While the World Is Still Asleep (The Century Trilogy Book 1) (9 page)

Chapter Seven

Josephine paused as she was about to ring the bell. Wasn’t it a bit rude to show up at Isabelle’s house after all these years? And with such an unusual request?

“Let’s just go,” said Clara and plucked at Josephine’s sleeve.

But Josephine was already ringing the bell, and a moment later came the melodic sound of bells from inside.

The heavy, carved door opened, and an attractive young woman stood before them, wearing a daffodil-yellow dress with matching gloves and hat. Could that possibly be Isabelle?

“Oh, I thought . . .” the young woman began, then hesitated. “Who are you?”

“We . . . uh . . . My name’s Josephine and this is Clara,” said Jo, her voice suddenly husky. “Do you remember us? From before? We played together when we were kids . . .”

Isabelle narrowed her eyes and looked at Josephine. “Of course I do! Weren’t you part of the mob that was always teasing me about my red hair?”

“Actually . . . I don’t remember that,” Jo stammered. “Your hair is gorgeous!” she added, and she meant it. She had never seen such elaborately styled hair before. With her glittering combs and artfully set curls, she was a match for any bride . . . and a thought occurred to Josephine. “You . . . are so beautiful. You’re not getting married, are you?”

Isabelle laughed in confusion. “Nonsense! What makes you think that?” She smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her silken dress and then said, “But I do have a date. When the bell rang, I thought you were my gentleman caller.” She didn’t sound particularly happy.

“A date?” asked Clara, who had stayed in the background until then. “I’d love to have one of those, but my mother thinks I’m still too young. And besides, no one’s ever been interested in me.” She frowned. “We didn’t want to disturb you. Come on, Jo.”

“No, please, stay!” said Isabelle quickly. “The gentleman who’s supposed to pick me up is exceptionally wealthy and not bad looking. But honestly, he’s as dull as dishwater. My father thinks the world of him, but I would much rather spend the afternoon with you.” Her eyes flashed adventurously, and she clapped her hands. “So, why are you here?”

“This way. We have to go to the shed at the far end of the grounds,” said Isabelle, striding across the white-gravel yard without the slightest consideration for her yellow shoes. She seemed to find nothing strange in Josephine’s request.

“But . . . what if the young man wants to collect you and you’re not there? You’ll get in trouble,” said Clara warily.

Josephine gave her a dark look. The last thing she wanted was for Isabelle to change her mind.

But Isabelle just laughed. “I’ll tell my parents the truth, plain and simple. Namely that two old friends paid me a visit and I was so caught up in our lively conversation that I lost track of the time. So, here we are. This is where my father keeps his latest toy.” She turned the handle on the shed door, and it swung open with a high-pitched shriek. In the center of the room, lit by sunlight coming through the windows, stood her father’s bicycle, shimmering silver and smelling of rubber and lubricating oil.

Her eyes wide and shining, Josephine stepped toward it. She ran her hands reverently over the handlebars, the tubes that connected the two wheels, and the saddle, as if she wanted to absorb through her fingers its every curve and angle and memorize them forever.

“It’s beautiful. Much sleeker and lighter than Lilo’s bicycle.” Josephine crouched and inspected the vehicle. “On Lilo’s velocipede, the front wheel is bigger than the back wheel. And it didn’t have a chain like this; it had pedals up front. How does this bicycle work, I wonder . . . ?”

“And just who is this Lilo? Does she also live on our street? I can’t remember her at all,” said Isabelle. “But I know someone else who’s interested in bicycles. One of my schoolmates, Irene, rides one. Her last little outing wasn’t very well received, to be sure—” Isabelle broke off as a heavy shadow darkened the doorway.

“Can someone please explain to me what is going on here?”

“Father . . .”

“Isabelle! Haven’t I told you that my bicycle is off-limits? What are you doing here? Graf von Kyrill is waiting for you in front of the house with his four-in-hand carriage,” he snapped.

But before Isabelle—who had turned chalk white—could reply, Josephine said, “Pardon me, but it is not Isabelle’s fault. I had begged her to show me your bicycle for so long that in the end she simply had no choice. It is beautiful . . . Thank you for allowing me to look at it.” She reached out her hand to Moritz Herrenhus and was amazed to see him actually accept her gesture. He eyed her soberly.

“I know you! You’re Schmied-the-Smith’s daughter, aren’t you?”

Josephine nodded without taking her eyes off his.

“That’s a good one! The smith’s daughter is interested in my bicycle!” he said and laughed, instantly mollified. It seemed that Graf von Kyrill was forgotten, at least for the moment.

Josephine and Clara exchanged a look.

“What do you mean?” asked Isabelle.

Her father made a sweeping gesture with his hand, taking in the entire storage shed around them.

“Do you see any hay or straw in here? Or stable boys? Any expensive tack or dubbin or horse balsam? No. And why don’t you see these things? Because they aren’t needed for a bicycle. A bicycle is considerably easier to look after than a horse, and for that reason also cheaper in the long run. I’m telling you, in a few years we won’t be seeing any horses on the streets anymore, and in their place will be bicycles. Getting around on horseback will be a thing of the past. Bicycles are the future. Your father will soon be able to close his smithy . . .”

“The bicycle replacing the horse? Never,” Josephine blurted. “They’re much too expensive. Only rich people like you can afford them.”

“For now. But that will change, take my word for it. Once the demand is there, the supply will increase. And the bicycle makers will adjust their prices downward. Besides, it’s not as though everyone can afford a horse, either.” He crossed his arms and said, “But how is it that a young woman like you has such a deep interest in a novelty like this?”

Josephine shrugged. “I . . . In the Black Forest, where I went to convalesce recently, there was also a bicycle. The pedals were on the front wheel and it looked much different from this one. I was very taken by it. And when I discovered that you were also the proud owner of such a marvel, I simply
had
to see it.” She ran her hand reverently over the handlebars once more.

Isabelle’s father nodded benevolently. “You have rightly recognized that this is, in fact, a particularly advanced model.” He dropped into a crouch, just as Josephine had done earlier, and gestured toward it.

“This bicycle is what they call a Rover, the latest and best bicycle available on the market. It’s driven by the rear wheel. The pedals are connected to the rear wheel by the chain, as you can see here. This allows riders to choose the gear ratio that suits them best, which you never used to be able to do.”

“Gear ratio . . . What does that mean, exactly?”

Moritz Herrenhus smiled. “Until now, bicycles have had a very large front wheel to which the pedals were attached directly. The size of the front wheel determined the distance traveled for each turn of the pedals. With the Rover, the size of the drive wheel no longer makes any difference, which is why the front and rear wheels are the same size. Instead, the two cogs—here at the pedals and here at the rear wheel—determine how far each rotation of the pedals propels you forward. Depending on their size, a rider can increase or decrease the distance per revolution. We can thank the Englishman Harry Lawson for this invention. With the support of his friend, an industrialist by the name of J. K. Starley, he created the first so-called ‘safety bicycle.’ This one is called the Rover Safety because it is far safer than any high-wheel bicycles, which are highly prone to accidents.”

Moritz Herrenhus pulled off his jacket. Then he put his cuff links aside, rolled up his sleeves, and said, “I’ll give you a little demonstration, if you like.” He pushed the bicycle out of the shed and rode several laps around the yard.

Josephine watched, enraptured. This bicycle was so fast, so nimble! The crunching of the rubber tires on the gravel sounded like the most beautiful music. Her toes began to tingle, and a restlessness spread through her entire body. She would have given anything to be able to ride a lap on the bicycle herself.

With a final turn, Isabelle’s father pulled up in front of the trio of girls. His fine vest was stretched tight across his back, his sleeves were crumpled, and his calf’s-leather shoes were covered in dust, but he didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. With a gesture more appropriate to a young man than to a reputable businessman, he swept a lock of hair out of his face and said, “Pretty impressive, eh?”

Isabelle pressed her lips together and held her tongue.

“Your Rover is so maneuverable,” said Josephine.
Rover Safety.
The name tasted sweeter in her mouth than caramel. “You’re an excellent cycler,” she added, when she saw Mr. Herrenhus’s expectant face.

“You rode a bicycle? You must be mad,” Clara whispered to Josephine. Then, aloud and with a trace of reproach, she said, “I think it looks awfully dangerous.”

Moritz Herrenhus dismounted stiffly just as the honey-colored sun was disappearing behind the white walls surrounding the yard. All of a sudden, the air felt cooler.

“Dangerous? Well, it depends. Cycling—once you’ve mastered it—is actually quite harmless. It only becomes dangerous on a busy street. Just yesterday, I was nearly run down by a carriage, and I was as far to the right as I could possibly be. The driver seemed to find fun in forcing me off the road. The carriage drivers are at loggerheads with the cyclers, that’s a fact. They claim that their horses shy at the sight of us. Admittedly, some cyclers ride down the middle of the street, and some endanger themselves and others with daredevil stunts. Just the other day, I encountered a young man in the Tiergarten who wanted to make a race of it. When I didn’t go for it, he decided to show me that he could let go of the handlebars as he rode and promptly took a header. But you can’t throw all wheelmen into one pot just because of people like that.”

Josephine hung on every word. If the carriage drivers were complaining, then riding bicycles was far more widespread in Berlin than she had thought!

Suddenly, a shrill whistle sounded, scaring up some birds in a blooming forsythia bush and making Clara jump, too.

Josephine looked toward the factory. Everything had been so quiet, but now she heard the groaning of machines and the clang of iron on iron. Gray smoke began rising from one of the chimneys.

Moritz Herrenhus cast a glance at his gold pocket watch. “The Sunday afternoon shift,” he said.

Ignoring the din, Isabelle spoke up. “If a bicycle caused our horses to shy while Mother and I were sitting inside our coach, you wouldn’t like it, either. Maybe bicycles should simply be banned from the streets?”

“Rubbish!” Moritz Herrenhus practically shouted, turning on his daughter. “I’m delighted that cycling is once again permitted in Berlin. It was prohibited as recently as 1858. Even today, one has to follow countless rules, many of which I consider to be ridiculous. And you have to have a license.” Not without a touch of pride, he withdrew a small piece of paper from his breast pocket and opened it.

“Velocipede License for Mr. Moritz Herrenhus
,
” Josephine read from the right-hand side of the license. On the left stood the date of issue and the name of the local authority that had issued it.

Josephine swallowed. Angry coachmen, cycling licenses—riding a bicycle in the city seemed considerably more complicated here than in the sparsely populated Black Forest.

The businessman was about to push his machine back into the shed when Josephine summoned up all her courage and said, “May I . . . be permitted a brief turn as well?” Her own courage almost made her dizzy.

“You? Ride my bicycle?” For a moment, Moritz Herrenhus seemed at a loss for words. Isabelle and Clara could only look on, aghast.

“It’s late,” Clara finally managed to whisper. “And it’s getting cold. Come, let’s go home.”

Ignoring her friend, Josephine quickly continued, “I was allowed to do it in the Black Forest. Don’t worry, I won’t damage it.”

“Cycling is no sport for young women,” said Moritz Herrenhus sternly.

“Oh, Father, there you’re mistaken,” said Isabelle in a tone sweeter than sugar. “My friend Irene rides a bicycle. She borrows it from her brother.”

“Irene Neumann? The daughter of Gottlieb Neumann, owner of the Elektronische Werke Berlin?”

Isabelle nodded. “Irene told me about it just this afternoon. She says it’s good to break with convention now and then.”

The businessman scowled. “Break with convention? I can’t imagine Gottlieb would be pleased about that. The man’s as stiff as if he swallowed a walking stick.”

The girls suppressed a giggle. Adults rarely spoke like that around them.

“Well, I doubt that Gottlieb Neumann knows everything his daughter gets up to,” said Isabelle. “Irene probably borrows Adrian’s bicycle
secretly
. So she’s not exactly flaunting convention.” She gave her father a challenging look. “But if
you
were to allow Josephine to try your bicycle
officially
, that would truly be progressive!”

Moritz Herrenhus eyed his daughter suspiciously. Then he squared his shoulders and blustered, “My sentiments exactly! It is
my
bicycle, and
I
decide who may or may not ride it. I don’t care a jot if the rest of the world likes it or not. Come on, I’ll help you mount up.” And he held his hand out to Josephine.

In the golden light of the setting sun, Josephine swung one leg over the bar of the Rover Safety, then she bundled her skirt—already mended in several places—and pushed it along with her petticoat beneath her rump.