Our Chianti had barely arrived when Vivian said, “You know, I’m not interested in anything serious.”
I half expected the topic to come up that evening, but I didn’t think it would be the first thing out of the gate. “That’s disappointing. I thought our children would be very handsome. Now I have to take the engagement ring back to the jeweler. Do you think they’ll give me a full refund?”
She smiled politely. “I had a boyfriend in Buenos Aires who wanted to get serious. He still hasn’t given up. It’s one of the reasons I moved to Germany.”
I nodded and said, “I had a girlfriend in California. The last thing she said to me at the airport was that we should see other people.”
We each took a sip of wine to give the other a chance to clarify the obvious ambiguities, but neither of us took the bait. After an overlong silence, I asked a question that had been on my mind since the weekend: “You surprised me at the café on Saturday. After that speech, I thought you were going to walk out. Why didn’t you?”
She thought for a moment. “I enjoy our conversations. They’re complex, and you don’t talk down to me.” She took another sip of wine. “And you’re cute.”
I waited a minute, expecting a question in return, but none came, so I posed it myself. “You probably wonder why I asked you out.”
She initially appeared confused, as if the answer was obvious, but then asked, “Why?”
“I hear you can cook.”
She laughed. “Sorry. Shall we end dinner now?”
“No. They’ll cook dinner for us.” I took a sip of wine and decided to be serious for a moment. “Why did I ask you out? You’re intelligent, interesting, and beautiful, but what I really like is that you’re a strong woman. You decide on something and do it. That takes courage.” I paused to gauge her reaction and realized I was being too serious. “Now, if you could only learn to cook.”
Vivian and I spent our weekends that summer visiting mountain lakes in southern Germany and hiking in the Austrian and Italian Alps. Her favorite destination was the northern Italian province of Südtirol / Alto Adige, whose mixed German-Italian heritage reminded her of Argentina. For me, once in the Alps, I could have been in the California High Sierras, except that every few kilometers there was a beer garden.
After three months, I asked Vivian a question I already knew the answer to because I had looked it up in a Spanish dictionary. “What’s a novio?”
“It’s a boyfriend.”
“I never hear you call me that.”
“Why would I call you that? It’s Spanish. We don’t spend time with my South American friends because you don’t speak either Spanish or German, and you’d have to sit there like a lump. It wouldn’t be fair to you or to them.”
“What about Mimi?” Mimi was Vivian’s close friend, also from Argentina. “She calls her British boyfriend novio when we’re together.”
Vivian frowned. “When we’re with our German friends, I call you Freund.”
“Yes, but that’s the same word as for a regular friend.”
She was getting irritated. “Why worry about words?”
“You’re right,” I said, changing the subject. I was a Freund with benefits and an idiot for trying to define it further.
One week in late August, Vivian traveled by train with Mimi to Basel to visit her father, who had recently begun clinical research for a Swiss pharmaceutical company. Knowing roughly when she would return, I checked the schedule, and when the train arrived, I stood there with a bouquet of flowers. After a few minutes, I spotted Vivian and Mimi in the crowd. The two were laughing.
When Vivian saw me, her smile faded. “What are you doing here?”
With a goofy grin on my face, I said, “I heard you needed some flowers and wanted to deliver them while they were fresh.”
Mimi glanced at Vivian with raised eyebrows. Vivian returned the look.
“If I wanted a puppy to follow me around,” she said, “I’d buy one.”
I was shocked, then angry. Germans have trash cans everywhere. I made eye contact with Vivian and dropped the bouquet in one. Then I turned and walked out.
The next day, she sort of apologized, and I sort of accepted.
Our relationship that summer was like an Argentine tango, that rhythm of desire and doubt where one person moves forward, and the other pulls back, but always in each other’s arms.
I’ll share the journey every Thursday. Join us.