17. Dallas
DALLAS
The thing about the Vermeer was that it was expensive.
It was very, very expensive because not only was it a Vermeer, it was an outstanding Vermeer.
Girl with a Red Turban was possibly the most remarkable work Johannes Vermeer ever painted.
It brought to mind Girl with a Red Hat , but technically, it was far superior, a perfect example of Vermeer’s mastery of depicting light as it falls across the model’s face and onto the folds of gold fabric that drape on her shoulders.
The girl’s riveted gaze, her slightly open lips, and her coy smile convey a confidence and amusement that almost challenge the viewer.
Or mock her. And his use of perspective in depicting the room behind her—the open doorway and the shadows on the wall—was sublime.
Before going to auction, the painting had gone through all manner of examination, and x-radiographs had indicated there had once been a male figure standing in the background in front of a crooked painting, both of which Vermeer had removed.
In Greta’s mind, this mystery—the unknown man, the art askew—only heightened the sense of intrigue in the composition.
The authenticated Girl with a Red Turban had surfaced at the best possible moment, just before she’d made the first acquisition, and Greta had been almost as pleased by the fortuitous timing as she was by the painting itself.
Sebastian Schultz instructed her to outbid everyone—collectors from the United States, the UK, and China.
The extravagance of the purchase meant that while the rest of the collection would still be impressive, it would be somewhat less so, as they now lacked the funds to acquire, say, a Richter or a van Gogh.
A few family members grumbled that too much had been invested in that one treasure.
But once they saw the Vermeer up close, they were, for the most part, thrilled.
Sebastian’s sister had called Greta a miracle worker.
And now some art historian was questioning the painting’s authenticity, which Greta could not help but take as an attack on her credibility.
Raising doubts about a work wasn’t unheard of, of course, but Greta wasn’t happy about it, given the significance of this particular acquisition and the boost it had given her reputation.
She woke up to the jarring email and read it again over coffee.
Benjamin Binstock had not listed any affiliation under his signature—no university or museum—so Greta sat at the kitchen counter and googled him.
He had been on the faculty at Columbia and Cooper Union, and he’d been a fellow at the American Academy in Berlin.
He was a Vermeer scholar whose book outlined a bold theory: Binstock believed that Johannes Vermeer’s daughter Maria had painted several works attributed to her father, such as Portrait of a Young Woman , hanging in the Metropolitan Museum in New York, and the contested Girl with a Flute at the National Gallery of Art in DC.
Clearly, he now included Girl with a Red Turban on his list of paintings he thought were Maria’s.
Greta felt obliged to inform Herr Schultz about the email, given that he’d paid ???€60 million for the painting in question. She forwarded Binstock’s message, saying that she thought it best to ignore it but that she would follow his instructions on whether to respond.
She hit send. And then, out of a niggling curiosity, she ordered Binstock’s book on Amazon.
Otto came downstairs before work, carrying a pair of jeans.
“Otto,” Greta said, “whose pants are those?”
“I found them upstairs in a Schrank ,” he said, holding them up to himself. “Do you think der Str?fling would mind if I try them on?”
“Mason is not a prisoner ,” Greta said. She’d googled Lucy’s husband and found out that the “six-month stretch out west” Rex had mentioned referred to Mason’s participation in a NASA biosphere project where he was bringing his skills as a solar expert and systems engineer to a simulated Mars environment.
She had told Otto, but he still called Mason the convict or the jailbird or der Gefangener .
“And no, you shouldn’t try on his pants.”
Greta’s suitcase had arrived a few days before. She had taken it in hand and guided it through the house and into Lucy’s room, as if she were welcoming an old friend to town. She felt grateful for each of her garments as she unfolded them and hung them up in the bedroom closet.
But Otto’s suitcase was lost for good, and he desperately needed clothes.
“I’ll go shopping for you today,” she said.
“ Danke ,” he said. “My new colleagues are very relaxed, and I would like to fit in. Could you buy me some pants wie so ”—he held up the jeans—“instead of my usual Hose ? And some sport shoes?”
“You’re going to wear sneakers to work?”
“New Balance,” he said. “It’s what they are all wearing. I would like to be feeling more comfortable.” Otto was smiling.
“I take it you like these doctors.”
“ Oh, ja ,” he said. “They are super cool. I find it wonderful here.”
Greta was also finding life in Dallas pleasant enough, for the most part.
She’d taken a few trips to the grocery store in the dinged-up Prius and found it easy to drive on Dallas’s wide streets and to park in the expansive lots.
But she could not get used to the temperature extremes, going from the oppressive heat of the outdoors to the icy cold of the dairy aisles and back out into the heat.
That day she went to NorthPark on Irene’s recommendation, and Greta walked around the mall in awe, not only because of the scale of the place and the number and variety of stores it held, but also because of the art—world-class art!
Henry Moore, Frank Stella, and Katharina Grosse.
Roy Lichtenstein and Jim Dine. It was a museum inside a mall, a merging of consumerism and culture that delighted Greta’s American side and horrified the German in her.
She bought Otto two pairs of Levi’s, three button-down shirts, and a pair of New Balance sneakers.
The following Saturday, Rex let himself in the back door and invited Otto and Greta on a tour around downtown Dallas to give them a bit of the city’s history.
Greta opted to stay home as she’d already gone on a nice drive with Irene that included a stop to see the original downtown Neiman Marcus and a walk through the Nasher Sculpture Center garden.
Greta wanted to focus her day on Emmi’s arrival.
She was going to shop for her favorite foods and pick up flowers for her bedroom.
She had only a little over a week to spend with her daughter and wanted the visit to be perfect. “But you should go,” she told Otto.
Otto nodded enthusiastically, getting up from his breakfast. “Yes, I would like that very much.”
As Greta watched the men walk outside and across the yard, she wondered whether Rex and Irene really were this nice, or Lucy was asking her parents to keep an eye on her and Otto, which was completely ridiculous.
Greta was taking excellent care of the house—better than Lucy herself maybe—which meant she was spending a lot of her time cleaning, too much of her time.
That morning she put a pile of dog towels in the dryer, emptied and then loaded the dishwasher, and put clean sheets on the beds.
Using a combination of vinegar and dish soap, she managed to remove a stain, spaghetti sauce by the look of it, from one of Lucy’s carpets.
She would leave this campsite better than she found it.
After she finished the day’s housework, she took a seat on the massive sectional sofa in the den and called her mother, who greeted her with a “Hello, hello” in a voice lighter and higher than it had been in years. “I’m in my new apartment.”
“How was the move?” Greta said. “I feel terrible I’m not there to help.”
“No need,” Lillian said. “Tobias is so capable. He managed everything perfectly and told the movers exactly what to do and how to do it, and not a single thing was broken.”
Tobias’s name was dropped in every conversation with her mother these days.
“Was it hard to say goodbye to the house?”
“A bit, yes,” Lillian said. “I woke up very disoriented in my new room.”
“But do you like the apartment?”
“It’s awesome,” she said, sounding more Emmi’s age than her own. “So much less to manage. And I can walk to everything.”
Greta missed walking. All she did in Dallas was drive from one parking lot to the next.
Few of the streets even had sidewalks, so when she took the dogs out, they all walked down the side of the road, right along the curb.
“Lucky you found a building with an elevator,” Greta said.
“And I love that you’re only ten minutes away from us. ”
“If you come back,” Lillian said casually.
“Of course we’re coming back,” said Greta, getting up at the sound of the dryer beeping. “Why wouldn’t we?”
“It might be hard to leave the US once you’ve spent a little time there. Are you enjoying yourselves?”
“It’s fine,” said Greta. “I’m very excited for Emmi to get here.”
“She’ll love it,” Lillian said. “There are so many things that are better there. Like ice water in restaurants.”
Greta disagreed. Ice water made her teeth hurt.
“And free refills on coffee,” her mother went on. “Jaywalking. Jif peanut butter. Drive-throughs. Bounty paper towels. Small talk. Carcinogenic artificial sweeteners. Strip malls. Excedrin PM….”