Chapter 7

In the morning, we went in search of some of the more historic cafes. We walked arm in arm through the city, as if descending the stairs of a royal palace, and the stately, ornate buildings, imposing, curlicued and imperial, made me feel like a princess surveying her grounds.

"It's okay, your city," I said, feigning indifference, "but I've seen better."

He looked at me with wide incredulous eyes. I laughed, and kissed him.

We stopped under a centuries old archway held up by columns in the shape of men to listen to a quartet play Mozart sonatas. On the way to the most bohemian and intimate of the cafes, I spotted a little girl on a bicycle, her dress caught in the rear chain, her mother admonishing her angrily. I pulled him over and whispered for him to help her. He bent down and patiently worked the material free from the chain. When he stood back up and patted the girl on her head, she gazed up at him as if he were an apparition of a savior prince, arrived at the very moment she had wished with all her might for help. The mother gushed words of thanks, her frustration completely dissipated, her eyes going from me to him and back again. She seemed to be trying to figure out who we were and where we had appeared from. I felt her gaze follow us in wonder as we walked away.

“You are that little girl’s hero now,” I said, squeezing his arm.

"Do you think she will remember me?" he asked.

"When she grows into a young woman, she will search for a tall elegant man like the one who dislodged her sweater from her bicycle those many years ago," I teased, "You will haunt her until she finds your double."

We found the cafe we were looking for, and once we were comfortably settled and had ordered, he told me again how he was ready to get married again and have children of his own.

"Do you remember that photo I sent you, of me with a baby in my arms?" he asked.

It was the best picture of him, a grin spread across his face as he held the baby slightly away from him, a thing of beauty and wonder that he was afraid to mishandle and break. He looked radiant.

"When I held him, I understood that I really wanted to hold a child of my own blood in my arms," he said.

I set down my cup and listened. As he talked, I thought how easy it would be to let myself be molded, to give in, to let go totally. To completely surrender to a man, one who knew without a doubt what he wanted, was determined to get it, and was not shy of speaking it, had a certain delicious feel of letting go, like slipping off a sock under the sheets in the middle of the night. I pictured myself the mother of his children - two, maybe three, dressed in green jumper shorts sets and purple shoes. Me, the thin Baroness von F..., my hair in a chignon, my nails manicured just so. I imagined myself at balls and society functions, shaking hands and greeting people, finally speaking passable German. I knew my loud laugh and my American-ness would set me apart, but the Duchess of Windsor did just fine with her masculinity, American-ness and her divorce.

The subject of children inevitably led back to his wife, and why they had never had any of their own.

"We knew early into our marriage that she would never be able to have any more children. When we found out she was sick, we were told the treatments she would have to go through would make her infertile. Even if that weren't the case, having another child would have definitely killed her." he looked sadly at me, and I found myself reaching for his hand in an attempt to comfort him.

"So that is why I had an operation myself," he continued, "so we would not make a child. I don't know how you call it in English."

My breath caught in my throat. "A vasectomy," I said slowly.

"Yes, so you see, if we had children, you and I, I would get to choose when because they would have to take seed from me and implant it in you."

How terribly romantic, I thought. I had always imagined that the decision to have children would add a whole new dimension to the experience of love making. The future father to my children and I would stare deep into each other's eyes as we fused our bodies together to create a part of the two of us. We would touch each other more tenderly, kiss each other more passionately, each orgasm would be heightened by the knowlege of the life we would be creating together. It had seemed to me to be one of the things to look forward to about wanting to have children. That and having decent cleavage. But if Guenter chose me to carry on the von F... line, I would, like a blonde performing Lipizzaner, be inseminated.

We left Vienna and drove the Yellow Beast towards Graz, where he had told me his family, and his family line came from. Munich was not Munich and Coburg was not Coburg, so naturally Graz was not Graz. We were going to meet his mother, sister and brother-in-law at a wine garden in the countryside. I was nervous, and repeated the German phrase it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance silently to myself as I watched the mountainous landscape go by through the car window. I was curious to meet his sister, to whom he seemed especially close, and it was primarily to her that he had talked of meeting me. I wondered if she disapproved of how we had met, or my age or nationality. His mother I knew spoke no English, so I didn't think I would be able to connect with her, other than trotting out my German phrase and smiling in a meaningful, I-care-about-your-son kind of way.

We stopped overnight in an alpine town, and had dinner in a country inn. It was rustic, but elegant, and I remarked as we walked through that it must be a reputed restaurant.

"What makes you think so?" he asked, cocking his head.

"Because it has signs from Gault Millau," I said.

"I do not know this," he said dismissively.

I was surprised he had never heard of it. I would have thought, a baron...

"It's kind of like the Michelin guide," I said, "only better. It only rates the food, not the atmosphere or service, and it never gives a perfect score."

He simply nodded his head, and guided me towards the host stand. We were seated at a table with glazed wooden benches, and a view of the surrounding garden through the high alpine windows, amusingly framed by red and white checkered curtains.

I looked at the menu, trying to decipher the German without asking for help. He let me, occasionally looking over smilingly at me, amused at my stuborness.

"What does pute mean?" I asked, finally giving in. In all my Latin based languages, it looked the root for whore, which I was sure was not on the menu that evening.

"It's a kind of bird," he answered, putting his hands up to show me, "it's a very big bird, and you eat it in America, roasted whole."

"Ohh!" I said, "turkey!"

"I don't know this word," he said, but looked dubious that I come up with the right one.

"Does it go like this?" I asked, leaning my head back and cupping my hand to my mouth to emit - to the astonishment of everyone around us - "Gobble! gobble! gobble!"

He laughed so hard he had to use his linen napkin to wipe away the tears.

"Yes," he said, still recovering, and patting my hand as I laughed with him, "I think you've got it."