a few words from my Berlin novel

Today, I'm thinking about my Berlin novel (Berlin, circa 1983) even as I write corporate story upon story and sneak in the daily 200 words on Florence.  Berlin is the book I wrote for Tamra Tuller, the book, indeed, that I've dedicated to her and that remains with her as she begins what I know will be a storied career at Chronicle Books.  Sometimes we miss our characters.  Today I'm missing my Ada and her best friend, Arabelle.  I'm missing the conversations Tamra and I had about this city we both love.



And so I return them to myself:




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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .5in 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in center 3.0in;">
The
snow that melted during the day has slicked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>The piles of snow that Timur shoveled to each side are dirty
white walls, zigging and crusted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> 
</span>I ride a crooked path across the cobblestones and out of the gates onto
the street and turn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>St. Thomas
Church shines in the distance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> 
</span>There’s mush and ice and cars and music coming from the bar down the
alley.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>Beneath the wide wheels of
Arabelle’s bike the ice snaps and the mush goes squish and when a gray cat
scampers out from behind a parked truck and I swerve, the belt of Arabelle’s
arms around me tightens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>I’m
yanked back and my boot slips.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>The
front wheel wobbles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>I get us
going again and look up and back at our complex, and there she is, Mutti in the
window, her face in a halo of frosted glass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span></div>
</blockquote>
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