The American Lady (14 page)

16

That summer New York was in love with itself and so was Marie. For the first time in her life she felt the need to make herself look pretty, to wear perfume and jewelry, and she did it all for Franco. Until now she had barely bothered with such frivolities, but the blazing sun of his adoration beamed down upon her and made her shine.

“You slept with him!” Pandora blurted out the first time she saw Marie after the festival.

Marie blushed more than just a little, then nodded. “Ho
w . . .
do you know that?”

“There’s a certain gleam in your eye that women only have after a night of love. A night of pleasure! What I wouldn’t give to feel that way again.” She sighed deeply. “But at the moment all the men I meet are either unappealing or more interested in their own sex. Would it help if you kissed me? Maybe happiness is infectious?”

They flung their arms around one another and giggled for a moment.

“Love is a strange beast,” Pandora said, becoming serious again. “It attacks us poor women and—”

“Leaves us crazed with happiness!” Marie interrupted, laughing.

Pandora took Marie’s hand and squeezed it as though trying to bring her back down to earth.

“I was going to say, and before we know what’s happened we’re flat on our backs. Be careful, Marie! They can talk all they like about free love and the emancipation of women—but in the end we women are the ones who are left with a bun in the oven and no husband to show for it.”

Marie laughed. “Is this really you speaking? I would have expected something like that from my sisters. But never mind.” She leaned in closer to Pandora. “I haven’t exactly lived like a nun up till now, and I’ve never been pregnant yet. I might not even be able to have children!”

Magnus had been downcast about that, at least in the early years. “Why don’t we have a little bundle of joy?” he would often ask when her period came again, as it always did. Marie always felt he wanted an explanation from her. But she didn’t miss having a child. He eventually stopped saying anything but went around with a long-suffering look on his face.

Magnu
s . . .
Marie found that she had almost forgotten him. She shook herself like a dog shaking burrs from her coat.

She would have to write to him, at some point, and explain everything.

“You might be surprised at what changes when you have a new lover,” Pandora said dryly. “Anyway, tell me, what was it like?”

Marie swallowed. Should she really tell? She felt a sort of superstitious dread, as though simply talking about how much she loved Franco might make her love vanish into air. But she was so happy she couldn’t keep quiet about it.

“It was wonderful! I’ve never felt anything like it. Franco and
I . . .
I felt the whole time that we belonged together all along and our moment had finally come. Does that make sense?”

“Whether it does or not, you’ve got it bad!” Pandora replied with a knowing look in her eyes.

Now that she was drawing again, Marie saw the people and the street scenes around her with new eyes. A paving slab laid in some unusual pattern, the fire-eaters at a street party, the silhouettes of the ships in the morning mist over the harbor—all at once she found herself surrounded by dozens of ideas, and all she had to do was pick out the finest images and put them down on paper.

“Haven’t I always said that your talent will come back to life of its own accord?” Franco said triumphantly. He was quite convinced that it was his love that had awoken Marie’s creativity. She didn’t have the heart to tell him that she had started drawing again the night before they made love for the first time. She too liked the idea that Franco’s love could work such a change.

When she sent her designs back to Lauscha, Johanna and the others were so delighted that they sent a telegram bubbling over with words of praise. Reading between the lines, she could see that they were all very pleased with themselves for having had the idea of sending Marie off to Ruth for new inspiration. None of them knew that it wasn’t New York itself that made Marie so happy, but rather being in love. Nor did they know anything about the drama that had taken place in the Miles household. Ruth had decided it best not to mention it in the letter that accompanied the drawings.

Although Marie had apologized a dozen times over for her faux pas, Ruth hadn’t forgiven her. The sisters were still cool and distant toward one another despite Steven’s best efforts at reconciliation. Wanda, too, had gone back into her shell and rarely wanted to see anybody.

Not wanting to stay in the apartment amid such tension, Marie had no choice but to go out on her own.

“I’ll walk along the streets of New York, and I’ll be just a woman out having fun! A woman like any other.”
As she recalled Georgie’s words from the ship more loudly than ever, she felt guilty that she still hadn’t paid her a visit. But there was simply no time for that; there was so much to do each day.

When she wasn’t with Franco, Marie usually headed to Greenwich Village. She was still convinced that she had to drink in every impression, that she mustn’t miss anything. And she was finally beginning to understand all the connections that had passed her by before: the Naturalists and the Symbolists, the apostles of fin de siècle
decadence who had traveled in Europe, Pandora’s expressive dance and Sherlain’s expressionist poetry, and even the Art Nouveau artists who made Ruth’s costly jewelry—they were all pieces of a puzzle, part of something greater that still had no name. This was a new creation, made not by God’s hand but by man, and there was no single style to it. Everything was allowed here, and styles flourished and multiplied. Though Marie had been in America for months, she still found this astonishing variety confusing, almost humbling. She wondered yet again where she fit into the daring leaps of thought, the protests, the new discoveries about the subconscious, the emancipation of women. She had to admit that her idea of art was rather more commercial than what people liked here, yet she was nonetheless part of the greater whole. The sketchbook she carried around with her, its pages bursting with images, was all the proof she needed. And there was further proof as well; the other artists all treated her with respect, especially after a conversation in which she could give as good as she got in discussing matters of art.

“You’re from Germany? Then surely you know my friend Lyonel Feininger? He’s been living in Germany for a while now,” one painter had asked her almost the first time she had joined a group at one of the café tables. The whole group seemed to stop their chatter and await her answer. As chance would have it, Marie knew the name from Alois Sawatzky’s weekly gatherings. She knew that he was a painter, that he had been born in America to a German family, and she even knew his themes.

“Where Cézanne found his lifelong inspiration in Mont Sainte-Victoire, your friend has found his in the village of Gelmeroda,” she declared. “He paints the village church over and over again, as though he’s looking obsessively for some deeper meaning hidden there. And although the Cubist elements in his paintings certainly prevail, I do believe that he’s a Romantic at heart.” Or so some of Sawatzky’s guests had said, at least.

That had raised a few eyebrows and won her recognition. She had passed the test! She, a glassblower from Germany, could now join the circle of the select few. The next moment they switched the topic of conversation and began to discuss subjective perception. All of them agreed that “a man truly has to
want
to see!”

Whenever Marie was out and about with Pandora and Sherlain, they were surrounded by a cast of colorful characters who listened devotedly as the poet recited her works in her smoky voice, or who thundered out their own lines of verse. There was a crazy German everyone called Kristi, who claimed to be a count but who dressed as though he had raided a theatrical costume department. A fiery-eyed Communist, he was never to be seen without a glass of red wine in his hand and was always ready to share a bottle with anyone who sat down at his table. Marie always liked listening to his stories, even though he smelled more than somewhat. Once he mentioned scornfully that his blue-blooded family had tried its best to cure him of alcoholism. They had even sent him to a mountain called Monte Verità in Switzerland, he said, so that he could kick the bottle in a
salatorium
there.

“A salad what?” Marie asked. But Kristi had already moved on to the story of how he had won his crossing to America in a bet. So now here he was!

Pandora had been sitting at the table as well, and later she explained what the remark meant. “There’s a sort of sanatorium in Switzerland, above Ascona, in the hills above Lake Maggiore. It’s run by a collective of artists and freethinkers. I think they chose the name Mount Truth for the hill where they built their settlement because they hoped that Mother Nature would grant them some great revelation there. Apparently it’s entirely vegetarian as well, no meat allowed.”

Marie giggled. “So that’s why he called it a
salatorium
! I can imagine Kristi having a hard time of it there!”

Pandora nodded. “You hear a lot of stories about Monte Verità. Apparently the artists’ chosen lifestyle takes a certain amount of getting used to. Some seem to thrive on it—but not Kristi!”

“I wouldn’t grumble about having to do without meat. When I was a child we were so poor we couldn’t afford meat,” Marie said.

“I don’t think that’s the most important aspect. It’s more about th
e . . .
How shall I put it? The atmosphere of the place. A friend of mine, Lukas Grauberg, went there last year. He was suffering from some sort of psychosis, hearing voices, that sort of thin
g . . .
”

Pandora waved a hand as though hearing voices were quite normal.

“Lukas wrote to me at New Year’s and was in raptures about Monte Verità and the people who live there. He told me that he’d begun writing a book about his visions and that he’d finally met people who understood him—as if we didn’t!” she said indignantly. “Well, anyway, Lukas is feeling better, and if we are to believe him, it’s all because of that magical place. He wrote me that the sun and the mountain air heal most of the complaints people have when they arrive at the mountain. And then at the end of the letter he was good enough to tell me that he wasn’t coming back and that I should give away all his possessions to our friends here. Apparently he and some woman named Susanna were building their own wooden cabin in the colony, and he didn’t want to clutter up his new life with memories of the old. A wooden cabin, can you imagine!” Pandora reached for the wine bottle that was doing the rounds and poured another glass for herself, then offered to do the same for Marie, who waved the bottle away, lost in thought.

A place where the sun shone and where everybody could do—or not do—whatever they chose? With a view of Lake Maggiore? She found the notion very tempting. She asked why the artists had chosen to build a sanatorium, and Pandora replied that it was just the means to an end.

“After all, they have to live off something, don’t they? And this way at least they are helping the sick, rather than having to bow and scrape to commercial tastes—the way some of us have to,” she added, still smarting over her recital at Ruth’s party. “They recently built a very modern dance studio at Monte Verità—I’d love to see it one day!”

“It does sound magical,” Marie said, realizing once again that the world was getting smaller all the time. The distances were shrinking. Apparently it was nothing strange to end up in New York because you’d won a bet. Or to go all the way to Switzerland to visit a dance studio.

When she asked Franco later about Monte Verità, he laughed.

“Have I heard of it? Who hasn’t? They’re all nudists and long-haired dreamers! But the people of Monte Verità aren’t quite as pure as they profess to be. Everybody in my line of business has heard the stories about how the tavern keepers in Ascona never sold so much wine before those eccentrics arrived! The competitors in nearby towns are quite envious.” When Marie looked baffled, he explained. “My dear, when nobody’s watching, they come down from Monte Verità to the village to have a square meal and a drink or two! Is it any surprise? A few glasses of red wine always help if you’re seeking wisdom!”

17

She was in love and she was discovering new worlds of art. Despite all that, Marie kept her promise and told Wanda about Lauscha and her real father. Sometimes she just perched on the edge of Wanda’s bed for a couple of minutes before rushing off to meet Franco and told a quick tale of village life, leaving Wanda impatient for more. She loved her aunt’s stories, the more the better. “Didn’t you say that it was time I heard
everything
?” she said whenever Marie tried to hurry these visits along.

And so Wanda learned that her father was a talented glassblower and that he still liked to drink, though he was no longer the wild lad he had been in his youth. He was hardly seen down at the village tavern anymore, for now he did the lion’s share of the work for his family. When Wanda asked why that was the case, Marie held nothing back. Wanda deserved to hear the whole truth.

How her father’s younger brother, Michel, got so drunk one night that he trapped his foot in the rails on the Sonneberg-Lauscha line as a train was approaching and couldn’t get free in time. It was his bad luck that he lost his right leg, the leg that a glassblower uses to work the treadle on the bellows and control how much air mixes in with the gas flame. From that day on, there was one fewer glassblower at work in the Heimer household.

“Michel used to make eyes at me—I think I was eighteen at the time—and we met up a few times. But I was only interested in spending time with him so that I could pick up a few tricks of the trade,” Marie admitted, laughing.

Wanda’s other uncle, Sebastian, had left Lauscha immediately when he found his wife Eva naked in bed with his father, Wanda’s grandfather, and he never came back. Eva had stayed with Wilhelm, and they now lived together as man and wife. Wilhelm was an old man and in very poor health. Marie doubted he would survive the next winter.

Wanda was astonished. It was all so scandalous! She would never have believed that her relatives in the old country could get up to such mischief.

When she asked Ruth about Eva, her mother replied, “That Eva always was a snake in the grass. The only thing that surprises me is that it took her so long to start playing around behind Sebastian’s back. I can well remember the way she flirted with the old man! Those two deserve one another!”

Wanda wanted to know more, but Ruth wouldn’t go into detail. She didn’t like the way Marie was dishing up old gossip, and she told her so straight out.

“Do you think you’re doing Wanda any favors by telling her about that den of vipers?” she snapped at Marie. “None of them wanted anything to do with her—why should she care if the old man’s taken to his bed with gout or arthritis?” Then she rounded on Wanda and accused her of caring more about a crowd of complete strangers than she did about her nearest and dearest. About her father, for instance.

Wanda knew that Steven was suffering. He took her sudden interest in Lauscha to mean that she no longer felt anything for him. Which was nonsense, of course. He was her daddy despite everything, surely he realized that! But she couldn’t tell him herself, so none of them quite managed to say what they really meant. Ruth tried her best to act as though nothing had ever happened, Steven thought that he had lost his daughter, and Marie suffered terribly from having been the one to start the whole dreadful business. And Wanda? She didn’t know which way to turn.

So Marie and Wanda continued their conversations up on the roof of the building. Nobody ever came up there except for a few scraggly pigeons, so the two women could talk without interruption.

Leaning up against the chimney, mostly with her eyes closed, Wanda listened while Marie told her about everyday life in Thuringia and the holidays they celebrated there. She told her about the carnival at the beginning of Lent and about the village dance on the first weekend of May every year. Marie’s stories made life there seem good, and the villagers of Lauscha sounded like happy folk.

Once Wanda almost fell off the ladder backward in surprise as she climbed up to the rooftop and spotted a sumptuous picnic spread out on a cloth. There were even two bottles of beer. Marie was sitting in the middle of the whole arrangement, grinning broadly. She had bought a huge loaf of rye bread at a German bakery and some blood sausage and liverwurst from a German deli, along with pickled gherkins—although to her dismay they turned out to be salt pickled, not the vinegar pickles she liked. As the two of them tucked into their rooftop feast, Marie chatted away about how the glassblowers at home loved potato dishes of all sorts with a glass of beer alongside.

Wanda listened, chewing contentedly. At first she could hardly believe that many families only had one dish to eat from and that everyone around the table helped themselves with a spoon—or even with their fingers.

Marie giggled. “I can still remember very clearly the first day when we went to old Heimer’s workshop as hired hands, your mother, Johanna, and I. Old Edeltraud, the maidservant, came out at lunchtime and put a great dish of potato salad and wurst in the middle of the table, and we were expected to eat from that like pigs at a trough. We were quite taken aback! But you can get used to anythin
g . . .
It wasn’t an easy time for any of us, our father had really spoiled us in his way. We certainly weren’t used to being ordered about the way your grandfather used to do. I’m telling you, we had to work our fingers to the bone for a few measly marks! But despite all that—there were good times too. Those brothers loved telling off-color jokes—and didn’t seem to care who was listening. It took us quite some time to get used to their coarse jokes.”

“Oh, Marie, it sounds like something from another world!” Wanda sighed. “I could listen to you talking about it for hours. But I still feel so cut off from it all. I keep asking myself what all these people have to do with me.”

As chance would have it, a few days later on their way to dance class they passed a poster announcing that a well-known gallery would be holding an exhibition of Murano glass. This was Venetian glass, not Thuringian, but it was glass all the same. So Marie suggested they go see it. She knew that Ruth was a frequent visitor to the gallery and she wanted to ask her to join them. But Wanda talked her aunt out of it; talking to her mother about glass or anything connected to Lauscha these days was like waving a red flag at a bull. Wanda wanted to go just with Marie, but Franco came too.

Marie’s detailed descriptions of Lauscha and the villagers had not prepared her for the sight of the exquisite glass pieces on display. Wanda was fascinated. Arm in arm with Marie, she walked from one showcase to the next, both of them exclaiming in delight.

“I can hardly believe that my father makes artwork like this too,” Wanda said, shaking her head. “How do they put those spirals into the glass? And look how this one shimmers! It’s iridescent! And look at the vase over here with thousands of tiny flowers melted into its sides. How in the world do they do these things? These glasses are amazing! You would hardly dare to drink water or wine from such a thing! They’re magica
l . . .
” She was at a loss for words. “It’s such a cold material but it radiates such warmt
h . . .
it’s poetry!”

Marie smiled. “You’re a glassmaker’s daughter for certain!” she said, and Wanda felt a warm shiver run down her spine.

Marie did her best to explain the various techniques to Wanda, but some of what she saw was new to her as well. “I must admit that these Venetian glassblowers know a few tricks that leave our techniques in the shade! I’d love to sit down at the lamp and try out one or two of these ideas, though I don’t know whether I’d manage!”

Franco had been listening to the women talk, his face impassive, but now he offered to find the two artists so that Marie could learn more about their techniques.

While he set off in search of them, Marie took Wanda aside.

“Don’t misunderstand me; I don’t want what I say now to spoil your good mood. But when it comes to your father’s worksho
p . . .
” she cleared her throat, embarrassed. “I don’t want to give you the wrong impression.”

“What is it, Aunt Marie?” Wanda said, though she was only partly listening. She had just spotted a glass that was tinted a delicate pink like cotton candy and so lovely tha
t . . .

“Time was when the Heimer workshop was well-known for the quality of their wares and the range they could offer, but they’ve been in a bad way for a few years now. Don’t ask me why!” Marie said, raising her hands in protest. “All I know is that Wilhelm would never hear any talk of getting into Christmas ornaments.”

“But there are so many things they could make other than Christmas ornaments, aren’t there? I
f . . .
if Thomas Heimer is as good a glassblower as you claim, then he must get enough other work,” Wanda replied. She couldn’t bring herself to say “my father.”

Marie laughed. “It’s not that simple. You see, the orders don’t come in these days the way that they used to. You have to go out and look for the work. Nowadays a glassblower has to have a streak of the salesman too, or he’ll go under.”

“Who goes out and gets the orders in your workshop?” Wanda asked, frowning.

“Johanna, of course! She takes care of the whole business side of things—I know nothing about any of that,” Marie said. She waved to Franco, who was headed toward them with two men in tow. “Isn’t he handsome, my proud Italian?”

Wanda rolled her eyes. There was no talking to Marie once she got that dreamy look on her face. She took a couple of steps and stood right in front of her aunt.

“Do you think I might ever become a glassblower?” she asked, feeling stupid as soon as the words were out of her mouth. “I only mea
n . . .
since both of my parents are from famous glassblowing families. Sadly, though, I’ve never been terribly good with my hands. I can’t do embroidery at all, for instance. Whenever I try to do fine needlework my fingers get all sweaty and cramp up—whatever I try ends up looking clumsy and ragge
d . . .
Aunt Marie, you’re not listening to me at all!”

“Could you blow glass? Well, we’d have to try and se
e . . .
” Marie replied, her gaze still fixed on Franco.

Wanda held her breath. Should she go ahead and blurt out the crazy idea that had been buzzing around her head these past few days?

“What would you say to my coming to Lauscha to visit you sometime?” she asked, her voice trembling. “I could try my hand at glassblowing. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? If Mother lets me, I could come with you when you go home.”

Before Marie could answer, Franco gestured to the two Italian glassblowers to come forward.

“May I introduce Flavio Scarpa and Mateo di Pianino? They will be happy to answer any questions you have about their art, but you will have to put up with me doing the translation, since I’m afraid they can’t speak English or German.”

Marie and the two glassblowers launched immediately into a highly technical discussion of cameo technique, powder melts, layering applications, and a thousand other things that Wanda knew nothing about and didn’t care about. Marie was absolutely in her element, though. She seemed to have forgotten not just Wanda but even her own handsome Italian, whose face grew ever darker.

I seem to have chosen the worst possible moment to share my idea,
Wanda thought irritably as she wandered off among the showcases on her own.