Seal Woman. Solveig Eggerz

hole. "Move along if you don't want a fuck."

      Max nodded politely then turned to Charlotte. "Primary colors are much more convincing for flesh tones than pink."

      "Asshole," the woman said.

      On Museum Island, they mounted the broad staircase towards the statue of Kaiser Friedrich Wilhelm. His horse pawed the air, bursting out of the Corinthian temple above them.

      Inside, Max stopped at a painting by Vermeer van Delft, placed his fingers inches from the canvas and traced the light's journey.

      "Follow it from the kitchen tiles to the woman in the courtyard."

      Charlotte noticed the charcoal under his fingernails. How would it feel to run her fingertips down the joints of his hand to the tiny hairs on his wrist? Could she paint this new feeling? They studied a sulky young woman drinking from a glass, a man at her side. How to paint the warmth of his body?

      Max pranced forward.

      "See how the light illuminates the folds in his cloak here. But his other side has an entirely different color. Let's say the window isn't there. Just a flickering candle on the table. What color would the girl's dress be?"

      Charlotte noted how the light played on the soft wool of Max's sweater.

      A woman stroked her pregnant belly while her husband stared into the distance, his hand not so much holding hers as providing it with a place to rest. Lonely together, Charlotte decided.

      A pearl necklace caught the light from the window, and Charlotte felt the warmth on her neck. Examining how Cupid's thick fingers caressed Aphrodite's ripe breasts, and Baby Jesus' tongue licked Mary's full pink nipple, Charlotte felt pinpricks of pleasure. Was that what he meant? Feeling the color, the texture, the light on your own skin?

      Later, they sat in a café at Potsdamer Platz. The door swung open. This time the brownshirt was shaking a can of coins.

      "For Germany."

      The man at the next table reached into his pocket. Max rose, took a newspaper from one of the hooks, and began to read an editorial, moving his lips. The brownshirt was at his elbow now, staring at him hard, all the time shaking the can. Ignoring him, Max continued reading.

      The boy pretended to read over Max's shoulder.

      "Interessant, huh?" Max said.

      Charlotte saw the angry look on the boy's face. At last, he walked out. Like the earth thawing, the noise in the café gradually expanded.

      "Those people scare me," Charlotte said.

      He leaned toward her.

      "The only way to fight them is from the far left."

      This was new to her. Her parents dreamed of elegance under the Kaiser. Lulu didn't talk politics, but Charlotte suspected she favored the little Austrian.

      "My father would have given the boy money—"

      Max looked at her gloomily, and she tried to soften the statement.

      "Perhaps out of fear—"

      Max thrust a wad of bills under his glass and rose to his feet.

      Outside, Charlotte noticed a new ad on the poster column—a red and black drawing of a muscular man, a swastika on his belt, breaking a sturdy chain above his head. Above his thick, coarse hair hung the words Schluss jetzt! Wahlt Hitler. End it now. Choose Hitler.

      "Versailles again—resentment tastes sweet. But bitter when you bite into it," Max said.

      At Unter den Linden, Max stopped at a large tan-colored house with Greek columns. He climbed the steps, drawing her along behind him.

      "Last gallery on the tour—my mother's house," he said.

      She draped an arm around one of the columns, drawing him back.

      "I'm wearing my old sweater," she said.

      But she followed him into the house. The marble floor shone under the light of the chandelier. A gaunt man bowed low and exhaled a greeting.

      A woman with dark hair hanging straight to her shoulders glided down the stairs toward them. She wore a soft, gray dress, gold-rimmed spectacles, and a thumb-sized piece of jade in the center of a tarnished necklace. Didn't the rich polish their silver?

      Frau Bernstein eyed Charlotte over Max's shoulder. Turning to her, she offered a small hand as if for safekeeping and drew back her lips. Her teeth were small and very white, like a child's.

      "Don't forget the Liebermanns," she said.

      How easily they spoke with one another, without the angry sparks that

      characterized conversations with her parents. And about such things—she'd never known people who owned paintings by famous people. On the sofa lay a small dog with a pushedin face. His breath rumbled in his throat. The light sparkled in the stones that studded his collar.

      Frau Bernstein jangled her bracelets.

      "I wish I could have tea with you, but they rescheduled the meeting of the museum board for today—yesterday's unfortunate event—"

      Charlotte recalled the shooting on the museum steps. The victim and the shooter had worn uniforms from different parties.

      After Frau Bernstein was gone, Max and Charlotte stared at one another for a moment. The only sound was the dog's breathing and the clattering of dishes in a distant, highceilinged kitchen. Red and brown figures drew her eye to a painting. The figures had their heads together as if haggling over a small green spot. The signature read Max Liebermann.

       Max Liebermann.

      "I'm named for him," Max said.

      "Is it Berlin?"

      "Jewish quarter in Amsterdam."

      He approached, stood close to her now, and her longing for him filled the room to the ceiling. Afraid, she pulled back. But the space between them grew warm as his fingers moved over her shoulders. His mouth tasted of anisette.