The Porcelain Maker, page 2
She started down from the ladder, taking a rag from her pocket and wiping the paint from her brush.
‘As for the mural, it is mine, right enough. I must admit to being rather fond of an expanse of flesh, but perhaps you’re not.’
A little furrow appeared between her brows. She turned to Richard.
‘Is he always such a prude?’
Max began to protest that she had misunderstood, until he caught sight of Richard’s grin. The girl’s eyes were sparkling with suppressed delight at his obvious discomfort. No longer able to maintain the pretence, she burst into peals of laughter and Max’s solemn face relaxed into a dimpled smile of relief.
Richard took his cue, ‘Bettina Vogel, this is Max Ehrlich, our host. Future Bauhaus architect extraordinaire.’
With a pantomime of formality, Max gave a faint bow. ‘Delighted to meet you.’
‘So, Herr Ehrlich, you don’t approve of my golem?’ She raised an eyebrow in mock offence.
‘What in God’s name is a golem?’ asked Richard.
‘Ever the vulgarian.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Golem are figures cast from clay. Legend has it that a rabbi made one and brought it to life, so it could protect the Jews in the ghetto from persecution.’
She caught Max half smiling at her.
‘What – did I get something wrong?’
‘Not at all. I just don’t think I’ve ever met a German gentile who had heard the legend of the golem.’
Bettina shrugged, ‘Professor Adler talked about them in a lecture on folklore and they really stuck with me. When Richard told me the theme of your party was the elements, I thought something earthy might be appropriate.’
‘Entirely so. But I think you might have one thing wrong; I believe golem are always male.’
Bettina snorted, ‘Who decides?’
‘Well, it seems fairly self-explanatory to me. They were created for their strength.’
‘Caryatids are female and they hold up whole buildings; why can’t golem be the same?’
Max smiled wryly. ‘I’m no authority on golem. Or on women, come to that.’
He turned to Richard, who was leaning up against the ladder, watching them spar.
‘Come on Richard, back me up.’
‘You’re on your own, old man.’ He laughed. ‘Good luck.’
Bettina’s cheeks were flushed. ‘The female form is always depicted as servile – little girls shouldering slabs of marble as if they’re tea trays. Tell me, why do men get such a thrill from keeping women on their knees?’
Max grinned at her sudden burst of fury and put up his hands in mock defence.
‘There’s no need to take it personally.’
‘But why shouldn’t I? You’re criticizing my work and by extension me.’
She drew deeply on the cigarette and stabbed it into the paint-smeared rag, scattering a fist full of embers on the ground.
‘You presume males have the monopoly on strength, but it comes in many forms. A woman’s power is mutable; the ability to transform and bend, like clay. I have no use for an obdurate male, no matter how strong they think they are.’
She spat the words out, her eyes flashing with unexpected fury.
‘Shall we save this for a seminar?’ Richard interrupted. ‘I refuse to get drunk with either one of you until you both get changed.’
He turned from them and started to walk back towards the party.
‘You coming, Max?’
Max tried to catch Bettina’s eye, to dampen the heat of her wrath, but she refused to engage. Jaw set hard, she packed away her paints. From inside the building the sound of fresh voices rose above the music, vying for his attention. He hesitated for a moment and then turned from her and made his way back through the garden, excited by the promise of the night which lay ahead.
* * *
Max didn’t see Bettina again until the early hours of the next morning. By then the apartment was overflowing with sweating bodies, dirty glasses, cigarette smoke and, above it all, a heavy pall of noise. Clamouring voices climbed over each other, and the gramophone and radio engaged in an auditory duel which reverberated through the still night air. Guests spilled outside, eager to escape the smoke and heat. A raucous few raised their voices in song, while others sought out the garden’s darker corners to fumble lustily.
In the kitchen, Richard held court, arguing with a couple of intense young men about the eternal place of politics in art, despite the incongruity of their appearance. In keeping with the party’s motif of ‘the Elements’, one was wrapped in a papier-mâché representation of a water molecule, while the other had literal feet of clay. Richard still wore his hand-painted boiler suit, but Max had changed from formalwear into his own interpretation of ‘Air’, all clean lines and immaculate simplicity. He wore a well-tailored white shirt and a pair of crisp cotton trousers in a sky-blue twill. Where others found their release in chaos, Max sought perfection through constraint.
He moved about the main room, refilling glasses and doling out cigarettes, before taking command of the gramophone. As Gershwin ascended, he pulled the blonde girl with the arcing eyebrows into the centre of the room, long fingers entwined in hers, a light hand on the small of her back.
From the garden, a sea of sound began to rise, a wave of clapping and stamping. Curious guests wandered out through the golem-guarded doors, eager to see what fresh diversion the noise might promise, and Max found himself pulled along in their wake.
A crowd was gathered around a bonfire of logs liberated from the wood store. Circling the flames were half a dozen young men, their naked torsos turning amber in the reflection of the fire. Max recognized a few of them; former acolytes of the charismatic Professor Itten. He had left the Bauhaus a year before, but his influence could still be felt.
The fire spat plumes into the sky as Max strolled towards it. He had almost drawn level when a young woman appeared out of the shadows in front of him and stepped into the circle of light. She wore a floor-length sheath of crimson silk and a sheer black cape embellished with hand-painted rings of fire. He recognized her immediately.
Bettina stood, arms outstretched, like a diver poised to leap, her face emblazoned with a smile. Feeding off some primal energy in the gathering crowd, she shivered, as if bracing for the plunge, then reached up under the cape and shrugged off the narrow straps of her dress, dropping it to the floor. Her naked body was white as porcelain. A raucous cry went up from the ecstatic crowd, their blood quickening to the pulse of stamping feet.
The night breeze speckled Bettina’s skin with goosebumps. She basked in the flickering light which transformed her into something like a high priestess. Max felt a sudden flame of desire surge through him, tempered by a fear that she might fall.
Without warning, the sudden sound of heavy banging started somewhere deep within the building. The noise snatched Max from his reverie. Someone was beating at the door to his apartment. Around the fire a dozen heads turned towards the sound, which resumed with rising urgency. A single word began to ripple through the crowd: Polizei.
Lost in the thrill of her own daring, Bettina seemed oblivious to the threat it posed. Max started through the crowd to get to her, pushing people out of the way and leaning down to sweep her dress up as he went. He grabbed her by her naked shoulders and span her away from him, urgently pushing her on, out of the light and deep into the shadows.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ she cried, incredulous.
Behind them, from inside the building, he heard the sounds of orders being barked and breaking glass.
‘Come on, we have to get you out of here, it’s the police. They hate students at the best of times. They love nothing more than teaching us radicals a lesson. If someone tells them there’s a naked woman out here, then it’s a night behind bars at the least. Gropius is lenient, but you still might be expelled if you get charged with public nudity.’
‘Scheiße!’ She scanned the shrubbery. ‘Can I get out this way?’
‘You can, but you might want to put some clothes on first.’
Max shoved the slip of silk into her arms. She stumbled in the dark and struggled back into it. She pulled up the straps and he grabbed her hand, drawing her further into the shadows of the high garden wall. He got down on one knee and she laughed, incredulous.
‘Are you trying to save my honour by proposing?’
‘I’m trying to save your skin.’ He offered his cradled hands. She grinned and slipped off her shoes. He hoisted her up and she clambered over the wall. Dusting off his hands and knees, Max peered back through the branches shielding his hiding place. He could make out half a dozen officers herding the guests inside. The clamour from the gramophone and radio suddenly stilled, and an ominous silence descended.
Max weighed up what lay ahead for him: the angry neighbours, the accusations and apologies, the strong likelihood of a fine for disturbing the peace and the necessity of clearing up the debris left in the party’s wake. He hesitated for a moment, then turned back to the wall and leapt. Grasping the brick capstone, he threw his weight up and over and dropped down into the street panting heavily. Bettina was leaning against the wall, pulling her shoes back on. She cocked her head to the side, whilst balancing on one leg.
‘I can’t help but notice that you seem to have abandoned your guests in their hour of need.’
‘It does appear that way.’ He grinned.
The tree line of the Park an der Ilm had begun to brighten and somewhere deep within, a lone blackbird started to sing. Max looked at his wristwatch. It was 4.14 a.m.
‘Fräulein Vogel, may I escort you home?’
‘You don’t think you ought to stay and face the music?’
‘I probably should… but on reflection, I think a walk through the park might be more appealing. Shall we?’
He offered her his arm, but she grabbed his hand instead and began to run, pulling him after her. The thrill of escape sang through them both as they dashed towards the safety of the trees, checking behind, all the while dreading the shout of discovery which never came.
When they reached a broad grove of silver birch, they slowed to catch their breath. As they wove their way through the trees, Max found himself observing his accomplice: she was graceful, her long limbs slender as a sapling. Her face was framed by swooping brows and a blunt fringe; the promise of a smile carved in the curves of her dark, painted lips.
They strolled into a meadow of tall grass, flushing out a pair of startled rabbits who dashed across a clearing, towards a well-proportioned white cottage with a grey slate roof and trellised walls.
Bettina’s pace slowed to an idle. The dawn-wet dew soaked the hem of her red silk dress, turning it to wine; she shivered in the cool air.
‘I suppose I ought to thank you for rescuing me.’
‘I felt more than a little responsible, it was my party, after all. It occurred to me that your parents might not appreciate their daughter getting sent home in disgrace.’
‘I’m not sure that my family has the capacity for any more disapproval.’ She flashed him a sardonic grin. ‘My mother already thinks that studying art at the Bauhaus makes me tantamount to a fallen woman. She hoped I’d be a farmer’s wife by now, not frittering away my youth on something she doesn’t even want to comprehend. Meanwhile my fascist brother is terrified they’re turning me into a radical.’ She laughed. ‘Though he’s right on that – they have.’
‘And what about your father?’
‘He wouldn’t have approved, but he passed away a few years ago.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ He frowned.
‘Don’t be. I might only be here under sufferance, but at least I’m here. And I’ll do anything I need to stay.’
Behind the birch grove the rays of the climbing sun began to pierce the bright green canopy. Max and Bettina slowed and sat down in a patch of light, side by side, their hands and hips almost touching, each acutely aware of the distance between them. The air above was filled with pollen; motes of powder falling through the trees, suspended in a sunbeam. Max leant back on his elbows and gestured to the handsome white cottage on the far side of the lawn:
‘You see that little garden house? It used to belong to Goethe. There’s something about that kind of simplicity that just sings to me, like frozen music. I want to design compositions that consist only of that which is elegant and necessary. Nothing else.’
‘Sounds like a pretty decent manifesto for an architect.’
‘So, what’s yours?’
‘You’ll think me terribly naive. Don’t laugh, but… I truly believe art should serve a purpose beyond beauty. At the very least, I want mine to leave a mark. Or what else are we here for?’
The pollen settled on them both like a dusting of snow. Bettina leaned over to brush the grains of gold from his face. Her eyes met his, which were almost black in their intensity. He closed the lids briefly at the touch of her fingers on his cheek, then broke into a dimpled smile that lit him from within.
‘What else indeed? It seems as good a place as any to begin.’
CHAPTER THREE
Over-the-Rhine, Cincinnati
August 1993
As the taxi sped through the rain-soaked streets, Clara watched the buildings flicker past. At least in the city some structures were closer to the high-storeyed historic buildings of home. Still, the sensation of emptiness returned, coupled with nervous anticipation at what might lie ahead. Nausea welled up as the cab wallowed through potholes, throwing out waves of water which crested the sidewalk.
The driver called out to her, shouting to be heard over the radio.
‘What number ya got on Sycamore?’
Clara took out the note Peggy Forsythe had pressed into her hand.
‘1046, Bide-A-While Assisted Living.’
‘Got it.’
Clara felt his eyes on her in the rear-view mirror. She turned to look out of the window, reluctant to converse. He’d already quizzed her on the origins of her accent and her name, both hazards she feared she must now navigate every time she opened her mouth.
‘You got folks from Over-the-Rhine?’ he enquired.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Over-the-Rhine. That’s what your Europeans called this part of town when they moved here. I just figured, with a name like yours…’
She cut him off, ‘Not that I know of.’
She held tight to the box of clinking porcelain and clenched her teeth against another wave of exhaustion. The cloying, sweet stink of the air freshener hanging from the mirror was overpowering. She rolled down the window, inhaling deeply. After a moment she became aware of a different aroma: musky, salty and as familiar as childhood. She breathed it in, filling her senses with a nostalgia for something she couldn’t name.
‘It’s the Play-Doh factory.’
She turned and found the driver’s eyes already smiling at her in the mirror. That was it! She felt her fatigue vanish in the thrill of recognition.
‘Gets me every time I come down here,’ the driver said. ‘Nothing else quite like it.’
On the radio a girl declared with sunshine sweetness that she loved someone’s smile. Clara felt her mood lift, by the song, by the sweet-scented air and the eternal buoyancy of this place, which seemed so guileless in its optimism.
The taxi slowed to a stop at the corner of a busy intersection. Bide-A-While filled half a block, behind a broken-down chain-link fence: four floors of brown brick, ribboned with fire escapes. Under the cover of an overhang, a few stooped seniors were sitting at concrete tables playing dominoes, their weathered eyes watching the world go by.
Clara paid the driver and made a dash across the wet concrete, heading into the shelter of the dark building. She walked through a sterile lobby and into a long corridor lined with closed doors. Flickering strip lights illuminated a low, styrofoam ceiling. There were few indications of life, save for the low burble of a television behind a door marked ‘Superintendent’. Clara took a deep breath and knocked, gently at first and then again with force. A woman in a quilted polyester housecoat opened the door and peered out. Clara sensed they were roughly the same age, though she seemed somehow infinitely older.
‘So sorry to disturb you – I’m looking for Miss Williams?’
‘You found her. You the one Peggy says bought my statuettes?’
‘I am.’
The woman stood back and beckoned Clara in. The room was filled with mismatched furniture. There was a TV mounted on a bracket in the corner of the room and two padlocked glass cabinets of prescription drugs. Miss Williams motioned Clara to sit in an ancient armchair covered in transparent vinyl. She lowered herself down next to a sleeping dog of some indeterminate breed. She scooped it up and laid it across her meaty forearm to stroke.
‘I wasn’t sure she’d have much luck in selling them. They weren’t to my taste.’
Nor mine, thought Clara.
‘I’m not sure if Peggy explained, but I wanted to ask how you came to own them?’
‘They were given to me by one of our residents. Mr Ezra Adler, on the second floor.’
Clara’s mouth felt dry as sand.
‘Is Mr Adler home today?’
‘Lord no, he’s dead. Been gone a month now, since. Pneumonia.’
The tide of exhaustion returned with full force and she felt herself sag. Miss Williams frowned in consternation.
‘Did you know Mr Adler? Only Peggy didn’t say.’
Clara shook her head.
‘I didn’t know him, but I hoped he might help me find my father.’
She pressed her temples, trying to dislodge the pressure there. The folly of coming such a vast distance, only to find herself at a dead end.
‘One of the figurines was of a Viking. My mother owned one just like it; the only other that I’m aware of. Before she died, she told me that my father made it. I had thought, perhaps naively, that the owner might tell me who he was.’
Miss Williams eyed her with suspicion.
‘Well, all’s I know is Mr Adler was some kind of sculptor in Europe during the war. Came over here and got a job making models for Play-Doh. He lived upstairs these last ten or so years since he retired.’
