Two border guards with a German shepherd emerged from the underpass, and at the very back of the platform a railway worker in a luminous orange vest suddenly appeared. Then in the distance, Heidi saw the lights of her train.
She walked up and down, looking for her car. She was starting to worry the train would leave without her, so she finally asked a conductor who was standing in the open doorway of the sleeping car, smoking a cigarette. He pointed her the way and said she had better hurry, the train was leaving in three minutes. The border guards had already boarded, they were just changing the locomotive at the front. Heidi ran along the platform, watching the time on the big station clock. When the hands reached the vertical, she jumped in and went on down the narrow corridors until she got to her car. While she was looking for her compartment, the sleeping car attendant came by and asked her for her ticket and passport. A little reluctantly, she handed them over. He sensed her unease, and told her everything would be returned to her in the morning, when he woke her. Then, with a jolt, the train departed. Heidi almost fell over, but the conductor caught her by the shoulder, and then let her go again immediately, as if he’d done something wrong. He said good night and disappeared into his own compartment.
The train crossed the Rhine bridge. Now they were in Liechtenstein, and in a few minutes they would be in Austria. Heidi remained in the dimly lit corridor, gazing out into the darkness. Gradually her fear and tension began to melt away, and she began to look forward to the journey, and to Vienna, where she’d never been. The Academy of Fine Arts, she said the name over and over to herself, she was applying to the Academy of Fine Arts, she of all people, whom everyone treated like a little girl, and whose father even saw her going to Gymnasium as a waste of time, on her way to the Academy of Fine Arts. What makes you think you’re any better than us, he had said, and got her the internship with the council. If she hadn’t run into her old art teacher, it wouldn’t have occurred to her that she might become a painter.
A couple of months before, Frau Brander had gone to the registry office, she had lost her purse or someone had stolen it, and she needed to get a new identity card. Are you still drawing? she asked, as Heidi filled in the form. Heidi nodded, and Frau Brander suggested she show her what she was working on.
So a couple of days later they met for lunch in a cafe, and Heidi showed Frau Brander some of her drawings. The teacher looked at each one of them carefully, and then went on to the next. They’re just things I tossed off, said Heidi. They’re good, Frau Brander said, you have a nice clear line. Did you ever think of applying to art school? Heidi laughed and shook her head. You should think about it, said Frau Brander. Go to Vienna or Berlin. Don’t go to Zurich.
Heidi had made inquiries without telling anyone. Might as well, she thought, it doesn’t cost anything. The entrance exams were in September for Vienna and in October for Berlin, and it was only May. In the next few months, Heidi sketched more purposefully than before, and she went to the library and looked at art books and read the lives of artists she admired. And after some time it became clear that this was what she wanted to do, what she had secretly always wanted to do, to be an artist, as independent and confident as her teacher. When the boss called her into the office once to talk about her future, she said when she’d finished the internship she’d like to go to art school. He looked doubtful. What if they don’t take you? he asked. He said he couldn’t keep a job open for her. Heidi hadn’t discussed her plans with her parents yet. The boss called her father, they were acquainted from way back, through the gymnastic club. Her father was devastated, what seemed to upset him most was the fact that Heidi hadn’t taken him into her confidence. There was a short, vicious scene, Heidi called her father crude, and he called her crazy. And they’d stopped speaking to each other.
In August Heidi called Frau Brander, and said she was going to apply to Vienna. Frau Brander offered to help her put together a portfolio. Come by my apartment tomorrow night, she said, and bring everything you’ve ever done.
The following evening, Heidi packed all her drawings into a big cardboard box and cycled out to where Frau Brander lived, in an apartment complex at the edge of town. Heidi had never been to the area before. The building was old and run-down, but the apartment was nicely furnished. There were pictures on all the walls, little oil landscapes that showed the ugly warehouses of the transport companies, the freight station, and the silos. Go out on the balcony, said Frau Brander. Will you have a glass of wine? Heidi hesitated, then she said, Yes, please.
She stood by the railing and looked down at the enormous cornfield that began at the foot of the house and extended as far as the Three Sisters. In the distance you could hear the highway, a thrumming that alternately got louder and quieter. Frau Brander had stepped outside and was standing next to Heidi. She put her arm around her shoulder and squeezed her closer. I’m all excited, she said, it feels like it’s me applying all over again. Heidi thought of the stories about Frau Brander, but they were such nonsense, it was just a friendly hug that didn’t mean anything. That was the way artists were, easygoing and free from fear and prejudice.
Frau Brander had opened a bottle, and poured a couple of glasses. Call me Renate, she said, and they bumped glasses. Now let’s see what you’ve brought.
They took hours making their selection. When it got too dark outside, they went into the living room and carried on there. They laid the remaining drawings on the wood floor. Renate was barefoot, and Heidi had taken her shoes off; suddenly she felt naked in this strange place. They walked up and down among the drawings, putting them in different piles, taking some out and putting in others. It was very warm in the apartment, and when Renate raised her hand to scratch her head in thought, Heidi noticed dark sweat stains rimming her sleeveless dress. They stood at opposite ends of the room, approached one another, stood silently side by side, squatted down in front of one sketch the better to take it in. Renate overbalanced, and caught herself laughing on Heidi’s shoulder, and left her hand there after they had stood up again. Heidi could smell Renate’s perfume, which didn’t drown out the smell of her body, but blended with it to make a warm, summery scent of milk and grass.
In the end, there were only twenty pictures left, a few small portrait sketches, half a dozen landscapes, and a few recent things, colored-pencil drawings of strange organic shapes. Heidi felt confused when Renate had pulled the stack of them out of the box and asked what they were. She had shrugged her shoulders. This one looks like a vulva, Renate said, and this one too. She laughed, and looked Heidi straight in the eye. Heidi lowered her gaze, but not from shame. Do you have a boyfriend? Renate asked.
HEIDI HAD FOUND her compartment. There was just a dim emergency light on. She could hear someone breathing. She sat down on the lower bunk, opened her folder, and looked through the drawings once more. Hello, said a voice. Quickly Heidi shut the folder and looked up. A young woman was looking down at her. Where are we? she asked. We’ve just crossed the border, said Heidi. Oh, God, said the woman and she sat up and dangled her bare legs over the edge of her bunk. I can never sleep in these so-called sleeping cars. She climbed down the ladder and went off down the corridor. In a while she returned and stopped in front of the door to the compartment. She pulled down the window and lit a cigarette. Do you want one? she asked. She said that before boarding a night train, she always drank a beer to help her sleep. But in Zurich she had met some guys in a bar and had a few beers too many, and now she had to keep going to the bathroom. My name’s Susa. What’s yours? Heidi. Susa laughed. Is that your real name?