RATIONAL WOMEN: An Excerpt

Feeling bombarded by maddening 24/7 news and social media feeds? Little time for the sheer pleasure of reading? Read a short story – there are a zillion of them bound and online, because a work of fiction gets to the heart of humanity, rather than a restating of the news of the day [although some short stories start there.] 

Excerpt of An Anonymous Woman ,One of eleven stories in the new collection “Rational Women” by Randy Kraft 

She glanced out the hotel window. Not much to see. She has glanced out this window every day this week – nothing of note and nothing different beyond the shade of the sky. Her room faced an unremarkable side street off a boulevard radiating from the Bahnhof, the train station. The one visual interest – the dome crowning that plaza – faced the grand lake flanking the Alstadt, the historic center of Lucerne, Switzerland, where she planned to wander this late afternoon. 

A hint of pink light shimmered beyond the dome, the sky nearly cobalt blue along the rim. Autumn days make for cozy evenings, but rush the traveler. She had already scoffed a late lunch, filed her post-conference report and dispatched the last emails. Workweek concluded. She snapped the laptop closed. Rather than relief, she had the familiar sensation of disconnection that shadows her through restless weekends. And she was tired. She never sleeps well anymore. Nevertheless, she was determined to stretch her legs and see the sights, even if she’d rather burrow under the duvet on the soft feather bed watching English language television. 

As she turned from the window, she noticed a man gazing from a window opposite. He peered down to the street from the upper floor of a modest building marked by a flat façade, tall narrow windows and a steep roofline. Architecture meant to suggest a seriousness of purpose. Although his features were vague, he stood tall, he wore a pale shirt, white or blue, no tie or jacket, and he had graying, perhaps blonde hair. Likely a businessman – a fellow work machine rejoicing, or bracing himself, for another Friday night. 

She had come to Lucerne to attend an industry conference, the first since she relocated to England. The closing meeting ended Friday midday so participants might make trains and planes to return to their homes before nightfall. All week they had been confined to artificially lit seminar rooms, buried as if in a crypt while the Alps loomed on the perimeter like mythological gods. She had caught a glimpse of the lake only on the day she arrived. Midweek, when most of the eighty participants broke for a historic walking tour, she declined, ostensibly to review her notes. Now she has the time, and the inclination, to explore, and a weekend here far preferable to another weekend alone in her flat. 

She stored her attaché case and laptop under the bed and switched from the charcoal gray silk blouse she wore over black slacks into a plum merino V-neck sweater, another of the dark colors she wears that are nearly black, but not black, then took a brush through her shoulder-length brown hair and dabbed a bit of bronzer on her cheeks, if only to appear a little less worn out to herself. 

With a complementary shade of scarf around her neck, she grabbed jacket and purse and glanced once more to the window across the street. The man was no longer in sight, like an apparition, and she had to shake off a surprising sense of disappointment. 

She might have taken one steep flight of stairs to the lobby, but she stepped instead into the square lift, pulling the accordion metal gate to seal her inside. As a rule, she avoids cramped spaces, and these old elevators feel like prison cells; however today the snug space seemed an embrace and she has learned to take comfort wherever she finds it. 

  At the reception desk, she dropped off the room key – an oversized iron relic that might have fit the lock of a 16th century dungeon. Perhaps an artifact of the reformation, she imagined, hung from a brass ring to discourage guests from taking the key with them. The desk clerk took stock of her, without recognition. She was one of the few not staying at the larger hotel hosting the conference and all week she had dashed out early mornings and slipped back in the evenings, without engaging with staff the way other visitors do. 

All well, Madam? the clerk asked, with a well-trained smile. 

Yes, she answered with a pronounced nod and the clerk echoed the nod and wished her a pleasant evening. To you as well, she responded, as she stepped out of the hotel and headed toward the corner in the direction of the lake. When she stopped at the crosswalk, she saw the man, as discernible as if she knew him, waiting with a cluster of pedestrians for the signal to cross. He wore a black three-quarter-length coat, unbuttoned in the cool, not yet cold air. A style of coat that hugs the shoulders and makes a man seem sturdy. She saw now the shirt was blue and his hair like polished silver. A black leather messenger bag, streaked with age, hung low from a thick strap over his chest, as if containing state secrets or, more likely, the weekend work of the overworked. 

She watched him cross the street. He had long legs and a long stride, although his gait was more of an amble, as if retracing steps he has taken many times. 

Without thought, or reason, she followed him. 

He made his way down one long street, in the shadow of imposing buildings, before he turned and crossed over to a sidewalk parallel to the river leading to the lake. He passed, without notice, the iconic Chapel Bridge, where a throng of tourists congregated taking photographs. According to the travel notes included with the conference packet, that footbridge is the oldest of its type in Europe. Pink and purple flowers overflowed the window boxes along the length of it. She should have stopped to look closer; that was, after all, her intention for the walk. Nevertheless, she followed his lead. 

Along the river, slow-moving currents tumbled like tiny rapids over a series of locks before spilling at last into the lake. This water has made its way all through this country, she thought. Other countries as well. Across hillsides and rocky channels to settle at this lake. Meandering, but with intent, as she meant to be, if she were not following the man.  

When he turned toward the next footbridge, where a scrolled-iron railing shed circular shadows underfoot, she was momentarily mesmerized by the pattern and might have lost sight of him, but when she looked up, there he was, a beacon of sorts, like the landmark medieval water tower she glimpsed beyond the Chapel Bridge: the eponymous lucerna. 

Fortunately, he walked unhurriedly, so she was able to keep up. A chronic ache in her hip and a slight limp stalk her every move, the scar tissue penance and punishment for an accident over a year ago that left her a solo traveler. 

She stopped briefly and closed her eyes to shutter the memory. A couple of consciously deep breaths usually calm her down. When she opened her eyes again, she searched out the man in the crowd and easily caught up with his unhurried stride to the cobblestone streets. 

A parade of shop windows floated in her peripheral vision like the mountains beyond the lake. Tantalizing mounds of artistic notepapers, leather-bound journals, metallic pens, gleaming bejeweled watches, and the mélange of colorful home accessories piled artistically to attract shoppers. Clusters of café tables were already set out on the narrow streets, enticing weekend revelers. The old city bustled with visitors and locals en route to evening activities. Some strolled. Others rushed. They chatted with friends or into cell phones. Tourists stopped to photograph architectural elements as they gushed over chocolates melting in their mouths. The atmosphere felt like the opening scene of an opera – the throng arriving on stage from the wings all at once, ad alta voce. 

The man shifted into an alley and she picked up her pace to follow. He turned again into another and at the end of this passage made an abrupt sharp turn, where he climbed a short flight of stone steps to a French restaurant. At the foot of the steps, a wooden sign framed a blackboard announcing in blue chalk an impressive selection of Bordeaux wines and listing the specials of the day: Coq au Bin, Blanquette de Veau and Mussels Meuniere. 

She imagined he must be there to meet someone – a wife, lover, friend or colleague. She stood at the bottom of the steps pretending to study the menu posted there. Why linger? What was she doing following a stranger into a strange city? She meant only to make good use of time to still her mind, see the sites and return soon enough to the next workweek. Still, her feet seemed bolted to the stone, weighted down by something more than gravity, and when she finally galvanized her legs, she turned, then stopped in her tracks, snared by an invisible force field, turned back and sprinted the steps as if she were late. As if someone expected her.   

In the vestibule, she took a moment to adjust to the low lighting. She sniffed the preparatory aromas of garlic and lemon, also cigarette smoke, still common in this part of the world, as if to protest modernity. Once in focus, she saw five café tables lined up to her left, parallel to a long dark wood bar to the right. More formal dining tables were hidden on the other side of the bar. Walls were painted a soft gold, the tabletops white and gold tile with bright white napkins folded in the center into a cross, like the Swiss flag. 

The man sat at a far table, the only patron; too early for a European dinner. His coat hung on a nearby rack and he chatted with a bartender serving as waiter, dressed in a crisp white shirt with a cognac-colored vest and with a white towel folded over his belt. He poured red wine from a carafe into a large stemmed glass. 

One glass. One place setting. He was alone. 

She observed him more closely. Handsomer than at first sight, in a Germanic way: a wide forehead, deep set dark eyes, a squared chin and ruddy cheeks. The face of nefarious Nazis in war films, also the faces of members of the resistance or sympathetic neighbors. One has to peer into their eyes to know if they are to be feared or trusted, although, even then, uncertain. 

The man sat tall, perfectly perpendicular, his spine pressed against the leather padding. Lined up with precision like the napkins. Like the merchandise in shop windows. He seemed older than first perceived, perhaps in his early fifties, like her husband, who was ten years older than she, and although she wasn’t close enough to detect, she imagined similar smile lines spreading from his eyes and tiny grooves from his lips. 

She watched him. She enjoyed watching him without his knowing he was being watched. There was no host at the door, no one ushering her to a table. The bartender, busy with preparations, retrieved a bowl of nuts from behind the bar for the man, who nodded thanks as he took his first sip of the wine. He had waited for the wine to breathe. A petit verdot, she suspected or, more likely, blended with a cabernet franc, the more complex of the Bordeaux reds. He nibbled a handful of nuts and then, as he pulled from his bag a device, like an iPad, he looked up and caught sight of her. She smiled, and he smiled, a spontaneous, subtle smile, before he lowered his eyes to turn his attention to his reading. 

Perhaps she was not deserving of a second glance. She’s not one to turn heads or attract attention. She had, however, captured the attention of the only man that mattered fifteen years ago and she believes lightning does not strike twice. On the other hand, the man might suppose she was there to meet someone. He might presume, as she had, that anyone alone this early in the evening must be expected. 

She breathed deeply, purposefully, uncertain what she had in mind. Whatever had come over her, she gave herself to it like a narcoleptic sleepwalking through a bizarre waking dream. Okay then, she whispered, lifted her head high, and sauntered to his table. Without a word, she sat opposite him and hooked her purse over the back of the chair, as if she were only late for a date. He looked up with a bemused expression. 

Do you speak English? she asked. 

Yes, he answered. 

May I join you? she asked. 

It seems you have, he said. 

 

Rational Women may be ordered through independent bookstores or at Amazon. 

—

Rational Women may be ordered through independent bookstores or at Amazon. 

Randy Kraft is the author of the novels “Colors of the Wheel” and “Signs of Life” and a forthcoming collection of stories, “Rational Women.” She is a retired journalist who continues to pen book reviews for a culture and entertainment website in southern California, where she resides. Her first blog for us, “Age: A Writer’s Ally” was published in 2013.

www.randykraftwriter.com

RATIONAL WOMEN

At the heart of these eleven stories is one question: are women the rational beings we mean to be?
Some are ruled by reason, while others allow passion to suppress good sense. In the search for balance, they find their best selves. Or not.

MEET THE RATIONAL WOMEN

On a business trip to Lucerne, a widow follows a stranger into the old town… A chemistry professor’s marriage implodes when his wife compounds her discontent… A white novelist writing about racism confronts the disdain of a black critic… A teacher takes her elementary students’ futures into her own hands … An empty-nester confronts an unexpected obstacle to fulfilling her dream… A late-life PhD candidate discovers her ex-husband still has a hold on her heart… A businesswoman questions her values when she learns her dead mother was never buried… A newspaper editor comes face-to-face with her biases when she misses the heart of a story… A once aspiring sculptor struggles to mold her newborn… At court to argue a minor trespass, a model citizen considers her crimes… In Paris to satisfy her mother’s last wish, a docile office manager’s future takes an unexpected turn.

In a voice reminiscent of Meg Wolitzer, Barbara Kingsolver or Margaret Drabble, stories swing between time and place and personal season, reflecting on what it means to make better choices in the new millennium.

BUY THE BOOK HERE

Tags: featured, women writers

Category: On Writing