Finally, it seemed to the painter that he had reached the cursed spot. (His visual memory was impeccable.) This was where the street ended; here had stood the abandoned building and the concrete wall.
Only now, in its place, rose a brand-new mansion: five stories high, with a turret, an array of balconies, a red tiled roof, and a thick stone wall crowned with barbed wire. The painter pressed the bell in the wall, but the only response was a blood-chilling howling of dogs inside, as though they were being tortured with electric current. The mansion remained silent.
Out of sheer habit, the painter reached for the easel, set it up, squeezed out some paints, positioned the cursed canvas, and began to paint over the previous painting.
He quickly traced the contours of the mansion and the wall, and laid out some cool blue shadows and warm patches of light, hints of the first green leaves, splotches of curtain in the windows. He left nothing out, except for a crow that had perched on the edge of the roof. He didn't want to kill an innocent bird. In one of the windows, a curtain jerked aside and a pale circle of a face with a gaping mouth appeared for a moment. The painter quickly drew a white circle and a black comma and the face disappeared. In another window, something black and oily gleamed briefly—possibly a handgun—but the painter laid down a precise stroke and the black spot vanished.
He was working diligently, and the mansion began to erase itself, to melt like a sugar cube in hot tea. The turret became transparent—he could see the supporting beams—and the crow took off in horror from the vanishing roof. The carefully depicted wall disappeared next, and the painter glimpsed a plump figure clad in a brocade robe, holding the leashes of two foaming dogs. Two seconds—and the painted dogs were scowling on the canvas.
Naturally, the painter avoided depicting the sky, the forest on the horizon, the neighboring buildings, and the little flock of goats on a hillock nearby.
"You!" exclaimed a headless figure still wearing its brocade robe and velvet shoes. "Igor, buddy, let's come to an agreement."
"Just wait." The painter quickly copied down the headless figure, and its disembodied voice howled from nothingness.
"What have you achieved, exactly? Without a body, I can't help you. I can only destroy you. Erase me from the painting; then I'll do anything you want."
"Fine. If you release everyone else, I'll release you. And I want them to reappear right this minute."
"Now we're talking," the voice said. "I knew you were an honest chap. You always handed over your lunch money without a peep. Now I'll pay you back. This is what you need to say: Ciao, ciao, bambino. Bye-bye, baby. The ones you painted last will come alive first. The others you'll find where you left them, I swear on my honor."
"Ciao, ciao, bambino," the painter said quickly. And immediately the canvas turned blank. First, the mansion reappeared, then the cheerful and filthy horde, led by Roma, who instantly vaulted the concrete wall, dragging with them their samovars, feather beds, and children. Their faces flickered in the windows, then on the roof. Screaming, "I'll kill the bastards!," the resurrected owner in his brocade robe dashed through the gate to let loose the revived dogs, but the painter quickly transposed him and the dogs back onto the canvas.
