Paint the Wind, page 7
It would take a few days of quietly moving some clothing and those precious books to the studio. I sat at my desk and hugged myself, suddenly chilled despite the fire in the stove. I was stripping my life down to essentials, staring into a future where the stove would not be lit by a solicitous Gertraud, where dinner would not be served on a damask cloth set with porcelain and silver, where the comforts I’d been surrounded with my whole life would be replaced by independence and the opportunity to define a life free from the deadening constraints I had watched Martina and Sigrid succumb to.
I got up and began to sort through my dresser, determined not to paralyze myself with agonizing decisions. I took what I could fit into my satchel unobtrusively, buckled it closed, and walked down to the dining room when I was called to dinner.
Over the next few days, I repeated the process, occasionally layering my skirts or blouses as I dressed and covering the bulk with my coat before my mother saw me leave the house. Hiding my clothing was easier than disguising my mood, however. I was filled with a combination of excitement and dread. I could not allow my parents to discover my plans before I announced my departure, because I knew I would succumb to their intentions to keep me at home, whether it was my mother’s entreaties or my father’s demands.
Andreas was at first amused by the lengths to which I was going to quietly move my life to the studio, but eventually he questioned whether I was simply postponing the inevitable confrontation.
“I’m nearly ready. It’s been a challenge making my room look undisturbed despite how much I’ve removed.”
I looked around the studio, now beginning to show signs of my presence.
“You’re sure this is what you want?” he challenged me.
I stopped folding the blouse in my hand. Was Andreas having second thoughts and using his own doubts to question my intentions? Rather than wonder, I confronted him.
“Are you sure this is what you want? My constant presence, whether it’s me in the flesh, or the scent of my fragrance in the air, or my books piled on the floor by the bed, or my stockings hanging on a rod by the stove. It’s all of me, Andreas. I won’t be hurrying home to Elisabethstrasse in the evening, leaving you to whatever diversions fill your nights.”
“Yes, this is exactly what I want—you filling both my days and my nights. Do you not understand the effect you’ve had on my art? Your presence nourishes me, inspires me, transforms me. I have never painted with such intensity and abandon. You have freed me, Maya.”
I did understand that. I had seen his talent expand with every pose, every glance, every word I had directed toward him. In some ways, he was my work of art, as much as the images he created of me were his.
It was so easy to feel possessive of those nudes now being uncrated and hung at the Secession. They were more than my body. They were my whole being elicited from Andreas’s hand and brush, but provoked by my body as the instrument of my vision. I had had as much responsibility for their power as Andreas had.
“I believe you,” I said. “I believe in us.”
I tossed the blouse toward a chair and led him to the bed.
Chapter Eight
The Secession exhibition was scheduled to open on New Year’s Eve, with a lavish reception. I planned to spend Christmas with my parents as we always had, entertaining my mother’s family—my grandmother, aunts and uncles, and cousins. The following day, I would break the news to my parents and turn their world upside-down. No need to compound the pain by announcing my decision before Christmas Eve and thereby inviting the entire family into the scandal. Enough dissection would occur in the aftermath, but at least they’d all be back in their own houses and not sitting around the Christmas tree at ours when it happened. I could at least spare my mother the humiliation of her sisters shaking their heads and repeating the warnings that had greeted her decision to marry my father.
It was my cousin Paula who had once told me about the family’s opinion of my mother’s marriage and its impact on me. Paula had overheard the aunts one day chattering over Kaffee und Kuchen.
“You mark my words, his flamboyance and foreign ways will one day influence Maya. Look how he spoils her, and those summers on that godforsaken island with his parents. The grandfather raises goats! Maya runs barefoot with the village children. She comes back to Vienna brown as a nut, and Marie-Therese always has her hands full in September getting Maya to adapt to civilization again.”
So, no, I did not want to give my aunts the opportunity to criticize my mother at a family holiday. There would be time enough for that after the exhibit opened, not that any of my aunts would debase themselves enough to attend the Secession show. They already had voiced their disapproval of Klimt’s eroticism. They would much rather admire the monumental paintings at the Kunsthistorisches Museum. No, they would not experience their niece’s body on display themselves, but they would undoubtedly hear about it from their extensive network of gossips.
So we all spent Christmas Eve feasting on roast goose, spaetzle, and red cabbage, with apfelstrudel for dessert. Bottles from my father’s extensive wine cellar graced the table and helped considerably to smooth the rough edges of the family gathering. My parents reported dutifully on their visit to Salzburg, and I lavishly described the pleasures of Bad Ischl, hoping to circumvent any pointed questions about my decision to attend university. Suffice it to say, no one in my mother’s extended clan thought well of my choosing to study. Some remarks did make their way into the conversation, but I was able to deflect the criticism by recounting the hours I had spent in the museum in front of their beloved paintings, sketching and absorbing the gorgeous techniques of their eighteenth- and nineteenth-century artists.
“At least you’re studying the classics,” Tante Letty sniffed, “and not the atrocious distortions and garish colors of those Secessionists.”
I smiled benignly, which took great effort. My usual reaction would have been to climb on a metaphorical soapbox and berate the closed minds and bourgeois tastes of my aunts. But I held back, not only because my words wouldn’t have penetrated their rigid opinions, but also because I might have easily slipped into a passionate and vociferous defense of the art of one particular Secessionist.
My parents had no idea that Andreas Brenner had reentered my life, and I could not risk even a hint of his presence on the eve of my departure. In a quiet moment, I glanced around the table. Silver candelabra filled with towering candles cast a honeyed glow over the assembled guests. Crystal goblets filled with burgundy and Sekt clinked in response to the myriad toasts and blessings that were offered at various moments. If I blocked out the shrill voices, it was a scene of both beauty and comfort, a scene and a life I was about to forsake. Was I ready?
“Maya, where are you? You seem to have drifted into another world.” Tante Clara called me back to the present. She continued when she had my attention.
“I told your mother earlier this evening, Uncle Werner has hired a new young law clerk, a nephew of the Bauers’. Very serious; a book lover, I’m told; and also not unpleasant to look at.”
She gave me a wink. “You studious young women claim to want a learned man, but in my experience, you still gravitate to the handsome ones. I’ve invited you and your parents to dinner on the Wednesday after Sylvester to meet him. Consider it my Christmas gift to you.”
I was about to sputter a protest, but stopped myself when I realized the futility of expressing any opposition to my meddling matchmaker aunt. By the time the meeting was to take place, I’d scarcely be marriageable by the standards of Viennese society, and certainly not welcome to attend a dinner at Tante Clara’s and Uncle Werner’s. So I smiled and thanked her. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught my mother’s nod of approval, mingled with relief that I hadn’t made a scene.
Shortly before midnight, everyone bundled up for the journey to the Stephansdom for Midnight Mass. I shared a coach with my parents, one more bittersweet last moment. I expected Mama to bring up Tante Clara’s invitation, but instead she tucked an errant curl behind my ear with her gloved hand and surprised me by commenting on my appearance.
“Your hair looks lovely this way. After seeing you the whole autumn with such a severe chignon, which I know was to emphasize your seriousness at university, it’s lovely to see you pay attention to your looks. You’re a beautiful woman, Maya. Don’t hide your beauty just to prove how intelligent you are.”
Such words coming from Mama were a revelation. Throughout my early adolescence, she had fretted about my unconventional looks, seeing me through the eyes of her family and friends. I wondered what had prompted her remarks. I had made an effort with my hair that evening, a compromise between the conservative look that had served me reasonably well in the lecture hall and the wild tresses captured by Andreas’s brush on the canvas. In my appearance and demeanor at Christmas Eve dinner, I was performing my role as dutiful daughter for the last time.
I thanked Mama for the compliment, despite the barely veiled criticism contained within it. I bit back the retort aching to be expressed. What was the point? Tomorrow I’d be gone, no longer racing back and forth between two disparate worlds. My defiance needn’t be voiced, so I tamped down the smoldering resentment and pressed my forehead against the window, now iced over from the frigid cold. Even though I couldn’t make out objects with any clarity and saw only the intermittent glow of streetlights, the cold glass soothed me. I was beginning to develop a headache from all the wine.
We disembarked in front of the cathedral into a swirling crowd of well-wishers and made our way inside. The High Mass was a stifling mélange of aromas—incense, wet wool, expensive perfume. The heads of multiple worshippers drooped in sleep before being nudged by sharp elbows to wake up. As the priest droned on with his prayers, I recognized that each minute that passed was bringing me closer to freedom. By the time the last notes of “Stille Nacht” had been sung, I was hardly still. If my body had reflected the effervescence of my mind, I might have danced down the aisle. As it was, I was constrained not only by the slowly moving line of congregants ahead of me but also by my mother’s presence.
I was exhausted when we reached home. The strain of the role I’d played all evening, along with the anxiety of anticipating the unfolding of my careful plans the next morning, had taken a toll on me.
I undressed slowly, fingering the burgundy silk of my gown as I hung it in the armoire. Would I ever wear it again? Exasperated with myself, I pushed the voluminous folds of fabric into the depths of the wardrobe. I was being maudlin and ridiculous, as I’d clearly been all evening, clinging to bourgeois regrets. I was not about to abandon my dreams for a frothy dress. If anything, I was renouncing a life that such a ball gown represented.
I unpinned and braided my hair, hoping the repetitive, mindless motion would calm me as I ran through in my head what the morning would bring. I would breakfast with my parents at Café Sacher. Before leaving the house, I would remember something in my room and go back upstairs, but instead of retrieving the forgotten item, I would slip into my parents’ room and leave a letter addressed to them. The letter contained the words I feared might get drowned out in the drama sure to unfold after I announced my decision at the café.
I held the letter now in my hands as I sat in bed, unable to sleep. The envelope was cream-colored, thick, with my initials embossed on the flap. Within, on two crisp sheets, were my gratitude and love and my impassioned plea for understanding.
You have raised me to be thoughtful and caring, but also curious and adventurous. You’ve supported my quest for education and encouraged my independence. Now I ask you for understanding as I take a step that I know on its surface you will find incomprehensible. But it is a step I must take in order to discover who I am as an artist, unfettered by the constraints I’ve tried to accommodate. Society—and you—have expectations for what young women may and may not do. I’ve been torn apart in my soul trying to live a double life, that of an artist and that of your dutiful daughter. I have left not because I do not love you, but because I love you so much that I can no longer lie to you about who I am and who I desperately long to be.
I wrote their names on the front of the envelope and tucked it into a book on my bedside table. For much of the night, I tossed restlessly, not from doubt that I was doing the right thing, but from fear that some interference would arise in the meantime—a blizzard that prevented us from leaving the house or one of them becoming ill during the night. I finally slept, only to be awakened by a knock on the door in the morning. It was Mama. Gertraud had gone back to her village in the mountains for the holiday, and had left before dawn.
“Frohe Weihnachten, Schatz! Time to dress for our outing.”
I threw off the covers and shivered as I placed my feet on the floor. As I dressed, I focused on my actions, pulling on my underthings and fastening my stockings, lifting my dark green wool dress over my head. I did not want to get lost in yet another internal journey, wandering through last moments. Sweeping my hair up in the style Mama had complimented me on the night before, I secured it with my pearl hairpins and slipped matching earrings into my lobes. With a last glance in the mirror, I swept out of the room and descended the stairs. Mama was waiting.
“Papa is outside with the carriage. Are you ready?” I nodded, and we left the house. I was halfway down the walk when I exclaimed, “Oh no! I’ve forgotten something. I’ll be right back.”
The question “What?” was still on my mother’s lips as I raced back inside and up the stairs. I grabbed the letter, its weight now heavier in my hand, and crossed the corridor to my parents’ room. I had deliberately left this step until the last moment. It wasn’t that I wanted to give myself the opportunity to back out of the decision, but rather that I wanted to force myself to act quickly—get in and out without raising Mama’s suspicions. I propped the letter on the pillows and hurried back down the stairs.
“You’re quite flushed, Maya. There was no need to rush. We would have waited. What was it that you needed to retrieve?”
I adjusted my hat, which had become slightly askew in my haste, to give myself a moment to answer. “My gloves.” I pulled them out of my reticule and put them on.
The carriage clattered over the pavement as Papa drove. His horses were his pride and joy, their coats gleaming and their bridles decorated for the holiday with ribbons and bells. In addition to the carriage pair, he also kept a thoroughbred that he rode in the park whenever he wasn’t traveling on one of his merchant expeditions. He hadn’t grown up with horses. The terrain of Skiathos had been more suited to mules. But as soon as he was financially able, he’d purchased his first horse. He taught me to ride when I was ten, and it was one of the activities we had shared. I pulled the carriage blanket tighter around me to ward off a chill that was not caused solely by the weather. I was doing it again—checking off yet another aspect of my life that I was now giving up. I doubted there would be many horses in my future.
Despite the anxiety I felt about my ability to leave and break my parents’ hearts, the prospect of no longer lying, no longer hiding, was a freedom that had been out of reach until now. It was the prospect of that freedom, of defining my life on my own terms, that had driven me in the last weeks and would sustain me in the next hour.
Papa brought up the carriage in front of the café and handed the reins to our groom. With a flourish, he opened the door to the carriage and offered his hand to each of us as we descended to the sidewalk. We swept through the etched glass doors, out of the frigid air, and into the overheated dining room, redolent with the aromas of coffee and buttery pastry and simmering Weisswurst.
We sat at our usual table adjacent to the windows. I intentionally took a seat facing the street in order to watch for Andreas’s arrival. It was too warm to keep my coat on, and in any case, it would have prompted a comment from Mama, but I was reluctant to hand it over to the maître d’. I needed it close at hand when the final moment came. Instead of relinquishing it, I draped it over my shoulders.
In response to Mama’s raised eyebrows, I shrugged. “I’m feeling a slight chill every time the outer door opens.”
Papa ordered for us. Our Christmas breakfast never varied, a tradition that had begun when I was old enough to sit with decorum, whatever Christmas doll I had received the night before settled in a place of honor on my lap. Instead of a doll, my gift from my parents this year had been a brooch, an heirloom from my great-grandmother. I had pinned it to the silk scarf draped around my neck, a fluid cascade of pink roses and green leaves on a black background edged with black fringe. The brooch was an emerald that caught the light of the winter sun pouring through the window.
Our coffee arrived, steaming, and I brought my cup to my lips, inhaling the fortifying aroma before I sipped. The liquid was strong and dark and exactly what I needed. The conversation with my parents drifted over reflections on the night before and anticipation of the week ahead, filled with social obligations, concerts, and Tante Clara’s dinner. Intermittently, our words were interrupted by greetings as other families made their entrances. It was a familiar dance, stifling in its predictability, each step choreographed eons before and carried out by the participants without a thought that it might have been different. Perhaps they clung to the formality and ritual as a bulwark against the changes that were sweeping through Vienna. The café was a bubble of privilege and insularity—the damask and crystal, the hushed voices, and the string quartet unobtrusively playing the familiar melodies all reinforcing the assurance that here nothing had changed. A few streets away, the city teamed with faces and rituals far different from the genteel pretensions of the nobility and the wealthy. Czechs, Hungarians, Romanians, Jews, had all made a home in Vienna in the last fifty years. Two million of us filled the ever-expanding boundaries of the city. My family might have been outliers in this room, except for my father’s prowess in acquiring wealth and a wife who epitomized the Viennese ideal of womanhood. Mama was still beautiful, and despite her misstep in falling literally at the feet of my father on the temple steps on Sounion, she was also still well regarded. Most of society was unaware of her wayward daughter, an intellectual who studied at university. I had made an effort to dress elegantly and act with grace until the last moment, and I realized now that I would not make a scene and destroy my parents’ fragile hold on their place in the city.
