Love Is Pink!

“I’ll do that, Mr. Rottmann,” I said, smiling boldly.

He pumped the gas pedal. The engine sounded like an asthmatic tractor. A rocking motion passed through the car, followed by a tremor and a loud explosion. And then, as if touched by a magic wand, we were set into motion.

“Yahoo! We’re moving!” Emma cried. Her father seemed exuberantly happy, too.

“Papa, Papa,” she said, “now show her our radio! Michelle has to hear it.”

“The radio in here still functions, Mr. Rottmann?”

Emma’s father grinned. “Please, just call me David. And, yeah, the odometer is broken, and the rev counter is stuck on 8,000 revolutions. But the old radio works impeccably.” He pushed one of the half-broken small knobs.

And, by some miracle, a singer cawed out of the speaker. The sound was hollow and without depth, as though it was blaring through a tin can.

Of course I recognized the song immediately. It was George Michael’s “Last Christmas.”





6


The engine sputtered, wheezed, and then exploded. A black cloud of soot briefly wrapped itself around us as we stopped—directly in front of the Geneva airport’s entrance. The snowfall had also ceased as abruptly as it had begun. The last rays of the sun now bestowed a golden light. A shimmer of hope.

A policeman who’d seen our decidedly pathetic entrance approached from the sidewalk. He stood next to the car and rotated his index finger.

With some difficulty, David rolled down the window and stuck out his head, and the two spoke for a while in French.

The policeman straightened his back, tipped his hat, and ambled away.

“You speak French?” I asked.

David smiled apologetically. “A little. I know I must sound horrible, but it’s enough to make myself understood. I’m sure you speak much better than I do.”

“I speak German,” I said condescendingly. “German, the language of poets and thinkers.”

“Lack of education is also a form of education,” David rebutted with a twinkle in his eyes.

The arrogant little upstart! He didn’t even own a decent car. He toured around the region with his kid while other people worked, and he wanted to tell me about culture?

“Well,” I said, “one can clearly see how far your so-called education has gotten you.”

I was out of the car before he could even respond. I didn’t need an argument right now. An airplane and my future were waiting.

David stepped out of the car, too. “I’d accompany you, but my car is parked illegally. I need to be gone when the friendly policeman returns—otherwise he’ll change his attitude and write me a ticket.”

“We certainly don’t want that,” I quipped. David walked around the junker, and together we hauled my luggage out of the trunk. He tried to close it, but it remained slightly ajar. Evidently, the lock no longer worked.

Emma stood a bit apart from us. And as I gathered myself to walk into the foyer with my bags, I noticed her reddened eyes. Truthfully, I didn’t have time for such sentimentality. But, nevertheless, I bent down and rested my arm on her shoulders. She threw herself on me and held me tight.

“Oh,” I said, “you shouldn’t be sad.”

She hugged me even tighter.

Carefully, I pushed her away, swept her brown locks from her face, and tickled her chin. She laughed.

“I’ll call you when I’m back in Berlin,” I lied. “I just need to get home urgently—to take care of something very important. You understand that, right?”

Emma silently nodded. Her father walked over and hoisted her up. She leaned on his chest without letting me out of her sight.

“Well, then, Michelle, I wish you lots of luck,” David said, “and that everything goes as you hope it will.”

He extended his free hand and I quickly shook it. Then I waved farewell to Emma, grabbed my suitcases, and hurried into the airport terminal.





7


I made a beeline for the information desk, which was staffed by a young man—so young, I’d be surprised if he’d even finished his training. Dark suit, hair fastidiously styled with gel to distract from his acne, and clearly in over his head. Just great!

“Sir,” I said, “I’m Ms. Kr?mer. Ms. Michelle Kr?mer.”

The engaging smile on his face faded and was replaced by an expression of utter cluelessness. From the name tag on his lapel, I knew he was Swiss with a German name. At least he’d be able to minimally understand me.

“Mr. Meyer,” I said very slowly and clearly, “I . . . am . . . Ms. Kr?mer.”

He blinked several times and said, “I got as much the first time you said it.”

“Wonderful. Really wonderful,” I responded. “So, I’m just in from Chamonix. My bag was stolen there. With my documents and my passport. The Hotel Grand Royal got ahold of it for me and sent it you.”

He appeared to be thinking hard and then said, “Oh! The Hotel Grand Royal!”