After breakfast, grandmother and granddaughter drove to the State Art Gallery in the city. When they entered the room displaying paintings from previous centuries, Sigrid proudly observed Isabella’s obvious joy and absorption of Angelika Kauffmann’s The Deserted Costanza.
‘Oma, you can really see the fear and confusion on her face. Even the doom is there.’
‘Yes, you can,’ Sigrid answered happily. All my earbashing about this artist has had an effect. Sigrid had given Isabella a Kauffmann book for her tenth birthday. Perhaps, at that age prematurely? But no, I don’t think so now.
Isabella faced Sigrid, ‘I loved your story of how Angelika was one of the few female painters who made her living through her art in the eighteenth century.’
‘That’s right, darling. She had gained recognition and her name is preserved in European art history. She was one of the women I featured in my teaching about the emancipatory struggle of women from earlier centuries. Most of them were writers, but she was one of the few painters.’
They moved from paintings and sculptures to the glassed display units, viewing, reading, absorbing and contemplating their surroundings.
Lunch at the gallery
‘Let’s have some lunch over there.’ Sigrid pointed ahead, ‘At the gallery café. My feet are aching.’
Isabella followed. They sat around one of the gallery café’s tables. Three pools with water features and fountains created a tranquil atmosphere. Dappled light shone through the canopy of the Tipuana trees. The reflection of its branches danced gently on the water’s surface. A scrumptious light salad complemented the arty excursion.
‘Oma, I really like the sculptures down there. They look so randomly placed, but they are aesthetically positioned.’ With a smirk she added, ‘You like my new vocab? Aesthetic?’
‘Wow, yes, I am impressed. Very sophisticated.’
‘I’m just going to have a closer look at that bronze lady over there.’
Isabella bounced down the grassed contour line.
For no apparent reason, the blue sky against this predominantly leafy setting reminded Sigrid of her visit to Heiligendamm on the Baltic Sea two years earlier.
It was the beginning of June, a lovely time of year in Europe. I remember taking the train from Hamburg to Bad Doberan, where I boarded Molli, the narrow-gauge steam-powered train for the six-kilometre railway ride to Heiligendamm. How it always amused me to see men, both young and old, excitedly wave their cameras and other gadgets to inspect Molli at close range. Children and mothers animatedly fussed around the platform as well and, if I am honest with myself—I did too. There is something magical about old steam trains, huffing and puffing through the differently coloured shades of forest green. Molli stopped at that majestic complex of the Grand Hotel Heiligendamm, the oldest sea bath and resort in Germany. Throughout the centuries, the upper classes had enjoyed times of leisure and pleasure there. What a life! From the little station platform, I could see the rear of the hotel complex that, true to its name, was grand.
Heiligendamm on the Baltic Sea
A big low-set main building, probably the original ‘Kurhaus’ (assembly room at a health resort), was set between two three-storey buildings. I remember so well how all the buildings were snow white and contrasted the red-tiled roof of the centre building. The whole complex was surrounded by manicured lawns, a brilliant blue sky and a blue-green sea. That never-ending Baltic Sea. How I loved it. None of the hotels I ever stayed in were as magnificent in their setting, architecture or exclusiveness as the Grand Hotel. From the moment I entered the reception, I felt pampered. The sitting room and bedroom of my suite were extremely spacious, with glorious views over the enticing water.
The bathroom—a dream in gold and marble. The service—impeccable. The menus of the various restaurants—equally impressive. Leaving my shoes to be polished in a basket outside my door at night—thrilling. Being built right on the sea—oh so therapeutic. This was a life that I could have easily become accustomed to. No wonder Heiligendamm was referred to as the White Town by the Sea. To me, it was like the Grand Dame. A bit like me, really. Ha-ha, as if! She breathed deeply. Of course, that’s why the thirty-third G8 summit took place there in 2007.
Taking another sip of coffee, Sigrid indulged in further pondering.
I still like to visit as often as I can, even though I am no longer actively involved in teaching my native language and the cultural aspects of Germany to student in Brisbane. And I am so pleased Isabella shows an interest. I’m sure she’ll take it to a higher level on her immersion into the German culture during her school visit. In fact, in a couple of years, I hope that one day I can show Isabella the finer aspects of her heritage, like the bathing culture of Heiligendamm, for example. I can just see us lounging in a ‘Strandkorb’, the traditional roofed-wicker beach chair, soaking up the air, the waves, the wind, the sounds of the birds, the whole atmosphere, and of course, partake in a bit of bubbly.
Perhaps Sigrid’s vision about being involved in Isabella’s future would materialise. However, many a grandmother had similar aspirations shattered, forgetting that young people have a mind of their own and their planning scheme does not necessarily include family members. This applied in particular to grandmothers, no matter how ‘so, so cool’ they might be.
Sigrid was roused out of her daydreams.
‘If you’d like to go now, Oma, that’s fine with me.’
‘Alright, I’ll pay the bill and we’ll go home.’
They left the art gallery’s café for the trip back.
The next morning, after dropping Isabella at the museum, Sigrid enjoyed the drive along St Lucia’s winding and narrow tree-lined roads to David’s house. Some of the trees were still bare, but the pale purple of the first jacarandas already dotted the blue sky of spring. The hedges of manicured evergreen murrayas and lilly pillies lined the streets. Passing the school just before the last roundabout, she wondered in what frame of mind she would find her dear old friend.
Sigrid reflected on meeting David for the first time at a dinner that Dimitry, her Russian friend, with the piercing blue eyes and long jet-black hair, gave at his place eight months earlier. David’s fine features had captivated Sigrid. His alert eyes were set in a handsomely oval face. He was in his mid-seventies, with a well-proportioned slimness and a sharp and insightfully entertaining intellect. During the main course, the focus of the conversation turned to her and Rainer Maria Rilke.
She recalled her reaction, ‘Oh, yes, he is an exquisite German poet. Yes, I know his “The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge.” Sure, I can read a paragraph in the original language.’
All the lights of the crystal chandelier burst into illumination—so that, and not my good looks—was the reason for the invite. Thanks, Dimitry.
The proposed passage looked like half a page in length. Well, yes, why not? I pull that kind of trick at any banquet. Sigrid’s throat was suddenly devoid of moisture. She felt the pressure. Ok, here we go.
Sigrid understood she had read to an audience of literati and hesitantly awaited their approval of her skill to emphasise certain phraseology, intonation or expression. After all, she had never read Rilke. But Sigrid passed the test, as David invited her the following week to his place to read and debate Heinrich Heine’s epic satirical poem Germany: A Winter’s Tale.
Sigrid mused with fondness about her friend. The scholar, who had cultivated his eccentricity from an early age. David was born in Calcutta but was sent to boarding school in England. After finishing his degree, he travelled extensively and taught in England, where he married. His love for the humanities led him to Australia, where the Queensland University employed him as a Professor of English Literature. David’s wife had died from cancer some years later, but every day he still placed a freshly picked stalk of red geranium into a small vessel in front of her photograph. After an operation to remove a tumorous growth in his stomach, David’s once-solid frame had shrunk. He now ate sparingly, avoided fatty foods, but still enjoyed alcoholic beverages.
Since his retirement, David’s thirst for intellectual stimuli did not diminish, maintaining his immersion in literature. He attracted good numbers for his poetry classes at the University of the Third Age, remarking, ‘I love poetry. It is precise, no word is wasted.’ While avoiding small talk, David loved to indulge in his daily ritual at five o’clock of having a smooth Scotch with olives, cheese and nuts. That was when the raconteur liked to hold court, admittedly to a diminishing number of friends, but occasionally the likes of Sigrid and others kept him company.
Reciting long passages of the classics at any given moment, such as Shakespearean sonnets or Goethe’s Faust, David never ceased to amaze Sigrid or anyone else who bore witness to his talents. Anything could prompt such a rendition, which could be brief or elaborate. For example, when the topic turned to the influence of the media on the forthcoming election between the two opposing political leaders who seemed to represent similar policies. After indulging in a certain amount of libation, David was fired into oration, ‘Yes, indeed, when the press predicts who will win the election, the troops will follow that trend, “The masses are only moved by things en masse…”, as proclaimed by the Director in Faust.’
Among his circle of erudites, feisty Stephan ministered the church across the road and occasionally dropped in to join David for a little Scotch or two before dinner. They would discuss issues such as the changes that had taken place in the Catholic Church over the years since both were young. Being brought up as a Catholic, David was endowed with a keen understanding of religious doctrines, which did not mean that he opposed other beliefs.
He hotly debated atheistic views with Dimitry and always felt invigorated after these discussions, which were no doubt fuelled by the Italian white wine both enjoyed.
David’s stoic acquaintance Werner, a man of few words, visited now and again. He would play his latest Bach CDs for David, elucidate the finer details in the compositions of fugues to then settle back and listen. David met Werner through one of Apricity’s fundraising events. Werner’s wife, Eva, like David’s friend Rose, was a committee member. Having struck an instant rapport, David and Werner became friends. Werner, being quite partial to a Jägermeister on the rocks, had introduced David to this chocolate-brown liquid. Occasionally, he brought a bottle along, savouring a couple of glasses with David, then left the bottle, ‘Till next time, my friend.’
David liked Sigrid’s visits. He enjoyed challenges and reading German was such. His knowledge of grammar often astounded Sigrid and she felt tested when he knew, or recognised, certain German words by the shared Anglo-Saxon root. As a classical scholar, David’s vast knowledge of not only German, French, Latin and Greek, but music, history, and many other topics held Sigrid spellbound. He had written seven science fiction novels and corresponded with the American author Ursula Le Guin, pointing out her inconsistencies, which did not seem to lessen their friendly rapport.
Steering the car around the corner, Sigrid now stopped at David’s house opposite a church. Overgrown weeds intermingled with remnants of things planted long ago. A pink flowering frangipani had uprooted some palings of the white fence. Tripping through the vegetation, she followed the small winding pavers to the low-set red brick house. She rang the bell, ‘Hello, David. How are you today?’
David greeted Sigrid with a continental kiss on each cheek, ‘Ah, I’m well, thanks, Sigrid. But I didn’t sleep so well last night.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Hopefully, you’ll sleep better tonight.’
‘After my daily five o’clock ritual, I’m bound to.’
The two friends paused in the front room. The house’s construction had been untouched since the 1970s. It was, to use real estate vernacular, original. Bookcases filled the walls and framed the fireplace, in front of which stood, for reasons known only to David, a Besser block embedded with a sword. Every room (and she never did find out how many rooms the house had) was filled with bookcases. But then, that is what you would expect from a literary man of David’s age.
In the early days of their friendship, David took Sigrid up to his ‘observatory.’ The long passage from the middle to the rear of his house led to a roof deck overlooking uninhibited foliage otherwise known as jungle. The smallest of step ladders led up a wall onto the top above one room. The deck was no more than four by four metres. Years ago, David had carefully drawn squares indicating the four cardinal points onto the small linoleum-lined floor. This design seemed to have assisted him in following and calculating the position of the stars. It made perfect sense to David, the astronomer, and he explained it to Sigrid in detail. Alas, she never understood, always attaining a glazed look of polite ennui. However, she admired the night sky and the gradual appearance of all the twinkling stars with him. It was a magical moment, worthy of the precarious climb up, and of course, down again.
Following an established routine, they now settled in the second room to the right, in olive-green authentic Danish lounge-style chairs. On this day of her visit, they started their reading session with chapter twenty-three of Deutschland. Ein Wintermärchen, each taking turns to read three stanzas and then discuss the whole chapter. David shared an affinity with the German writer Heine, who, apart from being a Francophile, peppered his writing with wit and political observation. David combined his love for French and German with elan.
Mozart was another passion they shared. After finishing the reading of Emanuel Schikaneder’s libretto to Mozart’s The Magic Flute, they watched a DVD of the 1971 Hamburg State Opera production with Dietrich Fischer-Diskau in the role of the Speaker. As David no longer drove his car, Sigrid would pick him up to play the DVD at her cottage. He appreciated her efforts and reciprocated by inviting her for dinner at the Amphora, a cosy little restaurant three blocks away. As usual, he would be in his element, debating and reciting. A different female friend was invited, sometimes even two. That is how Sigrid met bon vivant Rose. A vegetarian in her late seventies, delicate, almost birdlike, perfectly coiffured, manicured and Botoxed to the max, with a shrewd mind that David adored. Rose’s philanthropy included sitting on several charity boards and being a committee member of Apricity. This organisation raised funds for the city’s major hospital into melanoma research. Rose generously supported their efforts, after losing her husband to that cancer.
Back in the second room to the right, comfortable in the olive-green authentic Danish lounge-style chairs, they were still discussing Heinrich Heine. Having moved geographically from Germany’s winter tale to Heine’s thoughts about issues relating to America, David proclaimed,
‘“The worldly benefit is their actual religion, and money is their god, their only, almighty god. Does today’s religion consist in the monetisation of God or in the godhood of money?” Thus wrote the great literary critic in 1830. And what has changed, Sigrid. What have we, as a society, learned?’
‘In that respect, not much, I guess.’
‘Complacency, Sigrid. Complacency. We let it happen. And we are complicit.’
‘Yeah, well, I think you might be right, David.’ Sigrid took a lungful of air, ‘Anyway, I’ve got to pick up my granddaughter. So, I best be on my way.’
Sigrid gathered her belongings and left David with a kiss on the cheek, ‘See you next time.’
‘I look forward to it. As always, my dear.’
Sigrid trod cautiously along the precarious path in his unkempt and overgrown garden while trying to balance on the small pavers. Opening the car door, she felt relief at leaving. While she valued visiting David, she was now ready for Isabella’s company.
Katrina relished having the house to herself. That is not to say that she did not miss her daughter Isabella, but it is nice just to laze about and have some quality ‘me’ time. For one thing, even though it was late afternoon everything was still as pleasantly clean and neat as it had been when she tidied up in the morning. Peter always left for work very early. Those precious few ‘solo’ days would soon be gone. She had a chance to do mundane but necessary jobs like clean out the kitchen cupboards, a task long overdue but planned for today. First, she put on Queen’s Greatest Hits CD, set the ceiling fan on ‘high’, and with the latest Vogue magazine in tow, nestled into her Adirondack chair on the big verandah. The humidity was unusually high and after five years, she still hadn’t gotten used to it.
Katrina’s hope to return to Brisbane was just not feasible now. The scope and working conditions of Peter’s employer in Gladstone, a corporate group associated with producing aluminium, were too good to ignore, particularly with the company’s expansion into the global export market. Whichever way you looked at it, and despite what influenced Katrina’s opinion about preserving pristine natural resources with her environmentally-focused professional background, being part of a billion-dollar pioneering venture brought a lot of financial rewards.
On the downside, Peter did work long hours and left it mainly to Katrina to bring up Bella. It was Katrina’s job to look after home and hearth, deal with tradies and generally fix what needed fixing. For instance, she would tear out her hair while liaising with real estate agents about their property down south.
Oh, how she would love to travel like Mother did and, one day, she would do just that. But Peter enjoyed shorter trips to Fiji, Vanuatu, or New Zealand, close to the eastern coastline and not too far away. She contemplated that Bella finished high school in no time at all, and the two of them might just go together. Why not? It was food for thought. Best to see what Bella’s impressions of Germany will be after her trip there. Katrina languidly studied the super-glossy pages of beautiful clothes and makeup.
After a doze, she woke to find it was almost time to get dinner ready. No cleaning out cupboards today, she thought, and proceeded to get her ingredients. She seasoned the veal and sliced mushrooms, shallots, and garlic. Peter was unusually late. His predictable, ‘Hi babe, what’s for dinner?’ made her forget it was already six-fifteen. She asked instead, ‘How was your day?’
‘Oh, the usual, just another “unexpected” incident that only your hon can fix.’
‘Can’t they get somebody else to fix it?’
‘No, darl, that’s why they pay me the money they do. And that’s how we can afford to send our princess on a school trip to your mother’s old country.’
‘Yeah, whatever. Anyway, I spoke with Bella this morning. She seems to be having a good time. Mum is going out of her way to make it nice for her. Although this morning she left Bella at the museum and went to see David, that old friend of hers. I don’t know what she does with him. He’s pretty old and eccentric from what I can make out, but they meet every week.’
‘Ah well, if it pleases your mother, let her be. It gives her something to do. You mightn’t like it if you had to look after her all the time.’
‘Oh, I know,’ agreed Katrina, ‘I didn’t mean it that way, but you know what I mean.’
‘Well, we should do everything to support her while she has the energy and capacity to keep herself busy and look after herself. But you know, she’s not getting any younger.’
‘Nor are we,’ exclaimed Katrina, ‘and that’s why I’d love for us to go on a holiday to Europe sooner rather than later.’
‘Oh, here we go again, Katrina. You know that I can’t get away for long periods. When you are on a contract, you can’t afford to take too much time off. And we had agreed to do this for a few more years while the money’s good.’
They were getting close to arguing about an issue discussed many times. While Katrina agreed to the plan of staying in Gladstone to earn the good money, she couldn’t help speaking her mind. It all seemed too difficult at times, especially after two glasses of that crisp dry Santa Margherita Pino Grigio. Admittedly, moving back to the city now with a nine to five, five day-a-week job would upset everything they had done so far and reduce their income drastically. She might have to go back to work, that is if she were able to get any. On top of it, Bella was quite settled, and it would not be wise to take her out of her class now. By the end of the year, she’ll only have a few more years to finish school and Katrina knew how quickly that would pass. She had another sip and a mouthful of scaloppini and thought it best to chew rather than talk.
As if to diffuse the somewhat subdued atmosphere, Peter flicked through his CD’s and chose Ella Fitzgerald singing, It’s Wonderful. Into this musical background, Peter said, ‘Tell ya what, I’ve got this weekend off. Why don’t we drive down, spend a night over the old girl’s place and bring Bella home on Sunday arvo? We should be able to manage each way in six hours.’
Katrina was perplexed. This was totally unexpected. Isabella was supposed to fly home Sunday afternoon. But there was enough time to easily change this arrangement. Why not, why not indeedy? Her adventurous spirit livened up.
‘Now, that’s really wonderful, let’s do it. The change will be good, and I’ll get to see Mother.’ Inhaling deeply, she continued, ‘There is also that place halfway down the coast at Hervey Bay. You know, I bought a ring there, the one with a dark-blue pearl. I wouldn’t mind checking out the shop to see if they have matching earrings.’
Peter didn’t particularly get excited about that aspect of the trip, but he was pleased it took the sulkiness out of her disposition. He got up, threw three ice blocks into a tumbler, and poured himself a stiff Jägermeister, returned to the table and studied the now satisfied features of his wife.
‘Um, this does the trick,’ Peter said, licking his lips.
‘Sometimes, I wish Mother had never introduced you to this stuff in the green bottle. You took to it like a duck to water.’
‘Well, she is your mother, and while I don’t agree with most of her green arguments, for once, she has won me over with her notion about herbs being beneficial in this concoction. What does she say? “You drink it on any occasion, but mainly for good health.” I drink to that. Prost.’
‘Yeah, whatever.’