Flicka had always thought he was speaking Alemannic with a Swiss-German-French-mingled accent, but he wasn’t. He was speaking the German dialect with a French accent because his first language was French.
Dieter had been speaking English with what seemed to him to be a German orSchwiizertüütschaccent, but his French accent had leaked through.
Flicka grabbedthe arms of the airplane seat.
Dieter hadn’t even spoken German all that well. When she’d been twelve and he’d tagged her with their silly nickname, he’d called herDurchlauchtig,notDurchlauchtigste,the proper form of the word. Essentially, all these years, he’d been calling her the adjective form of the word, not the noun. He’d been calling herprincess-y,not Princess.
He’d made that obviousmistake because French was his first language, not German. A native German speaker would have known the correct form of the word.
She should have figured this out a long time ago.
It was weird to watch him speak cultured, upper-class French with his father, but his accent was native and perfect.
Valerian sat in a chair beside the couch, swiveled to face the rear of the plane to watch his sonand granddaughter, and was speaking quietly with Dieter. Flicka should have been able to understand them if she had been able to hear Valerian’s low voice over the jet engines roaring outside the private plane’s fuselage.
Dieter rarely looked at his father, just stared at his feet or the floor and answering with what seemed to be long, calm sentences, not terse, angry answers.
When Dieter lookedup at her, his gray eyes were as flat as a becalmed sea under heavy clouds, and he looked back toward his father, answering questions.
Alina scampered off the couch, so Flicka played with her, sitting the baby on her lap and reading a baby book to her from her phone while Dieter spoke with Valerian. Neither of them seemed happy, but neither seemed angry. They appeared to be exchanging information,not accusing or debating.
If Valerian was Dieter’s father, and if they hadn’t seen each other for over a decade, Flicka would have thought they would be a little happier to see each other.
When Alina needed her afternoon nap, Flicka reclined her seat to lie flat. Alina curled up beside her, thoroughly pleased with this new development in naptime.
With the sleepy child snoozing beside her, Flickadozed off, too.
When she awoke, night pressed against the windows, and the plane’s interior lights painted the white leather and blond men with a golden glow.
Alina was still snuggled up next to her in the airplane seat. The toddler was playing with a button on Flicka’s shirt and singing a song about toes.
Dieter was still sitting on the couch on the other side of the center aisle, readinga book.
Valerian had moved up near the front of the plane. His silver head bobbed over the top of one of the front-row seats as he spoke with Bastien.
Dieter looked up at Flicka, and his gray eyes were just as flat and expressionless as when she had gone to sleep what must have been hours before, considering that her stomach was rumbling like she had missed lunch. She asked, “What time is it?”
Dieter said, “About six in Las Vegas. We’re not due to land for another hour or so. It’ll be late in Geneva because we’re going against the clock.”
Flicka rubbed her eyes and pushed the chair up to sitting. Alina slid off her knees and toddled over to her father, asking, “Thirsty? Milk?”
Flicka asked Dieter, “Is there anything in the galley?”
“Sandwiches and cold meats. My father filed theflight plan and we took off immediately, so there’s no hot food.” A strong French accent slurred his words, much stronger than usual.
Flicka stood on her unsteady feet. Tingles ran up the leg Alina had been sleeping on. “You want anything?”
“No, thank you.” Dieter went back to staring at his book, which appeared to be political nonfiction. He must have found it on the plane because she didn’trecognize it from their townhouse.
Flicka held out her hand. “Come on, Alina-honey. We’ll get you some milk. Let’s see what else they have.”
Alina bobbled over to her. “Cracker?”
“Let’s see if they have some crackers.”
In the small galley of the airplane, Flicka pulled open drawers and found some crackers, milk, grapes, and cheese for Alina and made herself a sandwich. They ate, cuddled togetherin her seat, while Dieter stared at the book.
He didn’t turn a page the whole hour until they descended. His gray eyes didn’t track across the book.
