1.
Oskar is playing Chopin again, Nocturne No. 10 in A-Flat Major--my favorite, as it happens. I watch his slim, deft fingers glide over the piano keys like little waves lapping at a beach. He is, as always, perfectly poised, his back straight, his broad shoulders effortlessly carrying the weight of his masculine grace. I have always envied men like that. Actually, I have always envied men.
He notices me looking at him--I see his eyes dart in my direction for a second, the hint of a smile. When the piece is finished, he turns to me and says, "Would you like me to teach you?"
I'm taken aback for a moment. "Oh, I--"
He shifts to one side of the piano bench and pats the empty space next to him. I oblige, sitting down by his side, close enough for our legs to touch. My pinstriped trousers against his gray wool slacks.
I play horribly, stumbling over notes, barely able to make sense of the sheet music in front of me. He guides me patiently, his eyes dancing with amusement. He even slaps my back in a brotherly way when I manage to hit a chord correctly. I struggle to the end of the piece, the music limping along like a clumsy old dog.
"Not bad for a first try," he says, and I can feel he means it. His brilliant smile--dimples showing, blue eyes crinkling and almost disappearing into pleased half-moons--makes it all worth it.
2.
"The tram at Hermannplatz was delayed!"
"Leave earlier, then. I can give you my watch, if you like."
"You pawned it last week, remember?"
He makes an exasperated noise and sits down, his black brows furrowed and his arms crossed petulantly.
I take off my paisley tie, blue waistcoat, rumpled white shirt. Soon I'm standing naked in the studio, the dark hair on my arms prickling in the cold January light. I take my place in front of the blue backdrop, next to the potted Venus flytrap. He scrutinizes me for a moment; unsatisfied with something, he walks over and spends a good few minutes adjusting my pose, moving my arms, wrists, head, hips, as if I'm a posable doll. His paint-stained hands are gentle and warm on my skin. I shiver slightly.
"I'm sorry it's so cold in here," he says with a sigh, an embarrassed, bitter tone to his voice. "I can't even afford to turn on the heat."
"I'm not cold."
He goes back to his seat and takes up the paintbrush. I wink at him, eliciting a frustrated blush, and then the canvas obscures his face.
3.
Before I can even formulate a response, the first feeling I register in my mind is a terrible pang of sadness at how much the ring must have cost him. It's then that I realize why he's been catching so many colds lately: he pawned his winter coat.
I refuse as gently as I can, but already I can see a storm gathering in his eyes, darkening the rough edges of his face. He says nothing, and I know he'll spend the next two days drinking.
Oskar says it when we're walking through a frozen garden, bare twigs and dead grass crunching under our shoes. "Will you--would you like to--be my wife?"
It's easier to refuse him because his fur coat is warm and his shoes are nicely polished. He laughs and says, "Of course. What was I thinking." He puts his hands in his pockets and doesn't look at me for the rest of the afternoon.
On the way home I walk past a dressmaker's, a mannequin modeling a wedding dress and lace veil poised in the window. The mannequin is faceless, its blond coiffure actually just horsehair. My eyes slide off it and I see my reflection in the glass, my dark hair cropped short, my collar buttoned to the throat, my face sharply defined.
4.
In just a few minutes it's as if nothing ever happened--he's back to his old self, eyes grave instead of wild, with sardonic laughter on his lips. He brushes his black hair from his forehead and smooths it down. The familiar gesture tears at my heart and I can't stop myself from kissing his long, tapering fingers.
I know this won't last, of course. I know in a week or two I'll be staying up by him through the night as he lies shivering on the couch, his breath irregular and his usually calm baritone raspy as he raves about Ypres and Verdun and mustard gas. I know I won't question any of this or fault him for it, I will simply get him a glass of cold water and hold it up to his mouth because his hands are trembling too much. I know I will hold him close and stroke his hair and kiss his damp brow and I won't say a word and the next day he will avoid my gaze as he paints my portrait.
❦