The Woman Who Heard Color (11 page)

Each morning she attended her mistress at home, then left for the gallery where she spent the afternoons. At night, in that hazy, uncertain time before slumber, she constructed her own dreams. Someday, she would become an art dealer herself. She would travel all over Europe, discovering new talent. She would meet with important clients. She would be the most famous and the most wealthy art dealer in all of Germany.

CHAPTER SEVEN

 

Frau Fleischmann was feeling exceptionally well. The weather was beautiful, as if Paris had just awakened from a long winter slumber. The rain and wind they had expected had been pushed aside by bright sunny days, and an early budding was beginning to color the dark skeletal trees lining the boulevards, a melody skipping along the branches.

They visited the fashion houses, as Helene was always interested in the latest designs. Before leaving for France, they had pored over the magazines and catalogues of Callot Sœurs, Raudnitz, Jacques Doucet, and now in Paris, they spent several days placing orders with the designers on the most elegant streets in the city.

With Herr Fleischmann, they went to the Louvre.

“This is what you must learn,” Herr Fleischmann said as they strolled through the rooms displaying the Greek sculptures, then the Italian Renaissance paintings. “Always we must go back to the classical art. We must study the past to approach the future.”

They visited private studios, young artists who had yet to make names for themselves, and exhibitions in the city, particularly those that had been recommended by the many Parisian dealers with whom Herr Fleischmann kept in touch from Munich. There was a friendly sense of camaraderie as well as competition among the dealers, as Hanna learned when she attended dinners and evening events, sometimes with Frau Fleischmann and Herr Fleischmann, sometimes just as Herr Fleischmann’s assistant. She often wondered what these men and often their wives, the Fleischmanns’ friends, thought her position was, though she could only imagine. Through overheard conversations at the gallery in Munich, she was aware of the delight some of their patrons took in sharing personal details, sometimes quite scandalous, regarding others’ lives. She laughed a little at this realization—that the wealthy were really no different from the common folk when it came to a juicy bit of gossip.

Though sometimes bitter, Frau Fleischmann was realistic about her health, and knew when not to extend beyond her limits. When she did not accompany them, on their return Hanna would describe everyone they had met, the women’s gowns, what had been served, the conversations that had taken place. Herr Fleischmann, while not unkind, was at times impatient, and left the retelling to Hanna. As his wife pointed out, he did not remember the little things that Hanna always noticed. Oh, how her mistress enjoyed the stories. And Hanna realized that this was of great benefit to her also, as she learned to listen, to see, to pick up the smallest details.

They went to an exhibition at the Bernheim-Jeune Galerie, a retrospective of a Dutch artist named Vincent van Gogh. Helene wanted to go, but she was not feeling well, and conceded that she should stay at the hotel and rest.

Hanna’s heart thumped wildly, her pulse jumped about in her ears, as they moved slowly through the gallery—so much color, such sounds, such music. Bright patches of color—one could even see the brushstrokes, brilliant swirls of paint. Hanna was tempted to reach out and touch them. The simple pictures of flowers and villages and starry skies looked nothing like real scenes, and yet they were alive!

The brochures, the chatter in the gallery, was all in French, which Hanna did not understand. She guessed that some of these admirers were also artists, that others—from the way Herr Fleischmann, who had a good command of the language, chatted with them as they examined the work—were also dealers.

As they left, Herr Fleischmann asked, “What do you think, Hanna?”

“I’ve never seen such lovely combinations of colors, of shapes, and textures,” she said, “but I want to know more.”

“About?”

“The artist.”

“But, you like the work? The work should be taken on its own merit.”

“Yes, it should,” she agreed. “But as dealers of art, should we not have knowledge of the artist himself?”

Herr Fleischmann nodded, and she detected a small smile playing about his mouth. He was pleased with her reply, and she guessed amused that she seemed to be including herself as one of the dealers.

“This artist will become very important in the development of twentieth-century art. Unfortunately the man himself did not make it to the twentieth century.”

“He’s dead?” Hanna asked.

Again Herr Fleischmann nodded.

“He died a wealthy man?”

Herr Fleischmann laughed. He raised a hand to hail a passing hansom cab, which stopped. The driver jumped down and held the door for them.

As they sat, Herr Fleischmann continued, “No, the truth is he died, it is believed, at his own hand. Very poor. It is said he sold but one painting in his lifetime.”

“How sad,” Hanna said. “Perhaps if he had had a good art dealer, his work would have made him wealthy.”

“Perhaps he was too advanced for his own time,” Herr Fleischmann came back. “But, I believe at last his time has come. We must return to the exhibition when Helene is feeling better. She will love this work.”

The following day they went early, as mornings were best for Helene. After a second slow walk through the gallery, Frau Fleischmann as entranced as Hanna and Herr Fleischmann, Hanna listening carefully to their whispered conversations, she knew they would be returning to Munich with a painting or two by this poor, dead, brilliant Dutch painter.

And she realized something that might have been obvious—once a painter had died, his work could actually become more valuable. A simple matter of the number of paintings available for purchase and the number of buyers desiring the work. A dead artist could create no further paintings, and thus if his work became desirable, it could make the dealer who had realized his value very, very wealthy.

 

 

Shortly after their return home, Hanna was assigned a new duty, assisting Herr Engle in the bookkeeping at the gallery. She was amazed to learn how little of the proceeds from the paintings went to the artists. When she asked Herr Fleischmann about this, he replied, “What would the artists be without the dealers? It is the creativity of the painter that will sell, but if it is not presented to those with the money, those who can pay the price, what is the use of the artist in the world of economics?” He explained that many artists had very little business sense, that they were creative spirits. Many of them cared little for the money, but they needed it to live. “Some artists struggle,” he told her, “not only with their creativity, but with the simple aspects of life to make ends meet.”

He’s speaking of Vincent van Gogh, Hanna reflected.

“That’s why a good artist needs a good dealer,” Herr Fleischmann went on. “We are not here to take advantage, but to nurture, to encourage, to give the artists the means to continue their work.”

“And a little profit for ourselves,” she said.

Again she could see that Herr Fleischmann was pleased with her reply. She wanted to touch him at that moment. She wanted him to reach out and take her hand and smile into her eyes the way he did with Helene.

“You learn very quickly, Hanna,” he said. And that was all.

 

 

One afternoon, as she was adjusting a painting that hung in the first gallery, she turned and Josef, her friend from the Academy of Fine Arts, stood before her.

“Why, Hanna,” he said with a wide grin, bringing his hands together as if he were about to applaud her, “what a delight to find you here. You are no longer modeling for the artists, but selling their creations?” He wore a bright blue tie. He dressed differently from the other men she saw in Munich, and his colorful clothing made him sound much livelier, too. Even the way he spoke, his inflection, the way he moved, so dramatic and animated, was different. Sometimes Hanna didn’t know quite what to think of Josef, though she had always found him delightful and warm.

“How good to see you, Josef. You’ve come to buy a painting?” She grinned now, too.

“I’ve come to speak with Herr Fleischmann. I hear there is a position available.”

“Why, yes.” Herr Engle was retiring soon, and there had been several gentlemen in and out over the past several days. What fun it would be, she thought, to have Josef here at the gallery.

She escorted him to Herr Fleischmann’s office and then went back to the gallery where she waited with anticipation.

“Did it go well?” she asked when he returned.

“Yes, I believe it did. It is my dream to work at the Fleischmann Gallery.”

She reached out and gave his hand a little squeeze. “Oh, Josef, it would be such a pleasure to have you here.”

“Do you have any influence”—he motioned with his head back to Herr Fleischmann’s office—“with those who make the important decisions?” His perfect eyebrows rose in a comical way, almost independently of each other.

“I’m little more than the charwoman around here.” That wasn’t exactly true—she had been given much more responsibility and training since their return from Paris. But she didn’t want Josef to think she might be able to persuade Herr Fleischmann to hire him.

After Josef left, Herr Fleischmann came out of his office and approached her.

“This Josef Bloch, he is a friend?”

“Yes. I became acquainted with him when I . . .” She felt her face grow warm. They hadn’t talked about her work as a model at the Academy since their conversation after Christmas. “He was a clerk at the Academy. He’s good with numbers.” She didn’t know that this was true, but she assumed, because of his previous position, it was. “But he is also very knowledgeable about art, and he likes people. He could do just about anything here at the gallery.”

“Meet with clients and sell paintings?” he asked with a grin.

“Yes,” she said, “but I had hoped that might be my future position.”

He laughed and patted her on the shoulder. “You know, the business is growing. We’re doing very well. There will be opportunities.”

Hanna took this to mean an opportunity might be available for her as well as Josef. She was delighted when she learned the next day that he would be starting the following week.

Having him at the gallery made it all the more fun. He made her laugh, and they giggled over the silliest things. One day Frau Ostner wore a hat adorned with feathers, though it appeared as if the entire bird had been placed upon the woman’s head. Josef said he feared it might take flight. Herr Adelmann was one of their most valuable clients, but Hanna and Josef often exchanged expressions of comical dismay after he left. The brewer was among the wealthiest men in Munich, yet he had the speech and manners of an uneducated man and he said the most outrageous things, as if there was nothing to sift his coarse thoughts from his mind to his mouth.

But Josef also had a serious side, and he loved the art as much as Hanna. They would often share their thoughts on particular artists, suggest which client might be interested in the various work in the gallery.

Since Käthe had left Munich, Hanna had no one to talk to. There were other girls employed in the house, but it seemed their interests had more to do with people and rumor and scandal, not ideas about business, creativity, or art. Josef loved a good bit of gossip, too, but there was more to their friendship than that. He had become her best friend.

Hanna still spent her mornings tending to her mistress, and she had noticed since their return from Paris that Frau Fleischmann’s health had declined. The doctor visited more often; he made adjustments in the medication. Her afternoon naps often ran into the evening. Several times, Hanna witnessed Dr. Langermann whispering to Herr Fleischmann outside his wife’s bedroom door. At the gallery he seemed distracted, turning major decisions over to Josef.

One afternoon as she helped Frau Fleischmann with her lunch, of which she ate very little, a memory crept back to Hanna in the form of a hard, cold, colorless scent. She recognized it as the smell of her first visit to Munich with her sister, father, and mother.

All the way to the gallery that afternoon on the streetcar, Hanna sobbed, the woman sitting next to her offering concern and a hankie. “I’m fine,” Hanna told her, but she was not fine.

When she walked into the gallery, Josef looked up and instantly asked, “What is it, little girl?”

“She’s getting worse.”

“Frau Fleischmann?”

She wiped her face with the borrowed hankie and nodded. “She seemed to be better when we went to Paris, but since we’ve come back—I know she’s not doing at all well. Dr. Langermann has been there almost every morning this week.”

Josef put his arm around her. “Frau Fleischmann is a young woman, and Dr. Langermann is the best doctor in Munich. I’m sure she will get better.”

And though she wanted desperately to believe him, Hanna knew it wasn’t true. She knew that Helene would not get better—a familiar realization that came with an odd and unfamiliar mix of anger, fear, and something that she dared not name, because the emotion was so evil and selfish she didn’t want it pushing its way into her head. She knew Frau Fleischmann’s death would also be the end of many opportunities for her—the trips to Paris, the possibility of Vienna, the lessons in music, style, and manners.

But, perhaps the most wicked thought of all was that it might present new possibilities.

CHAPTER EIGHT

 

“I should heat more water for tea,” Isabella told Lauren as the older woman stood and lifted the tray.