THE PAINTER
I already felt my strength was near
its end. It was becoming unbearable. Something like an insidious illness,
tenaciously and defiantly twisting up my body and my thoughts. A slimy,
monstrous polyp was nesting within me, as if it had found an ideal place
for its short life. My body was melting, disappearing irretrievably. Into a
vacuum.
And it all began with an accidental meeting with an unusual
painter. Tall and thin, he looked like a magician, with his tiny, piercing
eyes. He wore a soiled shirt and trousers of some indefinite color. His big
moccasins displayed his firm, decisive step. Only when I shook his hand did
I closely see his gray eyes, which aroused a mysterious fear. I thought for
a moment that after this meeting something unforeseen would happen to me,
though I didn’t really believe it. His hand was bodiless, like a wisp of
wind. I didn’t hear his name well, but he declared loudly and curtly:
"You have a very interesting face. I’ve been looking for such
a face for a long time. Come to my place."
The invitation took me by surprise.
"Maybe I will," I said, not very happy, my voice trembling in
my throat.
"Of course, come," he repeated dryly. "A face like yours must
not remain unpainted, before you disappear from this world."
"Yes, yes, I’ll definitely come." I spoke quickly, just to
get rid of him and never see that ghoulish face again.
Soon he disappeared. I wanted to forget him immediately, but
his eyes would not leave me. As if they had stuck to me. Those gray,
slanted eyes emitted some kind of ray. At first I thought that was simply
the strong impression they had left on me, but then they seemed to be all
around me, not letting me out of sight. They lured me to him, and I
powerlessly tried to resist. His hoarse voice--You have a very interesting
face--echoed in my ears in different nuances. I imitated that sentence
before the mirror but found nothing interesting about my face, except for
paleness, and powerlessness eyes, with a mild and gentle calm. Maybe the
nose was slightly unusual, long, stretching to infinity, covering the
pursed lips.
After that unexpected meeting, I became absentminded,
dispassionate, eaten-up from within. Nothing went smoothly any more. No
matter what I started, I couldn’t finish it. I started getting used to the
beauty of unfinished things, things unexpressed, filled with uncertainty.
And my body grew weaker, enslaved.
I often waved my hand to myself before his invitation to go
to him. That invitation was imperious, strict, and brutal. Nothing could
chase that voice from me. I woke up at night covered in cold sweat, and I
saw his piercing eyes in the dark and his colorless voice: You have a very
interesting face. Come to me, don’t forget me. If you don’t come, I’ll
never forgive you.
I didn’t tell anybody anything. I kept that meeting a secret.
I was afraid those close to me would ridicule me. They’d say I couldn’t
control myself any more, that I’d become suspicious of everything, that I
should go to the doctor or to the mountains, take some rest. And most of
all I was afraid of this question: Where is that painter? Yes, he invited
me to go to him, but he didn’t tell me where he lived. He didn’t even give
me his card. Nothing. And he did not call again.
The painter in my head didn’t wear the soiled stained shirt
and the trousers of some dark blue, indistinct color. He was elegant, in a
long black toga, reminding of a judge with a white wig, but his unchanging
gray eyes became larger in front of me. On another occasion he looked like
a medieval alchemist from old graphics, stooped over his unfinished work
with fiery eyes, seeking the beguiling gold.
Suddenly, that image, as it stood by the stove and the small
cauldron in which a yellowish dough was rising, my head was severed and
became unusually large in his damp, disembodied hands, and he turned it to
all sides, speaking ardently: this is the gold I have been seeking all of
my life. He pressed it strongly against his chest, and I thought that I
would suffocate from the unreasonable pressure. The head turned into a gold
ball. Immediately afterwards it evaporated, and his hands were empty,
reaching for the sky. Surprised, he just said passionately and
unequivocally, forgetting about the gold: I already know the secret of
death. Its power is in my hands.
Although I didn’t want to meet him, I could no longer live
without his eyes. I somehow merged with them and they became indispensable,
necessary. I saw some kind of salvation in them, though they melted my
tortured, helpless body. And those eyes gave power to that monstrous polyp,
which kept growing inside me all the time. And I wasn’t surprised at all,
when one day, without knowing how, I stood before his solitary house,
painted in a brownish-red color, with wide windows and tall trees around
it. The leaves were green, but they looked plastic. Immobile stuffed birds
with large gray eyes were perched on the trees. Just as I wanted to flee
the stern, stiff glance of the birds, I saw him by the house watching me.
The Painter. He looked at me for a long time, with that same piercing look
and that quiet smile on his gaunt face. A calm disdain nested in his
glance, as if he knew I’d come to him, that I’d find him through familiar
and unfamiliar paths.
He approached me with heavy strides. I noticed that one of
his legs thumped the ground more heavily than the other. He wore a plaid
shirt in various shades of blue, whitish trousers and black shoes.
Petrified, like a rabbit in front of a snake awaiting his death, I watched
him approaching me, stunned. His eyes observed my immobility and
maliciously rejoiced in their power. In that last moment, before he came to
me, I wanted to run away, but it was as though I had no space. The painter
stood in front of me, and, without offering me his hand, raised his
forefinger.
"Why didn’t you come earlier?" he said, somewhat
threateningly. "I’ve been expecting you every day."
His voice was calm, suggestive, self-assured.
"You’ve been expecting me," I barely mouthed through my dry
lips. "I just can’t believe it."
"Well, didn’t I invite you?" He seemed angry.
"But I didn’t think it was serious."
"That’s not correct." The Painter raised his voice, and his
eyes took on some new, strange depth. "I told you clearly that I had to
paint your face."
"Is that what you said?"
"I even wondered why you were not coming," the Painter said.
"You’re one of the few who postponed. Nobody has ever refused me. And they
can’t refuse me. For everybody I invite, this is a unique opportunity."
"Yes, I know."
"The portrait does not augur death, as you think," the
Painter said, and I felt as if I were dangling over an abyss.
""No, I never thought that," I said surprisingly, because
that was precisely what I had been afraid of. "As a matter of fact, I was
just passing by, so I thought I’d drop by to see you."
"No, that’s not so," the Painter said angrily, hovering over
me with his great frame like a massive oak branch. "Nothing but honesty
with me… I’ve been waiting for you for a long time. I assume you feel
uncomfortable that you’ve met me. Up to the last moment you were wondering
whether you’d escape or not."
"Not in the least." I wouldn’t give up. "Where’d you get that
idea?" The Painter inspected me. His small eyes became even smaller, more
piercing. "Something suggested you’d come. That’s why I came out. I’ve been
working on your portrait based on memory."
"What are you?" I asked him suddenly. "A painter or something
else?"
He wasn’t surprised by my question. He continued calmly:
"You know better… I don’t have to tell you that I sense
people like you from a distance. Maybe because I hate them. Let that not
surprise you. I only want your portrait. Then you can go. We don’t have to
see each other again. I won’t care about you further after I paint the
portrait… And I knew I’d meet you at this moment, Georgi Boshkovski, son of
Mladen, husband of Ana, father of two male children, a brother of Ubavka
and Blagoja, with many other relatives. You came to me, in spite of many
doubts and much restlessness. Did you think you wouldn’t come? Your
restlessness precisely matches my peace. These are two sides of the same
state… Do you ride horses?"
"I haven’t ridden in a long time, since I was a kid. And it’s
dangerous for me. I feel weak."
"Don’t you want to ride with me a bit, to remind yourself of
your childhood and get rid of this restlessness that pressures you?"
"Childhood is too far away to go back to," I said. "You have
horses?"
"Yes, two old ones, a hundred years old, but they’ll do for a
slow ride, before I paint you a portrait."
"Like fulfilling a last wish," I muttered with a sour smile.
"Who’s saying anything about the portrait?" I asked calmly.
"Let’s take a ride through the woods," the Painter insisted,
observing my qualms. "You’ll see it is wild and dense, that a deep peace
will enter you. It has nothing in common with the city in which you live,
and which has drained your life... Unfortunately, I also have to go there
often, because of the madness of others."
As he was speaking, two saddled horses, alone and old,
without being called, approached us ponderously. They were both white, with
faint black spots.
"But, please," I persisted. "I have to go, I don’t have time
to ride."
"Why? Are you afraid of the forest?"
"Please, another time… To be honest, I don’t feel like
riding. I have the feeling I can’t get on the horse."
He smiled. For the first time I saw his dark, decayed teeth.
"Save your fear for another time."
"You’re not a man who insists," I told him.
"Okay," the Painter deferentially. "As a matter of fact, I’ve
already started your portrait, after our first meeting. I believe you’ve
felt it too. But I was nervous in front of the canvass. That’s why I didn’t
do much."
He went toward the house, and I followed him. The horses
remained where I had stood. Then I felt more uncomfortable. Some uneasiness
came over me.
"I like horses very much. Old ones, over-the-hill," the
Painter said. "Maybe later you’ll want to go to the woods."
At that moment I felt that I should say something to mask my
confusion.
"Do you live alone?"
"Yes, it’s better that way."
"Because you’re afraid of people?"
"No, they’re afraid of me."
We were already in his atelier, and he invited me to sit in
an old, shabby armchair. The canvas in front of me contained nothing but
the vague outline of a face.
"Is that my portrait?" I asked, surprised.
"I couldn’t do anything more," the Painter said, as if
apologizing. "I was nervous about your coming. I was filled with joy and
excitement. Here, look, my hand is shaking."
"Why were you so sure I was coming?"
"That feeling is irresistible. Nobody has ever managed to
refuse my invitation. Sooner or later, they come."
The Painter made several nervous stabs at the canvas with his
brush. He looked at me from time to time. While he was working, I calmed
down a bit and even considered that it might be pleasant to have him make a
portrait of me. It was as though I’d forgotten about the trap that he had
set for me, which I sensed.
He didn’t look at me any more. I got up and approached him,
curious. My feet felt heavy, and I thought I’d stumble on the floor at any
moment.
"Wait a bit longer." The Painter held me off with his hand.
"Wait."
I couldn’t see anything on the canvas. He was blocking the
view of the painting with his body. He worked fast, as if he wasn’t sure he
could keep me away. I looked around me for the first time. The atelier was
full of portraits. And it continued into an endless hall.
On every painting some kind of drama could be sensed, but
they were all expressionless, drained. I had the impression that the
paintings were of dead people with their eyes open. Now even more curious,
I approached to see myself. I moved close to the Painter very quietly. He
didn’t react anymore; in fact, he calmly moved away couple of steps, so I
could see my face better. In the painting, I was standing erect, with a
surprised look upwards. I was holding a hot, gold ball in my hands, which
disappeared under my hands and reminded of one of his eyes. I looked at the
painting and started trembling, scared, mute.
"I’m glad I painted you. With you, I’ll start something new.
I want to put an end to everything I did before."
"And what was before?" I barely spoke.
The Painter thought before he answered.
"I don’t know what happens to me when I paint a human face. I
have some kind of fever. And I feel that something slowly enters me. The
one I paint, like you now, becomes implanted in me. That’s why everybody
who is painted starts to live another life, out of time… And with you I
wanted to put an end to that magic, but I guess I couldn’t. Although I
worked with a brush without paint, the face appeared on the canvas itself.
Why did it appear without paint, by itself?"
Seated on the armchair, I listened to the Painter, whose cold
hands I felt on my palms. I slowly sank into a lethargic state, and I had
no more desire to see my portrait, where my face started assuming a strange
paleness. That face was next to mine, and I was sure that I wasn’t alone
any more. The face came out of the painting. With airy ease it slowly
covered me.
The Painter stood before me, absorbed by his own question,
and he slowly disappeared like the hot ball. My armchair became detached
from the floor and floated in the air. There was nothing around me any
more.
The portrait vanished, with the Painter, into a foggy veil.
The floating of the armchair was pleasant. The long hall I saw when I
entered became a narrow, endlessly long street. When I saw the deserted
street, its houses mute, I was filled with despair. I felt that the polyp
was pressing against me harder, more persistent in its embrace. The windows
of the deserted houses were like the piercing eyes of the Painter. I
thought I should get up from the armchair and go to the street, which led
down into the darkness. That seemed the only thing attracting me. At that
moment, something gently took me in its hands and I felt stimulated, as if
before a new, long journey.
