Chapter 7: The Photo

On Monday morning Clemens walked into the bakery during the rush.

I was behind the counter with a tray of warm rolls in my hands, and nine people stood in line.

He wore a good coat and carried a bunch of white tulips, and he smiled at the customers as he came in.

"Marit," he said, loud enough for the whole shop. "Can we talk?"

"I'm working."

"It'll take a minute."

"I have a queue."

"Then I'll wait in it."

He stood at the back of the line with the tulips against his chest.

Half the customers turned to look at him.

Two of them had seen the video.

I could tell by the way they looked at me, and then looked away.

I served a man with a Franzbrötchen and a woman with a rye loaf and my hands did not shake once.

When Clemens reached the counter, he put the flowers down between us.

"I don't blame you for being angry," he said, gently, for the audience. "I'd be angry too."

"I'm not angry. I'm working."

"I want you to come home."

The shop went quiet.

Behind him, someone's bag rustled.

"Home," I said.

"The flat is yours. Everything is yours. Pia and I will find somewhere else."

His eyes were wet. He was very good at that.

"I made a terrible mistake, and I'll spend my life fixing it."

"What about the baby?"

"We'll work it out."

"What about Pia?"

He glanced over his shoulder at the line, and lowered his voice a little, which meant he wanted them to hear it.

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