The Carousel Painter (10 page)

He grunted and swatted the air as if to let me know I was an unwanted irritation, a pesky fly upsetting his busy routine. The action was unnecessary: He’d already succeeded.

I drew in a deep breath of air and pursed my lips before I pushed the air from my lungs. Midbreath, my throat constricted, my stomach convulsed, and a loud hiccough escaped.
No! Not now!
Not the hiccoughs. Hadn’t the giggle been enough embarrassment?

When I was a little girl, Papa had instructed me to hold my breath whenever I had the hiccoughs. The remedy had never proved particularly successful, but maybe just this once it would work. I pinched my nose together, opened my mouth, and sucked in air until I thought my lungs would explode. Another spasm hit my throat and stomach, but I continued to hold my breath. Without exhaling, I opened my mouth and forced a little more air into my lungs. Another hiccough. Still pinching my nose, I exhaled one long breath, drew in more air, and held it in my lungs. Maybe this time.

“
Gut
morning!”

The voice that boomed in my ears bore a distinct German accent. Startled, I jumped and swiveled. I didn’t know who was more surprised— me or the man staring at my thumb and index finger tightly positioned on either side of my nose. Heat scalded my cheeks as I released my hold.

“Sorry I am if I gave you a scare. Mr. Morgan said you wanted to see me,
ja
?” He continued to stare at me, his brow furrowed as though he’d never before seen a woman.

I shook my head. “No. I wanted to see—” Before I could finish, a loud hiccough erupted and echoed into the cavernous room. My embarrassment was complete. I wanted to flee.

“Now I see why the nose you were holding,” he said. His chocolate brown eyes twinkled with amusement. “My
mutter
always told me a good scare would frighten the hiccoughs away.”

“I don’t think that works, either. I was frightened when you walked up behind me, but I still have the hiccoughs.” I clasped my hand over my mouth to hold back the noise of another attack. I waited a moment and then said, “I need to speak with Josef Kaestner.”

He touched his index finger to his chest. “That is me. Josef Kaestner.”

My remaining smidgen of self-confidence evaporated like the morning mist. “Y-y-you?” I stammered. “
You’re
Mr. Kaestner?” This man was far too young to be in charge of Mr. Galloway’s factory. He appeared to be no more than five or six years older than I.

While he glanced toward the paper work in his hand, I studied him. His eyes closely matched a chocolate brown thatch of unruly hair that had been trimmed close around his ears. I didn’t have to tip my head back very far to look him in the eye. He wasn’t tall, but his angular features seemed to create an illusion of height. His thick fingers bore a number of nicks and scars, and his rolled-up shirtsleeves revealed muscular forearms. I did my best not to stare but found it impossible.

After dropping the papers on his desk he looked up as though he’d forgotten I was in the room. “Ja, I am Josef Kaestner.” He exaggerated his mouth and pronounced the words slowly, enunciating each syllable in a loud voice. Apparently he thought I was dense or hard of hearing.

“Then you
are
expecting me. I’m the new artist.” Seeing the confusion that shone in his eyes, I quickly corrected myself. “The new painter—for the carousel horses.”

Mouth agape, he stared at me for what felt like five minutes or more. Though it was probably less than a minute, it seemed like forever before he pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and gave me a fleeting glance.

“
Nein
. The only painter I am to see is Mr. Brouwer.”

“I’m Mr. Brouwer. I mean, I’m Carrington Brouwer,
Miss
Carrington Brouwer.” Mortification rushed over me. What kind of woman agreed she was a man? Only me! My response had been as clear as a church bell tolling the hour. At least I had plowed onward without so much as a hiccough or giggle. Fear and embarrassment had combined to snuff out my normal pesky interruption, even if only for the moment.

Mr. Kaestner traced his fingers along his clean-shaven jaw and took another look at the paper. His eyes narrowed and he shook his head. “This cannot be correct. In this factory, we have only men.”

I bit my tongue, for a sharp retort wouldn’t serve me well. “I am a well-qualified artist, Mr. Kaestner. I’m certain you’ll be pleased with my work.”

“An artist?” He motioned me toward the office I’d recently visited with Mr. Galloway and pointed to a dust-covered chair. I removed my handkerchief and swiped the seat before I turned and sat down. He stood nearby with his arms folded across his broad chest. He’d been watching my every move, and his look told me I’d just made a mistake: I’d confirmed that proper women didn’t belong in a dust-laden factory inhabited by men. Now I’d have to prove him wrong.

He sat down without wiping his chair. “Tell me what it is you know about this work we do.”

I had to muster a large dose of inner conviction to appear unruffled. Mr. Galloway had already hired me, but it seemed I would be required to convince Mr. Kaestner of my qualifications. He jiggled his leg at a dizzying speed while I detailed my training and accomplishments.

Though it took great perseverance, I refrained from grabbing his knee and holding it in place. What would he think if I should reach forward and grasp his leg? Such improper behavior was out of the question, but I did direct a frown at the bouncing appendage several times. Mr. Kaestner seemed not to notice. I decided he must be bored with my recitation. Once I’d finished, I leaned back in the chair and met his intense brown eyes. He didn’t appear particularly impressed.

“In Paris with the artists you trained and painted portraits? Nothing else?”

“And still lifes,” I added. He’d obviously worked hard to lose his German accent. For the most part he’d succeeded, but he hadn’t mastered the language completely—not yet.

“And the still lifes,” he repeated. His eyes registered confusion. “The portraits and still lifes we do not paint in our factory, Miss Brouwer. We paint on the wood, not canvas. In our factory there is little freedom for what I hear you artists call ‘creative expression.’ Here you paint what the carver makes for you.” He continued to jiggle his leg. “This training of yours, it does not qualify you to paint the carousel animals. But what can I do? Mr. Galloway has already hired you.”

“I beg to differ, Mr. Kaestner. I believe you will find me well qualified for any task you present.”

His leg stopped the incessant bouncing. “I am a wood-carver. That does not mean I can build a house. Both use wood; both take special talent and training, ja? The two, they don’t change places.” He crisscrossed his fingers. “Your talent and training, they do not make you good for painting the carousel animals.”

He looked at me as though his argument had won the advantage. Well, this wasn’t a game of lawn tennis, and I didn’t think he’d won at all. Far from it. “I suggest you set me to work, and we’ll see whether I have the skills required to meet your expectations.”

He pressed his palms against his thighs and pushed up from the chair. “For this, I already know the answer, Miss Brouwer. It is an experienced carousel painter I need, not a picture artist.” He motioned me forward. “Come with me.”

Picture artist.
I wasn’t a
picture artist
. I considered correcting him but knew it would serve no helpful purpose.

“First I will take you through to see the factory and how this place we operate. Then I think you will agree it is not gut for a lady to work here.”

I didn’t tell him I’d already been on a partial tour with Mr. Galloway. Besides, I’d seen very little on my earlier visit. Mr. Kaestner opened a door. “This is the wood mill. Where we cut and prepare the lumber,” he shouted. The clattering squeal and groan of the huge overhead belt and pulley system created a deafening noise. I clapped my hands to my ears to muffle the noise.

The smell of fresh-hewn wood flooded the room, and I inhaled deeply, enjoying the reminiscent scent of childhood walks in the New Hampshire woods. Several shipments of lumber had arrived, and young men were straining under the weight of the loads they were stacking near the double doors that led outside. All of them were young and strong, and I wondered if this was the place where Mr. Kaestner had first developed his muscular arms. Across the room I recognized the older man who had greeted me upon my arrival. He was shouting orders, and I decided he must be the supervisor. The men who operated the machines appeared at least ten years older than those shouldering the lumber. Survival of the fittest, I decided. Those who survived years of lifting the heavy lumber were finally promoted to the machinery.

My shoes scrunched in the carpet of wood shavings that dusted the floor. Although the men appeared oblivious to the noise of the machinery, they’d clearly noticed me. And from their furtive glances, I knew my appearance was causing discomfort.

Once we’d exited the wood mill and Mr. Kaestner closed the door, I uncovered my ears. “The wood mill has more workers than I imagined.”

“Our orders continue to increase. We now have fifty-two workers in this factory. Fifty-three if I count you.”

He didn’t sound thrilled to be adding me to that number.

“Over here is the machine shop, where we make and repair the gears and other assembly parts. We hire our own mechanics, so they are all well trained. Sometimes they must travel and help assemble the carousels we ship.”

“So you ship carousels from this factory?”

“Ja. Where else would we ship them from? We build the carousels, we sell the carousels, and we ship the carousels—sometimes to cities here in America, sometimes to India or Australia. Sometimes even to South Africa.”

Once again he spoke in a slow and deliberate manner. Mr. Kaestner truly believed I was a complete dolt. Yet how could I fault him? My question had been ridiculous. I was astonished to learn there were orders from as far away as South Africa and India, but I didn’t mention my surprise. I wasn’t sure I should say anything else during my tour. Although we didn’t enter the machine shop, Mr. Kaestner opened the door and gave me a brief peek. Only a few of the men looked my way—all of them frowned, and I was pleased we didn’t go inside.

Mr. Kaestner pointed toward the stairs. “Upstairs, that is where we store extra animals until they are needed—we call it the holding pen. Right now we do not have many extras up there. Also upstairs is the upholstery shop, where the chariots are padded to make them more comfortable. You can see that another time. Next we will go through the carving shops, the glue shop, and the paint shop.”

“Of course,” I mumbled, hastening to keep pace.

“In here we have the carvers—apprentices, journeymen, and master carvers. Some do not speak English so well. Unless the men come to us with great experience, they begin as apprentice carvers.”

It seemed Mr. Kaestner wasn’t going to miss any opportunity to point out my lack of training to work here.

One of the young apprentices spoke to me as we entered the woodcarving shop. I smiled and acknowledged him. Then several others nodded. I hoped they would remain as friendly when they discovered I was a new employee. I had expected to spend more time in the carving shop, but Mr. Kaestner rushed me through without explanation. He didn’t even hesitate in the glue shop, though I didn’t mind bypassing that particular area.

When he came to a halt outside the door leading into the paint shop, he rested his hand on the doorknob. “I am puzzled. The men, some of them seemed to know you.”

“I toured a portion of the factory a few days ago with Mr. Galloway and his daughter, Augusta,” I said, attempting to capture a glimpse of the paint shop through the glass window. Mr. Kaestner’s shoulder blocked my view.

“The Galloways, they are your friends?”

The timbre of his voice caused me to look away from the door and meet his eyes. There was little doubt he’d been taken aback by this latest revelation. And it didn’t appear the news pleased him. “Augusta Galloway was my father’s art student for several months.”

“So that is why Mr. Galloway has given you this job. It is not because you are qualified or even suited to the work. You are here because Miss Galloway is your friend.”

I wanted to argue that he had jumped to an incorrect assumption—at least partially incorrect. But from the set of his jaw, I didn’t think he’d tolerate any disagreement. I held my breath and wondered if he would permit me inside the paint shop or order me off the premises. My insides churned with a desire to scream
Open that door and let me in
. Instead, I clenched my lower lip between my teeth and waited. When Mr. Kaestner finally turned the knob and pushed open the door, I released my lip. The metallic taste on my tongue signaled I’d drawn blood. I withdrew a handkerchief from my pocket and silently chastised myself.

When we finally entered the painting room at the rear of the building, my pulse quickened. The scent of paint and varnish hung in the room like a welcoming friend.

There were prancing horses, bucking horses, standing horses, and several other animals in differing poses that were partially hidden from view. A beautiful swan chariot awaited paint, and I hoped I would be permitted to work on it. I envisioned the beauty I could add if given the opportunity. Mr. Kaestner placed his index finger and thumb inside his mouth and somehow produced a shrill whistle.

A tall man with a receding hairline popped up from between a rack of the carousel horses and waved. “Be right there!” he shouted. Moments later he loped toward us with a long-legged stride. “Sorry to keep you waitin’, Josef. Needed to take care of my brush. Don’t want paint dryin’ in the bristles.” He gave me a quick nod of acknowledgment before continuing. “Don’t tell me we got more problems.”

This man was obviously astute at reading Mr. Kaestner’s moods.

Mr. Kaestner grunted. “This is your new painter.” He gave a quick tip of his head in my direction. “Henry, meet Miss Carrington Brouwer. Miss Brouwer, this is Henry Tobarth. Mr. Tobarth supervises the paint shop. Your work he will assign, and then he will tell me if it measures up. If your work does not his approval get, then you must move to the other room, sand down the animal, and start over.”