Wait for Me in Vienna by Lana N. May Page A

relieve herself of her “larger business” at home. Johanna seriously doubted that they explained that to their customers.
    She followed the assistant, Gina, into the so-called “cooking studio,” a smaller space where Gina said Johanna would be spending a lot of time in the near future. She liked this little studio; its atmosphere was warm and light. The friendly ambiance was accentuated by the black cooking island. It was stylish and elegant, but not over-the-top. There were ten workspaces fully equipped with all the state-of-the-art kitchen accessories, probably ordered out of one of the latest gourmet supply catalogs.
    Someone flung open the door, and Chef Geyer appeared in the room.
    “So great to have you here, Johanna! I see that Gina’s shown you your workstation. You’ll be working here as a chef’s apprentice—oh, what am I saying.” She smiled. “I always say ‘chef’s apprentice’ when I really mean a cooking-course assistant . . .” The chef took a step toward Johanna and continued, “You will provide our clients with utensils and ingredients.”
    She patted Johanna lightly on the hand, which displeased shy Johanna, who didn’t know if she could get used to a boss who touched her so unselfconsciously.
    “I see the cook’s uniform doesn’t fit you. This won’t do at all. You definitely need a child’s size, but it’s no problem, we’ll order one. Gina will take care of it.”
    With that, the chef lifted her eyebrow in the direction of her assistant and cleared her throat, as if this was some sort of immensely important undertaking. It was obvious from her cough and the yellow pointer finger on her right hand that the chef was a dedicated smoker. Wherever she went, she brought a fragrant cloud with her—a tart blend of perfume, perhaps Opium or maybe Samsara by Guerlain, and Marlboro Lights. The end result would no doubt horrify any perfumer.
    “Paolo should be in soon, my child. He’s steadfastly gay and quite handsome. A lot of women have tried to hit on him . . . in vain,” she said, and then she and her cloud of fragrance disappeared from the small cooking studio.
    “Yes, he is,” added Gina. “He’s very sweet, but sometimes a bit bitchy. You’ll be able to form your own opinion when you meet him. In any case, he’s the real boss here, no one else, you understand? He will not allow himself to be interrupted or corrected, so do what he says and never question his art. Take my advice, and you should get along with him fine. Like I said, he really can be very sweet.”
    Then Gina disappeared. Johanna timidly stood in the kitchen in her ill-fitting chef’s outfit. She didn’t dare touch anything, worried she might break it. She felt like she should do a little work, but she had no idea what she could possibly do. She waited and waited, without making a peep or moving a muscle. She hardly trusted herself to breathe.
    A few minutes later, Paolo swept in, bringing a flowery scent of violets with him.
    “Ciao, sweetheart! Well, look at you,” said Paolo as he scrutinized Johanna. “Well, well, we must change this. We can’t create anything beautiful in that outfit. I would be too ashamed of you. No, there’s no way. For today, we’ll just have to hide you amid the flock of students.”
    Paolo’s violet cologne smelled so strong he might as well have sprayed it all over the room. Someone needed to tell him to stop after three spritzes; the smell even drowned out Chef Geyer’s. Johanna was glad she didn’t know about this beforehand; she was unusually sensitive to smell and sometimes avoided streetcars and subways for that reason.
    “I’m going to get a new uniform.”
    “Well, thank God!” he chirped. “So, where have you worked most recently?”
    “Do you mean, where have I cooked?”
    “Yes, where have you cooked?” he mocked as he pulled a stool up to the counter to assess Johanna as if he were inspecting a piece of fruit for discoloration and blemishes before