11. Newark Airport, Terminal C
NEWARK AIRPORT, TERMINAL C
Greta felt ill when they arrived in Newark.
During the descent, the plane had lurched and rocked and dropped, making her doubt they were going to survive the landing at all.
She was almost relieved to learn their flight to Dallas was delayed two hours as she couldn’t bear the idea of boarding again without a chance to have her feet on the ground.
She and Otto made their way through an endless line at immigration and finally got to the baggage claim, where their suitcases never appeared. They stood there, watching the empty carousel go around and around, until they gave up and went to file a missing luggage report with the airline.
“We’ll send your suitcases on to Dallas,” the employee said, “if they’re found.”
“ If? ” said Greta.
“I meant when,” he said.
With nothing but their carry-ons, they took the AirTrain to transfer to the domestic terminal. Through the windows of the tram, Greta watched the rain spattering the runways and the wind howling. For this kind of weather, they may as well have stayed in Berlin.
They walked through the crowded terminal, stopping at a Starbucks not far from the gate.
Otto ordered a coffee, but club soda was all Greta’s stomach could handle. Motion sickness ran in her family, and she knew from experience it would be another hour at least before it faded.
With their drinks in hand, they found seats not too far from the gate to sit out the storm.
Otto took the top off his cup and blew on it. He leaned forward to take a sip, and then jerked away, splashing coffee on his pants. “ Schei?e ,” he said. “Too hot.” He got a Kleenex from his pocket and pressed it to his crotch. “ Wasser . I need Wasser .” He held his hand out.
“Did you burn yourself?” Greta asked, passing her water bottle.
“Yes. And oh, look, I have made a Katastrophe of my pants.”
Greta watched as Otto poured club soda on himself and dabbed at the coffee stain with the tissue. He was making it worse. “Better to leave it alone,” she said.
He studied the splotch. “How embarrassing,” he said, and shrugged at her. “I will now have to sit in this chair for the rest of my life.”
Greta’s stomach was still roiling. “In that case, could you watch my bag? I need to walk this off.”
“Where else can I go?” he said.
She paced up and down the terminal, grateful she’d worn comfortable shoes to travel, and then went into a shop to buy candy to get the sour taste out of her mouth. She also bought copies of Time, People , and The New Yorker to get caught up on American politics and culture.
She checked the monitor on her way back and returned to the gate. Otto had finished his coffee and was looking absently out the window.
“Feeling better?” he said.
“A little, yes. But our flight’s delayed another hour.”
“You will not believe it,” he said, “but my pants are even getting worse.” He stood up. The dark spot had spread.
“Maybe get paper towels from the bathroom?” she said. She handed him The New Yorker , which he held over his crotch as he walked away, still limping slightly from his stubbed toe earlier that day.
Travel, Greta thought, is not for the faint of heart—unless one got to travel like the Schultz family.
For her very first meeting, the family had flown her on a private plane with a wood-paneled interior and leather bucket seats.
The pilot and flight attendant introduced themselves to her, and then they jetted to an island in the North Sea, where Sebastian Schultz himself, founder of the biggest energy conglomerate in the EU, had greeted her at the door of his Sylt estate.
He led her into a dining room where the doors opened to the ocean, and the whole family, dressed in cool linen pants and loose white tops, was gathered around a long, bleached-wood table, fans twirling overhead.
Greta was told to sit at one end of the table, and Sebastian took his seat at the other, and he laid out the family’s mission: to collect art to donate to the city of Berlin as a way of building their reputation as philanthropists and connoisseurs.
Like the software mogul Hasso Plattner, who had donated his collection of French Impressionist art to a museum in Potsdam—including a record-setting ??? $110 million Monet haystack—Sebastian wanted to become a benefactor, but for the city of Berlin.
As the staff circled the table, refilling glasses of sparkling water, lemonade, and rosé, Greta asked for a few specifics—for example: Were they, like Plattner, interested in French Impressionism?
Or were they thinking of something else, German Expressionism maybe?
Or contemporary art? What, she asked, was their vision?
The family members looked at one another, each waiting for someone else to begin.
Finally, Sebastian’s wife said she loved a little Renoir still life of pomegranates she’d seen in a friend’s breakfast room.
His brother said he found Richter impressive, mostly because he was nine years older than he and still alive.
Sebastian’s sister expressed bewilderment over the popularity of Lucian Freud, objecting to the “fleshiness” of his nudes.
Her husband said seascapes always made him feel small and a little depressed, but landscapes were very grounding.
Sebastian’s eldest nephew suggested they consider Warhol and Picasso, noting how erotic some of them were, waggling his eyebrows at Greta.
A college-aged grandchild asked whether Kehinde Wiley could be commissioned to do their portraits.
And then Vanessa—who had recommended Greta to her grandfather after their chance encounter at the café—chimed in to say they should seek out newer talent, support up-and-coming artists not yet in the mainstream.
She asked the family to consider focusing on contemporary art that moved them, rather than on names, usually of dead white men, that had already garnered a stamp of capitalist approval.
Down with the patriarchy! Enough with the old masters!
Her speech got a brief round of half-hearted applause that made her smile.
Sebastian cleared his throat then, almost aggressively.
Greta looked up from the notes she was taking and glanced at him; Sebastian Schultz was clearly not moved by anything his granddaughter had said.
The sea air blew in through the open doors, ruffling the petals of the white roses in their vases.
Behind Sebastian was a spectacular view of sand dunes and the ocean beyond.
He crossed his arms and looked at Vanessa, a slow shake of his gray head.
The purpose of building a collection, he said, as though he were addressing an unwieldy group of kindergartners, was to show the world that they were serious people.
As such, the art collection should convey a very particular image, one of certainty and substance.
This project, he said, was not about whims; it was not about fads and was certainly not about feminism.
It was about the family’s identity in the public eye.
In the silence that followed, Greta asked for their budget; certainty and substance weren’t cheap.
Sebastian slid a piece of paper to his sister, who passed it to her husband, who passed it to their son, and so on, all the way down the table to Greta, and she pretended not to be shocked when she saw the sum. This was a curator’s dream.
But within a week, the squabbling began.
Vanessa copied Greta on an email to the family, suggesting they at least consider some female painters and sculptors, and an in-law replied, accusing her of reverse sexism.
A second in-law chimed in, insisting they buy only German artists, while a third said that reeked of nationalism and would make them all look like Nazis.
Sebastian’s unmarried brother replied, saying the in-laws should stay out of the conversation altogether as they weren’t actually family, which set off a firestorm on both sides.
Finally, Sebastian sent an email, saying he’d made a mistake letting so many verdammte cooks in the kitchen.
He and Greta would work alone to build a collection of European masterpieces.
What he wanted—and it was his money, he reminded them—was a Vermeer.
And he would damn well get one regardless of what anyone else had to say about it.
Greta’s job was part negotiator, part family therapist, and part bearer of bad news; for example, given the scarcity and demand, Sebastian Schultz was never going to get a Vermeer.
They discussed other artists he admired, Renoir, Kirchner, Degas.
And just as Greta was beginning to envision the collection as a whole, she did the impossible and found Sebastian Schultz a Vermeer.
She would never forget the look on his face when she told him.
Now she was losing the chance to build something out of that extraordinary opportunity. She was being exiled to Texas, where, yes, she would perhaps get a tan, but she would become irrelevant in the art world.
Otto came back and sat down in the seat beside his briefcase. “I used the hand dryer,” he said, “but I look anyway like a man with Inkontinenz . Are you eating candy? May I have some?”
“You don’t eat sweets,” she said.
“ Normalerweise ,” he said, “but it looks good.”
She reached over their bags and handed him a Hershey’s Kiss. “You might not like it,” she said. “It’s not as good as Lindt or Milka. The texture is waxier.”
“You hold very strong opinions about chocolate.”
“ Selbstverst?ndlich ,” she said. “I’m German.”
Otto carefully removed the foil wrapper and bit the Kiss in half. “You’re right,” he said, chewing, “but still, mmm.”
She looked over at him in surprise. “What’s gotten into you, Otto?”
“What do you mean?”
“Champagne and chocolate?”
“Why not?” he said. He leaned back and looked at the travelers milling around.