Morphine the phantom of love. Ром Амор
I knew for sure, I could not just part with it. I silently looked at the painting and all I could see was my beloved and I standing at the edge of the precipice. I was experiencing the same emotions, calling for help to the sole and last ray of light streaming from the sky. I recalled how powerless we are before the elements, nature and the skies. Before those forces that furtively watch us from behind the clouds, casting our lots.
‘The painting is not for sale,’ I said slowly.
‘Then what is it doing here?’ asked the man as if a match sparked and immediately went out, following up with a new sum of twelve thousand now.
‘No,’ I refused again.
‘Fifteen.’
‘Unfortunately, no.’
The man looked at me in incomprehension, then looked around at the other sellers, the other paintings, and back at me. He did not move and was about to say something when I said:
‘Maybe you would be interested in any other of my works?’
‘Are you the author?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I think it would not be difficult for you to paint something similar one more time. I appreciate your other works, but I only wish to acquire this one.’
‘I understand,’ I said like a troublesome kid and looked down, ‘but I won’t be able to.’
‘Able to what?’ he frowned as he tried to make out my quiet, dry voice.
‘I won’t be able to paint another one…’
‘So, you find my offer to be too low,’ – I was mistaken to think that this man would be able to feel the full extent of this painting’s importance to me – he nodded and continued to bargain: ‘Fifteen thousand.’ He stroked his beard with anticipation, putting my principles to the test.
‘Unfortunately…’
‘Damn it! How much do you want for this piece of art?!’ he burst out in irritation.
‘I can’t sell it to you, or anyone else for that matter.’ I was still looking at the ground.
‘You know, artists are very strange people,’ intervened Gennadiy Vasilevich, ‘they paint for others, but when it comes to parting with them, it is as if they were giving away part of themselves. And the fact of the matter is that they are not always ready to give away a part of themselves, however weary they have grown of it.’
The man heard out Gennadiy Vasilevich and tried to overcome his irritation.
‘Well, I have offered a fair price for this work. Fifteen thousand US dollars. I am quite confident that most of you have never even seen such money in your dreams!’
Gennadiy Vasilevich put his arm around the man’s shoulders and moved him away towards his stall: ‘You have to understand, Vladimir is a very special person.’
‘Why should I understand? If he’s here, then he’s surely selling something. And why on earth would he refuse such a generous offer?’
Gennadiy Vasilevich did not attempt to explain to the buyer again why he won’t be able to acquire “Three Minutes before the Storm”.
‘Here, take a look at my works, I believe you will appreciate them and find value in them, too.’
However, the man in the black tweed coat only glanced at Gennadiy Vasilevich’s paintings and barely a few seconds later said: ‘Thank you, but there is nothing in these works that would interest me.’ He looked in my direction again and shouted: ‘You shouldn’t have turned down such an excellent offer.’ He put on his hat and slowly walked away.
‘You’re a weirdo, Vova, a total weirdo.’ Gennadiy Vasilevich patted me on the back shaking his head. ‘Just now you were not only offered a huge sum of money, which you turned down, but also the chance to come one step closer to your freedom. Freedom from your thoughts that ensnare and gnaw on you from the inside. These thoughts are very similar to those that have been pursuing me for many years.’
‘If they are truly similar thoughts, as you say, is it possible that you would have accepted his offer if you were in my shoes?’
‘If I were forty, yes. You are still at an age where you can let the full force of life into your days and change your way of being.’
I lit a cigarette and, without uttering a word, contemplated all of what had been just said.
‘Our thoughts bring our end. And in your case, your seven painted memories are only speeding it,’ he added.
I remained silent, blowing the cigarette smoke.
‘You are bound by your past, Vova. You are destroying yourself. Listen,’ he said as he shook me by the shoulders, ‘get rid of them and your life will be easier. You’re still young. Don’t take that path. I’ve been there. It’s a dead end.’
‘Why?’
‘Because one wonderful spring morning in your old age, you will wake up and realise that you are completely alone. You will understand that when your lifeless body will be lowered into the burial pit, there will be no one there. No one will shed a tear or shudder at your disappearance. Your friends, the ones you could have relied on, would have either passed away or would simply not come to say goodbye. Moreover, your memories of love will die along with you. Do you hear me? All your memories that surge in your heart will go along with you. And what will be left?’ – he went on with his train of thought calmly – ‘I’ll tell you what will be left. Your seven paintings, that’s all. However, if you can’t let them and your memories go, nothing but oblivion awaits them. Paintings don’t live without owners. Hiding away in attics, they’re useless.’
‘So, what should I do?’
‘Sell them or throw them,’ Gennadiy Vasilevich advised with insistence and walked to his stall.
‘This one? Three thousand hryvnia,’ he responded to the enquiry of a passer-by, ‘You’ll take it? Sure, I’ll pack it for you straight away.’
Seeing how he was selling another one of his paintings, I simply packed my seven works in their covers and left. I had to ponder all what had happened, the old man’s advice, my own feelings, everything.
Once home, I lit a fire in the fireplace, grabbed the unfinished bottle of wine and poured myself a glass. My seven paintings leaned against the old armchair like seven sirens calling to my soul.
Nevertheless, the old man was right: it really was not that easy for me to part with these paintings. They were the thread that tied me to the past. Each of them preserved the deep feelings of the love Marina and I shared. Some we had even painted together. Can the sincerity and the warmth of memories be ever really sold?
‘You’ll ruin it again!’ I shouted teasingly as soon as her brush touched the canvas.
‘Stop it, I won’t,’ my beloved would say as she tinkered around the easel fully concentrated on a small part of the canvas. ‘I would just like to add some shades to your grass.’
‘Hey, it’s my watercolour. And so are the shades!’ I said as I leaped from my chair grabbing Marina, putting her over my shoulder and carrying her away from the easel. Startled, she screamed, waggling her legs, menacing to paint all over my T-shirt.
‘Let me go, Vova!’
I carried her all around the flat.
‘Did you have your fun?’
I put her down.
‘Yes,’ I said in satisfaction as I caught my breath.
And at that very moment, using the brush that she was still holding in her hand, Marina started painting all over my face: I was turning into a cat with a green beard. She was laughing. Oh, how divine were her peals of laughter! I would have let her pour a whole jar of paint on me only to see her as happy. I stood motionless charmed by her laughter. Completing her work, having turned me into Shrek, she pressed herself to me and kissed me on the lips.
‘Well