The American Lady(5)
With every word, Marie’s voice melted ever more closely together with the story and her yearning became part of the poetry. Sawatzky’s heart beat more quickly.
“. . . And a man climbed out of the rocks of the earth, the hair on his head and the hair of his beard was hard, but his eyes were velvet mounds . . .”
Sawatzky watched Marie closely. Would she think that it was all too much when Else compared her friend Peter with Petrus, the rock? The mythic resonances had led to much debate and discussion in intellectual circles, but Marie kept right on reading without comment.
“. . . the night had swept away my tracks, nor could I remember my name, for the howling, hungry North had torn it to shreds. And the man whose name was rock called me Tino. And I kissed the gleam of his chiseled hand and I walked by his side.”
Sawatzky shut his eyes again. When he opened them once more, he saw tears running down Marie’s cheeks. And he knew that he had chosen the right text.
“Why are you doing this to me? Why are you torturing me like this?”
There was despair in Marie’s eyes. She snuffled noisily.
“To be able to feel like that! To forget where you are, who you are . . . nor could I remember my name, for the howling, hungry North had torn it to shreds,” she read again, moved to tears. “And at the same time to know that you’ve been chosen, that you can’t waste your time on others!” Her eyes were shining. “A happiness took hold of my heart that had chosen me alone—she can really count herself a happy woman.” Marie was quiet for a moment. Then she spoke again. “But what does all this have to do with me? I have no friend to stand by me and take a fatherly interest—well, other than you—nobody to inspire me like that. And I don’t live in a big city or have an exciting life. Who or what do you suppose will give me my artistic inspiration? I sit here in my little village with Magnus by my side and my whole family depending on me and my designs.”
“But that’s entirely your own choice,” Sawatzky said with more than a touch of impatience. And he couldn’t resist adding rather harshly, “Even Else had to break free of her family home and run away to the city, as you’ve just read.”
Marie looked up, irritated. “I know, I know, everyone has their own road to follow. And next thing you’re going to tell me all over again about that painter who preferred to die in obscurity rather than follow the fashion of the times. What was her name again—Paula Modersohn-Becker?” She held a finger to her forehead as though concentrating hard. “Or you’ll tell me about some poet or other who may not have had any food on her table but wrote uncompromising poems all the same.”
“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you,” Sawatzky declared, looking down at his shoes. “I . . .”
She grasped hold of his hand before he could say anything more. “I apologize. It didn’t come out the way I meant it, and you know that quite well. I’m being a silly cow today, that’s all. And ungrateful to boot.” She bit her lip.
He looked up again, half won over. “You never did care much for role models, did you?”
Marie shrugged. “What good do they do me? I’ve never found one in Lauscha, that’s for sure. After all, I have broken free of the lives our forefathers led! And I really don’t see what I did as being so revolutionary, not anymore. What do you think I have in common with all those women out in the big wide world? Why do you mention them so often?”
“For one thing, you have the world in common,” he said, waving his hand in the air.
Marie laughed. “The way you say that! As though the world were a slice of cake and all we have to do is help ourselves with a fork.”
Sawatzky laughed. The image was completely Marie. He sighed. “It’s not quite so simple, no—and thank God for that. But don’t you think it’s time to leave Lauscha for a bit? To see a little more of the world?” He wanted to remind her of her dream and the meaning that lay beneath it, but instead he said, “Look at it this way—every bauble you blow travels farther than you ever have—isn’t that rather a frightening thought?”
PART ONE
NEW YORK,
THREE MONTHS LATER
And when the night became day and the day became a dream, all my questions fell into glittering dust.
1
Dittmer’s was the best delicatessen in the city. Those who didn’t have the money to step inside the magnificent doors could at least lust after the wonderful window displays, which were so artfully assembled that they put some art galleries to shame. The shop’s cleaning women went out at least a dozen times a day to wipe away the fingerprints and marks left by greedy passersby pressing their noses up against the glass. And of those who could afford the prices, hardly anyone had the willpower to walk on past and ignore the wonderful scents wafting through the revolving door . . . Just a quick look, just to buy one little treat. Don’t you deserve it, after a long day at work? A bit of cheese? Or three chocolate truffles? Or a handful of those dark-purple plums, gleaming and juicy? Such resolutions generally vanished as soon as customers stepped inside the store and saw everything that was for sale—more delicacies than any other store in the world—and they left with light-blue Dittmer’s bags bulging with treats.