The Woman Who Heard Color (12 page)

“More tea would be wonderful,” Lauren replied, thinking this would provide another opportunity to look around while Mrs. Fletcher was out of the room.

Reaching for her bag as soon as the woman left, Lauren grabbed her BlackBerry, stuck it in her pocket, pushed herself up from the soft nest of sofa and throw pillows, crossed the room, and stood before the fireplace. The colorful Franz Marc, really the centerpiece of the room, hung above the mantel. It appeared to be a copy, though it had the texture and look of authenticity. Lauren knew you could order a painting on the Internet with thick layers of paint that closely resembled an original. Made in China, she guessed, and could imagine an assembly-line creation—one artist filling in blue horses, another dabbing in red hills. She was aware that Franz Marc had done a number of paintings based on the blue horses theme and that at least one had disappeared during the war. Mrs. Fletcher’s faux painting was similar to an original now in a Minneapolis museum, though hers was not nearly as large. Lauren pulled the BlackBerry from her pocket and snapped a photo.

Glancing at a small piece on the wall to the left, her mind filled with a jumble of colliding thoughts about what Mrs. Fletcher had told her over the past hour. The woman had spent an inordinate amount of time going over the history of Germany during the latenineteenth and early-twentieth centuries, speaking of Prussian emperors and Bavarian kings as if this information were essential to wherever Isabella intended to go with this conversation.

As Lauren listened, she tried to seem interested, though she had a fairly good grasp of German history. Several times the woman had shot her a stern look. Finally Isabella said, “To understand the history of art in Germany, you must understand the history of Germany itself.”

This was all fine, but Lauren wanted to know more about Hanna’s later activities in Munich and Berlin. Mrs. Fletcher had barely moved on from her mother’s life on the farm to her early work in the Fleischmann household, her developing interest in art, and her training at the gallery. If Lauren hoped to learn anything important, they needed to fast-forward to the thirties, and they had barely progressed from Hanna’s arrival in Munich in 1900.

As she stepped closer to the small picture, she studied it carefully, quickly snapping another photo. It appeared to be an original etching. A scratchy signature and the edition numbers in pencil were visible along the bottom. Lauren had never held herself out as an expert in authenticating or appraising art—though she felt she could generally tell by a close examination if a painting was authentic—and often, after she had done the legwork, the historical research, she advised her clients to have a professional appraiser verify the work. In a sense it was like getting a second opinion.

“I believe it is going to be a nice afternoon,” Isabella Fletcher called from the kitchen. “It was so cloudy this morning, and earlier this afternoon I thought we might have some rain, but the sun is peeking out from the clouds.”

“That’s good,” Lauren called back, but she was thinking that the rain might be nice, might actually cool things down.

The etching, a group of maimed war survivors, was certainly in the style of the artist Otto Dix. The signature appeared to be authentic, little more than a scribble just as Dix would have signed it. She was about to lift the picture off the wall and take a quick look to see if there was any identification on the back when Isabella returned from the kitchen with a fresh pot of tea. She said nothing about Lauren having approached the etching.

Both women sat again and Isabella poured a cup for each of them.

“Mother loved working in the gallery,” Mrs. Fletcher began. “She enjoyed the travel immensely, seeing works by various artists. She learned so much during those early years at the gallery. But she really developed her own tastes, her own ideas about art.”

Now the woman’s arm arched gracefully toward the gallery on the wall, speaking of one artist, moving quickly on to another as if she were giving a lecture in an art history class. Two gold bracelets on her left wrist slid down as she motioned, the slight click of gold upon gold. Lauren had noticed earlier that Mrs. Fletcher still wore a wedding set, two thin gold bands with a small diamond. A gift from a young man, Lauren wondered, a promise of things to come? On her right hand she wore a second ring, another diamond, much larger. Promise fulfilled?

Her hands were spotted with age, but elegant and carefully manicured with a pale frosted pink. Lauren glanced down at her own hands, her wedding ring with a respectable-sized diamond, a hastily filed nail that she’d chipped early this morning on the kitchen sink as she was rushing to feed Adam before dropping him off at day care.

“My mother,” Isabella Fletcher said, “had a special talent— some might call it an affliction—that was probably quite helpful in her ability to judge art, to appreciate it.”

“What was that?” Lauren asked.

“Synesthesia. Do you know what that means?”

“Yes, I do,” Lauren replied with interest, wondering what other unexpected facts the woman might come up with. “It’s a—”

“Neurological condition,” Isabella broke in, “in which perceptions normally associated with the senses become blended. Sight might produce a sound, taste may provoke a sensation of touch, the sense of hearing might result in the visualization of color. My mother could actually hear color, and conversely, she would see colors produced by specific sounds. I think it enhanced her appreciation of both art and music. My mother was also a musician—did I tell you she played the piano beautifully? You’ve heard the expression ‘play by ear’?”

“Yes, I’ve heard that,” Lauren replied, intrigued by this new information about Hanna.

“In a way my mother played not by ear, but by eye. She saw a specific color associated with each note and tone.”

“That’s amazing.”

“It’s said that Wassily Kandinsky was also a synesthete. He enjoyed music as well as art, often naming his paintings after musical terms—Improvisations, Compositions. There were ten
Compositions
in all. Ours is Kandinsky’s
Composition II
.”

Lauren’s heart nearly jumped out of her chest. The old woman continued to carry on about the artistic blending of sound and color, elaborating on her personal belief that Kandinsky’s was more an emotional or psychological sensation, rather than a physical experience as was her mother’s synesthesia.

Composition II
?
Lauren wanted to ask.
Are you sure?

“My mother actually
heard
color,” Isabella explained, “and had a visual perception of sound. It wasn’t just an experience of emotions. Oh, you know how people say, I’m blue, meaning feeling sad, or green with envy, or he’s a yellow coward.” She laughed. “It was not metaphor, or emotion, but a physical, visual sensation with Mother.”

Could this painting possibly have survived?
Lauren wondered.

“Perhaps this combining of music and color,” Isabella said, “contributed to my mother’s love for Kandinsky’s work. He was one of her favorite painters. They became friends as well as professional colleagues. She generally didn’t talk about her synesthesia—it made her feel odd. But with Wassily Kandinsky, because of this shared ability, she felt a kinship. She handled much of his work during his tenure in Germany.” Isabella sighed. “His earlier tenure in Munich.”

Lauren had seen a Kandinsky sketch of this
Composition
in the Guggenheim here in New York. The artist did numerous preliminary sketches for paintings. Though his finished canvases often appeared to have come from a spontaneous, unplanned effort, Lauren knew that much thought went into everything Wassily Kandinsky created. Though a sketch for
Composition II
had survived, it was believed that the original had been lost in the war, destroyed by bombings in Berlin. If Isabella was correct, if she really possessed Wassily Kandinsky’s
Composition II
, this would be an enormous find in the art world.

Lauren attempted to form a picture in her mind, to visualize the sketch. Still some representational elements, she recalled—robed figures of women in bright colors; leaping animals that brought to mind giraffes and horses; towers and steeples and mountains in the background in vibrant reds, yellows, blues, and greens.

“
Composition II
?” she finally asked, feeling that nervous twitch behind her left eye.

“Yes,” Isabella replied flatly.

“That’s . . . well, that’s amazing,” Lauren stumbled over her words, stunned at what Mrs. Fletcher had just offered her.

“I have something I’d like to show you,” Isabella said abruptly. She rose without further explanation and left the room.

Lauren sat, unable to move, her breathing coming in and out rapidly, every sensible thought removed from her head. She placed a hand over her chest; and the rhythm seemed to be counting off minutes. She glanced around the room for a clock, unable to find one, but knowing she’d been here much longer than anticipated. Yet Isabella had confirmed none of the facts Lauren wanted to verify concerning Hanna. And now this!
Composition II
? She reached in her bag and pulled out her phone, checking the time and then quickly punching in a text to Patrick, telling him her meeting was running later than expected. Could he please pick up Adam? Again she thought of the conversation she might have with him this evening.
Well, how was your day?
she thought with a grin, slipping her phone back in her bag.

Earlier, before Mrs. Fletcher had revealed that her Kandinsky was one of his
Compositions
, she’d said the painting was too large for the room. Lauren knew the surviving sketch was more than 3 by 4 feet, that the original painting was believed to have been twice that size.

Isabella returned carrying a cardboard tube. So much for Lauren’s thought that she might haul out the Kandinsky, which, considering the size, would be impossible for one old woman anyway.

“Much was lost when the family left Munich,” Mrs. Fletcher said, her voice low. “Just about everything.” She clutched the tube protectively to her chest. “I have so little to remember my family by.” One arm swept across the room with a flutter, and then dropped to her side. “Most of these are reproductions, copies, and prints, but original paintings by several of these artists did hang in our home in Munich.”

“The family was unable to bring them to America?” Lauren asked, her eyes gliding again from wall to wall.

Mrs. Fletcher said nothing as she sat, removed the plastic cap from the tube, slid a rolled paper out, and smoothed it flat on the coffee table with her hands.

It was a simple pencil drawing of a young woman—nude at that.

“My mother,” Isabella said.

“She’s lovely,” Lauren replied, and she was.

“Yes,” Isabella said.

The young woman in the drawing sat in a wooden chair, her hands folded demurely in her lap, her posture straight and alert, hair loosely braided and coiled on her head, curls escaping to frame her face. A subtle expression of tentativeness emanated from her eyes, the set of her lips. Yet something about her conveyed a certain confidence known only to the young who have yet to experience the fullness of life. Lauren realized that she had never seen a photo, a drawing, or any image of this woman. But Lauren had created her own. Hanna was a frumpy old woman of fifty-plus-years with thick ankles set in sensible leather shoes. Her graying hair was tied up into a matronly knot, often set under a proper old-lady hat. But, even having created this image, Lauren never truly thought of the woman as having flesh and bone.

Now, as Lauren studied the drawing, Hanna seemed very real. She looked young, maybe still in her teens, and a little unsure of herself, despite the affected composure. Lauren had never considered Hanna as anything but an old woman. She’d certainly never thought of her as an innocent girl.

“My mother was a beautiful woman,” Isabella said. “I wish this drawing were in color. I wish I had a photograph of my mother at this age, though, of course that would be in black and white. She had the most gorgeous red hair. With age it faded somewhat, lost its luster. We all tend to do that,” she added with a tepid laugh, “fade with age and lose our luster. But at this time, her hair would have been a brilliant, showstopping red.”

“How old was your mother here?” Lauren asked.

“Honestly, I’m not sure. I wasn’t even aware of this drawing until after she passed away. I know little about when or by whom it was done.”

“A beautiful young woman,” Lauren said.

“Yes, she was. I wish I could tell you more about this time in her life,” Mrs. Fletcher added softly, gazing at the drawing and then up at Lauren. She released her hands and the drawing seemed to roll up on its own. Isabella adjusted it carefully and slid it back in the tube.

So do I,
Lauren thought, wondering how much Isabella could possibly know about this young Hanna. Often while doing her research, when talking to people who hadn’t been personally involved in the history she was attempting to trace, she wished she could speak with those who had lived the experience. What she often needed—wanted—was an interview with a ghost.

“How much do you know about your own mother’s youth?” Mrs. Fletcher asked. Her tone was flat and unreadable, yet Lauren felt as if Isabella had just read her mind.

“I’m not aware that she ever posed in the nude,” Lauren replied, unable to resist, and then immediately wished she’d held her tongue.

Mrs. Fletcher offered her a quick smile, and Lauren felt both grateful and relieved. When the old woman emitted a soft laugh, Lauren sensed the possibility of a growing trust. Taking a deep breath, she hoped to hold on to whatever rapport they had established and move forward at the same time. “Your mother,” she started in slowly, “got her initial art training at the Fleischmann Gallery in Munich . . . Your mother’s name was Hanna Schmid?”
Among others,
Lauren thought. She knew this wasn’t her legal name, but . . .