Crossing the Borders of Time by Leslie Maitland Page A

bottle is spinning and starts to slow down, to prevent lips from moving in silent entreaties for it to point to the person one would choose on one’s own, if given the chance and adequate nerve.
    For Janine the air hummed, and the walls themselves started turning when Roland Arcieri sauntered into the room, and with a smile and a half wave to them all, pulled up a chair. At nineteen, he was a few years older than the others, and he took in the scene with bemused detachment that left them to wonder whether he’d deign to join in the fun. It was then, however, that he spotted Janine and recalled having met her before on the street with Yvette. “ Ah, midi moins dix ,” he said under his breath, remembering the way that she stood a little bit tilted, at an angle that faintly suggested a clock’s minute hand at ten minutes to noon. Had he noticed then how pretty she was?
    She was tall and slender with auburn hair that curled to her shoulders, no longer restrained by Fräulein Elfriede’s insistence on neat chin-length bobs. Her light blue eyes were large and wide set, and the near-level curve of her brows lent her an innocent air of serious purpose. Her nose was straight, not small or large; her skin clear and lovely. To the extent she would have changed any feature, she would have preferred a more generous mouth, and so she lightly enhanced it with lipstick, which carried the risk of her father’s displeasure. Now she realized Roland was looking her over and forced herself to return his regard, bravely meeting and holding his eyes.
    “Come on, Roland! It’s your turn,” someone shouted to general approval until Roland started laughing, stood up, stubbed out his cigarette, and then, with a playful wink at Janine, agreed to take his chance with the bottle. Her heart was pounding. How could she stand to watch him kiss someone else! What to do if the bottle landed on her? Oh, if only she could have escaped on a pretext, but leaving now might well be construed as insulting to him.
    Roland bent down on one knee to spin the empty wine bottle, a roulette wheel of kisses that held everyone rapt. Living inside each fragile rotation of the flashing green glass, Janine became as one with the bottle, round and round until she felt dizzy, turning and wobbling, directing its outcome through prayer and will. The bottle skittered sideways, clattering on the uneven planks of the floor, hit a chair leg, then slowed down and stopped moving, pointing closely enough in Janine’s direction for Roland to select her. The archer’s aim had been perfect; Cupid himself could not have done better.
    Janine looked up and studied his face for signs of dismay or derision she hoped not to find. Surely, she worried, he would have preferred the bottle to land on one of the girls he had known so much longer! Nervously clutching the edge of her seat as he approached, she tried to ignore the rest of them staring. The warmth in her cheeks told her they had gone pink, and to hide them she reached down to yank up her white ankle socks and then kept pulling at them, her chin grazing her lap, as if she might draw the short socks straight over her head. At the very same time, she regretted not having worn something more alluring than her old floral-print dress with its childish puffed sleeves and high ruffled collar. At least she had added a blue ribbon belt to gather the waist, which helped to show off her figure a little.
    Then he was waiting, grinning, in front of her chair, and he reached for her hands. She stood just before him, and his eyes smiled deeply into her own. And when he kissed her right there in front of them all, it was no schoolboy’s peck on the cheek or anything like her mother’s too-noisy and brusquely self-conscious smack in the air. His wide mouth was firm as his lips met her own, and like an explorer planting a stake in new soil, he claimed her right then for the rest of her days, and she responded with all the need and desire, the