not yet recognized. It’s me, the smile said. Come on, it’s only me.
‘Yes, we know what they get up to over there,’ the man went on. ‘Four bare legs in a bed. Klimt. Anarchy. We don’t want that in the city of Goethe and Schiller. “This tree’s leaf, that from the east—”’
‘Oh, do shut up,’ the girl said, calling loudly as soon as the man started to throw his arm out and quote Goethe at them. Her voice was hoarse but educated, with some Bavarian musicality to it.
‘Don’t tell me to shut up,’ the man said. ‘Who told me to shut up?’
‘I did,’ the girl said, still grinning, and raising her hand like a schoolchild. ‘Don’t talk rubbish about what you don’t know. Do you want to know where the Bauhaus is?’
Christian did not realize for a moment that she was speaking to him.
‘Hello! You wanted to know where the Bauhaus was. Come with me.’
‘In this city …’ the man began, unconvincingly, but he had missed his moment, and as the girl took Christian by the wrist and led him roughly off, the little group of onlookers dispersed. On the ground, a drunk man lay on one side, clawing at the air with his left hand and cycling at nothing with his legs, like an upturned cow waiting to be righted.
‘Why are you looking for the Bauhaus?’ the girl said fiercely, as they walked away from the Goethe-statue square.
‘I’m starting there on Monday,’ Christian said. ‘They sent me directions but I left them behind, at my lodgings.’
‘But what I can’t understand, what I can’t understand at all, not one bit,’ the girl said, as if they had been having a conversation for days, for weeks, which had not reached a conclusion, ‘is why someone who doesn’t look like a complete idiot and buffoon and twit, not really, anyway, why someone quite normal should want to go and find the Bauhaus on a Saturday when he doesn’t have to go there until the Monday. That I don’t know if I can understand.’
‘You only have to push me in the right direction,’ Christian said.
‘Because when you get to the Bauhaus for the first time,’ the girl said, ‘oho, oho, that is when it all goes wrong. You hear about lines and essences and energy in a point and the hidden cross-weave and the drain a colour can make in the middle of a form. And how yellow can be yellow or it can be a completely different thing. Look at that yellow.’
The girl grabbed Christian’s arm with both hands, and forcibly made him point at the yellow wall of a palace. He felt they must be conspicuous, but the people of Weimar were apparently used to gestures of this sort. ‘That is what you call yellow,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘It is a yellow,’ Christian said, being specific in the way he had heard an art master once attempt.
‘And there,’ the girl said, pulling him round and making him point again, at a different palace, this time in a deep rustic red, ‘that, too, that is what you would call A YELLOW, is it not.’
‘No, that’s red!’ Christian said, forgetting to be specific.
‘Ah,’ the girl said. ‘You see, that is just a matter of context. That yellow only looks red because it lies between two contrasting greens, and the greens have their counter energy, which they project onto the underlying yellow, and there it is, red but only perceived as red. Not real red. You see?’
The wall was still, undeniably, red. The girl, a head shorter than him, came up close to his face. She smelt, curiously, not unattractively, of fresh sweat and of garlic. He remembered what his landlady had said about the diet of the Bauhaus students.
‘And that is the sort of thing which the Bauhaus will draw you into, and make you believe, and make you accost strangers and explain, and turn you into a raving madman before it turns you into an artist. But let us go on. Look, beauties to the right, beauties to the left. An important library built by a duchess for her thirty-four children straight ahead of us, and directly behind – don’t turn – an elephant house in the Gothic Revival style, 1674, three stars in your guidebook. What is your name?’
‘Christian Vogt. I come from Berlin.’
‘I did not ask all that. I come from Breitenberg. My name is Elsa Winteregger. What sort of maker are you?’
‘What sort of—’
‘What do you make? If you are coming to the Bauhaus, then what is it that you make?’
And now they were standing in a shady square, irregular in shape, with a poster pillar at its centre. The weathervane on top of the poster pillar swung indecisively from left to directly away from them and back again. Christian remembered his decisive belief.
‘I am a painter,’ he said. It was the first time he had said it in front of anyone at all. Elsa Winteregger was the person he had chosen to hear his decision.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said. She thought for a moment; looked him up and looked him down; she placed her hands on her hips. ‘And when did you arrive in Weimar?’
‘Yesterday afternoon,’ he said.
‘And you come out without your book, your paper, your charcoal and your pencils to draw the beautiful city of Weimar?’
Christian crimsoned. Of course that was the first thing he should have done. It had not occurred to him. Of course a real artist would have loved to take the opportunity to go outside with pencil and paper to sketch a new, a beautiful and interesting city. Christian’s sketchbook was still in his suitcase. He had done nothing, and it had not occurred to him among the most urgent possibilities, last night or this morning. The question of whether he was an artist at all, whether he was deluding himself, presented itself painfully.
‘Or you might be the sort of painter who never goes outside with his easel,’ the word pronounced sarcastically, ‘and his paintbrushes, and his oil paints to paint. You might stay inside the studio painting canvases of something that is almost-but-not-quite a black square superimposed on a red triangle. Don’t you think red is the most important journey you can take as a painter? Who is the greatest painter?’
‘I think the Spaniard Picasso,’ Christian said, priding himself on producing so up-to-date a name.
‘No, it is El Greco,’ Elsa said, ‘or if we are talking about the living, there is no one more wonderful, wonderful, wonderful, than Malevich. Have you discovered what he has to say about black?’
Christian shook his head. He felt defeated before he had even started. Elsa flung her face to the sky, and shouted, in the quiet Weimar square, ‘“As the tortoise draws its limbs into its shell at need, so the artist reserves his scientific principles when working intuitively.”’
A window was flung open, and a voice responded. ‘“But would it be better for the tortoise to have no legs?”’
‘Who is that?’ Elsa shouted angrily. ‘Who is that?’
‘It’s me,’ the voice came. A head poked out of the window; neat-groomed, en brosse, a nice snub nose.
