Confession with Blue Horses

by Sophie Hardach

  ‘You’re always marking papers.’ My mother gently pricked his arm with her fork. ‘How about Gerhard? Don’t you think Gerhard could help?’

  ‘Gerhard is also busy marking papers.’

  ‘Gerhard doesn’t even teach!’ She shook her head. ‘I wish you’d at least look at his work. It’s fresh, it’s different, it’s worth supporting. Think of it as our gift to the art historians of the future. I don’t want them to look at our country and think it all began and ended with The Polytechnical Classroom.’

  ‘I like The Polytechnical Classroom,’ Oma said brightly. ‘I find it uplifting.’

  ‘Of course.’ My mother leaned back and closed her eyes, just like Oma did when she wanted to end a conversation.

  Oma lifted the lid off the soup tureen. ‘More goulash?’

  ‘Thank you, I’m fine. That was delicious.’ My father sat back and folded his napkin. ‘I suppose it can’t hurt to take a look at what he’s doing. If it means that much to you, Regine.’

  ‘It does. He said we could visit his studio out in the countryside. Wouldn’t that be fun? The children would love it.’

  I would have preferred going to the park, but no one asked me. It was decided that we would visit the painter the following weekend.

  *

  Sven lived in a lakeside Datsche, a wooden cabin with an overgrown garden where rabbits and hedgehogs roamed. It looked like a page in my book of fairy tales: weeping willows, a pier with a bobbing boat, daffodils along the shore. The painter himself was sitting on the veranda, a big, grey-haired man with a beer bottle in one hand and a cigarette in the other. When he saw us, he jumped up, smiled and opened his arms wide.

  ‘Welcome to Villa Sven!’

  He had bits of cigarette ash in his moustache, and reeked of paint and turps. Mama hugged him like an old friend. Papa gave him a frosty handshake. Tobi, Heiko and I set about exploring the garden. Within minutes, Heiko had pulled a worm out of the compost bin and was stuffing it into his mouth. Tobi had climbed up one of the willows and was swinging from a branch. I sat down on an upturned plastic bucket and opened a textbook I had brought, Our Spelling Book, to show that I had more important things to do than eat worms. Heiko came over and reached for my book with his muddy hands.

  ‘Go away.’ I pushed him a little. ‘I’m busy.’

  ‘Are they always this loud?’ Sven tugged at his moustache.

  ‘They’re just overtired,’ Mama replied with a nervous laugh. ‘Tobi, can you come down from that tree, please? How about a nap, boys? Sven, where would be a good place for them to nap?’

  ‘The boat, maybe?’ Sven scratched his beard. ‘That’s where I nap, anyway.’

  ‘Tobi, I’m going to count to three. One…’

  ‘Are those tanks?’

  Everyone went quiet. Sven, who had been peeking at my book, repeated: ‘Are those tanks? They’re making five-year-olds count tanks?’

  ‘I’m eight,’ I said.

  Sven took the book from me and read out: ‘Today we are waiting for Helga’s big brother. He is a soldier in the people’s army. He and his comrades are making sure that we can all live in peace.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Good God. Have you seen this? Soldier Heinz says: “Our job is hard. But we do it willingly so you can learn and play without worrying. No enemy shall dare attack our German Democratic Republic.” ’

  ‘It’s impressive, isn’t it?’ Papa said quickly. ‘Such a long text, and Ella can read it all by herself. She’s well ahead of her age, you see.’

  Sven looked up. He was going to say more, but something in Papa’s face stopped him.

  ‘Very impressive.’ Sven closed the book and gave it a pat.

  It started to rain. We went inside, my mother with a wary eye on my brothers. My father tapped his finger on the frame of a painting of a red tiger.

  ‘Neo-Expressionism, is it?’

  ‘I don’t believe in categories,’ said Sven.

  ‘Well, an art historian would certainly categorise this as neo-Expressionism.’

  ‘I think it’s wonderful.’ My mother nudged my father away from the red tiger. ‘It’s so refreshing to see something other than – Tobi! Don’t do that! – other than workers and factories.’

  Sven looked pleased. ‘I completed this entire series when I went to Hungary. I was completely possessed; I slept out in the fields and painted like a madman.’

  My father smiled. ‘Red tigers? In Hungary?’

  ‘Jochen is more of a realist.’ Mama’s apologetic tone was new to me. ‘I used to paint – I think I told you? Before I had children…’

  ‘A painter has to throw himself at life.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ My mother turned towards a painting of a flock of black birds. My father looked at it, too, and for a moment they were both quiet in the way of people who were trying to think of something to say.

  ‘Wingless birds.’ Sven broke the silence. ‘I’m not afraid to paint what’s on my mind.’

  ‘Hm.’ My father shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. ‘Some birds are of course flightless by nature.’

  ‘Jochen!’ My mother nudged him again.

  ‘Like kiwi birds, for example,’ my father continued. ‘Kiwi birds are flightless by nature.’

  Sven smiled. ‘It’s up to you to interpret the painting as you wish.’

  My mother was still talking in her strange, slightly apologetic voice. ‘It’s such a treat to see someone’s work in progress. We don’t do that enough; we’re always so stuck in our boring little circle.’

  ‘We went to see Barbara’s exhibition only last week,’ Papa said defensively.

  ‘Well, yes. But Barbara is Barbara.’

  ‘Barbara is Barbara,’ Papa imitated her. ‘That’s not what you said at the time.’

  ‘No, because Barbara knows she is Barbara, so I don’t need to tell her, do I?’

  They started to bicker in their usual way.

  Sven pulled me aside and whispered that he had something for me. He opened the large, flat side pocket of his baggy jacket. In it was a set of black pens, and my spelling book.

  ‘Look at the bit about Soldier Heinz,’ he said.

  I flicked through the pages, and almost dropped the book in shock.

  Someone had drawn all over the pictures of Heinz and Helga with a black pen. Soldier Heinz had sprouted two black antennae, like a Martian. His nose had grown into a long elephant’s trunk that wrapped itself around the next tree. His sister Helga had been defaced, too. Instead of a normal nose and arms, she now had a snout and batlike wings. I rubbed at the black lines, but they were dry and solid. My stomach hurt. The book belonged to the school; I could not even imagine what the punishment for this would be.

  ‘What’s that?’ My father grabbed the book from me, furious, and swivelled towards Sven. ‘Are you out of your mind?’

  ‘Oh, Sven.’ Mama looked anxious. ‘That wasn’t really… I mean, it’s funny, of course, but…’

  ‘We’ll have to say that she lost the book.’ Papa took a deep breath.

  Just then, Heiko fell off a chair, right into a wet palette, and burst into tears.

  ‘That wasn’t me!’ Tobi shouted. ‘That wasn’t me!’

  Heiko waddled towards my mother, eyes squinting and little arms outstretched. His hands were smeared with fresh paint. Before Mama could stop him, he brushed against a canvas on an easel, a big canvas that showed a landscape with three blue horses.

  ‘Careful!’ Sven shouted.

  ‘An eye for an eye,’ my father mumbled.

  ‘Sven, I’m so, so sorry.’ My mother scooped up Heiko, but it was too late. A fresh red streak ran all the way across the bottom of the painting.

  Sven crouched down and inspected the damage.

  ‘Let me buy it.’ Mama squirmed with embarrassment. ‘Please, Sven, I’ve been wanting to buy one of your paintings anyway – please, let me buy this one, please!’

  Heiko was wriggling and protes
ting in her arms, Tobi was smearing more paint across the floor. Mama looked close to tears. I realised how much this visit had meant to her, how much she had wanted to sit in this cabin, drink beer, talk about paintings and remember the days when she used to paint, too.

  ‘It’s just a bit of red,’ my father said. ‘Just a tiny touch of paint. It’s not like permanently defacing a book, for example.’

  But my mother was already asking the price and counting out the money. This seemed to soften Sven. He cracked open more beer bottles. The tension in the room eased a little. Heiko put an empty tin over his head and shouted, ‘HAT! HAT! HAT!’ I found a comfy armchair by the window, stared out at the lake and wondered what it would be like to row across it.

  We stayed until the rain stopped. The garden was filled with puddles. My brothers raced through them to the car, all wild hair and muddy faces. Without taking the cigarette from his mouth, Sven wrapped up the painting and handed it to my father.

  ‘We had such fun.’ My mother took both his hands and shook them.

  ‘If you ever want to get back into painting, I’d be happy to put up an extra easel,’ he said. ‘It’s always nice to see a beautiful woman paint.’

  My mother let out a shy little laugh.

  ‘Why not? I guess it’s never too late.’

  *

  Back in the car, Papa imitated Sven’s rough voice.

  ‘It’s always nice to see a beautiful woman paint. It’s even nicer to see her open her wallet.’

  ‘What’s so ridiculous about encouraging me a bit?’ She crossed her arms. ‘Anyway, we’re lucky to own one of his paintings.’

  ‘Lucky? That man hasn’t sold a painting in years!’

  ‘That’s not his fault.’

  ‘Yes, it is. It’s the end of the twentieth century, and he’s painting like people did before the world war. Before the first world war.’

  ‘I thought we could hang it in the kitchen.’

  ‘I thought we could hang it in the bin.’

  ‘You’re being very mean,’ my mother said. ‘And spiteful.’

  ‘I’m actually just glad you didn’t buy the one with the wingless birds.’ Again my father imitated the painter: ‘I created this to symbolise the universal state of winglessness in this country. And also, to give the children nightmares.’

  It was warm in the little car. Tobi and Heiko had already fallen asleep, as always when we drove back from somewhere, and I snuggled against the door and closed my eyes.

  ‘What are we going to do about Ella’s book?’ my mother said, with a hint of contrition in her voice. ‘He didn’t mean it, you know, he’s just impulsive like that.’

  ‘I guess we’ll say I lost it.’ My father shrugged. ‘I’m terribly sorry, but I took it to work the other day by accident, and then I must have left it on the tram.’

  ‘Not on the tram, or they’ll tell you to call the tram office. Just say you lost it. They think you’re a bit batty anyway.’

  ‘Batty? Who thinks I’m batty?’

  ‘Ella’s teachers.’ My mother started to laugh. ‘Because you’re always losing things.’

  ‘Hang on a minute! How many lost books have you pinned on me?’

  ‘Oh, not just books. Homework, trainers, lunchboxes… we always say it’s you, that you just take stuff to the library and leave it in strange places because you’re absent-minded, and all you think about is old art.’ She put her arm around his shoulders, and he rubbed his face against it.

  ‘Silly wife.’

  ‘Silly husband.’

  I nodded off, and only woke up when we reached our street. It was almost dark. We climbed out of the little car.

  ‘Next time, can we go in the boat?’ I asked.

  My mother clicked her tongue. ‘There won’t be a next time, not after the way you’ve all behaved.’

  ‘Ah, what a shame,’ my father said and smiled.

  *

  Despite my mother’s threat, we visited Sven many more times that spring, sometimes with other friends, sometimes with Oma Trude and Opa Horst. My father took to calling him Maestro Sven-dinsky. Oma used that nickname, too, and once asked Sven if there were production targets for artists, and if not, why not?

  Only my mother loyally defended Sven and praised his talent. When the weather was warm, they set up two easels by the shore of the lake and painted. Mama was very shy about her paintings. She never brought them home. I think she feared that my father would make fun of her. As much as my parents loved art, they had always joked about ‘Sunday painters’, ‘retirement painters’, people who painted fruit bowls and sunsets as a hobby. Now my mother was a Sunday painter, and while Papa did not comment on this directly, he never missed an opportunity to take a swipe at Sven:

  ‘The Maestro is not very original, is he?’ He nodded at the painting of the blue horses, which now hung in the kitchen. ‘A poor man’s Franz Marc, really. And decades too late.’

  Since my father and my grandparents were indifferent to the painting, my mother tried to interest us children in it, me especially. The blue horses, she said, were really three little children who had been cursed by an evil sorcerer and held as prisoners in his dungeon:

  ‘But then their mother flew over on her fairy wings and waved her magic wand, abracadabra, and just like that, she lifted the spell and the horses were turned back into children.’

  ‘And what happened to the sorcerer after the mother freed her children?’

  ‘He turned himself into a tree and hid in the forest.’

  ‘You mean he got away with it?’

  ‘Not at all. They found him and chopped him up for firewood.’

  ‘And made a nice bonfire.’ I giggled.

  ‘Absolutely.’ She pulled me close. ‘And then they toasted sausages over the flames.’

  7

  MY FATHER WAS OFTEN away during that time. His work was going well. People all over our country invited him to give lectures and seminars. On one rare evening, he took over the cooking because Oma was at some committee meeting and Mama had to attend another opening.

  ‘Do you know what we’re going to make tonight?’ he asked with a grand flourish of the wooden spoon.

  ‘Fried eggs.’

  ‘Fried eggs! Pah! Far from it. Today I’m going to make…’ – he twirled the spoon again – ‘Painter’s Potatoes.’

  ‘Do I have to peel the potatoes?’

  ‘The potatoes are already peeled, young lady, but that’s not the question you were meant to ask. You were meant to ask: What are Painter’s Potatoes?’

  ‘What are Painter’s Potatoes?’

  ‘Now that’s a question many, many people have asked over the centuries.’

  ‘It’s fried potatoes with eggs, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s certainly not fried potatoes with eggs!’

  ‘It’s boiled potatoes with pickled herring,’ I guessed.

  ‘Boiled potatoes with pickled…’ Papa gripped his head. ‘No, and no! And again no! Would I protect the recipe for something as boring as boiled potatoes with my life? Would I protect fried eggs with my life?’

  ‘Why do you need to protect it with your life anyway?’

  ‘Because it’s a very secret recipe and I am only allowed to pass it on to one person in the entire world.’

  ‘Me!’

  ‘Well, yes, you because you are my daughter, and then one other person. Namely, a truly remarkable painter who deserves a good dinner of Painter’s Potatoes.’

  ‘What does “remarkable” mean?’

  ‘It’s when someone is such a good painter that everyone remarks on him.’

  ‘You could give the recipe to Sven.’

  A dismissive snort – ‘I said “truly remarkable” though, didn’t I?’

  Before I could think about what he meant by this, he pulled me over to the stove to show me how to make Painter’s Potatoes. It was easy. We mixed onion soup powder with sour cream, poured it over pieces of chicken in an ovenproof dish, and put the dish i
n the oven. The potatoes we set to boil on the hob as usual.

  ‘It’s not really Painter’s Potatoes, is it?’ I licked the stirring spoon. ‘It’s chicken.’

  ‘And that’s the real secret of Painter’s Potatoes.’

  ‘That it’s actually chicken?’

  ‘That it’s actually chicken. With boiled potatoes.’

  ‘Papa, why is Sven always here?’

  ‘That’s an excellent question. He’s not always here though, is he? He’s not here right now, for example.’

  ‘He’s always here when you’re away.’

  My father froze. I wished I hadn’t said anything, but the question had been on my tongue for weeks. Why was Sven always here? Why did he turn up at our flat as soon as my father was off on one of his research trips? Why did he put his feet on our kitchen table, his dirty feet in socks with holes in them?

  I was still thinking of a way to take back my words when my brothers came in and saved me. Tobi jumped up and down and said he was hungry and would continue jumping until he was fed.

  Papa picked up Heiko and carried him around the kitchen on his shoulders: ‘I am Pazuzu, son of Hanbu, terror of the ancient world!’

  ‘Pa-Zoo-Zoo!’ shouted Heiko. ‘Pa-Zoo-Zoo!’

  ‘Watch out!’ Mama came in. ‘His head!’

  I hadn’t even heard her key in the lock. Her hair was wet from the rain. She reached up to steady Heiko, who was shrieking with delight.

  ‘I am Pazuzu!’ My father trotted around in a circle. ‘I wreak havoc!’

  My mother sighed, but she was smiling. ‘What’s got into you?’

  ‘I can’t help it. I’ve been possessed by an ancient demon.’ He put Heiko down, winced and rubbed his back. ‘An ancient and surprisingly heavy demon.’

  ‘Something smells nice.’ Mama opened the oven door. My father glanced at her. There was an odd shadow in his expression, as if he was assessing her, or searching for something.

  Heiko squatted down and stared at the bubbling dish of cream and chicken. He held on to his waistband with both hands. His face was bright with happiness and wonder:

  ‘Eyya made it!’

  I stroked his hair, so soft and wispy. ‘Say: Ella made it.’