21. Dallas
DALLAS
Vermeer’s Family Secrets had arrived . After Otto and Emmi went off to bed that night, Greta—thinking she might read a chapter or two—got comfortable on the couch in the den.
She could not put the book down. Throughout the night, the dogs wandered in and out of the room to check on her, confused by her absence from the bedroom.
At around midnight, Emmi came in as well.
“You’re still up?” she said.
“Only a few more minutes,” Greta said. “I swear, I’m going to bed soon.”
“You should really get some sleep,” Emmi said, “or you’ll be cranky tomorrow.”
It seemed their roles had reversed.
Eventually Greta fell asleep on the couch, the book open on her chest, Bunny at her feet.
Otto woke her up early the next morning before he left for surgery. She sat up and ran her fingers through her tangled hair.
“You never came to bed,” he said, offering her a cup of coffee. “ Willst du jetzt Kaffee? Or would you rather sleep a few more hours and have it later?”
“No, I think I’ll get up,” she said, “and take the dogs for a walk before it gets too hot out.” She stretched her back and then showed him the book.
“I was reading about Vermeer’s life and family and his studio, and I have to say, this Binstock makes a convincing argument.
He’s really got me thinking.” She blew into her coffee mug.
“Argument for what?” said Otto. “Is this the nonsense about his daughter?”
Greta looked up at him, frowning. “How do you know it’s nonsense?”
“I don’t,” said Otto. “But you said Herr Schultz and everyone at the National Gallery called it nonsense. Haarstr?ubende Theorie , you said. Or was it volliger Blodsinn ?”
Otto was right, of course. Greta put the book down. “The Berliner Zeitung has asked me for a comment. I got an email from the newspaper’s art editor.”
“And what will you do?” Otto said, looking alarmed.
“I’ll ignore him, of course,” said Greta, “as instructed. I’m not allowed to comment.”
“That’s for the best,” said Otto. “Why cause a problem when there doesn’t have to be one? Now, what fun plans do you make with Emmi today?” he said.
“We’re going to the Dallas Museum of Art,” she said. “And then we could meet you for lunch, if you want.”
“ Gerne ,” said Otto. “One o’clock?”
He leaned over and kissed her on the top of her head. And then he donned a Rangers baseball cap, tossed his minivan keys in the air, and caught them. “Another day of sunshine,” he said, and walked out of the room.
Greta took Bunny and Tank for a walk through the neighborhood.
It was beautiful out, lush and green, thanks to the sprinkler jets spraying water across the grass in every yard up and down the street.
As they circled the block to go back home, a woman from the house on the corner wished her a good morning as she was picking her newspaper up off the walkway.
Strangers greeting her on the street was not something Greta was accustomed to, but she waved back, wondering whether this might be the neighbor Sylvie had mentioned, the one who had spread the terrible rumor about Jack.
Emmi had also heard a rumor from a girl she met in the neighborhood. And while Cynthia’s version of the story was bad, at least it wasn’t as bad as sex trafficking. Emmi had been absolutely appalled nevertheless.
“That Jack is such an Arschloch ,” she’d said. “I can’t believe he’s actually living in our apartment.”
“I think the best thing we can do is forget we ever heard anything,” Greta had said. “Just because we’re living in each other’s houses doesn’t mean we have to get involved or wrapped up with these people.”
Emmi had accused her of being complacent in the face of sexism, not just in this situation, she’d said, but in her everyday life.
And, in a way, she probably was.
Emmi still wasn’t awake. Greta dropped the mail onto the growing pile on the kitchen counter and then filled the dog bowls with water.
She opened her laptop, searching for whatever she could find on Binstock and Vermeer.
There were articles in The Atlantic , and on ArtNet News and NPR.
The arguments being made were very credible, and Greta couldn’t understand why they hadn’t gotten more attention from museums and art historians.
What would be the harm in contemplating a theory?
Of course, she knew the answer in her case: How would it look if she’d guided the Schultz family to spend a fortune on a Vermeer, only to ask them to consider that maybe it wasn’t one after all?
She went outside to get the bathing trunks and towel Otto had left hanging over a lounge chair that morning.
And there was Mickey, using his net to scoop the leaves out of the pool.
This man was not Adam’s depiction of a pool boy.
Rather, he was middle-aged and heavily bearded, and he wore baggy gray gym shorts.
And she was not playing her part in Adam’s fantasy either, reading a steamy novel while he piled the leaves into a messy clump on the flagstones.
She wanted to text Adam to tell him all this, but she was too angry and hurt.
He’d known Lucy for only a few weeks and had completely opened up to her, while he’d kept the most important details about himself secret from Greta. Adam was not a friend.
Greta went back inside and was starting a load of laundry when Emmi came in, holding an oversize coffee mug in one hand and a green Stanley water bottle they’d bought the day before in the other. “Tell me you’re not washing Dad’s clothes,” Emmi said.
“Good morning to you too,” Greta said, adding a scoop of detergent to the machine. “Your father is working very hard these days, and he doesn’t have time for this kind of thing.”
Emmi frowned. “He can wash his own towels,” she said.
“I know you’ll say it’s none of my business, but your marriage is based on an outdated paradigm.
My professor says that women with children spend twice the amount of time doing household chores as men with children.
It’s entrenched from childhood, and we have to reject this traditional model.
By doing Dad’s laundry, you’re reinforcing a societal problem and setting a bad example. ”
Greta turned from the washing machine to face her. “Your professor said I’m setting a bad example?”
“She didn’t say you specifically.” Emmi sighed and drank from the water bottle.
It was enormous and had a handle and a drinking spout, and Greta didn’t know what was wrong with drinking from a proper cup.
“I’m just bringing to your attention,” Emmi said, “an example of the deeply ingrained sexism in our culture. Any step that brings about equality is worth taking. You should make Dad do his share of the household work and then you’ll be part of the solution. ”
“And otherwise, I’m part of the problem?”
“No, I’m not saying that exactly,” Emmi said. “I just think we should all do what we can to make things fair. Should I get ready to go?”
And she walked off with her two drinks.
Greta went back to the kitchen and sat down at her laptop again.
She did not like to think of herself as doing anything that undermined women.
Yes, she and Otto lived by an outdated paradigm, but she certainly thought of herself as a good role model, as a woman who had always balanced work and motherhood, who certainly thought women were equal to men, maybe even better, who wanted every opportunity for her daughter.
She thought of Maria Vermeer, knowing exactly what Emmi would want her to do.
She opened her email and wrote to Sebastian Schultz again, simply floating the idea of a meeting with Benjamin Binstock, perhaps over Zoom, just to hear him out.
And then they could decide for themselves whether it was believable that Maria Vermeer might have been the one to create such an exquisite painting.
If she did paint it, Greta wrote, shouldn’t she get the credit?
By the time she was out of the shower, she’d already gotten her reply, not from Herr Schultz but from his lawyer.
It was a short message, saying she was not to contact Binstock under any circumstances, and she was never to speak about this subject in any public forum.
Doing so, it said, was verboten and would be considered a violation of their trust in her.
Greta understood very clearly that the smartest, most sensible—the only—thing to do would be to drop the subject entirely.
Greta and Emmi went to the Dallas Museum of Art late that morning to see a contemporary art exhibit called He Said/She Said that fittingly questioned “the myth of the sole male genius.”
They walked from room to room together, stopping to look at the pieces that caught their attention, just as they had when Emmi was too young to go to museums.
“Mom,” said Emmi, grabbing her by the elbow. “If this isn’t a sign, I don’t know what is.”
“A sign?” Greta said. When Emmi got on a soapbox, she could be relentless.
“Yes, that your generation tolerates casual and even blatant misogyny in a way mine never will. We don’t stand for men treating us like shit.”
“I don’t know that I need another lecture—”
“I’m just saying— Look!” And she turned Greta by her arms, making her face the artwork head-on.
It was called Pergusa by Olivia Erlanger and featured an actual Maytag washing machine with a large mermaid tail coming out of it.
“This piece is literally telling you to stop doing a man’s laundry,” Emmi said.
“Or maybe it’s saying”—Greta tilted her head and studied the work—“that it’s tough to be a fish out of water?”
“Mom,” said Emmi, giving her a withering look.