Chapter 3

When we got to my mother's house, I wondered if it might look shabby to him. I winced at a half full coffee cup sitting on the counter in the kitchen as we entered. I wondered if my mother would kill me later when she found out I had taken a baron to her house without warning her first.

We went through photographs of my childhood, and I was exceedingly grateful that they were organized and that my father had been such a good photographer. Guenter seemed to be looking for something in them, searching for a clue. Was he trying to establish how often my father appeared in the photos and what that might mean about my way of relating to men? If my mother dressed me well? If I was a real blonde? At least he appeared to approve of what he saw, but he said nothing the whole time he looked through them.

As we were leaving, he said,

"I want to eat in the best restaurant in Atlanta. Tonight.”

I mentioned the two or three I thought deserved the title, and as I guessed, he picked Seeger’s, the eponymous restaurant of a German born chef, Guenter Seeger, who had once been the star of the local Ritz-Carlton. Lord help me not make an ass of myself, I thought, suddenly self-conscious. I am liable to commit some unforgivable fancy restaurant faux pas, and all my Southern Belle breeding will be for naught.

We called and had to take an early seating, as it was last minute. We were led upstairs, and the restaurant was nearly empty. The waitress hovered stiffly over us, as if wanting us to make her the center of the experience, ask her opinion, be awed by her knowledge of food and wine. She kept coming over to see if we needed any help. We were both mildly annoyed. I was surprised that he did not know many of the terms on the menu, and surmised that haute cuisine in Austria and Germany must be less influenced by French cuisine than in the US. Could it be more Italian? Or Hungarian? Or was he simplypretending not to know in order to test my own knowledge? I explained timbale, coulis, brandade, pave and tartare, keeping a wary eye on the waitress, who was watching and listening intently, seemingly miffed at not being asked herself. He asked for the wine list, and painstakingly read every selection in the near 30 page book. The waitress looked like she might burst out of her vest and apron, her hands planted flat against the wall behind her, as if ready to pounce at the first opportunity to show off her wine knowledge. He finally signaled her over with a movement of his head, and ordered a German red wine. I was curious to try it. Not able to stop herself, she commended him on his choice, and while opening the bottle tried to engage him in conversation by asking if he had picked it because it was "home." He made no sign of having heard the question, tasted the wine, and dismissed her with a nod. I couldn’t help smiling. I raised my oversized glass for a toast, but he looked sternly at me to signal that this was not done. I wondered why not, but took the hint. Faux pas number one, apparently.

The food was delicious, and I savored each morsel, exclaiming at the different flavors and presentations. He seemed amused that I was so involved in tasting every little thing, but caught my enthusiasm, and joined me in trying bites from my plate and his. I felt certain this was out of character. At one point, he said something that made me laugh, and the sound echoed around the nearly empty room. Faux pas number two, I wondered?

"I want you to meet my neighbor in the country, the countess," he said, "she laughs just like you."

"I'd like to meet a countess with a raucous laugh," I said, picturing a small and thin older woman in a tailored wool suit. For some reason I imagined her looking like a cross between my childhood piano teacher and my former landlady in France, with thin bony hands and the scent of bergamot floating about her.

"But I think," he said, his eyes scanning me slowly and smiling, "you are almost more aristocratic than she is."

At that, I had to laugh even more. He looked at me intently, and seemed to be congratulating himself on discovering the likes of me.

The next day, I made breakfast and cappuccinos at my place, pointedly using my cups and saucers from Germany with their matching little gold spoons. Neither of us was in a hurry to leave the apartment.

He announced he would like to take a bath.

I brought him fresh towels and soap, and left him to bathe. In the next room, I put on a CD of Puccini arias. It fit my mood, and as the first wistful strains of “O Mio Babino Caro” floated around the apartment, I went to check on him. Peering around the door frame, I found him submerged in the bath, moving almost imperceptibly to the now plaintive notes. His head was laid back and his eyes closed, the sun pouring through the blinds and making glittering stripes across the water, and a smile of pure contentedness was spread across his face.

He must have felt me standing there watching him because he raised his head up and caught my eyes from across the room and steadily held my gaze until the last note.