On the last day of the conference, she packed her suitcase with a heavy heart. She wished she and Adam were taking the same train back to Berlin, but he was staying on an extra day to teach a master class at the Universität Hamburg.
Adam saw her off at the station. They had already exchanged cards, but after he kissed her goodbye and she began to board the train, she hesitated on the stairs. “Will we see each other again?” she asked, ashamed of the forlorn tone in her voice.
“Of course, darling,” he said, his brow furrowing in puzzlement. “Why wouldn’t we? As soon as I sort through all the work that’s piled up at the Staatstheater in my absence, I’ll call you.”
“Promise you will.”
He placed a hand on his heart. “I promise.”
Greta smiled briefly and turned away to board the train before he saw the doubt in her eyes and mistook it for regret.
Once home again, she threw open the windows to the balmy summer breeze and plunged into her work, tutoring, editing, and following up on contacts from the Theaterkongresse in search of a more lucrative and fulfilling job. The memory of Adam’s touch, his voice, and his keen gaze fixed admiringly upon hers as they discussed drama and politics haunted her day and night.
Three days passed with no word from him, but she resisted the temptation to stroll past the Staatstheater in the hope of a chance encounter. Then, on the fourth day, when she returned home from delivering an edited manuscript to the publisher, her landlady met her in the foyer, a slip of paper in her hand. “A Dr. Kuckhoff phoned for you twice this morning,” she said, handing Greta the note. “He wants you to call him back at your earliest convenience. Are you ill?”
“No, I’m fine, thank you,” said Greta over her shoulder as she hurried off to return his call.
Adam’s voice was warm and enticing, and when he asked her to meet him for dinner that evening, she immediately agreed. Conscious of Frau Kellerman’s watchful eye and reluctant to make her private life grist for her housemates’ gossip mill, Greta did not invite Adam to her room when he brought her home long after midnight, though both of them were slightly drunk and full of desire. On their next date, two nights later, they abandoned caution and crept upstairs, suppressing laughter, falling into each other’s arms as soon as she closed the door behind them. He left long before dawn while the rest of the house slept, carrying his shoes as he stole down the staircase.
For Greta, July passed in glorious, sensuous pleasure and soaring hopes. She and Adam spent so many evenings together that in order to avoid offending Frau Kellerman’s sense of propriety, she occasionally suggested that they go to his place instead. He always found a reason to decline. Her place was closer, he might say, or his cleaning woman had not been in and the mess embarrassed him. Greta would have been suspicious except that Adam readily introduced her to his friends whenever they crossed paths at a restaurant or in the Tiergarten, the former royal hunting preserve that was now a lovely public park, 630 acres of walking paths and riding trails winding through forest groves, cultivated flower gardens, fountains, and statuary. One of Adam’s colleagues even hired her to organize his theater’s chaotic script library, a job that would pay fairly decent wages for as long as the project lasted. His acquaintances were unfailingly friendly and courteous, with not the faintest trace of disapproval behind their smiles. So she ordered herself not to spoil things with pointless worry.
Then, one day in early August, they had just taken a table at a café popular with theater folk when Adam spotted a director with whom he urgently needed to speak. “I’ll be right back, darling,” he said, bending to kiss her on the cheek. “Order something good for us.”
She did as he suggested, but when the waiter departed, Ursula slipped into Adam’s vacant chair. “So,” she said, drawing out the word, raising her eyebrows. “You and Kuckhoff?”
Greta shrugged noncommittally, but she could not suppress a smile.
“I see.” Ursula sat back in her chair and eyed her appraisingly. “Well, if you’re sleeping with him to advance your career, I’d be the last person to judge you, but I certainly hope you don’t fall in love with him.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I don’t think his wife would like it.”
For a moment Greta could only stare at her. “His wife?”
“You didn’t know?”
Greta shook her head.
“I suppose he also didn’t mention that he has a son with his first wife?”
First wife? So there were two? And a son? Feeling faint, Greta shook her head again.
“He really should have told you. A few years ago his first wife left him for Hans Otto—yes,thatHans Otto, the actor—and a year or two later, Kuckhoff married her sister. Somehow they’ve all managed to stay friends.”
Suddenly Greta was certain that she was about to be violently ill. “Will you excuse me?” she murmured as she stood, blood rushing in her ears. Ursula called after her as she fled the café, but Greta did not look back. As she walked home alone, she could only wonder if Adam had seen her go.
The next morning, he was waiting for her on the corner just down the block from the theater where, she thought bitterly, she had a job thanks to him. Her employer, one of his friends, was either oblivious to the nature of her relationship with Adam, or, she realized with horror, he and every other acquaintance to whom Adam had introduced her assumed that she knew she was the other woman.
At the sight of Adam, she pursed her mouth and continued briskly straight ahead, but he quickly moved to intercept. “Greta—”
“Don’t speak to me.”
He caught her by the elbow. “I said you could ask me anything. You never asked if I was married.”
She yanked her arm free. “That’s the sort of detail people of integrity usually volunteer.”
“My wife and I have an open relationship.” His gaze was earnest and pleading. “I’ve told Gertrud about you. She wants to meet you.”
