Dinner at Eight

There were twenty pastries in the box. There should have been six.

Nora Seidel lifted the lid of the second box. Twenty in that one too—neat, glossy, sprinkled with sesame seeds. She left the third unopened.

“They look lovely,” she said.

The young woman behind the counter smiled. The name embroidered on her apron was the same as the one on the door: Am Eck.

“Where are the small boxes?”

The smile stayed in place, but the young woman’s eyes slid toward a slip of paper beside the register.

“You ordered sixty. Twenty in each of three boxes.”

Nora set her bag on an empty chair. A mark from the wet seat belt ran across it: on the drive over, the September rain had managed to start, stop, and start again. She had found the bakery in Dresden’s Neustadt right away; a parking space had taken a second circuit. The guests were due in a little over two hours. The pastries were the last item on her list. After that, she had been planning to have a coffee.

She opened the message thread.

“Sixty, that’s right. Ten boxes of six. A mixed selection in each, ready to put on the tables.”

The young woman took the phone, read the message, and reached for her slip of paper.

“But what we have here…”

“Let’s have a look.”

Nora disliked the phrase “what we have here.” It usually meant there were two versions of reality, and for some reason the one she had paid for was worse.

A man in a navy T-shirt and apron came through the open doorway behind the counter. A white dusting of flour marked the crook of his elbow. He dried his hands on a paper towel and listened as the young woman explained, without interrupting or arranging his face into a stern expression in advance.

“Could I see the confirmation?” he asked Nora.

She turned the screen toward him.

He read to the end, then picked up the order sheet.

“Yes. The packaging instructions didn’t make it onto the kitchen’s copy.”

The young woman lowered her eyes.

“I saw that the total was right…”

“Sonja, check for the small boxes. The ones that hold six. On the right in the storeroom.”

She went, visibly relieved.

“I’m Martin,” the man said. “Our mistake. We’ll repack them now.”

“Nora. How long?”

“About fifteen minutes, if we have the boxes.”

“And if you don’t?”

He glanced toward the storeroom.

“Let’s find out whether we do first.”

Nora was already typing a message to her assistant, but she looked up for a moment. There was neither irritation nor reassurance in his voice. He simply hadn’t reached the next problem yet.

“Fair enough,” she said.

Two customers were still sitting in the café. One had taken off her glasses to examine something on her phone at arm’s length; the other was concentrating on dividing a roll with her fork. Beyond the windows, young linden trees stood in the rain. Across the street, a man in a green jacket was wrestling with an umbrella that kept turning inside out in the same direction.

The air smelled of warm pastry and roasted onions. Nora realized she was hungry. She had eaten breakfast standing up, spreading cheese on bread while trying to find out whether the display stands could be brought in through the service entrance. The bread had landed cheese-side down on her planner. The planner was still in the car, with a napkin stuck to it.

Sonja returned from the storeroom.

“Seven.”

“So we’re three short,” Nora said before she could stop herself.

The man looked at her.

“Yes.”

“Sorry. Occupational hazard.”

He didn’t smile, but one corner of his mouth moved almost imperceptibly.

“We have éclair boxes too,” Sonja said. “But those have windows.”

“Are they the right size?”

“The pastries will fit,” Martin said. “But they’ll slide around. And the boxes look different.”

Nora checked the time. She could live with a slight difference between the boxes. Each of the ten tables would have six people who needed to discuss a work assignment, not work out why all the food was piled up beside the projector.

“Show me.”

Sonja brought over a flat piece of white cardboard, deftly folded it along the creases, and opened out the clear window. Nora asked her to put six pastries inside. Martin selected them himself with the tongs: cheese, spinach, and ham, two of each.

There was more room around them than Nora would have liked. She tilted the box slightly. The pastries slid to one end.

“Are you going far?” he asked.

“To the venue by the river.”

“Then take ten of these, all the same. We’ll add dividers. Don’t close them up until the pastries have cooled completely.”

“I need to be able to put them straight on the tables.”

“You can. Just take the lids off.”

She looked at the box again.

“All right.”

Her phone chimed. Lena had sent a photo: NO SIGNAL on the presentation screen.

Nora moved to the window and called her.

“Is the laptop on?”

“Yes. The screensaver’s up.”

“Is the adapter plugged firmly into the laptop?”

“It is. I checked.”

“The gray one or the white one?”

A pause.

“White.”

“You need the gray one, in the zippered pocket. I packed the white one as a spare. It didn’t work with this screen last time.”

“Why did you pack it, then?”

Nora closed her eyes.

“So we could have this conversation. Try the gray one.”

Something clunked at the other end. Lena swore quietly, and a few seconds later the picture appeared.

“Got it.”

“Great. I’m running a little late. About twenty minutes. Leave the seating plan for now. We’ll look at it together when I get there.”

“Okay. Have you eaten?”

“We were just discussing technical equipment. Why make things so complicated all of a sudden?”

“Right.”

Nora put her phone away. Fourteen percent battery. She looked around for an outlet and found one beneath a narrow shelf against the wall.

“May I plug this in?” she asked Sonja.

“Of course.”

The short cord reached only far enough to leave the phone on the very edge of the shelf. Nora moved a little vase of paper napkins and propped the phone up with her bag. Then she sat where she could see the screen.

Martin had taken the large boxes into the kitchen. Sonja was assembling the small ones. The work was getting done, and there was nothing left for Nora to intervene in.

It was an unfamiliar feeling.

She unbuttoned her raincoat. Underneath was her favorite green blouse. That morning she had wondered whether it was a little too conspicuous for the person running the event, but she hadn’t changed. Now the fabric felt unpleasantly cold against her back. She slipped the coat off her shoulders and hung it over the next chair.

The two customers had found something funny on the phone. They leaned over the screen together, one pressing a hand to the other’s shoulder to keep her still.

Nora looked away. It was a pleasant room to sit in. Low-hanging lamps, unvarnished wooden tables, quiet music in which she finally recognized an old song. No decorative sacks of coffee beans, no promises of happiness on the wall.

An open book lay on the windowsill. A shop receipt served as a bookmark.

“Would you like a coffee?” Sonja asked.

“Yes. A small cappuccino.”

“And something to eat?”

Nora looked into the display case.

“What’s quickest?”

“It’s all ready.”

There was no irony in the reply. Nora smiled to herself.

“That one, then. The pear.”

She paid, and Sonja brought her a triangular slice of tart on a proper plate. The pear held its shape above a thin yellow layer of custard. Nora broke off a corner and thought that this was the first thing she had chosen purely for herself all day.

A woman with short gray strands at her temples came out of the kitchen. She sat down by the register, read the order sheet, and said something quietly to Sonja. The young woman nodded.

“Clara Brandt,” she introduced herself to Nora. “I confirmed your order. I’m the one who left the packaging off the sheet. It wasn’t Sonja’s fault. I’m very sorry.”

“We’re getting it sorted.”

“I can see that. Naturally, there’s no extra charge for the boxes.”

It hadn’t occurred to Nora that there might be.

“All right.”

“Is it a celebration?”

“A work meeting. Sixty people coming up with ways to make customer service easier.”

Clara looked at the seven boxes still waiting to be assembled.

“We’re doing the practical part today.”

Nora laughed. Clara smiled and went back to the register.

The tart was still warm in the middle. Nora took a sip of coffee and heard Martin say to someone beyond the doorway, “No, don’t send those out. They’re raw underneath.” There was a brief reply, then the sound of an oven opening.

She liked watching people work when they didn’t know they were being watched. At event venues, everything was always something of a performance: contractors explained delays, clients projected confidence, and Nora herself approached everyone wearing the face of a woman with a backup plan. Here, a man had simply put a tray back in the oven.

A bus passed outside, sending a wash of murky water along the curb. The women at the next table began gathering their things. Clara cleared their cups. Sonja turned the sign on the glass door, and Nora looked at the clock.

Five.

“Are you closing?”

“At five,” Sonja said. “On weekdays.”

Nora counted the tables automatically. Four by the windows, two farther back, and a long one against the wall. Matching chairs, lightweight, with padded seats. Push two of the small tables together and six people would fit comfortably.

She picked up her fork again.

“What time do you open in the morning?”

“Eight.”

“I see.”

Clara looked up from the register but said nothing.

Ten boxes came out of the kitchen. Martin set them on an empty table and opened one to show Nora the dividers. The pastries sat neatly in place; the fillings were marked in pencil along the inside edge.

Nora checked two boxes, photographed the labels for Lena, and thanked him.

“I’ll help you carry them,” Martin said.

“The car’s around the corner. Just let me…”

She finished her coffee, unplugged her phone, and saw a missed call from her client. She called back as she got up.

“Yes, Mrs. Hofmann. Six thirty. We’re on schedule… No, nobody will go hungry. I have the pastries… The vegetarian ones are labeled separately. Yes, I remember.”

Martin held the door while she pushed an arm into her sleeve with the phone wedged against her shoulder. Nora put it away and finally got her coat on properly.

The rain had stopped. A narrow strip of pavement along the building was dry, and Martin followed it, keeping the boxes clear of his apron. Nora opened the trunk and moved aside a bag of tape and spare extension cords.

“You could live in here,” he observed.

“I wouldn’t recommend it. The pillow’s uncomfortable.”

He set the boxes down. Up close, Nora could see the paler skin at his neck where a T-shirt collar had been. The hair above his ears was already going gray; his lashes were still very dark. He didn’t hurry her or try to prolong the introduction, though she seemed to be looking at him longer than a pastry delivery required.

“Thank you,” she said. “For not explaining why the boxes don’t matter.”

“You ordered them.”

“That isn’t always considered a valid argument.”

He nodded as though he knew.

Nora closed the trunk.

“The pear tart’s good too.”

“I’ll tell Miriam.”

“Please do.”

She got behind the wheel. Martin stepped away, waited until she started the engine, and headed back.

Lena met her at the venue’s service entrance. The screen was working, the water was on the tables, and one participant, forty minutes early, was already trying to find out why they couldn’t start without everyone else.

Nora handed him a program and showed him where to leave his coat.

By six thirty, all ten boxes were in place.

The meeting ended later than promised. Then Nora had to wait for the hired van, help Lena pack away the cards, and look for the client’s phone, which turned up in the pocket of her own coat. She got home after eleven.

Lisa was at the kitchen table with her laptop, eating tomatoes straight from a colander.

“Hi. Are you hungry?”

“I don’t know. I had some tart today.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“That’s all I’m prepared to tell the investigators.”

Her daughter pushed the colander toward her.

Nora took off her earrings and set them beside the salt shaker. Her phone was down to five percent. She plugged it in, found the bakery’s page, and opened the photos of the café.

In one, the tables were flooded with morning sun. In another, a woman with a stroller was reflected in the window. There were no evening pictures.

“Work?” Lisa asked.

“Not yet.”

“Then look at this apartment we found.”

Nora put down her phone and moved closer to the laptop. A bright room with an absurd round chandelier filled the screen. Her daughter began telling her about the windows, the landlady, and the bus to work.

The earrings rolled across the table. Nora caught one just before it fell and settled in to listen.