‘Who on earth would buy these gloomy pictures?!’
‘Really! It’s spring outside, time for love and joy…’
‘I could have scribbled that myself!’
‘Dima, you can’t write your name properly, let alone paint something!’ The three girls burst into laughter as they walked away. Their friend alone froze here staring at “Three Minutes before the Storm”.
‘Do you paint them yourself?’ asked the fair-haired girl.
‘Yes, I do.’
‘They’re beautiful.’
I usually don’t respond to such comments, but this time I quietly said: ‘Thank you.’
‘Could you teach me?’
‘Teach you what?’ I asked, puzzled.
‘I like the way you choose the hues. I think this is what adds sensuality and expressiveness to your pictures, making them special.’
To be honest, I was enraged. I had always known that my paintings were different from those of others, but it had absolutely nothing to do with my choice of paints. It was the years of pain went into each one of them.
‘Back to your classes!” I snapped, making the young girl shift her gaze from the paintings to me. Her very familiar gaze, which shone like two small bright lights, confounded me.
‘We have no more classes today. Could you teach me? My family will pay for it,’ she said with a mixture of impudence and pleading.
‘Look here, I’m not a teacher and have no desire to become one today. I paint for myself. If you like what you see so much, then just bring by your parents and let them buy you these pictures,’ I said nervously, not wishing to go on with the conversation.
‘You’re rude!’
‘Me? Whatever. I couldn’t care less about what a passing-by high school girl has to say about me.’
Irritation flashed across her face, luckily her friend intervened in time to save me from this child.
‘Let’s go, enough loitering! We’re all waiting for you!’ she said as she dragged my buyer away.
‘I’m coming! Just let me say goodbye to this vulgar gentleman.’
‘Goodbye, Mr. Vulgar. I hope you will be able to sell at least one of your paintings. Though I really can’t see how!’
‘Bye-bye!’ I retorted and took out a fresh edition of the economic news from under the stall, in which I read every day about how my lovely country was heading, full steam ahead, to hell.
I stopped paying attention to the high school students going away or passers-by; I only diverted my attention to light a cigarette every now and then, for a cup of coffee or to respond to the occasional questions from customers about the price. Hearing the price, they would quickly disappear or try to teach me something with their inane remarks.
I usually disregarded comments about how pricey my paintings were or that they were not worth the money. Who is to say what is worth how much and I for one would certainly know my efforts’ worth.
‘Really, I sometimes get the impression that you just don’t want to sell any of your paintings,’ Gennadiy said, interrupting my reading.
‘That’s not true. I’m just waiting for that customer who will be able to recognise in these fragments of canvas something bigger than just a good combination of colours.’
‘You know Volodya, if you lower your prices, even a little bit, there’ll be a line waiting to buy your paintings. But as far as I can remember, it has been seven month in a row that nobody has bought any of your works.’
I said nothing in response.
‘You come here every day, take out the same seven paintings, and at the end of the day, you pack the same seven paintings in cellophane and take them back home.’
‘So be it. Or are you suggesting that I dump?!’ I replied with some irritation.
‘Vova,’ the old man continued, ‘your paintings are some of the more expensive ones here. So I would think that your arcane economic “dumping” doesn’t apply in this situation.’
‘And what if, Gennadiy Vasilyevich, I’m not here for the money?’
‘Well, then let me salute your manly ambitions before you go home and leave your paintings on consignment at some gallery. However, we both know that no matter how insignificant money may seem to our souls, it still plays a significant role for our bodies.’
Every time something comes out of this old man’s mouth, it’s like a well-said aphorism. What if he’s right? Perhaps I should have lowered the price a little. But what will I do after I sell all my seven paintings? He’s not aware that I’m no longer painting. That eighth love story still stands in my studio under a layer of dust, suspended on the canvas waiting endlessly to be completed. It’s almost a year now that I’ve had no time for it.
In the beginning, it was supposed to be a lush field of red poppies, where I, in love, chase her. But I could not muster the courage or inspiration to trace Marina’s image for the eighth time.
I do not know what has gotten into me. Before, there was not an hour that I would not think of her. All my works were incarnations of her and my emotions for her. But now it seems as if my feelings have somehow been dulled. My feelings and pain are still there, yet my desire to pick up a brush has gone. I guess I am not willing to sell these damn paintings, because deep down I do not dare part with them. Perhaps, time has been working against me selling these seven paintings to keep her in my memory. No, that’s not it. Why keep her in my memory, if she is forever alive in my heart? What nonsense! I interrupted myself mid-thought and started packing the paintings in the covers.
The ancient street lamps were lit on Andriivskyi Descent. Tracing with my eyes the reflection of the artificial light on the ancient sett paving, I walked down the street. As I headed downhill, I left behind a few remaining sellers, kissing couples, old women strolling and wives rushing home. All those who had someone to live for. To live for one’s loved ones and relatives. For all those who I no longer had. I, a lonely artist, with pieces of a heart that once loved.
‘Vova, look here!’ she called smiling and laughing as she climbed the pedestal of a centenary street lamp. ‘I’m crazy about you! I’m crazy about you! I’m crazy–’ I ran up to her, grabbed her in my arms and took her down. She was looking into my green eyes and whispering over and over again: ‘Crazy, can you hear me… I’m crazy about you, my dear.’
‘I’m crazy about you, my crazy girl,’ and we would stand motionless in our love bubble in the middle of the Andriivskyi Descent; and passers-by would envy us with kindness, smiles tugging at the corner of their mouths..
How can I forget all of this? For I had promised her, and myself, that no one would ever take her away from me. How wrong I was…
‘Good evening, Vladimir!’ Two old women greeted me at the porch of our five-storey house.
‘Good evening! How have you been keeping, Galina Olegovna?’
‘Well, dear, thank you. Meet my old friend, Olga Dmitriyevna. She, too, knew your mother.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ I answered pulling a smile to a sincere “nice to meet you” on her part.
‘I knew you when you were small still,’ the woman of about sixty years continued. ‘Your parents once brought you with them to the central railway station. At the time, I was working as an accountant there. Your family was travelling to Crimea on vacation.’
‘Unfortunately, as is often the case, our childhood memories are replaced with the memories of subsequent years. I’m sorry, but I don’t remember you at all.’
‘That’s fine, I’m glad to see that you have grown into such a handsome and healthy man.’
‘Thank you for your kind words. Excuse me but I have to run, it’s been a hard day,’ I tried to extricate myself from getting to know each other any further.
‘Ah, Volodya, by the way,’ Galina Olegovna interrupted having recalled something, ‘an employee from the public utility service came by again today. Haven’t you repaid your debt for the apartment yet?’
‘No, not yet, haven’t been able to come up with money,’ I answered in embarrassment before the new acquaintance.
‘She said a large penalty had already accrued and asked me to pass you this envelope.’ The old woman opened her old-fashioned handbag and after fumbling around medicines packaging and newspaper scraps, she found the white envelope in question, which probably held another court summons for non-payment of debt. ‘Here you go.’ After taking a closer look at my packed paintings, she added: ‘I see you’re bringing them home again.’
‘That’s right, I always keep all that is mine with me,’ the old women smiled, and I, taking one more note from the utility service, bid them goodbye and went up to the fifth floor.
As soon as I disappeared behind the door of our entrance, and my steps up the stairs were no longer heard, Galina Olegovna, having again zipped close her handbag, began sharing the latest gossip and stories about the neighbourhood with her friend.
‘Olga, what a shame about Volodya. He used to be such a good boy, brought up well by such loving parents, always dressed to the nines, such a gentleman and so sociable. Fate was kind to him. I’ve lived in this house for almost forty years now and I had known his mother and father for more than three decades. They were so proud of him! Not only they, but we all were so proud of this boy! He received an excellent education and, by the age of thirty, became the director of a huge company, a corporation, as they say these days. Volodya was respected by everyone in this neighbourhood – from the baker to the mayor. He often travelled abroad and was always the object of women’s desires.’
‘So, what happened? Why can’t he even pay for his apartment now?’ the friend interrupted Galina Olegovna holding her breath in anticipation.
‘Oh, my dear, when a man is in a mess, some woman is surely to blame,’ Galina Olegovna tied a knot with her little silk scarf around her neck with affected dramatism and continued, ‘Who else but a woman can inspire or ruin a man.’
‘Has he fallen in love?’
‘Of course he has, sweetheart, what else,’ the companion said. ‘Head over heels.’
‘What was her name?’ asked Olga Dmitriyevna with aroused interest.
‘Marina.’
‘Marine almost.’
Ignoring her friend’s contribution, Galina Olegovna continued with her usual emotional tone: ‘They were such an incredibly beautiful couple. They were a pleasure to look at. And I should know, I would see them here often when they came to visit his parents, when they were still alive. They loved Marina as if she was their own flesh and blood. She was a bit younger than him but a perfect match. Beautiful brown hair, wasp waist, graceful gait, and her manner of speech… And what lively eyes! You could lose yourself in them. Perfectly charming. You know, she reminded me of myself when I was young.’ A sense of personal self-worth flashed on Galina Olegovna’s face. She glanced at her friend, who was completely immersed in the story and continued: ‘They were a couple for a few years, and their love added colours to this house and street.’
‘So, what happened?’ Olga Dmitriyevna asked impatiently.
‘Olga, please don’t rush me! Where was I? Well, their love was like in movies. He gave her flowers, carried her in his arms, bought her cars.’
‘Cars?!’
‘Yes, I think I have already mentioned that he was quite successful, haven’t I?’ Galina Olegovna approached her friend’s ear and slowly dragged the words, ‘Rich, very rich,’ and having straightened up again, she continued: ‘He was a paragon of the independent and successful type!’
‘What about her? What did she do?’
‘As for that, my dear, it remains a secret,’ the old woman said raising her eyebrows. ‘I had asked his mother several times about it. It was impossible to get Volodya to say one word about his personal life, and his mother dodged my questions. Obviously with my aristocratic descent, I wouldn’t insist. You know, I’m quite a modest woman and don’t like to meddle in other people’s business,’ remarked Galina Olegovna, adjusting her scarf again as if it was some halo of dignity. ‘But one thing I know for sure: it was Marina who taught him how to paint. She loved painting. One day, she showed me a drawing. And literally on the spot I was able to tell that she was talented. I remember, Volodya even opened an art gallery for her on St. Sophia Square.’
‘What a man!’ exclaimed her companion in delight.
‘Yeah, a real man is one capable of great deeds. And Vladimir was such a man. I remember, he even quit his career and business for her sake.’
Olga Dmitriyevna could not believe her ears and kept shaking her head in astonishment.
‘Of course, I do not know whether any of it is true, but I know for sure that there was a time when they moved to southern Europe. The tears his mother shed, anticipating having to part with the kids. I consoled her. Assuaged her. I kept telling her that it was all for the best. And to myself I thought that we all make reckless decisions when in love. After all, you have to agree that a person in love is a person who is out of his mind.’
‘Oh, how I wish my granddaughter would meet such a groom,’ put in Olga Dmitriyevna dreamily.
‘Don’t be so quick to wish someone else’s life for yourself. You never know what lurks beneath the surface.’
‘So, what happened to such a successful man? Why can’t he even pay bills?’ the friend asked Galina Olegovna snapping out of her daydreaming. ‘How could someone who had everything hit rock bottom? Did you see how he looks? He’s tall and has handsome features, but his skin is grey and there are bags under his eyes.’
‘When he broke up with the love of his life–’
‘Did she leave him?’ asked Olga Dmitriyevna, perplexed.
‘You can say so,’ Galina Olegovna looked at the lit windows of his apartment and sighed softly. ‘You know, my dear, evenings are still chilly these days, and I am not dressed for the weather. Moreover, it’s rather late, we’d better go home.’
‘Wait, tell me what happened. Did she leave him?’
‘I don’t know. All I know is that he is alone here. And has been for several years.’
Galina Olegovna stood up from the bench, grabbed her handbag and adjusted her scarf. She hugged her friend.
‘I would love to ask you over for a cup of tea, but –’
‘Not to worry,’ the companion interrupted her, ‘I also have so many things to do before my husband gets home. Promise me that we’ll get back to this story later,’ and catching a promising look, she continued with gratitude: ‘I was glad to see you, to know that, at your respected age, you are full of health and strength, even just a year after your loving husband passed away.’
‘I’m very grateful to you for your support,’ the friends kissed each other on the cheek, like young coquettes and parted.
‘Why in the world did I loosen my silly tongue with a person who has never known the taste of loneliness,’ Galina Olegovna thought, returning home with small slow steps.
I arranged my seven paintings in the spot where they spent each night and sat in the armchair by the fireplace.
I stared for a while at the yellow flame, at how it was devouring the dry pieces of wood with abrupt pops expelling air from them. I was seeing off another evening of my life. I was recapturing the warm touch of Marina’s loving hands, taking in warmth from the fire. I could see her sitting on my lap, laying her head on my shoulder, pulling at the top button of my shirt with her delicate fingers, sharing her dreams and experiences with me. And as long as the fire was slowly burning, I would spend my time with her – the woman I love. I love just as I did before. Just as I promised to. Dearly and forever. Her only, my Marina.
Chapter 3
It was rather chilly in the apartment. Only a handful of ashes were left from yesterday’s fire. I had spent the entire night in the cosy chair without undressing. I glanced at my watch and got up with jolt – it was already eleven in the morning. I had to hurry up if I did not wish to miss another trading day. I was fully confident no one would buy them today, so I had breakfast, picked up my burden and rushed to Andriivskyi Descent.
‘Good afternoon, Vladimir.’
‘Good day,’ I said to a woman who was examining my works, as I put my coffee down. ‘Do you wish to buy a painting? There’s a discount today,’ my tongue let slip those two silly phrases.
‘A discount? So, what’s the price?’
‘Which do you like most?’
‘Any,’ she replied with indifference, as she looked fixedly at me with her brown eyes.
‘Wait a minute, how do you know my name? I don’t recall you as one of my regulars.’
‘Regulars?’ The woman broke out in laughter, so I had to take out a cigarette. ‘You haven’t had one single customer in 6 months, and I doubt anyone in the neighbourhood would be willing to pay for this junk. My name is Viktoriya Aleksandrovna Shlepko. I’m the head of the public utilities service, and you, my honourable artist, top our list of the biggest debtors. It seems you are no longer concerned about us having cut the central heating and telephone line in your flat for non-payment? Well, our next step will be electricity and water.’
