Morphine the phantom of love. Ром Амор

      Chapter 2

      They say that in order to realise how inconsequential one’s troubles are, one sometimes has to look at a person whom life has taught much harsher lessons. Obviously, quite a few people are impermeable to such lessons. So, here we stand, Gennadiy Vasilyevich and I, selling our paintings.

      After putting out my finished cigarette, I set about arranging the paintings the usual way and looked at my old Breitling. Well, it is probably the last thing I have left from my former life: two gilded hands, confidently punctuating the intervals of my worthless life. It was already half past ten in the morning, so I was quite surprised to see a group of high school students surveying the paintings of my colleagues.

      School is the most carefree period of one’s life. Almost nothing prevents you from goofing around the city during classes. One is so naive and happy that falling in love becomes a common affair. One girl follows another, and yet you are assured that this one is the one, knowing fully well that you have no clue about these matters. But you never fail to assume an air of a harried ladies’ man.

      Four cute girls and the same number of high school boys dragging along behind them approached my display. I could clearly recognise in the guys’ look that my exhibited paintings sparked some interest. Before coming upon them, they were giggling and poking fun at the works of the other sellers, swaggering before their young cuties, but now they all fell silent. Two of the high school girls gave a disdainful look, softly whispering comments into each other's ears and pulled the other girls by their hands. A minute later, the group moved on.

      ‘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.