The Woman Who Heard Color (15 page)

That spring, as the seasons changed, the cold wind of winter alternating with a teasing breath of warm air, Hanna took ill. It started with a slight rattle in the chest and then seemed to overtake her entire body. She could barely breathe. She could barely get out of bed to attend to little Willy, whose own breathing had become hard and labored.

He cried and cried, and then he stopped as if he had no strength to continue. His tiny body took on a pale, frightening color. Hanna screamed and sent the nurse to fetch Dr. Langermann. She picked up Willy and prayed and prayed to a God to whom she had not spoken since the day her son was born. “Please,” she pleaded, “please do not take this child from me.”

Moses had not yet left for work, as it was early morning, and he ran to the room, his eyes filled with fear. “What is it?”

“Willy,” Hanna cried. Then for the first time, not aloud but in her heart, she said,
He is my child. I want him as he is. I want Willy. Please, dear Lord, spare my child, this imperfect, flawed little child.
This was how she made her bargain with God. Willy was her child, and she would accept him just the way he had been given to her, if God would forgive her for wanting him any other way.

Miraculously, before Dr. Langermann arrived, the child’s color had returned and he was breathing again.

Then Hanna noticed the change in Moses. Though they never spoke of it, she knew he, too, had made a bargain with his own God. Moses had entered the same pact as she.

Every day after that, he came into the room and picked up their baby, and Hanna could see the smile, the father’s love. Finally, Moses had accepted this child. The beautiful, imperfect little angel, the product of their imperfect love.

 

 

Now, after two years, neither Hanna nor Moses could imagine their life without Willy. Hanna kissed the top of his head as they sat at the piano, then lifted him and carried him around the room to look at the paintings, another part of their little morning ritual. She had hung her favorites here in their magic room. The large colorful Kandinsky
Composition
, a smaller piece by Franz Marc, a lovely little Chagall with its floating figures.

She set him down on the floor now, and immediately he toddled over to the Kandinsky.

“Bla, bla, bla, rot, rot, rot,” he sang, raising his arms in the air, then patting his ears. Hanna wondered if he was naming the colors, and she often wondered if Willy, too, shared her blending of the senses, as he would sometimes touch his ears and smile when he viewed a painting. He was just now beginning to communicate in words, but there was clearly something in this painting by Wassily Kandinsky that he loved.

Sasha, a young woman who helped out with Willy at home, entered the room, and Hanna handed him over to her. Sasha was a tiny little thing with an enormous heart. She had been with them since before Willy’s birth, and Hanna knew she loved him dearly. Hanna would not have dreamed of continuing her work at the gallery without someone as reliable and loving as Sasha to look after her son.

Hanna had an appointment at the gallery that afternoon. When Willy was an infant she often took him to work with her. She kept a crib by her desk. When he was awake she’d put him on the floor with his toys. But now that he was starting to toddle about, it was difficult. She worked part days only, or if she had an appointment. Today she was meeting with Herr Kandinsky. She’d asked him to come by the gallery, explaining she had a business proposition for him, the offer to purchase several of his works. She had discussed it with Moses in great detail, but she was to make the offer on her own. Moses, too, loved Kandinsky, but always teased Hanna that the Russian was her artist.

Herr Kandinsky was beginning to make a name for himself internationally, having shown his work throughout Europe and at the Armory show in America earlier in the year, which exposed him to a whole new world of collectors. His prices had risen considerably over the past two or three years, and Hanna wanted to acquire several paintings now, as she knew their value would continue to increase.

He came in as he always did, greeting her warmly, telling Hanna how lovely she looked that afternoon, inquiring of Herr Fleischmann and young Willy.

Hanna told him how much her son loved the large
Composition
that hung in the music room at home. She thought of the pseudo-intellectuals who visited the gallery, who would object and complain, “But what is it? What is this rubbish? What am I to think of this Kandinsky who believes he can break the rules?” If they could but approach these paintings with the openness of a child, they might be touched.

“When I take him to the music room,” Hanna told Herr Kandinsky, “he points to your
Composition
and smiles and sings.” Hanna had tried to separate the emotional connection she had for this particular artist from her professional vision, which at times was difficult. But even as a collector, a dealer of art, she realized emotion would always be part of it. As Kandinsky himself might say, “What is art without emotion?”

Hanna called for refreshments, inviting him to sit.

“I’d like to purchase these three paintings, Herr Kandinsky.” She made her offer. He hesitated for a moment, and Hanna wondered if he would attempt to draw a higher price, perhaps feeling that as his agent she could not play both sides of this venture. She felt the price more than reasonable. After some discussion, his suggesting a higher price, Hanna’s coming up a little, he accepted her offer, and she immediately went to the office.

“Please, will you write up a bill of sale and a check?” Hanna asked Josef with a grin.

“You made the deal?” he asked with a smile of his own.

“Yes.”

“All three paintings?”

“He’s reluctant to part with them, but yes.”

When she returned, Herr Kandinsky was standing in front of one of the paintings, as if he were saying a final farewell.

He thanked Hanna for the purchase and for the Fleischmanns’ support over the years, as he tucked the papers in his pocket. “Please, extend my sincerest gratitude also to Herr Fleischmann. And my love to little Willy.”

Hanna watched as he walked out, down the street, around the corner. He had such a regal posture, so impeccably dressed. The Russian Prince, she thought, remembering what she had called him when he came for dinner with his teacher Herr von Stuck. He had advanced beyond so many of them now, creating his own work and style.

They never spoke of those days in the studio, but she remembered how he had exclaimed to Herr von Stuck, “How can I draw this young woman in black and white when her hair sings with color?”

She smiled as she thought of those early days, and of how much had happened since then for Herr Kandinsky, for Moses, and for herself.

She sat, wondering if somewhere in Munich another bright, innovative artist might be waiting to be discovered. And then, pulling out of her reverie, she heard the door open. As if her musings had produced him, a young man walked in.

He wore a nicely tailored suit, which appeared to be new, the fabric showing no wear, yet it hung poorly on his thin frame. He held a leather portfolio, and she knew immediately he was an artist, probably a student. It was not unusual for such a young man to appear without invitation at the gallery, portfolio tucked under his arm. Sometimes they would take on a haughty attitude, as if a show of confidence would increase their chances. Sometimes they would enter like this young man, a timid mouse. Attitude seldom predicted the quality of the art.

“I’ve brought some of my work,” the young man said, his eyes downcast, unable to meet Hanna’s. His German carried the slightest regional accent. Austrian, she guessed.

He stood shivering—from nerves, surely, as the gallery was not cold—waiting awkwardly for an invitation to show off his work. He wore his hair rather longish, disregarding the accepted style of the time, his only outward sign that he wished to proclaim himself an artist. He reached up with his free hand and pushed it back over his ear. Hanna wanted to put her hand on his shoulder to steady his quivering body. Finally he looked up. He had steel-blue eyes, like crystal-clear pools of water, the depth somewhat deceiving. There was something a bit frightening about them, in both color and sound, the resonance of a heavy thumb pressed and held stubbornly to a single piano key. The movement of his body showed no signs of confidence, but there was something very determined in those eyes.

“Bitte,”
she said. “Let’s sit, so I might go over your work with you.” It was a small portfolio, so she guessed he had brought drawings, watercolors possibly. She motioned him to the area between the two larger galleries, where she and Herr Kandinsky had sat minutes earlier, where a sofa, chairs, and tables had been arranged for guests. He followed her back like a shy, lost puppy. She called to Berta, a young woman they had recently taken on to do the small odd jobs Hanna had undertaken when she first came to the gallery. Berta also helped with Willy on the days Hanna brought him to work. “Please, for the young man and myself. Coffee?” Hanna turned to him.

He shook his head as if she’d offered him a cup of poison, and held the portfolio to his chest.

“That’s fine, Berta. No need.” The young woman smiled and did a little curtsy.

Hanna took the portfolio and placed it on the table. She opened it slowly, trying to engage him in conversation as she looked at the first drawing, a nude done in pencil. “You’ve studied?” she asked.

“At the Academy in Vienna,” he replied in a soft voice. He sat stiffly, expectantly, on the edge of his chair, his hands folded in his lap. In this intimacy, sitting closely, she caught a scent—he smelled freshly scrubbed, like a little boy, yet tinged with nervousness, the sweat of a grown man.

“Ah, I thought perhaps you were from Vienna.”

The drawing looked like one done by a student who had taken a drawing class, perhaps on a secondary-school level, but Hanna doubted a prospective student presenting such a drawing would be admitted into first year at the Academy in Vienna. She suspected that he was lying to her about his studies.

If Herr Fleischmann had been there, Hanna would have called him into the gallery to examine the student’s work. She took no pleasure in sending them away. Moses was much more honest. “Better crush their hopes now,” he would tell her after the artist tucked his drawings and canvases back in his portfolio, hung his head, and left with hopes destroyed, ego forever bruised.

But this afternoon, Hanna was alone.

Carefully and respectfully she turned the drawing over and placed it to the side to reveal the next. It was another drawing of a woman. The angle of her arm made her look distorted, but unfortunately Hanna didn’t believe this was the artist’s intent. She laughed inwardly, making every effort not to show how terrible she thought this drawing was. They had recently shown work from the cubists, and Hanna loved the way the figures were purposely distorted. Picasso was a master at this. But Picasso could paint a human figure so real one might believe it could step out of the canvas. Picasso had moved beyond a mere imitation of life. It was particularly sad when, as in this young man’s case, the artist had attempted a realistic drawing of a woman and had failed so miserably.

Hanna could sense, and then actually feel him take in several deep breaths, and for a moment she thought he might pass out right there on the table. She wanted desperately to say something kind.

She turned to the next drawing. Nicely done. The Opera House in Vienna. Ah, his talent lay not in a representation of a living body, but in a structure made of stone. He had quite skillfully reproduced the building. His perspective was flawless, the composition commendable. “This one is quite nice,” she said.

He let out a relieved breath, so she quickly added, not to get his hopes up, “Nice, though it’s not the type of work we’re showing here at the Fleischmann now.”

“But, you like it?” he asked hopefully, reaching out with his voice.

“You show a definite skill for this type of drawing. Perhaps your talent lies in the design of buildings.”

“I’ve often been told I show great talent in this area, that I might be an architect. I earned a living in Vienna with these drawings. Then various commercial work, doing posters, travel brochures and postcards. I’ve been doing some paintings. I’d like to bring them in, but I thought perhaps if you saw the drawings first.”

He struck her as one who, once a small compliment was paid, became like a wound-up mechanical toy. As if the energy of a kind word could provide the momentum for him to go on and on. And, of course, these young artists, they all wanted to be recognized for their paintings, and so few of them would ever gain the praise they so desperately sought.

“We’re really not showing this type of work now,” she repeated, regretting the encouragement she’d given him. Oh, how she wished Moses had been here for this one. For a moment, she thought about going to the office and asking Josef to come attend to this young man.

They sat for a few more moments, and then finally, realizing she had no more to say, no further encouragement to offer, he gathered up the drawings, his fingers moving with fanatic fervor. His lips pressed together tightly, and his face took on an almost ghostly pale. When he looked up at her, Hanna felt that had his lips parted at this point, he would more likely have taken a bite out of her than have spoken to her. His pale blue eyes shot through her.

“Thank you for bringing them in,” she said. “I wish you the best of luck.” They both stood.

He said nothing more, as if he were a spoiled child who could respond only to continuous adoration. Hanna felt almost like his mother, as if she had just disciplined him for bad behavior.

He walked quickly toward the door without looking back. The tip of his shoe caught on the carpet, and Hanna feared he would fall, but he caught himself and continued. He pulled the door open with a quick jerk. It closed slowly and quietly behind him without the slam she was sure he would have wished for her ears. She watched as he marched down the street, and it seemed his posture suddenly straightened. He held his head high as if to say,
You’re not getting me down, you old witch. I know who I am. You won’t destroy me.