I chipped away at my Tiramisu. A sense of recklessness was beginning to take over my emotions and sensibility. I determined to dispense with reason and leap into Günter’s picture. I wanted to explore the world painted around Günter. I would make a few minor adjustments, though. First, I would use turpentine and scrub out any reference to Minna. Minna would have to go. I would also get rid of Commander Driver lurking in the corner. I would paint myself next to Günter. Swiss Alps would make a pleasant background.
Beautiful! The cream layered with sponge melted in my mouth. There was after all, no harm in dreaming; I often did that.
I reached over. ‘Bitte?’
‘Danke,’ Jane passed over her untouched ice cream and chocolate and I devoured her dessert.
I never imagined that my dreams would or could become reality. I mean, Günter was one moment, hot and friendly, and the next, cold and grumpy.
Jane abandoned us for her husband again, and together they were once more arguing with the Italian fellow.
I chuckled at the comic scene. The Italian waved his arms about, and then pointed at our table. I presumed Jane and her husband were not satisfied with the food offered. Jane’s face turned the colour of beetroot. Her jolly husband shook his head vigorously.
I cleaned the plate of the cake and then shot a glance at Günter. I pointed at the Wend couple and the Italian and grinned. When I looked again at them, all three stared at me. I smiled at them and held up my spoonful of chocolate and ice cream. They glanced away.
A waiter collected my plate. What appeared to be a bill lay in the space before me. Günter caught my eye as I picked up the paper.
‘Meet me by the shed in ten minutes’, were the words written on the note; words written in English. Why English?
I looked to confirm it was Günter who had written the note, but he had disappeared. I was not sure if the handwriting belonged to Günter. The script was precise and copybook. I had no idea what Günter’s penmanship was like as communication on the Little Sister Ship was predominantly computer-generated. Günter spoke German to me on the LSS. Why did he write in English? I surveyed the room. Who would write this? I have to find out.
Ten minutes later, I asked Novice Scratch-It opposite, ‘Please, may I excuse the table?’
Scratch-It widened her bug eyes and shrugged. Sure, go ahead.
I made my way to the shed, frantically patching together contingencies in case it was someone other than Günter. What if it was that Boris druggie dish-washing spy? What if he were the son of Boris? I planned to use some of my combat skills if I had to. I show no mercy to any lecherous kinds if they did not accept my ‘I-got-lost-on-the-way-to-the-toilet-and-you-must-be-waiting-for-someone-else-perhaps-my-double-routine.’ In Spain, I once floored a creepy type who tried to latch onto me. What I do is grab their arm and flip them over and then kick them where it hurts.
I turned the corner of the mansion; the same one where I spied on the hooded kitchen hand. There was the shed, just beyond the bench where the guy had sat and shot up.
Near a surfboard leaning up against the red brick wall in the shade, I glimpsed someone in a white shirt.
I rehearsed my lines just in case and then panicked because if they spoke Italian, I would have to rehearse in Italian. That was a scary thought, as I had not used my Italian in a long time.
I changed directions and approached from the other side. I wanted a better view, but the prickle bushes barred the way. Damn the prickle bushes! Oh, well here goes, Holly. I steeled my resolve and sidled along the timber wall to the surfboard.
© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2019
Feature Photo: Old Government House, Belair, South Australia © L.M. Kling 1985
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