Ich strich über das raue alte Papier des Bildes. Die Tinte, mit der der Maler das Bild gezeichnet hatte, war verblasst, aber trotzdem bewahrte das Bild so etwas wie Glanz und Pracht, obwohl es nur etwas Schlichtes darstellte. Es war eine jener Galionsfiguren, die in früheren Zeiten auf den großen Segelschiffen angebracht gewesen waren. Sie hatte schwarze Haare und war anmutig, auch wenn sie nicht nach den üblichen Maßstäben schön war. Ihr Blick war verzweifelt und hätte jener der Prinzessin Andromeda sein können, wäre da nicht das schlichte Kleid eines einfachen Mädchens gewesen. Ihr Haar hing ihr etwas unordentlich herab und ihr Kleid hing nach vorne, so als wäre es wirklich ein Mädchen, das da am Bug hing. Ich hatte immer gedacht, dass sie eine Geschichte gehabt haben musste. Und so viele Fragen. Hatte es die Galionsfigur wirklich gegeben? Wer hatte das Bild gemalt? Wer war dieses Mädchen, das so verzweifelt blicken konnte?Gerade weil es ein so wunderschönes Bild war, stellte ich mir immer wieder solche Fragen. Ich konnte mir einfach nicht vorstellen, dass es nur ein Bild war. Und ich wollte mir keine eigene Geschichte dazu ausdenken.
Meine Großmutter sagte hin und wieder etwas zu dem Bild. Jedoch nicht viel.
„Sie trug ein Geheimnis in sich“ sagte sie zum Beispiel leise vor sich hin, oder: „Alles hat eine Geschichte…“
„Aber was ist ihre Geschichte?“ fragte ich dann, stets vergeblich, denn dann wechselte Großmutter bereits das Thema.
Heute an diesem Tag saß sie mir gegenüber und sah mich etwas unsicher, aber auch ernst an.
„Ich muss dir die Geschichte erzählen“ sagte sie
„Ihre Geschichte?“ fragte ich
Großmutter nickte.
„Aber auch deine.“ sagte sie „Hör mir gut zu. Du bist die erste und einzige, die diese Geschichte je hören wird.“
I uncurled the raw, old paper of the picture. The ink the painter had used, had faded, but still the picture kept something like brilliance and magnificence, although it only showed something very simple. It was one of these figureheads that had been on the fores of sailing ships a long time ago. She had black hair and was comely, although she wasn't beautiful in usual measure. She was looking desperate and could have been the princess Andromeda, if there hadn't been the plain dress of a simple girl. Her Hair was hanging down in a mess and her dress was hanging forth, like she was really a girl hanging there at the fore. I had always thought that she must have had a story. And I had so many questions. Was this a real figurehead? Who had painted the picture? And who was the girl that could look so desperate?
It was just because the picture was so beautiful, that I asked these question over and over again. I couldn't imgine, that it was only a picture. I didn't want to make up a story for this picture.
My grandmother used to say something about the picture. Though she didn't say much.
"She bore a secret" she said quiet to herself, for example, or "Everything has a story"
"But what was her story?" I then asked, always vainly, because there she would talk about anything else.
This day she was sitting opposite to me and looked at me slightly unsure, but gravely too.
"I have to tell you the story." she said
"Her story?" I asked
Grandmother nodded
"But also yours" she said "Listen carefully. You are the first and only to listen to this story."
I uncurled the raw, old paper of the picture. The ink the painter had used, had faded, but still the picture kept something like brilliance and magnificence, although it only showed something very simple. It was one of these figureheads that had been on the fores of sailing ships a long time ago. She had black hair and was comely, although she wasn't beautiful in usual measure. She was looking desperate and could have been the princess Andromeda, if there hadn't been the plain dress of a simple girl. Her Hair was hanging down in a mess and her dress was hanging forth, like she was really a girl hanging there at the fore. I had always thought that she must have had a story. And I had so many questions. Was this a real figurehead? Who had painted the picture? And who was the girl that could look so desperate?
It was just because the picture was so beautiful, that I asked these question over and over again. I couldn't imgine, that it was only a picture. I didn't want to make up a story for this picture.
My grandmother used to say something about the picture. Though she didn't say much.
"She bore a secret" she said quiet to herself, for example, or "Everything has a story"
"But what was her story?" I then asked, always vainly, because there she would talk about anything else.
This day she was sitting opposite to me and looked at me slightly unsure, but gravely too.
"I have to tell you the story." she said
"Her story?" I asked
Grandmother nodded
"But also yours" she said "Listen carefully. You are the first and only to listen to this story."
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