Tesla didn't like balls. It was the one thing that had unfortunately not changed at all since his student's days in Vienna – Ball season, entire months spent in close proximity with the stinking flesh of the young and fashionable elite in the city, waltzing to the same old tunes their forefathers had waltzed to, the taffeta of hundreds of ballgowns brushing against the old wood floors of palaces to the rhythm of blooming feuds and dying loves. Or the other way around, possibly.
The thing was that back in the day, almost a century back in time, he had been free to ignore them all. He had had neither the will nor the financial resources to attend any of the myriad of balls that were held in the city. However, now that he was in tenure, balls were a necessity if he wanted to be granted funds. And whereas he could skip the majority of those, there was no escaping the Science Ball.
At least, that year, he had one incentive, besides the free drinks and Otto's joie de vivre, in the person of Svenja Schädler. He had worked his magic – broken into the organizing team's office – to check the table plans for the dinner to be given right before the ball and seen that Scheider-Esleben was to be there, accompanied by his delightful student/assistant. By then, it had been too late for him to add his name anywhere, either lawfully or by some deception on his part. He had no wish to share a meal with such a balloon-headed man anyway, so he had spent the day feverishly expecting the sun to set and the ball to begin.
So, there he was, standing in a corner of the ballroom in his best suit, sipping from his glass while surveying the room.
"My dear friend, you look like a vulture waiting for its prey."
Otto's voice made him turn away from the crowd momentarily to flash him a smile.
"If you're waiting for your friend from this morning, she's on the balcony." His friend added with an amused smile.
Nikola patted his friend on the back in a silent thanks, and turned away towards the open windows giving on the gardens of the palace.
"You owe me one!" He heard Otto exclaim behind him while making his way through the dancing crowd.
His heart stopped when he reached the balcony. Helen, or Svenja, was there, facing away from him, leaning on the balustrade, absorbed in the contemplation of the view of the majestic garden underneath the moonlit sky.
He stopped in the doorway, taking her in. She was wearing dark green tulle ball-dress, simple but stylish, and her hair was up in an elegant bun. He noticed she looked way less skinny than she had at the end of the war. Which was not surprising, considering the end of rationing. The pale skin of her face was catching the bright light of the chandelier, detaching her figure from the tender green of the flower beds below.
She looked like a painting, beautiful with a side of sadness. At least to Nikola. She seemed heavy with an invisible burden weighing her down. Was it in the tension of her neck? Or the way she gazed at the view, lost and not seeing?
He was in luck. She was alone, and he took it as an invitation to strike a conversation.
Only when he leaned against the balustrade next to her, almost shoulder to shoulder, did she acknowledge his presence.
"Mr. Hausner," she greeted him without an ounce of surprise in her voice. "You're nothing short of persistent." She added with a smile.
The smile was truthful. Whereas she had seemed annoyed by him that morning, she looked considerably warmer now.
Nikola was slightly put off by her obstinate use of his fake name and German language whereas no one was close enough to hear them, but he went with it nonetheless.
"MissSchädler." He returned in kind, "I've been told so. Would you rather remain on your own?" He asked.
He didn't know what he would have done if she had said no, but he did not have to think about it, as she shook her head.
"I've heard some intriguing things about you." She said lightly, her tone filled with amusement.
He grinned.
"Intriguing is a nice way to put it." He answered, conscious that his reputation was not helping him make new friends.
She chuckled.
"I am a female student. You have no idea what people say about me." She retorted with a conspiratorial smile.
He did have an idea. A very good one, given that they had spent five years in Oxford trying to ignore the sneers of polite society over his Slavic origin and her obsession with pursuing a career. What kind of game was she playing?
He let her comment slide. He had no wish to spoil the night.
"What are you working on, these days?" He asked instead.
Her face lit up, as Helen's always had when sharing her research project or exciting results.
"Light. Mostly. I mean…" She stumbled upon words, choking on her own excitement.
That was new. Adorable. But new. Helen was always poised. That was the contrary of poised. She was blushing, trying to get a complete sentence to form, as if he was the first living being to ask her about her work. Or as if she was glad to have his complete attention. It was refreshing, Nikola decided.
"I'm interested in enhancing natural light in large and high complexes. My aim is to devise new ways to catch natural light and distribute it evenly across large spaces." She began.
He smiled in earnest. She went on, explaining her designs and the projects she had worked on. He could have listened to her all night. This woman was definitely intriguing. Sure, she looked almost exactly like Helen Magnus, with some added fine lines dawning at the corner of her eyes where a long dead naivety used to grace her gaze. ThisSvenjalooked both the same and different. Her eyes were haunted, her words carefully chosen. In the quiet intimacy of their corner of the balcony, she was getting lighter with every sentence, unloading her burdens to him with a golden thread of architectural blabber.
What if this wasn't actually Helen? The longer he looked at her and the more Nikola was leaning into her game of pretend. After all, she had really worked on her impersonation of a German architect and chatting like two strangers was opening new possibilities. She was offering them a blank page, it was refreshing.
They talked for what seemed like a small slice of an eternity about her work, until she blushed.
"Enough about me." She declared, falling out of her trance. "Who are you? And what are you working on?" she asked, her eyes sparkling with mirth.
They talked again, for the second small slice of the same eternity, this time about electromagnetic fields – Svenja knew nothing about the matter, she insisted.
After a while, their conversation died out. Inside, the ball was getting louder, and Svenja took Nikola's arm to get him to follow her down to the gardens where they could hear the music but would not have to raise their voice to be heard. They strolled silently among the flowerbeds, surrounded by the fresh air of the night and the sound of the gravel gritting under their feet.
She stopped abruptly after a while, and when he looked at her to ask what was wrong, he saw she was shivering lightly.
"Are you cold? Do you want my jacket?" He wondered, already starting to put off his piece of clothing.
She stopped him, shaking her head.
"No. Please don't. I'm fine." She said, turning his offer down with the palm of her hand.
A pregnant silent fell between them and he searched her feature, trying to understand what was the matter.
She smiled shyly at that and breathed in.
"If I were to ask you to dance, would you be willing to waltz with me?" she finally got herself to ask.
Nikola felt his insides flutter and explode into hundreds of furious butterflies, which ricocheted to his brain, triggering fireworks. His world collapsed into itself, turned inside out.
April 1965, Vienna, under the moonlight, in the middle of a palace's park, between a fountain and flowerbeds, a shy copy of Helen Magnus, dressed in a dark green ballgown, her neck exposed to the night air, was askinghimto sway to Vienna in Springtime – his ears could still recognize the melody that was played in the distance despite his inner turmoil. At that moment, it struck him hard. He was in love with her. Always had been. Of course, he had always known he wasattractedto her. But being in love was another thing altogether.
He must have taken too long to answer her query for she took a step back, biting her lower lip.
That movement shook him out of his petrified state and he filled the gap between them with awkward speed, newly magnetized to her.
"I hate dancing." He answered with a pout.
She nodded.
"Never mind." She sighed.
He shook his head, extending his hand as an offer.
"I'm afraid you'll find me a terrible dancer." He completed.
Helen would have laughed at that. She had been the one to introduce him to the fine art of waltzing, getting her feet trampled times and times again. She had shown unlimited patience with him, under the mockery of the five. "He's a desperate case, Helen. Stop it before you get irremediably hurt."Nigel had joked.
Svenjaseemed relieved when she took his hand.
"I'll be the judge of that." She declared, her free hand caressing his shoulder through the fabric of his jacket.