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Back The Woman on the Stairs Save as PDF
Chapters (83)
  1. Cover
  2. Also by Bernhard Schlink
  3. Title Page
  4. Copyright
  5. Part One
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. Part Two
  33. 1
  34. 2
  35. 3
  36. 4
  37. 5
  38. 6
  39. 7
  40. 8
  41. 9
  42. 10
  43. 11
  44. 12
  45. 13
  46. 14
  47. 15
  48. 16
  49. 17
  50. 18
  51. 19
  52. 20
  53. 21
  54. 22
  55. 23
  56. 24
  57. 25
  58. Part Three
  59. 1
  60. 2
  61. 3
  62. 4
  63. 5
  64. 6
  65. 7
  66. 8
  67. 9
  68. 10
  69. 11
  70. 12
  71. 13
  72. 14
  73. 15
  74. 16
  75. 17
  76. 18
  77. 19
  78. 20
  79. 21
  80. 22
  81. Author’s Note
  82. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  83. What’s next onyour reading list?

Less than a week later, he was back in my office, again with the woman. He really was big, bigger than I had realized during his first visit. I am six foot two, slim, and have always been in good shape, and he was no taller than me, but so strong and angular that, next to him, I felt almost small.

“He did it again.”

I had an idea of what had happened, but I never put words in my clients’ mouths. “What did he do?”

“Gundlach damaged the painting again. I worked for two days on the leg, and when I went to finish it on the third day, there was an acid stain on the left breast. The paint is streaked, swollen, blistered – I need to scrape it off, re-prime it, and repaint it.”

“What did he say?”

“That it must have been me. He said he’d found a little bottle among my things, and that the liquid smelled just like the stain. He insists that the painting be restored, at my expense, but not by me. He’ll never trust me again.” He looked at me, distraught. “What should I do? I won’t let someone else near my painting.”

“Are you ready to restore the new mark?” I was less and less sure what to make of the whole thing.

“Mark? It’s not a mark. It’s the left breast!” He reached for the left breast of the woman sitting next to him.

I was irritated, but she laughed – not embarrassed, not shy, but cheerful, her mouth a little crooked, a dimple in her cheek. She was blonde and I would have expected a light laugh. But her laugh was dark and smoky, and so was her voice. She said “Karl,” and she said it affectionately, as if to an overeager, clumsy child.

“I offered to fix the painting again. I even offered to buy it back, even for double the price. But he wants none of it. He doesn’t want to see me again.”

7

This time I called Gundlach. He was friendly and contrite. “I don’t know how he could have let this happen. But it goes without saying that it’s as painful for him as it is for me, and that he wants to see the painting restored to its former beauty as much as I do. And no one can do that better than he. I neither accused him nor did I withdraw my trust. He’s particularly sensitive.” He laughed. “At least compared to people like you and me. Maybe for an artist, he’s normal.”

Schwind was both relieved and despondent. “Hopefully, it will all go well.”