The Painter

The two pieces that Ernesto favoured were entitled "Peasant" and "Foreigner." The Peasant stood on dry earth, the bare feet merely skin pulled tightly over the bones that held the form together. The legs were partially covered in ragged off-white material, were bent slightly at the knees as though a great weight were upon their owner's back. Of course, there was no face; that was part of the point of the collection. By showing the legs, the foundation of the body and the source of its movement, Sandoval suggested a class with each painting, a uniform body with no individual face. It had quite an effect.

"Foreigner" was like several other paintings in the series, most notably Político and Banquero in that the legs were draped in luxurious cloth, the utmost in comfort. Beneath the material was a hint of form, a leg that was sustained by decent food and a not-too-hard life. Unlike "Politician" or "Banker", which stood upon polished floors, "Foreigner" was placed on the same dry earth as was "Peasant." Beside the right foot, which was laced tightly in a boot of military proportions, was a small puddle in which was partially reflected a blue face wearing sunglasses. The effect, of course, was intended.

At the end of the hall and to the left was the door to Sandoval's bedroom. Ernesto and the butler approached quietly and looked at each other. Ernesto nodded, and the butler knocked softly. Some foot steps sounded within, then Sandoval's doctor opened the door a crack."Is he well?" asked the butler.

"He has not improved, no, but he is not overly bad."

"He has a visitor."

"Not from the press, I hope."

"No, not from the press."

"Nor a politician?"

"It is Ernesto."

"Ah. Then he may enter." Ernesto nodded to the doctor and thanked the butler, bowed slightly as he entered the room. The air was heavy, like still water. Two steps brought him closer to the mahogany four-poster bed which held court at the back of the room, near the window. Out the half-parted curtains the barren valle could be seen.

"Doctor, who has come to see me in my state?" Came the chiselled voice from the bed. Though flecked with the touches of a throat twisted with age, there was still force, still passion driving it."It is I, señor," responded Ernesto in quiet tones. "You are famous again today. I thought I would come congratulate you." A dry chuckle from the voice, followed by a stifled cough.

"The Revista?"

"Of course."

"Leave us, doctor."

"It is best that you not talk for long, señor."

"Perhaps, but for now I will talk a little." The doctor nodded grudgingly, backed out of the room and closed the door.

"There should still be a chair by the table over there, Ernesto. Come sit by me." Ernesto went and fetched the chair, an antique in poor condition, and pulled it up beside the bed. With his sheets resting lightly on his chest, his face worn but bright, Carlos Sandoval lay gravely. Of late he had come to be known by the public as Carlitos out of affection. It was a name once reserved for those few who could call him friend. They who held such privilege were among the greatest personages in both Bolivian and world affairs of the last half-century. Many had already been swallowed up by time.