eva had such a healthy, feminine presence, with her full lips, slender nose, and long, naturally blond hair that she cut, styled, and sculpted into an artful updo by herself. Her eyes, though, often appeared troubled, as if she were anticipating some impending catastrophe. Eva suspected this frightened men away.

Five minutes past one. No Jürgen. Instead, the door to the left of the restaurant opened. Eva watched her little brother Stefan come out. He wasn’t wearing a coat, which prompted a concerned rapping on the window and gesticulation from their mother upstairs. Stefan obstinately trained his gaze ahead. After all, he had put on his orange pompom hat and matching mittens. He tugged a sled behind him. Purzel, the family’s black dachshund, scampered about his feet; he was a sneaky dog they couldn’t help but adore.

“Something stinks!” Stefan said.

Eva sighed. “You now, too! This family is a curse!”

Stefan began pulling the sled back and forth through the light snow on the sidewalk. Purzel sniffed at a streetlight, circled excitedly, then pooped in the snow. The pile steamed. The sled runners scraped across the asphalt, joined by the rasp of a snow shovel, as their father got to work before the entrance. Eva caught the way he clutched his back and screwed up his eyes. Her father was in pain—something he would never admit. One morning in October, after his back had been “smarting like hell,” as he put it, for some time, her father was unable to get out of bed. Eva called an ambulance, and the hospital X-rayed him and discovered a herniated disc. They’d operated, and the doctor advised him to close the restaurant. Ludwig Bruhns explained that he had a family to feed. And what about his measly pension? They urged him to hire a cook and get out of the kitchen. But Ludwig refused to allow a stranger to enter his realm. The solution had been to stop offering lunch, so since that fall, they’d opened only in the evening. Revenue had dropped by nearly half since then, but Ludwig’s back was feeling better. Still, Eva knew that her father’s greatest wish was to start serving lunch again that spring. Ludwig Bruhns loved his job, loved it when his guests gathered in good company, when they enjoyed the food and went home smiling, satisfied, and tipsy. “I serve up full bellies and happy hearts,” he liked to say. And Eva’s mother would tease back, “He who can, does. He who cannot, serves.”

Eva was feeling a bit chilled now. She crossed her arms and shivered. She hoped fervently that Jürgen would treat her parents with respect. There had been a few times she’d witnessed an unpleasant, condescending attitude toward waiters or shop girls.

“Police!” Stefan bellowed. A black-and-white vehicle with a siren on its roof was approaching. Two men in dark blue uniforms sat inside. Stefan froze in awe. The officers were surely headed for the burned stroller, Eva thought, to collect evidence and question the building’s residents whether they’d noticed anything suspicious the night before. The car glided by almost soundlessly. The policemen gave first Ludwig, then Eva a nod. People knew each other in this neighborhood. The car turned onto König Strasse. Sure enough, the fire must have been in the housing estate. That new pink apartment building. Lots of families live there. Young families.

Twelve minutes past one. He’s not coming. He reconsidered. He’ll call tomorrow and tell me we aren’t a good match. The disparity in our families’ social standing, darling Eva, is just too great for us to bridge. Pow!!! Stefan had thrown a snowball at her. He hit her square in the chest, and the icy snow slid down into her dress. Eva grabbed Stefan by the sweater and yanked him toward her. “Are you crazy?! This is a brand-new dress!” Stefan bared his teeth, his guilty face. Eva would’ve scolded him further, but at that moment Jürgen’s yellow car appeared at the end of the street. Her heart leapt like a spooked calf. Eva cursed her nerves, which she’d even seen a doctor about. Breathe deeply. It was something she failed to do now, because as Jürgen’s car drew near, Eva was struck by the realization that nothing would ever convince her parents of Jurgen’s ability to make her happy. Not even his money. Eva could make out Jürgen’s face behind the windshield. He looked tired. And serious. He didn’t even glance at her. For one horrifying moment, Eva thought he might step on the gas and drive off. But then the car slowed. Stefan burst out, “Gee, he’s got black hair! Like a Gypsy!”

Jürgen steered the car a bit too close to the sidewalk. The rubber tires squealed against the curb. Stefan reached for Eva’s hand. Eva felt the snow melting inside her bodice. Jürgen switched off the engine and sat in the car for another moment. He would never forget this scene: the two women—one fat and one short—standing at the window above the word “House,” in the mistaken belief that he couldn’t see them, the boy with the sled gawking at him, and the father, massive, standing in the door to the restaurant with a snow shovel, ready for anything. They studied him as though he were a defendant entering the courtroom and taking his place for the first time. Except for Eva. Hers was a gaze of anxious love.

Jürgen swallowed, put on his hat, and picked up a bouquet wrapped in tissue paper from the passenger seat. He got out and approached Eva. He was about to smile, when something nipped him painfully in the back of the leg. A dachshund. “Purzel! No! No!” Eva cried. “Stefan, bring him inside. Put him in the bedroom!”

Stefan protested, but grabbed the dog and carried the struggling animal back into the house. Eva and Jürgen locked eyes timidly. They weren’t entirely sure how to greet one another with Eva’s family watching, so they shook hands and began speaking at the same time.

“I’m sorry, they’re just so curious.”

“What a welcoming committee! To what do I owe the honor?”

The moment Jürgen released Eva’s hand, her father, mother, and sister vanished from their posts, like rabbits slipping into their burrows. Eva and Jürgen were alone. An icy wind swept across the street.

“Are you in the mood for goose?” Eva asked.

“I’ve thought of nothing else for days.”

“You just need to get along with my brother. Then you’ll have everyone on your side.”

They laughed, neither certain why. Jürgen headed for the restaurant, but Eva steered him to the left, toward the door to the house. She didn’t want to lead him through the dim dining room that smelled of spilled beer and damp ash. Instead, they climbed the polished staircase, with its black banister, to the apartment above the restaurant. The two-story house had been rebuilt after the war, having been almost completely destroyed in an air strike. The morning following that inferno, all that survived was the restaurant’s long bar, which stood there defenseless and exposed to the elements.

Eva’s mother waited by the apartment door upstairs, wearing the smile typically reserved for regulars at the restaurant. Her “sugar face,” as Stefan called it. Edith Bruhns had put on her double-strand garnet necklace, along with her gilded stud earrings with the dangling cultured pearls and her gold brooch shaped like a clover leaf. Edith was wearing all the jewelry she owned, which Eva had never seen before. She was reminded of the fairy tale she had read aloud to Stefan, about the fir tree. After Christmas, the tree was stored in the attic till spring, when it was carried outside and burned. In its brittle branches hung the forgotten remains of Christmas Eve.

Fitting for Advent, at least, Eva thought.

“Herr Schorrmann, what is this weather you’ve brought with you? Roses in December?! Where on earth did you find these, Herr Schorrmann?”

“Mum, his last name is Schoormann, with two o’s!”

“I’ll take your hat, Herr Schooormann.”

In the living room, which also served as the dining room on Sundays, Ludwig Bruhns met Jürgen, wielding a roasting fork and poultry shears. He offered Jürgen his right wrist in greeting.

Jürgen apologized, “The snow.”

“Not to worry. No harm done. It’s a big goose, sixteen pounds. It takes its time.”

Annegret emerged from the background and fell upon Jürgen. The eyeliner she’d put on was a little too black, the lipstick a little too orange. She shook Jürgen’s hand and smiled conspiratorially. “Congratulations. You’re getting the real deal.” Jürgen wondered whether she meant the goose or Eva.

A short time later, they were all seated at the table, regarding the steaming bird. The yellow roses Jürgen had brought stood to the side in a crystal vase, like flowers brought to a funeral. The radio played unidentifiable Sunday music in the background. A Christmas pyramid powered by three flickering candles twirled on the cupboard. The fourth had yet to be lit. At the center of the pyramid, Mary, Joseph, and the newborn child in the manger stood before a stable. Sheep, shepherds, and the Three Kings and their camels scurried around the family in an endless circle. They would never reach the Holy Family, never be able to offer their gifts to the Baby Jesus. This had saddened Eva as a child. She’d finally snapped the gift from the Moorish king’s hands and placed it before the manger. By the following Christmas, the little red, wooden package had gone missing, and since then, the Moorish king had spun empty-handed. The gift never had turned up. Eva’s mother told this story every year, when she brought down the pyramid from the attic for the Christmas season. Eva had been five at the time, but she had no memory of it.

Eva’s father carved the goose along the breast with the poultry shears. “Was the goose alive once?” Stefan looked quizzically at his father, who winked at Jürgen.

“No, this is a fake goose. Just for eating.”

“Then I want breast meat!” Stefan held out his plate.

“Guests first, sonny.”

Eva’s mother took Jürgen’s plate—the Dresden porcelain patterned with fanciful green tendrils—and held it out to her husband. Eva observed the way Jürgen looked around without being obvious. He eyed the worn sofa and yellow checked blanket her mother had arranged over a tear in the upholstery. She had also crocheted a small coverlet for the left armrest. That was where Eva’s father, once he’d closed up his kitchen, would sit after midnight and rest his feet on a low padded stool, as the doctor had recommended. The weekly newspaper, The Family Friend, lay on the coffee table, opened to the crossword puzzle, a quarter of which had been solved. Another doily protected the precious television set. Jürgen inhaled through his nose and thanked Eva’s mother courteously for the full plate she set before him. She positioned the dish to look especially appetizing. Her earrings swung as she moved. Eva’s father, who had traded his white chef’s coat for his Sunday jacket, sat down next to Eva. There was a small green fleck on his cheek. Probably parsley. Eva quickly brushed it off his soft face. He took her hand and gave it a little squeeze without looking at her. Eva swallowed. She was furious at Jürgen for his appraising look. Fine, he might be used to something else. But he had to see how hard her parents were trying, how good they were, how endearing.

They started eating in silence. As she always did in front of company, Annegret restrained herself and poked at her food, as though she weren’t hungry. But afterward, she would stuff herself with leftovers, and then go for the cold goose in the pantry later that evening. She offered Jürgen the salt and pepper caddy and winked.

“Would you like some pepper, Herr Schoooormann? Salt?”

Jürgen politely declined, which Eva’s father registered without looking up.

“No one’s ever had to season my cooking.”

“Eva tells me you’re a nurse? At the hospital?” Jürgen addressed Annegret, who was a mystery to him. She shrugged, as if it weren’t worth mentioning.

“Which department?”

“Nursery.”

In the silence that followed, they could suddenly all hear the radio announcer. “From Gera, Grandma Hildegard sends her regards to her family in Wiesbaden, especially her eight-year-old grandson Heiner, on this third Sunday of Advent.” Music started to play.

Edith smiled at Jürgen.

“And what do you do professionally, Herr Schoooormann?”

“I studied theology. Now I work in my father’s company. In upper management.”

“Mail-order business, isn’t that right? Your family runs a mail-order business?” her father chimed in.

Eva elbowed him. “Daddy! Now don’t pretend to be dumber than you are!”

A short silence, then everyone laughed, including Stefan, although he didn’t understand why. Eva relaxed. She and Jürgen exchanged a glance: It’ll be fine!

“Of course we receive the Schoormann catalog too,” Eva’s mother admitted.

Stefan sang the jingle in falsetto. “Schoormann’s got it, Schoormann gets it—to you. Ding dong! Dong ding!”

Jürgen feigned seriousness. “And have we also ordered from the catalog? That is the question.”

“Of course,” Edith responded solicitously. “A blow-dryer and a raincoat. We were very satisfied. But you should start selling washing machines. I’d rather not go to Hertie’s for such a big purchase. They always talk your ear off. With a catalog, you can consider your options in the comfort of your own home.”

Jürgen nodded in agreement. “Yes, you’re right, Frau Bruhns. I happen to have several changes planned for the company.”

Eva gave him an encouraging look. Jürgen cleared his throat.

“My father is sick. He’ll not be able to run the company much longer.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Eva’s mother said.

“What has he got?” Her father passed Jürgen the gravy boat. Jürgen wasn’t prepared to say any more, though. He dribbled gravy on his meat.

“It tastes delicious.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Eva knew that Jürgen’s father was growing increasingly senile. Jürgen had only spoken about it once. There were good days and bad. But his unpredictability was only getting worse. Eva hadn’t met Jürgen’s father and his second wife, yet. After all, the groom was supposed to visit the parents of the bride first. Eva and Jürgen had argued about whether he should ask for her hand today. Jürgen was against it. Eva’s parents would think him unserious if he stormed in with such a request. Or—even worse—think that there was something else going on. The quarrel went unresolved. Eva studied Jürgen’s face, trying to detect whether he planned to ask her father today. But his expression revealed nothing. She looked at his hands, which clenched the silverware tighter than usual. Eva hadn’t experienced an “intimate encounter,” as Doctor Gorf called it, with Jürgen. She was ready to, considering she’d already lost her virginity two years ago. But Jürgen had clear expectations: no intercourse before marriage. He was conservative. A wife was to submit to her husband’s authority. From the first time they met, Jürgen looked at Eva as though reading her from the inside, as though he knew what was best for her, better than she did herself. Eva, who most of the time didn’t know what she really wanted, had no objection to being led—whether dancing or in life. This marriage would also allow Eva to move up in society. From the innkeeper’s daughter born and raised in Bornheim, to the wife of a distinguished businessman. The thought made Eva dizzy. But it was a happy dizziness.

Right after lunch, Eva and her mother started fixing the coffee together in the spacious kitchen. Annegret had left. She had to work the late shift at the hospital, had to feed her infants. Plus, she didn’t care too much for cake with buttercream icing.

Eva sliced thick pieces of Frankfurt Crown Cake while her mother ground coffee beans in a small electric grinder. Edith Bruhns stared at the growling appliance. When the noise stopped, she said, “He’s not at all your type, Evie. I mean, I can’t help but think of Peter Kraus. He was always your heartthrob …”

“Just because Jürgen’s not blond?”

Eva was shocked by how obviously her mother didn’t like Jürgen. And she considered her mother a great judge of character. Working at the restaurant, Edith had met countless people. At first glance, she could tell whether a person was decent or a lout.

“Those black eyes …”

“Mum, his eyes are dark green! You just need to look more closely.”

“I mean, it’s up to you. His family is certainly above reproach. But I have to be honest, child, I can’t help it. He will not make you happy.”

“Would you just get to know him first?”

Eva’s mother poured bubbling water into the filled coffee strainer. The coffee smelled like the expensive kind.

“He’s too withdrawn, Eva. He’s spooky.”

“He’s thoughtful. Jürgen did want to become a priest …”

“God forbid!”

“He had already studied theology for eight semesters. But then he met me and started rethinking celibacy.”

Eva laughed, but her mother remained stony-faced. “Surely he left school because of his father? Because he needs to take over the company.”

“Yes.” Eva sighed. Her mother was not in the mood to joke. They watched the bubbling water seep through the coffee filter.

Spooky Jürgen and Eva’s father sat in the living room with cognacs. The radio played untiringly. Jürgen smoked a cigarette and studied the ponderous oil painting hung above the cupboard. It depicted a marshy landscape at sunset, the red sky flaring up beyond the dike. Some cows grazed upon a lush meadow. There was a woman hanging laundry beside her cottage. A short distance away, on the right edge of the painting, stood another figure. It appeared out of focus, as if sketched in after the fact. It was unclear whether this was the cowherd, the husband, or a stranger.

Stefan crouched on the rug and prepared his plastic army for battle. Purzel had been let back out of the bedroom, and he lay on his belly and blinked at the soldiers gathered before his nose. Stefan assembled long rows. He also had a tin wind-up tank. It lay waiting in its box.

Meanwhile, Eva’s father was sharing a general outline of the family history with his future son-in-law. “Yep, I’m an old sand-worm. Grew up on Juist, as you can probably hear. My parents owned a shop. Supplied the whole island. Coffee, sugar, window glass—we had everything. Actually, Herr Schooormann, just like you. My mother died early. Father never really did recover. He’s been gone for fifteen years now, himself. Edith, my wife, well, I met her at the school of hotel management in Hamburg. That was in ’34, and boy were we wet behind the ears! My wife comes from a family of artists, if you can believe it. Her parents were both musicians in the philharmonic. He played first violin, she played second. It was the other way ’round at home. My wife’s mother, she’s still alive. Lives in Hamburg. My wife was meant to play violin too, only her fingers were too short. So her hope was to become an actress, which her parents nipped firmly in the bud. At the very least, she wanted to see the world, so they sent her to study hotel management.”

“And what brought you here?” Jürgen asked with friendly interest. He’d enjoyed the roast goose. He liked Ludwig Bruhns, who was giving such an enthusiastic account of his family. Eva had inherited her sensuous mouth from her father.

“‘German House’ had belonged to one of my wife’s cousins, and he wanted to sell it. Boy, if that didn’t fit like an ass on the can. Pardon the expression. We seized opportunity and reopened in ’49. We’ve never looked back.”

“Sure, Berger Strasse is worth it …”

“The decent part, I’d like to point out, Herr Schoormann!”

Jürgen smiled reassuringly.

“Anyway, since the episode with my back, my doctor’s been saying I should close up shop! So I spelled out my pension for him. Now we don’t open till five. But there will be an end to this decadent lifestyle, come spring!”

They fell silent. Jürgen sensed there was more Ludwig wanted to say. He waited. Ludwig cleared his throat and did not look at him.

“Yes, well, my back issues. They’re from the war.”

“An injury?” Jürgen asked politely.

“I served in the field kitchen. On the Western Front. Just so you know.” Eva’s father polished off the rest of his cognac. Jürgen was slightly perplexed. He didn’t sense that Ludwig Bruhns had just lied.

Pow pow pow! Stefan had released his tank. It made a tremendous racket struggling over the rug, as though the pile were eastern marshlands. It ran over one soldier figurine after the other.

“Young man! Take it into the hallway!”

But Stefan had eyes only for Jürgen, who feared children’s directness. Then he remembered Eva’s advice, to win over her brother.

“Can you show me your tank, Stefan?”

Stefan stood up and handed Jürgen his tin toy.

“It’s almost two times bigger than Thomas Preisgau’s,” he said.

“Thomas is his best friend,” Ludwig explained, pouring more cognac.

Jürgen admired the tank with due care. Stefan snatched up a figurine from the floor. “Look, I painted this one. It’s a Yank! A Negro!”

Jürgen glanced at the small plastic soldier with the painted face Stefan was holding out for him. It was blood red. Jürgen closed his eyes, but the image remained.

“And I’m getting an air rifle from Father Christmas!”

“An air rifle,” Jürgen repeated absently. He took a long draft from his glass. The memory would fade in a moment.

Ludwig drew Stefan close. “You don’t know that for certain, little one.” Stefan squirmed loose.

“I always get everything I ask for.”

Ludwig looked at Jürgen apologetically. “It’s true, I’m afraid. The boy is spoiled rotten. My wife and I, well, we certainly weren’t expecting anything to come after the girls.”

The telephone rang in the hallway. Stefan reached it first and flatly recited his lines: “Bruhns family residence, Stefan Bruhns speaking. Who’s there, please?” Stefan listened, then called out, “Eva, it’s Herr Körting! For you!” Eva came out of the kitchen, drying her hands on her apron, and took the receiver. “Herr Körting? And when? Immediately? But we’re all here—”

Eva was interrupted. She listened and looked through the open door at the two men sitting at the table. They look quite comfortable with each other already, she thought. Then Eva spoke into the phone, “Yes, all right. I’ll come in.” She hung up.

“I’m so sorry, Jürgen, but that was my boss. I have to go to work!”

Her mother emerged from the kitchen with the coffee tray.

“On Advent Sunday?”

“Apparently it’s urgent. There’s a trial date scheduled for next week.”

“Well, it’s like I always say, you can’t mix duty with pleasure.” Ludwig got to his feet. Jürgen stood too. “But you stay here! You’ve still got to try this cake!”

“It’s made with real butter. A whole pound!” Edith added.

“And you haven’t even seen my room yet!”

Jürgen escorted Eva into the hallway. She had changed and now wore her modest business suit. Jürgen helped her into her pale checked wool coat and murmured in comic desperation, “You planned this as a test, didn’t you? You want to leave me alone with your family and see how I fare.”

“They don’t bite.”

“Your father’s got those bloodshot eyes.”

“That’s from his pain medication. I’ll be back in an hour. I’m sure it has to do with that suit for damages. Those faulty engine parts from Poland.”

“Should I drive you?”

“Someone’s picking me up.”

“I’m coming with you. If you’re not careful, you could end up compromised.”

Eva pulled on her deerskin gloves, Jürgen’s gift to her on Saint Nicholas Day.

“The only client who’s ever compromised me is you.”

They looked at each other. Jürgen moved in for a kiss. Eva pulled him into the corner beside the coatrack, where her parents couldn’t see them. They embraced, smiled, kissed. Eva felt Jürgen’s arousal, saw in his eyes, that he desired her. Loved her? Eva stepped out of the embrace. “Would you ask him today, please?”

Jürgen did not respond.

Eva left the apartment, and Jürgen headed back into the living room. There the Bruhnses sat at the coffee table, like actors waiting onstage for their prompt.

“We’re not at all dangerous, Herr Schoormann.”

“Totally harmless, Herr Schooormann.”

“Except for Purzel. He bites sometimes,” Stefan called from the rug.

“Well, let’s get a taste of that cake.”

Jürgen returned to the warmth of the living room.

Eva came out of the house. It was already getting dark outside. The snow cover glowed soft blue. Circles of amber lay beneath the streetlights. A large vehicle, its engine running, stood in the middle of the street. The driver, a young man, impatiently beckoned to Eva. She climbed into the front passenger seat. It smelled of cigarette smoke and peppermint in the car. The young man was chewing gum. He was not wearing a hat, nor did he shake Eva’s hand. He just nodded curtly: “David Miller.” Then he stepped on the gas. He wasn’t a good driver—too fast—and routinely shifted gears either too late or too soon. Eva didn’t have a license, but she could tell he was not familiar with this vehicle. He was a bad driver in other ways too. The car repeatedly fishtailed. Eva studied the young man out the corner of her eye. He had thick reddish hair a little too long in the back, freckles, fine, pale eyelashes, and slender hands that gave off a strangely innocent impression.