The Girl You Left Behind

Jeep and sat there, the metal warm beneath
     my cotton slacks. The roads were almost completely silent. There were no birds,
     no voices. Even the sirens seemed to have stopped. And then I looked up and
     squinted against the sun as a woman came walking up the road towards
     me.
    She moved like it required some effort, with a pronounced limp, even though she
     couldn’t have been more than sixty. She wore a headscarf, despite the warm
     day, and had a bundle under her arm. When she saw me she stopped and glanced
     around. She saw my armband, which I had forgotten to take off when my trip out
     got cancelled.
    ‘Englische?’
    ‘American.
’
    She nodded, as if this were acceptable to her. ‘Hier ist where the
     paintings are stored, ja?’
    I said nothing. She didn’t look like a spy, but I wasn’t sure how
     much information I should give out. Strange times, and all.
    She pulled the bundle from under her arm. ‘Please. Take this.’
    I stepped back.
    She stared at me for a moment, then removed the coverings. It was a painting, a
     portrait of a woman from the brief glimpse I got.
    ‘Please. Take this. Put in there.’
    ‘Lady, why would you want to put your painting in there?’
    She glanced behind her, as if she were embarrassed to be there.
    ‘Please. Just take it. I don’t want it in my house.’
    I took the painting from her. It was a girl, about my age, with long reddish
     hair. She wasn’t the most beautiful, but there was something about her
     that meant you couldn’t tear your darned eyes away.
    ‘Is this yours?’
    ‘It was my husband’s.’ I saw then she should have had one of
     those powder-puff grandmother faces, all cushions and kindness, but when she
     looked at the painting her mouth just set in this thin old line, like she was
     full of bitterness.
    ‘But this is beautiful. Why do you want to give such a pretty thing
     away?’
    ‘I never wanted her in my house,’ the woman said. ‘My husband
     made me. For thirty years I have had to have that woman’s face in my
     house. When I am cooking, cleaning, when I am sitting with my husband, I have
     had to look at her.’
    ‘It’s only a painting,’ I told her. ‘You can’t be
     jealous of a painting.’
    She barely heard me. ‘She has mocked me for nearly thirty years. My
     husband and I were once happy, but she destroyed him. And I have had to endure
     that face haunting me every single day of our marriage. Now he is dead I
     don’t have to have her staring at me. She can finally go back to wherever
     she belongs.’
    As I looked, she wiped at her eyes with the back of a hand. ‘If you
     don’t want to take it,’ she spat. ‘Then burn it.’
    I took it. What else could I have done?
    Well, I’m back at my desk now. Danes has been in, ghostly white, promising
     I’ll go with him tomorrow. ‘You sure you want to see this, though,
     Toots?’ he said. ‘It’s not pretty. I’m not sure
     it’s a sight for a lady.’
    ‘Since when did you start calling me a lady?’ I joked, but he was
     all out of jokes. Danes sat down heavily on the edge of my bunk and sank his
     head into his hands. And as I stared at him, his big old shoulders began to
     shake. I stood there, not knowing what to do. Finally I pulled a cigarette from
     my bag, lit it and handed it to him. He took it, signalled his thanks with a
     palm, and wiped at his eyes, his head still down.
    I felt a little nervous then, and believe me, I never get nervous.
    ‘Just … thanks for today, that’s all. The boys said you
     did a fine job.’
    I don’t know why I didn’t tell him about the painting. I suppose I
     should have done, but it didn’t belong in the darn warehouse, after all.
     It wasn’t anything to do with the darn warehouse. That old German woman
     couldn’t give two hoots what happened to it as long as it wasn’t
     looking at her any more.
    Because you know what? I secretly like the idea that you could have a painting
     so powerful it could shake up a whole marriage. And she’s kind of pretty.
     I can’t stop looking at her. Giveneverything else that
     seems to be going on around here, it’s nice to have something beautiful to
     look at.
    The courtroom is in complete silence as
     Marianne Andrews closes the journal in front of her. Liv has been concentrating so hard
     that she feels almost faint. She steals a look sideways down the bench and sees Paul,
     his elbows on his knees, his head tipped forward. Beside him Janey Dickinson is