It was such a superlative sunset. Superlative sunset. She liked that. Despite the fact that it was not language that captured her heart, but the beautiful coagulation of her paints on the canvas, each stroke of the brush, the smock she wore that was artistically spattered with every shade of every color, the paint that inevitably stained her best clothing and her otherwise flawless skin, she enjoyed the flow of words just as she marveled at the flowing and mixing of paints. And before she could think of anything else, she grabbed her camera and snapped a photograph of that bold sunset. In fact, she took several photographs. About five minutes later, when the colors of the clouds and the sky had changed, she shut off her camera and journeyed back inside her house to her large, friendly studio.
Canvases of every shape and size greeted her. Bold paints, soft paints, warm colors, cool colors, an assorted mix of acrylics and water colors, pencils and charcoal, smiled up at her as though waiting with bated breath to be used in some masterpiece that would revolutionize the world of art. Every type of paper there could have been seemed ready to be piled over with generous amounts of paints.
Anneliese sighed contentedly, the last rays of the fading sunlight warming her back as she set down her camera next to her easel. She would have to develop the photos. Normally, Anneliese didn’t photograph a subject she would later paint, but the colors in a sunset were capricious, naughty little things. There simply wouldn’t be enough time for her to paint a sunset, when within only a matter of minutes it would vanish. No sunset was ever the same; they were like snowflakes, or fingerprints. But this one held some element of splendor. It was as though the sunset had been made for an artist like Anneliese.
She was something of a celebrity in her little town. Her work had been showcased in exhibitions all over Germany: Hamburg, Frankfurt, Berlin. Everywhere. Yet prestige never appealed to Anneliese so much as the art itself. She had everything she needed, even though she lived in little more than a cottage. Art was everywhere, to her, and so she had exquisite gardens, full of small flowers. Her house was a fresh, airy white, making the entire house seem just that much brighter. There seemed to be a magical quality in Anneliese’s life.
But no one had noticed of late that Anneliese was not leaving the house as often as she normally did. She stayed at home, painting, reading, and sighing. What life she had in her eyes had all but disappeared.
The sunset, she felt, would work. But did she have time to paint it? Or would she only develop the photographs? She had exactly one week to paint it. She felt remorse, terrible remorse, wishing it had been different.
Why had she never tried to comfort them? They had told her of the horrors, of everything that they had gone through. They had told her, but she had never once tried to ease their suffering. The people who had gone to such great lengths for her had not received anything from her in return. Anneliese did not understand why she did not even attempt to help them.
But now it’s too late, she thought miserably. She sat down on an armchair in the back of the studio, and heard a soft mew.
“Meine Katze! Komme schnell!” My cat, come quickly. It obeyed, jumping into her lap and purring as loudly as possible. “Tanja, sind Sie heute gut gewesen?” Tanja, were you good today? Tanja gave a loud mew by way of answer. Anneliese smiled at her, running her hands through Tanja’s soft fur.
Suddenly, a piercing ring flooded the house, scaring Tanja and compelling her to jump off Anneliese’s lap to hide.
“Mein Gott!” Anneliese yelled, and ran to answer the insistent telephone.
“Allo?”
“Allo, Anneliese!” came the reply.
“Margot! How are you?”
“Oh, don’t vorry about me. How are you, Anne? A wery difficult time for you, yes, vhat vith your parents’ deaths…”
“Ja. I just took a photograph of a sunset. It vill be fitting, no? Like ze sunset of their lives.”
“I still feel as though it is impossible. Ach, driving on the Autobahn…you said it vos a wacation?”
“Zey wanted to go. I let zem go. And…it vos…an auto, another auto, came and crushed zem, tchoost like zat.”
“I vill come. To the funeral. Vith you. You need some company.”
“Ach, you are too good to me. Thank you. It is good to have friends, yes? Who vill help you, when you need it.”
“Also, I heard something yesterday. Is it true?”
“Is vot true?”
“Are you going to the art exhibition? In New York?”
“New York?” Anneliese asked, flabbergasted.
“Of course New York! Vhere else vood it be? At ze museum, modern art museum!”
“I have not received any letter about it.”
“You vill. Tell me vhen you do.”
“If I do, Margot. If I do. Good night. Thank you for calling. It really means so much to me, Margot, when you tell me you vill come.”
“I vant to come, for you. Gute Nacht.”
“Auf wiedersehen.”
“Auf wiedersehen,” Margot said, and hung up. Anneliese did not react for a moment, but thought feverishly as the dial tone insisted she hang up as well.
New York? Anneliese thought, in disbelief. New York! Why had Margot asked? Why would people think she was going to this exhibit? What would make someone so…so mad? Anneliese’s art had never once traveled out of the country, much less overseas. But if it did…there were hundreds, thousands of possibilities open to her! This was almost too good to be true.