Morphine the phantom of love. Ром Амор
spent seven hours on those “Poppies” and, no longer being able to resist the urge to sleep, I collapsed on the bed. Sleeping on it, as they say, is usually a good idea.
When I opened my eyes, it was already noon. I got ready and had some breakfast. Having lit the day’s first cigarette, I looked out at the sunny day, thinking that it would be great to stop smoking, and inhaled more nicotine into my lungs. People get addicted by nature. So I’d rather be addicted to cigarettes than any of the other evils of our time. I walked into the studio, and as I took a look at last night’s creation, I felt sick to the stomach. “How is it possible that a real man can actually paint such nonsense?” I asked myself and immediately obtained a reply: “Money works miracles.” The painting was only half-finished and required quite a bit of effort to shape it up. I poured some clean water for the brushes and went into the kitchen for a coffee.
It’s funny how we condemn others and vow to never to do what they do, but the time comes, and all our old ways of thinking just go to hell. Especially when you’re short on those green bills or whatever colour they are in our country.
Here I am, painting stroke after stroke, mixing paints, changing tonalities, playing with light and shadow – all of this in order to survive. For I feel absolutely nothing now. You might ask whether I like what I’m doing? Absolutely not. I’m just going through the motions, with no underlying ideas or spirit. Actually, there is one – the spirit of money. For I really need your damn money, buyers! I stopped: my hand was tired of dabbing colours. I was sick of looking at this vacuity and having to admit that it was I who created it. Time for a cigarette. I take another Lucky Strike and, filling my brain with nicotine and the room with smoke, I removed the picture from the easel and placed it on the table.
“Very well, Vova, a bit more and I’ll sell this piece of crap, and forget all about it,” I thought and, holding the cigarette with my teeth, continued to paint. “What would Marina say if she saw me now?”
My teeth clenched into a smile, pulling the skin of my face, and memories burst into my head.
‘Honey, you’re selling your soul again for a buck.’ I remembered her face. ‘If you want to paint, go ahead, if you want to sing, go ahead, if you want to go crazy, go ahead. But do it with your heart, with one hundred, no, two hundred per cent. Our life’s too short to waste it on earning paper.’
‘You’re right, sweetheart. But this paper eventually can bring you so much joy.’
‘No, paper can’t. Money is nothing compared to the process of earning it. When you enjoy that process, you can proudly say that this is your work. So, just think: how can a doctor treat if he can’t stand listening to patients complaining? How can an investigator resolve another murder if he feels sick upon the sight of blood? How can your bodyguard protect you, if he dreams about becoming an actor in theatre? Do you understand?’
‘I understand, but still –’
She cut my phrases short. I did not dare object. I just wanted to hold her in my arms, capture our moments and make us a bit happier still.
I stopped. My cigarette was over. The pack turned out to be empty, and even the extra pack of cigarettes in the kitchen table let me down today. I do not like it when I have to go out to the store for cigarettes. “Why not quit smoking right now?” Indeed, it would be great. I used to do without them before just fine. I took off the coat I had just put on and went back to the canvas. I fussed over this same painting for about an hour more, but the result was still nauseous. This painting started to annoy me. It was not even the painting itself, but rather the idea that I needed the money. A man who once could afford buying anything in this country is now scribbling to earn some pennies for bread! Was this really the choice I made five years ago? Was this really, how I imagined freedom? Was this really something what I wanted to do?!
I put down the brushes and went to the bathroom to wash. The cold water washed off the sweat beads that had broken out on my forehead. I raised my head and looked at my reflection. I saw before me the same person who I was so unhappy to greet every morning. From the days of the former carefree and enthusiastic man, nothing was left. Where did my success go? My wealth? My will to live?
Well, it appears that all of it has gone along with her.
Thoroughly irritated, I grabbed my coat and went downstairs for cigarettes.
The day was imbued with spring. Birds were returning home from southern shores. The sun was thawing the remaining patches of snow on the ground. People smiled broadly. Even the ever-gloomy woman selling cigarettes in the kiosk wished me a good day. On my way back, I lit a cigarette, deciding that I would quit smoking another day.
‘Good afternoon, Galina Olegovna,’ I greeted my neighbour at the entrance as she walked slowly with a loaf in her hand.
The elderly woman turned to me and smiled. She wanted to adjust her brand new light green scarf, but one of her hands was occupied.
‘Hello my dear! It’s so good that I ran into you. I have a favour to ask,’ she said as she took my hand. ‘An old good friend of mine is looking for a drawing teacher for her granddaughter. I thought of you immediately. What do you think?’
‘Well, Galina Olegovna, I’m not really a teacher.’
‘It’s true, you may not be a teacher, but you’re an artist, aren’t you?’
‘An artist whose paintings don’t sell,’ I clarified.
‘Someone will surely buy them one day, but for the time being, this is a great opportunity for you to earn some money and do me a favour.’
I knew that it wasn’t worth arguing with this woman, so I promised her to think about it.
‘Do think about it. It is quite a wealthy family. I know the girl’s grandmother very well. It won’t be difficult to teach some basic techniques to that child.’
‘A child?’ I asked warily. ‘How old is she?’
‘How old, how old – what’s the difference?! She pays, you teach – that’s the main thing.’
‘I have absolutely no experience working with children!’ I said flatly.
‘So here you go, this’ll be your opportunity to gain such experience! Hold this for a moment please.’ Galina Olegovna handed me the loaf. ‘I have to find the keys in my bag… it’s always in such a mess…’ She began fumbling around her handbag, and I became aware that I have had an overdose of her these past days. ‘Here they are. Found them. Well, let me know your decision today. It would be unfortunate if someone else was to make use of this opportunity.’
‘By all means,’ I promised as I went upstairs to my flat.
As I approached my new painting, I had to pull a face again. The drawing itself was not bad, but it was simply vacuous. Perhaps, someone might find something to like about it, but all I could find was revulsion at myself. I had promised Marina that I would never become a slave to money.
I glanced at the envelope with the summons, considered challenging it, refuse to show up and not pay a penny. But it dawned on me that Galina Olegovna’s idea might be a possible way out of the situation. It was quick money. If the girl was still quite young, it meant that she did not know much about art and I would be able to teach her the basics quite quickly.
I bolted to the ground floor, and rang the bell to flat number three and promised the old lady to take on her offer.
‘I’m so glad!’ She threw her arms in the air. ‘Wonderful! I’ll give her grandmother a call and tell her that with my help, her granddaughter will get the most talented artist in town!’
I slammed the door to my flat, and the draught opened the door to the balcony. I started a small fire in the fireplace and went to the balcony… I was relieved.
I admired the view of the Andriivskyi Descent and the Dnieper. The mighty river had almost ridden itself of the blocks of ice that had been shackling its banks. Spring is the time when you have to rid yourself of everything that has shackled you so far. Alas, that is not an easy task.
I