The Woman Who Heard Color Read Free Page A

Our Kandinsky was legitimately purchased by my family. There are no claims to be made, which is quite obviously why you are here.”
    After a moment, Lauren asked cautiously, “Your family purchased the Kandinsky in Munich?”
    Isabella nodded.
    Again Lauren studied the many pictures on the wall. “May I see it?” she ventured.
    Isabella Fletcher laughed, a chuckle really, which transformed into a somewhat unladylike snort. Again, she wiped her mouth with the linen napkin. “No, I don’t think I’m quite ready for that.” She cleared her throat before continuing. “I’m not getting any younger, though I am still in excellent health. But soon, I must decide what will become of the painting. I could sell it, divide the sizable proceeds among family members. But as far as the world is concerned, this painting no longer exists.” She gazed at Lauren, fully expecting another question.
    Lauren was attempting to remain calm, receptive, not overly eager. She had so many questions, but didn’t want to say the wrong thing, something that might turn off this flow of information. She picked up her cookie and took a bite, then took a sip of tea. Such delicate china. Hoping Mrs. Fletcher would go on, she remained silent.
    “I should clear all this up before I’m gone,” the older woman said, “or, heaven forbid,” she added, with a dismissive wave, “before I lose my memory and senses. No one knows the story behind the Kandinsky. It would be difficult to sell the painting if the provenance was misunderstood.” Abruptly she rose and went to the window, pulling the drapes open farther to let in more light. For a moment she gazed down as if studying something on the street.
    “I have never shared the entire story,” Mrs. Fletcher said, sitting again. “Perhaps it is time.”
    Lauren was struck by this, wondering if Isabella really intended to share something she had shared with no one else. Why would she trust a stranger who’d entered her home under false pretenses?
    “Tell me a little about the painting,” Lauren said, her voice tight, but calm.
    “It’s one of his earlier works, not that geometric . . .” Isabella paused and shook her head as if envisioning something distasteful. “His later work, produced during his Bauhaus period, all circles and squares. I’m not fond of this period of the artist’s work. I much prefer the paintings he did in Munich.” She let out a little laugh. “But to each his own. I’m sure that’s what my father would say. My mother, too. Everyone should be allowed the freedom to choose what he or she likes or dislikes. Our Kandinsky was painted about 1910, long before I came into the world.”
    Again Lauren waited, hoping Mrs. Fletcher would add more, but the woman said nothing. Finally Lauren asked, “Will you tell me how this painting came to your family? When it was purchased?”
    “Originally the year my brother was born, nineteen eleven. A gift to my mother from my father in celebration of my brother’s birth. It hung in our music room. We called it ‘Willy’s Colors.’ He loved it.”
    “Willy? Your brother?”
    Isabella nodded. “Wilhelm. He’s been gone many years.”
    “ Originally purchased?”
    “ Originally , yes. It was actually purchased twice.”
    Twice? Lauren wondered. What did this mean? “You inherited the painting from your parents?”
    “Yes.”
    “You came to America with your parents?” Lauren asked just to see what she’d say.
    “My father died in Germany.”
    “Your mother?”
    “She escaped.”
    “Escaped?” Lauren was intrigued by Isabella’s use of this word. Left illegally, with false documents, her pockets stuffed with cash, her luggage with art—that would be a more accurate description. “Escaped with the painting?” she asked.
    “It came later.”
    The woman’s answers were becoming more terse. One moment Mrs. Fletcher seemed ready to share, opening up. Then she closed like a blossom deprived of light. Lauren waited