The Woman Who Heard Color by Kelly Jones Page A

dinners and evening events, sometimes with Frau Fleischmann and Herr Fleischmann, sometimes just as Herr Fleischmann’s assistant. She often wondered what these men and often their wives, the Fleischmanns’ friends, thought her position was, though she could only imagine. Through overheard conversations at the gallery in Munich, she was aware of the delight some of their patrons took in sharing personal details, sometimes quite scandalous, regarding others’ lives. She laughed a little at this realization—that the wealthy were really no different from the common folk when it came to a juicy bit of gossip.
    Though sometimes bitter, Frau Fleischmann was realistic about her health, and knew when not to extend beyond her limits. When she did not accompany them, on their return Hanna would describe everyone they had met, the women’s gowns, what had been served, the conversations that had taken place. Herr Fleischmann, while not unkind, was at times impatient, and left the retelling to Hanna. As his wife pointed out, he did not remember the little things that Hanna always noticed. Oh, how her mistress enjoyed the stories. And Hanna realized that this was of great benefit to her also, as she learned to listen, to see, to pick up the smallest details.
    They went to an exhibition at the Bernheim-Jeune Galerie, a retrospective of a Dutch artist named Vincent van Gogh. Helene wanted to go, but she was not feeling well, and conceded that she should stay at the hotel and rest.
    Hanna’s heart thumped wildly, her pulse jumped about in her ears, as they moved slowly through the gallery—so much color, such sounds, such music. Bright patches of color—one could even see the brushstrokes, brilliant swirls of paint. Hanna was tempted to reach out and touch them. The simple pictures of flowers and villages and starry skies looked nothing like real scenes, and yet they were alive!
    The brochures, the chatter in the gallery, was all in French, which Hanna did not understand. She guessed that some of these admirers were also artists, that others—from the way Herr Fleischmann, who had a good command of the language, chatted with them as they examined the work—were also dealers.
    As they left, Herr Fleischmann asked, “What do you think, Hanna?”
    “I’ve never seen such lovely combinations of colors, of shapes, and textures,” she said, “but I want to know more.”
    “About?”
    “The artist.”
    “But, you like the work? The work should be taken on its own merit.”
    “Yes, it should,” she agreed. “But as dealers of art, should we not have knowledge of the artist himself?”
    Herr Fleischmann nodded, and she detected a small smile playing about his mouth. He was pleased with her reply, and she guessed amused that she seemed to be including herself as one of the dealers.
    “This artist will become very important in the development of twentieth-century art. Unfortunately the man himself did not make it to the twentieth century.”
    “He’s dead?” Hanna asked.
    Again Herr Fleischmann nodded.
    “He died a wealthy man?”
    Herr Fleischmann laughed. He raised a hand to hail a passing hansom cab, which stopped. The driver jumped down and held the door for them.
    As they sat, Herr Fleischmann continued, “No, the truth is he died, it is believed, at his own hand. Very poor. It is said he sold but one painting in his lifetime.”
    “How sad,” Hanna said. “Perhaps if he had had a good art dealer, his work would have made him wealthy.”
    “Perhaps he was too advanced for his own time,” Herr Fleischmann came back. “But, I believe at last his time has come. We must return to the exhibition when Helene is feeling better. She will love this work.”
    The following day they went early, as mornings were best for Helene. After a second slow walk through the gallery, Frau Fleischmann as entranced as Hanna and Herr Fleischmann, Hanna listening carefully to their whispered conversations, she knew they would be returning to