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Read the Review. His wife knew first. The day was cool, the chill blowing in from the Baltic. They were in their apartment in the Widow House, Einar, small and not yet thirty-five, painting from memory a winter scene of the Kattegat Sea. The black water was white-capped and cruel, the grave of hundreds of fishermen returning to Copenhagen with their salted catch.
The neighbor below was a sailor, a man with a bullet-shaped head who cursed his wife. When Einar painted the gray curl of each wave, he imagined the sailor drowning, a desperate hand raised, his potato-vodka voice still calling his wife a port whore.
It was how Einar knew just how dark to mix his paints: gray enough to swallow a man like that, to fold over like batter his sinking growl. In this way as well Einar was different from his wife. He painted the land and the seaβsmall rectangles lit by June's angled light, or dimmed by the dull January sun. Greta painted portraits, often to full scale, of mildly important people with pink lips and shine in the grain of their hair.
Herr I. Christian Dahlgaard, furrier to the king. Ivar Knudsen, member of the shipbuilding firm Burmeister and Wain. Managing directors and industry titans commissioned Greta to paint portraits that hung in offices, above a filing cabinet, or along a corridor nicked by a worker's cart. Greta appeared in the door frame. It's just that Anna's canceled again. So would you mind trying on her stockings? The April sun was behind Greta, filtering through the silk hanging limply in her hand.
Edvard IV began to bark, his white head turning from Einar to Greta and back. I need a pair of legs to finish her portrait, or I'll never get it done. And then I thought to myself, yours might do. Greta moved toward him, the shoes in her other hand sennep -yellow with pewter buckles. She was wearing her button-front smock with the patch pockets where she tucked things she didn't want Einar to see.