She did not stand up, but crossed her legs instead. “Please send the bill to me, Karl doesn’t have money, he’d have to give it to me anyway.” She saw the question in my eyes, even before I had thought it. “It’s not Gundlach’s money. It’s mine.” She smiled. “How must our story seem to you? A rich old man has his young wife painted by a young artist, they fall in love and run away. It’s a cliché, isn’t it?” She smiled again. “We love clichés because there’s truth to them. Although…is Gundlach already an old man? Is Karl still a young painter?” She laughed, and again I was surprised by the dark laughter of the blonde woman with the pale skin and the bright gaze. She squinted as she laughed. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m still a young woman.”

I laughed with her. “Well what else?”

She grew serious. “When you’re young, you have the feeling that everything can still turn out for the best – everything that’s gone wrong, everything you’ve missed out on, everything that you’ve broken. Once you lose that feeling, once things are beyond repair, you’re old. I no longer have that feeling.”

“Then I was never young. My mother died when I was four – how could anything have made that right? My grandmother didn’t bring my mother back.”

She trained her bright gaze on me. “You’ve never been in love, have you? Maybe you’ll have to get older to become young. To find everything in a woman, to find it all again: the mother you lost, the sisters you missed out on, the daughter you dream of.” She smiled. “We’re all those things when we are truly loved.” She stood up. “Will we see each other again? I hope not – don’t misunderstand me, please don’t. If we do see each other again, that will mean everything’s come apart. Do you ever wonder whether God envies our happiness, and has to destroy it?”

9

I wanted to dismiss her and her talk. Whether Gundlach’s or her own, she seemed to have enough money, and no need to work: an idler. But she wouldn’t be dismissed. She sat in my mind with her crossed legs, tight jeans, tight blouse, her bright gaze and dark laugh – relaxed, defiant, confusing. I was confused enough while we sat across from each other, and even more so the next day, when I went to Gundlach’s house and saw the painting.

No, I thought, as Gundlach approached and greeted me. This is not an old man. He could have been forty; he was slender, had a full head of black hair and graying temples, and he moved and spoke with vigour. “Thank you for coming. Your client and I don’t get on well. I’m sure you and I will do better.”