While the World Is Still Asleep (The Century Trilogy Book 1) (30 page)

As soon as they were settled at Frieda’s old kitchen table, Reutter took up his thread again. “We live in exciting times. Everything is changing. Nobody wants the old stuff anymore. The horse dealer behind Lausitzer Platz paid me a visit yesterday. He’s closed his shop and is moving out to the country to manage his sister’s farm. But because more and more horse-and-carriage companies are giving up their trade, he had a hard time getting rid of his horses. And that’s just the beginning!” The old man paused for breath, then went on, “All of society is in upheaval. Sometimes, our world feels like a carnival carousel, turning faster and faster. And bicycles are partly responsible for that.”

“But cycling is something only few can enjoy, so how can it possibly be changing society?”

“Ah, I daresay your impression of things is false. There are considerably more cyclers out and about than there were a few years ago. Perhaps not in our neighborhood, but it’s a different story just a few streets away.” Oskar Reutter sipped his lemonade. “I know this because they’re coming to my store in droves asking for sporting caps instead of elegant hats, and jackets with a lot of pockets instead of fine tailcoats. They’re leaving my cigars behind, too—bad for the health, a young man told me just yesterday. My cigars? Bad for the health?” Oskar Reutter looked so indignant that Josephine had to make an effort to suppress a smile.

“Just a year or two ago, young couples used to come to me to buy a piano. Or a handsome cherrywood wall clock. I often had to consent to payment in installments, but I was always happy to do that. But today? The young groom would rather put his money toward a bicycle. The furnishings get sacrificed, of course, but it appears that’s something he and the lady of the house are willing to accept.”

Josephine’s brow creased. “But bicycles are still so expensive.”

Oskar Reutter shrugged. “You don’t need to tell me that! But it makes no difference. People find anything to do with bicycles fascinating. More fascinating than the Lord above, I might add. Pastor Hohenheim told me that he loses several pews of his congregation whenever there’s an important cycle race in the city.”

“They actually choose a race over church?”

Reutter grinned, seeming to downright enjoy Josephine’s look of disbelief. “The bookshop owner told me he’s suffered a serious drop in sales because people would rather go to the cycle track and watch the riders than pick up a book.”

Josephine was speechless. Did Adrian know all this? It sounded as if his vision of the future had already become a reality.

Jo pulled her Roadster out of the workshop and was about to swing onto the saddle when she saw Clara walking down the street on the arm of tall man. She had not seen Clara since her friends’ visit, despite living only a few houses away.
I will finally get to meet the good doctor,
thought Jo. He was very good-looking, and she could see why Clara had fallen head over heels in love with him. But her delight at seeing her friend did not last long.

“Josephine!” Clara shrieked. It was not a greeting. She was pointing at Josephine’s legs. “You’re wearing pants?” Clara’s voice grew even shriller and she seemed to be clinging to her husband’s arm.

“I’m on my way to the cycling club, and a skirt is just plain dangerous. What are you looking so horrified about? Don’t you remember how we sewed a skirt into pants to ride the bicycles years ago? Oh, of course you don’t remember. You were lying in the hospital with a broken leg. At least you got to know each other there . . .” She looked at Clara’s husband with an expectant smile. “It’s a pleasure to finally get to meet you,” she said and held out her hand to the doctor.

Gerhard Gropius looked at her with the kind of disgust usually reserved for vermin. Then he turned to Clara.

“Some women don’t have even the vaguest sense of decorum. It’s a disgrace! I very much hope that you know to keep your distance.” And with that, he pulled Clara onward by the arm.

Josephine lowered her hand. What was that all about?

When she finally arrived at the track, it was already five in the afternoon. She leaned her bicycle against the wall and kept a lookout for Adrian, her heart pounding. She wanted so much to tell him about her talk with Oskar Reutter. But not much was happening at the club that afternoon. A few sweaty young men were just leaving the track, which was immediately commandeered by a small group of women, and two older men in street clothes were just leaving. It was the Pentecost weekend, and many Berliners were taking advantage of the glorious weather to go out to the country, Oskar Reutter had told her. Another new fad!

Had Adrian left the city, too? Perhaps with Isabelle?

Jo entered the women’s clubroom, feeling rather glum. She was even more disappointed not to have the opportunity to thank the other members for accepting her into the club—there was no one there. Jo left the clubroom and pushed her bicycle out onto the track. That’s what she was really there for, after all.

Her first lap was exciting. The surface was dangerously fast, the tight curves not something she was used to, but after a few minutes, Jo found her rhythm. Soon, all thoughts of the strange encounter with Clara and her husband, of Adrian, Isabelle, and the rest of the world scattered to the wind. Although she did not feel as if she was working especially hard, her heart was hammering in her chest. She tried breathing more deeply, the way she did when she rode up a long incline. But instead of slowing down, her heart soon felt like it was pounding in her throat. She felt slightly dizzy and reluctantly rolled to a stop. Leaning against the fence, she watched the women who had gone out on the track ahead of her. They were still pedaling at high speed and apparently without effort. They were even chatting with one another! Did she really have so little stamina? But she had been able to keep up with Adrian all the way to North Harbor.

“Worn out already?” One of the riders pulled up beside her and smiled. It was Luise Karrer. She extended a gloved hand to Jo. “Welcome to the club. I was thinking you weren’t ever going to show up again.”

“You’ve all got so much stamina. How do you do that?” Jo asked once she had officially introduced herself.

“Train often, train long,” Luise replied. “Track riding goes by different rules than riding on the street. Or rather, weaknesses come to light faster, because you’re always comparing yourself directly to others.”

Josephine nodded. She had never considered that before.

“It can’t have anything to do with your bicycle,” Luise said, running an admiring hand over the shiny black frame of the Roadster. “And your outfit is certainly athletic enough.”

Josephine laughed bitterly. “You should have heard the comments from my neighbors when they saw me leaving my house in pants.”

“The petit bourgeois mindset! I think you look
très à la mode
,” said a second rider, who had just joined them. She herself wore an elegant pair of culottes, tailored to fit quite snugly. “My name is Chloé. I’m Freddy Stich’s wife,” she said in a French accent. She looked expectantly at Jo.

But when Jo simply introduced herself in return, Luise said, “Freddy Stich is one of our most famous racers, if not
the
most famous.”

Jo looked sheepish. “Excuse me. I really know nothing about these things. And nothing about the right way to train, either, apparently. Here I am, sweating and puffing, but you both look positively relaxed after your long stint just now.”

“A lady never sweats,” Chloé replied, raising her eyebrows.

They all laughed. Once they had stowed their bicycles, they went into the clubhouse together like old friends. Josephine kept a lookout for Adrian—but in vain.

“Your friend Isabelle is a very good cyclist. And very well trained as well. I’m sure she can give you a few tips for training on the track,” said Luise, when all three were seated with a cup of coffee.

“Tips!” Chloé dismissed the notion. “One will tell you lots of sleep. The next says it’s all about eating plenty of meat and potatoes. Yet another will tell you that you have to swear off alcohol completely. Then there are those like my Freddy, who does all sorts of gymnastics to stretch his muscles before he gets on his bicycle. And before big races, he even uses a laxative to cleanse his body on the inside.” She rolled her eyes to show what she thought of such training methods. “I say you have to find out for yourself what’s right for you. A glass of champagne in the evening—or even in the morning!—has never done me any harm.”

“With all due respect to a glass of champagne, you can’t deny that a healthy and regular lifestyle is a prerequisite for a successful cyclist,” Luise responded. “I’ll tell you what you need to build up the endurance for track riding: ten hours of sleep a night, healthy food and lots of different types of food, a short siesta every day to let your body recuperate, and a short walk to relax the muscles. That’s the only way to go around the track for hours on end.”

Josephine—who had gone to bed at midnight, gotten up at six, lived on potato soup for days, and had an aching back from bending over her workbench—nodded miserably.

“What is that all about?” she asked, picking up a magazine she had noticed a few minutes earlier.

Her distraction worked, for Luise said, “That’s the
Draisena
, the first magazine for women cyclists. That issue came out yesterday, hot off the press in Dresden. I’ve only flipped through it once, and I’m quite impressed.”

“Does it have photographs and illustrations?” Chloé asked, snatching the magazine out of Jo’s hand.

Jo looked over Chloé’s shoulder while she leafed through the magazine. There were no photographs but quite a few illustrations, many of them very funny.

“The Cycling Woman in the Eyes of Society” was the headline of one article. In its subheading, the writer posed the question: “Will the industrialist’s wife and her cook soon be riding side by side?” The text was accompanied by a caricatured illustration in which a finely attired high-society woman was pedaling along beside her fat cook.

Luise laughed. “If Isabelle saw that . . .”

“Or Irene,” Chloé added.

A few pages later, they found the article “Fresh Air and Light Exercise Bring Health to Every Cycling Woman.” The magazine was filled with countless advertisements trumpeting women’s bicycles, cycling capes, dog whips, raincoats, and cyclists’ provisions.

“Cyclists’ provisions—what is that supposed to mean?” Jo asked with a giggle. Perhaps Oskar Reutter should be carrying those instead of cigars.

Luise raised her eyebrows. “It’s a very serious matter, my dear. Anyone who cycles for any length of time has to eat the right food. Nuts, dried fruit, cookies—food that renews your strength.”

Josephine nodded, impressed.

Chloé turned the page. “What’s this? ‘Racing—An Illness Spreading Among Cycling Women.’ ” she read aloud, glowering. “It looks as if
Draisena
has something against women’s races. That’s a shame . . .”

“Maybe it’s just that one writer,” Luise said, sounding hopeful.

Josephine shrugged. “Everyone has the right to an opinion. It’s surprising enough that there’s a magazine just for us.”

A little while later, she saw him after all. Dressed in a black suit and gleaming black top hat, with a leather portfolio under one arm, he looked like a stranger to her. Adrian’s expression was grim, his eyes distracted. He saw her just as he was walking out.

“Josephine . . .”

“It doesn’t look as if you’ve come here to ride,” she said, her voice faltering a little.

“My father is receiving an honorary title at the City Palace soon. The emperor is naming him to the commerce council. My father put me on the list of speakers, and I cleverly left my notes here in my locker. I’m just here to pick them up.” He frowned as if he had toothache.

An honorary title. The commerce council. The emperor. And Isabelle at Adrian’s side, surely dressed in layer upon layer of the finest lace.

Josephine took a reluctant step back.

Adrian went over and removed a chestnut leaf from the spokes of her bicycle. “Looks like you’ve tried the Roadster out on the track. How did it go?”

Josephine suddenly felt like crying, but she pulled herself together. “The Roadster was just fine. But, I . . . I have no stamina!”

“Then we should do what we can to see that you get some. How about going for a ride again next week—while the world is still asleep?”

Jo hesitated.

“Say yes,” Adrian whispered, suddenly stroking her cheek. His face was so close to hers that she could feel his breath on her skin. Warm and sweet. “Please say yes. Knowing I’m going to see you again will make this evening easier to bear. You don’t know how much I would rather be with you . . .”

An hour later, it began to rain, and it didn’t stop all weekend. The days felt long and the nights even longer. Outside was cool, inside chilly, but Josephine felt no desire to light the fire. She had no interest in doing anything! She paced back and forth like a tiger locked in a cage, unsure what to do with herself. She would have had more than enough work but knew she shouldn’t start hammering away in the workshop on a church holiday.

She eventually attempted to distract herself by reading through the pile of old newspapers as she sat bundled on the sofa in the old crocheted blanket with the cat curled beside her. She would have felt a great deal lonelier still if she hadn’t had that one sentence to warm her heart.

“You don’t know how much I would rather be with you . . .”

Chapter Twenty-Four

“The staircase alone! It was designed by the famous architect Schinkel, and the walls, the floor, and the ceiling are all made of cream-colored marble with a tinge of pink.” Isabelle could hardly contain her excitement. Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks were flushed, and she looked prettier than ever. “The salon where the ceremony itself took place was all decked out in a princely red—no, an imperial red!—unlike anything you’ve ever seen.”

Josephine nodded. She was using a foul-smelling but extremely effective paste to give Oskar Reutter’s iron chest a final polish. She was eager to finish it up because her first bicycle had just been brought in for repairs! It belonged to one of the women in the club, and she wanted a basket attached and a buckled mudguard straightened. Josephine could hardly wait to get started on it.

“And the evening dresses . . . I have never, ever seen so much silk and lace in one place. The empress . . .”

Isabelle had been talking incessantly since she arrived an hour earlier with a fragrant yeast cake. Josephine had stopped working and made them both a cup of tea. While she sipped her tea and ate cake, everything in her was screaming:
I don’t want to hear this!
After half an hour, Jo became so restless that she stood up to get back to work. But instead of leaving, as Jo had hoped she would, Isabelle had followed her into the workshop, where she had blithely continued chattering.

“There was nothing to eat, though, unfortunately. I nearly starved to death! But I don’t think the guests could have eaten a bite because they were all in such awe of the emperor. Adrian’s father was so puffed up with pride at his new honorary title that he wouldn’t have had any room in his paunch anyway.”

Just then, the doorbell rang and a man stepped inside. Josephine was just polishing the blackened base of the chest, and her forehead was damp from the exertion. She swept her sticky hair out of her face and made an effort to put on a friendly smile. “Can I help you?”

“Josephine Schmied?” The man wore a gray suit and had a mustache like the emperor’s.

“Yes.” She watched as the visitor placed his briefcase on her workbench.

“Are you the owner?”

“Yes. Why?” Jo and Isabelle glanced at one another. What did the man want? Who was he?

“Johann Schmolke, from the Chamber of Trades. It has been brought to my attention that you are operating a craftsman’s establishment here, without being in possession of the requisite qualifications. Your papers, please!” The man held out his hand to her.

“What papers? What qualifications?”

“Business registration, tax books, trade certification,” the man rattled off. “And in your case, I would also like to see papers demonstrating your legal capacity.” He looked her over from head to foot. “Are you even of legal age?”

“Of course,” said Jo. “But what—”

“Would you be so kind as to show us
your
papers first, Mr. Schmolke?” Isabelle said. “After all, anybody could walk in here and say he was from the Chamber of Trades.” Her tone was friendly but firm.

While the man fumbled indignantly in his pockets, Josephine thought frantically. She didn’t have any of the things the man had asked for! What could she do? She peered nervously at the identity card the man held under her nose. Damn it! He really was from the Chamber of Trades.

“What kind of operation do you run here, exactly? I see a forge, I see tools . . . Is this a smithy? A metalworking shop? A plumbing business? I have never heard of a . . . woman being involved in any of those professions!” He gestured toward a few metal pipes.

Jo took a deep breath.
Stay friendly and don’t lose your nerve now,
she told herself.

“My gosh, I am not doing anything like the work of a skilled tradesman here. All I do is fix a few small things that people have broken. Or that have broken all by themselves, just because they’re old.”

Isabelle stepped forward. “It’s like this: Miss Schmied is a great help to clumsy people like me. Not ten minutes ago, I tore open my skirt on the garden fence, and Miss Schmied has promised to sew it up for me. That’s really very kind of her, don’t you think? I pay her a few pennies for the service and have one less thing to worry about.”

Miss Schmied! Josephine could barely suppress a smile. She had some idea what Isabelle was up to and was certain that she had
not
torn her skirt more than a few seconds ago. Hoping that the man would drop his interrogation when faced with their “women’s affairs,” she quickly brought out Frieda’s old basket of wool from behind the workbench.

“Sometimes I even have to crochet or knit a few rows, just imagine!” She giggled childishly.

The man pushed out his bottom lip doubtfully and his mustache twitched. “I see. Your work consists primarily of handicrafts. But how is it then that this workshop is so well equipped?” He whacked the forge lightly with his walking stick, and the forge rang metallically.

Josephine lowered her eyes and tried to make her voice sound sad. “All of it was left behind by my poor departed . . .” Her poor departed who? She searched helplessly for the appropriate word. She had neither known Frieda’s husband well nor liked him very much.

“God rest his soul,” said Isabelle helpfully.

The man twirled at his mustache. “So, repairs and sewing. It would seem I have been sent here on the basis of false assumptions. I see no infringement of the trade regulations.” He sounded almost regretful. “If you would show me your business registration and proof of payment of taxes—I’m sure it can’t be much—then I will leave you in peace.” For the first time since his arrival, he granted her something resembling a smile.

“Business registration . . .” Josephine writhed like an eel. “Well . . .”

“I can’t believe it!” Isabelle nearly shouted, once the man was gone again. “You open your workshop and forget to register it? And you don’t even pay taxes?”

Josephine could have sunk through the floor, she felt so ashamed. On the one hand, she was grateful that Isabelle was there. Who knows whether she would have been able to keep the man at bay on her own? On the other, it rankled her that Moritz Herrenhus’s daughter had seen her fail so miserably.

“I only opened my doors two weeks ago! And there were so many other things to take care of that . . . that . . .” Helplessly, she gave it up. “I would have gotten around to it eventually,” she added rather lamely.

“Oh, I’m sure. What now? The man will be back in two weeks, and you have to produce a guarantor. Where do you think you’ll come up with one of those?”

What business is it of yours?
Jo felt like screaming. Instead, she said quietly, “I don’t know.”

The officer from the Chamber of Trades had been quite upset. “Considering your immaturity and obvious inexperience in business matters, I find it appropriate that a man stand as guarantor for you and keep an eye on you,” he had said.

Who would do such a thing for her? And why was a guarantor even necessary? She should have asked him that but had felt too intimidated. “I hope this isn’t the beginning of the end,” she murmured.

“You’re not going to throw in the towel that fast, I hope! Should I ask Adrian?” said Isabelle in a more placating tone.

“God, no!” said Josephine, looking sharply at her friend. “Don’t you dare say a word to anyone at the club about how stupid I’ve been.”

Isabelle waved it off. “Adrian would certainly help you out. That’s his thing, you know. He’d much rather improve the lot of all the world’s factory workers, but if I ask him nicely, I’m sure he’d help you, too.”

It was suddenly all too much for Jo: Isabelle’s stories about the City Palace, which had left Jo with a dull sense of not belonging. The unnerving visit from the official. The question of who had reported her to the Chamber of Trades. Her anger at her own naïveté.

“Why do you speak that way about your fiancé? I may not be as worldly and clever as you, and I’ll never be invited to the Imperial Court, but there’s one thing I
do
know: if I had a fiancé, I would never talk about him like that!” She took the filthy rag and threw it at her friend, leaving a drab smear on Isabelle’s skirt.

Isabelle looked at her in surprise. But then the old, mocking lines reappeared at the corners of her mouth.

“What do you know about love? Nothing, that’s what. Not a thing!”

Josephine recoiled as if bitten by a snake. Isabelle was right. Just one more thing that showed how stupid and inexperienced Josephine was. All she “knew” about love had come from the young women in prison. But their boasting and coarse descriptions of what happened between a man and a woman had nothing to do with love. Love . . . Didn’t that mean a mutual admiration on some higher plane? That you appreciated each other, listened to each other, understood each other without words? That you had shared interests or could at least be enthusiastic about what the other cared about? That you longed for the one you loved and could not wait to see him again? Just like she and . . .

Josephine placed her hand over her heart as the realization struck her.

Had she already been in love for some time? Oh God, if that were true—

“And you know nothing about me, either,” Isabelle snapped, dragging Josephine out of her thoughts. “But instead of asking how I am and what’s going on with me, you draw your own conclusions and judge me. Some friend you are!”

Isabelle had never before shed tears in front of Jo. Isabelle could be moody and haughty, but most of the time, she only showed the world her happier side. It had never occurred to Jo that it might all be an act. Isabelle had everything anyone could wish for, didn’t she?

At once ashamed and helpless, Jo could only stand and look at Isabelle, who had collapsed sobbing onto the bench, her head buried in her arms. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that,” she said. If only she’d kept her mouth shut. But a moment later, Isabelle threw herself into Josephine’s arms.

“You don’t know how terrible it all is!” she sobbed into Josephine’s breast. “I can’t take it much longer. If something doesn’t happen soon, I’m going to kill myself!”

They went into the house arm in arm. Isabelle let Jo lead her to the sofa and wrap her up in the old woolen blanket. Frieda’s cat jumped up onto Isabelle’s lap, as if she sensed the young woman’s need for warmth. Josephine went into the kitchen and made more tea.

With her hands wrapped securely around her teacup, Isabelle began to speak. Hesitantly at first—as if, looking back, she found it hard to believe the whole story herself—she told Josephine about the deal Moritz Herrenhus had made with Gottlieb Neumann, and about what Adrian and she had decided to do in return.

“Your engagement is a sham? You’ve spent the last few years only
acting
like you’re in love?”

Faced with Jo’s surprise, Isabelle managed a small smile. “If you look at it that way, we’ve done a pretty good job, haven’t we? Don’t get me wrong. I like Adrian a lot; he’s a wonderful man, smart, handsome . . .” She shrugged. “But he’s not the man I want to spend the rest of my life with. I don’t love him,” she said bluntly.

So many questions shot through Jo’s head that she didn’t know where to begin. “What about him?” she finally said, holding her breath.

“We’ve probably only succeeded at our game for this long because there are no feelings involved on either side.”

No feelings. Adrian wasn’t Isabelle’s. He didn’t love her. Still, they were engaged . . . Josephine shook her head as if to free it from the mess of cobwebs snaring her thoughts. Was it possible for happiness to make you dizzy?

“And no one has ever caught on? In all this time?”

“People only see what they want to see. Father was in seventh heaven. For the first time in my life I felt I was good enough in his eyes, and for the first time in years, he left me in peace! Adrian and I just had to turn up together occasionally at official functions. And we’re both at the cycle club a lot. But we pursue our own interests there and rarely actually see each other. From the very start, it was clear that we would have to play our little game to the point of an engagement. Our fathers wanted to see rings.” The diamond sparkled when Isabelle held up her hand. “It worked. Father gave Gottlieb Neumann the loan he needed, and the EWB was saved. Adrian was a hero in his father’s eyes. And
I
finally had some peace.”

“It was all about saving a company? About money?” Jo asked.

“Isn’t that what it’s usually about?” said Isabelle cynically. “Maybe now you can understand why I’m not always whispering declarations of love in his ear.”

Jo nodded. “And you’ve kept this to yourself all this time?”

“Who was I supposed to tell?” said Isabelle bitterly. “Clara? She would have just looked at me all horrified with her doe eyes and uttered some platitude or another. Someone from school who’d pass it on to Irene in an instant?” Isabelle took Josephine’s hand and said, “Not a word to anyone, not even Adrian if you happen to run into him. Is that clear?”

Josephine averted her gaze. She and Adrian had arranged to go cycling the next morning.

“Do you swear you won’t breathe a word?” Isabelle repeated insistently. Then she began to sob again. “It’s far too late for the truth.” The desperation lingered deep in her eyes as she said, “Father wants us to marry this autumn.”

Josephine lay awake deep into the night. For years, she had looked up to Isabelle, admired her for her lifestyle, perhaps even envied her a little for it. Their beautiful house, the servants. The elegant parents. The wealth. Her own bicycle even when she was still just a girl. How had Jo not seen that it was just a gilded cage? Poor Isabelle . . .

And what did all of it mean for her? How was she supposed to see Adrian now? She couldn’t talk about the situation with him; she had promised Isabelle she wouldn’t. She would simply have to wait and see whether he confided in her, too.

In any case, had anything really changed? Adrian’s and Isabelle’s wedding was still planned for autumn. Even if a miracle happened and their plans collapsed, Adrian was the son of a major industrialist, and she was a silly little goose who didn’t even know that one had to register a business. She surely had better things to do than chasing illusions of love!