‘Try it out? If you’re interested, that is.’ He touched his forehead, as if a cap were there, then he drifted over to a table where other men sat in navy overalls.

‘Don’t,’ said Charlotte, as soon as he had gone. There was warning in her voice. ‘It will only be a distraction.’

‘Tens of thousands, though. Can you imagine?’

‘The sacking of Troy, sunset on the Prussian plains? It would undo everything the Master teaches us at the Bauhaus.’

‘It’d be a weekend job.’

‘Are you desperate for the money?’

‘I would like not to rely on my parents.’

Charlotte twisted her hand into my skull, as if she were trying to screw something into my brain. ‘All this begging for clarity, then you go and paint Völkisch oils!’

She tutted at me; I grinned.

‘It’s a bad idea,’ she said, ‘and you know it.’

While Charlotte bought another round, I knew the man’s eyes were on me. I wondered if he was waiting for me to tell him I’d do it. When I finally looked back, I wasn’t surprised that I found him staring straight at me. How doglike he looked, with his bald head and big eyes. There was a tattoo of an anchor on his neck. Maybe he’d been away at sea during the war: I could imagine him as a sailor, or a captain of a big ship. I turned the card over. On its reverse was his name written in a heavy Gothic script. His name was Ernst Steiner.

5

Weimar

For a while I forgot about Mr Steiner’s invitation. My father had paid March’s fees upfront, and the pressing need for money had gone. A few weeks later, though, as I was sorting through old papers and collapsed lanterns at my desk, Ernst Steiner’s card turned up again. I held it for some moments: wondering what it meant, and thinking back to what Charlotte had said about Völkisch oils. The card was cream, heavy, expensive; and the lettering, though old-fashioned, was embossed. His clientele must be wealthy indeed.

I hadn’t much liked the man on first meeting, but I also knew that his money might prove helpful in the long run. If there was a way I could avoid asking my parents for my fees then I had to take it.

If I’m being honest, though, there was also a part of me which craved something else as well as the cash. Wouldn’t it be lovely, I thought, to hear someone marvel at my talent, my specialness? (How schoolboyish; this desire to have a man like Ernst Steiner tell me I was good enough!)