The Carousel Painter by Judith Miller Page B

trimmed close around his ears. I didn’t have to tip my head back very far to look him in the eye. He wasn’t tall, but his angular features seemed to create an illusion of height. His thick fingers bore a number of nicks and scars, and his rolled-up shirtsleeves revealed muscular forearms. I did my best not to stare but found it impossible.
    After dropping the papers on his desk he looked up as though he’d forgotten I was in the room. “Ja, I am Josef Kaestner.” He exaggerated his mouth and pronounced the words slowly, enunciating each syllable in a loud voice. Apparently he thought I was dense or hard of hearing.
    “Then you are expecting me. I’m the new artist.” Seeing the confusion that shone in his eyes, I quickly corrected myself. “The new painter—for the carousel horses.”
    Mouth agape, he stared at me for what felt like five minutes or more. Though it was probably less than a minute, it seemed like forever before he pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and gave me a fleeting glance.
    “ Nein . The only painter I am to see is Mr. Brouwer.”
    “I’m Mr. Brouwer. I mean, I’m Carrington Brouwer, Miss Carrington Brouwer.” Mortification rushed over me. What kind of woman agreed she was a man? Only me! My response had been as clear as a church bell tolling the hour. At least I had plowed onward without so much as a hiccough or giggle. Fear and embarrassment had combined to snuff out my normal pesky interruption, even if only for the moment.
    Mr. Kaestner traced his fingers along his clean-shaven jaw and took another look at the paper. His eyes narrowed and he shook his head. “This cannot be correct. In this factory, we have only men.”
    I bit my tongue, for a sharp retort wouldn’t serve me well. “I am a well-qualified artist, Mr. Kaestner. I’m certain you’ll be pleased with my work.”
    “An artist?” He motioned me toward the office I’d recently visited with Mr. Galloway and pointed to a dust-covered chair. I removed my handkerchief and swiped the seat before I turned and sat down. He stood nearby with his arms folded across his broad chest. He’d been watching my every move, and his look told me I’d just made a mistake: I’d confirmed that proper women didn’t belong in a dust-laden factory inhabited by men. Now I’d have to prove him wrong.
    He sat down without wiping his chair. “Tell me what it is you know about this work we do.”
    I had to muster a large dose of inner conviction to appear unruffled. Mr. Galloway had already hired me, but it seemed I would be required to convince Mr. Kaestner of my qualifications. He jiggled his leg at a dizzying speed while I detailed my training and accomplishments.
    Though it took great perseverance, I refrained from grabbing his knee and holding it in place. What would he think if I should reach forward and grasp his leg? Such improper behavior was out of the question, but I did direct a frown at the bouncing appendage several times. Mr. Kaestner seemed not to notice. I decided he must be bored with my recitation. Once I’d finished, I leaned back in the chair and met his intense brown eyes. He didn’t appear particularly impressed.
    “In Paris with the artists you trained and painted portraits? Nothing else?”
    “And still lifes,” I added. He’d obviously worked hard to lose his German accent. For the most part he’d succeeded, but he hadn’t mastered the language completely—not yet.
    “And the still lifes,” he repeated. His eyes registered confusion. “The portraits and still lifes we do not paint in our factory, Miss Brouwer. We paint on the wood, not canvas. In our factory there is little freedom for what I hear you artists call ‘creative expression.’ Here you paint what the carver makes for you.” He continued to jiggle his leg. “This training of yours, it does not qualify you to paint the carousel animals. But what can I do? Mr. Galloway has already hired you.”
    “I beg to differ, Mr. Kaestner. I