La Douleur Exquise III
Marcato Legato Staccato
~seikiunne11
I should never have come here.
I totally, utterly regret coming here.
It only took me one look at the entrance of the gallery to know I should never have come back to this city.
Why didn’t I look at the brochure before coming here?
Why didn’t I have any idea that this would happen?
Why, of all the people in the world, did it have to be about me?
WHY?!
~
The barista handed me a brochure to a museum nearby. He suggested I make a quick visit as it would probably be useful for me as a writer. And I, in my curiosity, paid heed to what he said, but never got the idea to open and see what was showcased in the galleries. I only looked at the front, a big photo of the museum and several titles in languages I didn’t want to mentally translate, and at the back, the map and the contact details of the museum.
Walking to the concierge I was surprised to be greeted in a far more cheerful way than what is apt for a stranger in this weather. And more surprisingly, they gave me a complimentary pass and assisted me well with everything I needed. I didn’t pay anything at all, not even for the magazines of the artists who had their works exhibited there. I knew I had to pay for the publications and stuff, they weren’t cheap and it’s not easy to get a market for this type of sellable material. But the staff insisted that I go in.
And that it would give me the answers.
What? What the heck where they talking about?
I used to enjoy these kinds of small trips: a town or city museum, libraries, book shops, cafes, vintage shops, someplace small and cheap but really nostalgic or educational. I used to like talking about it too with people. Especially him.
Him.
Well what do you know? I get a glimpse of someone’s name the same as him. I ignored it, fate must be playing eye tricks on me.
I walked around, hardly paying attention to what I was seeing. It’s the same boring history of life and man told in a different cultural context. I simply looked forward to seeing the new ones, maybe that would spark my interest. It barely took me five minutes to roam around until I reached the recently opened section, the contemporary gallery exhibiting five local artists. It was fresh, very modern, and highly controversial.
I didn’t really pay attention to who the artists were, there wasn’t any need to know, not unless the work struck me enough to know the artists’ motive. There were a few, especially the feminist painters who depicted nudity as a form of a revolution, a showcase of female power and superiority. But then there’s the usual portraiture of strangers, streets, scenery, nature, so on, so forth, nothing new, nothing interesting.
The last section caught my eye the most. It was composed of a dozen large scale portraits of females. The canvases were at least three by three feet, and the biggest in the middle was ceiling to floor. It made me stop to look how and why it was made. It was a face of a young woman; windblown hair, bright chocolate eyes that reflected the blue sky, full red lips, and a smile which brightened the whole gloomy and lonely room. It looked strangely familiar, as if I have seen this person a long time ago. I just wondered who was it and why did she look so familiar. I opened one of the brochures I held to see the description, in any case the name of the model would show. I regretted ever finding out who it was.
It was my name.
And the name of the painter, it was him.
Tears instantly welled up in my eyes. Was this a real bad trick?
Without any spoken word I stormed out of the place. I felt strangled, I needed air to breathe. I ran to a secluded corner and slumped on the marble floor, I had to cry. And I did cry, as hard as the threatening rain in the dark skies above me.
“Miss are you okay?” one of the interns ran after me carrying a box of tissue. She asked if I was okay but the tissue box gave clue that she knew I wasn’t okay. How pathetic is that?
Seeing that I hardly took notice of her, she started to talk, “You know, the artist who painted those is our teacher.”
I froze.
“He hardly talks about anything at all, except to teach us techniques and what we ask. But he never tells us who the girl that he constantly paints is.”
I began to hiccup my controlled and suppressed cry, I couldn’t cry with this nosy girl around. Surprisingly, she was so prepared and had a bottle of water with her. Do they do this often here? I really wonder. She continued to talk.
“When I was very young he used to be cheerful and would volunteer to teach. But maybe something happened a few years ago and he changed.”
“Five years ago,” I subconsciously whispered. She was about to tell me more things but I sharply stood and pulled hard on my coat, “I have to go.”
“Could I tell him about your visit? I hate being nosy, I just want to help you guys out.” the girl looked hopefully at me, with a little smile on her face.
“You’re already nosy as it is little miss, and that’s not good work conduct.” I snapped at her, frustration was welling up in me but I had no reason to vent it out on this girl.
“Well, then I’ll tell you one thing before you go.” she was really persistent.
“What?!” I almost shrieked.
“We only see him happiest when he did those paintings. You see, his studio is across my home. He’s like a big brother to me. He got sick a long time ago, he was unable to move for a month or so. My mama took care of him because he was alone. Mama said his mother was a far cousin or something. And since then he keeps his windows open so mama could call him fast.”
My heart then broke to pieces.
I wanted to ask, a lot of questions swimming in my head.
What happened to him? Why did he get sick? Why was he alone? Why ask neighbors to take care of him? Why wasn’t I there beside him when he needed me most.
But nothing. Nothing came out of my lips.
“G’bye lady, take care of yourself. Meh, that’s what he always says when he comes here to check on his paintings. By the way, today is the last day of this exhibit. He’ll be glad to know you were able to see them.”
I started to walk away, too much information is threatening me.
“HE’S MOVING AWAY!” the girl finally shouted. “DO SOMETHING PLEASE!”
I ran away as fast as I could.
Why did I ever come back?
WHY?
~
I stormed into the coffee shop, the barista wasn’t alone anymore, his daughter was there.
“Did you make me go there on purpose? Is this a set up?!” I demanded an answer. My head was shattering into pieces.
The barista only smiled at me and bade his daughter to get a glass of water. He made me walk to the board and pointed out a blue heart-shaped folded piece of paper.
“For you.”
He then took it and put it in my palm. I couldn’t read it. I didn’t want to read it. I wanted to get out of this city as fast as I could. The rain had started to pour outside and it made me think twice about going out. I can’t afford to be sick; this day trip has cost me a pile of pending paperwork already.
A hooded man carrying a child ran in the shop quickly as the rain started to pour hard. He was greeted warmly by the barista and bade her daughter to go play with the child. The child was a cute little boy, maybe around three years old. He had black hair and fat rosy cheeks and he gave a giggly smile at me. I sighed, that one smile relaxed me for a bit. I was calm enough to wait till the rain stopped.
And then.
His voice.
He called my name.
I spun around sharply.
It was him.
HIM.
He had longer hair than usual, it was messy and unkempt. His face had roughened; clearly he didn’t shave for a week I guess, his eyes had dark circles and lines around it, and his lips weren’t smiling as before.
I was about to say hi casually to him when the child started running to him in giggly laughter and suddenly shouted.
“PAPA!”
I never imagined any kind of pain that was excruciating as this. I looked at the kid, and looked up at him. I forced a tearful smile for him and I ran out of the café.
I ran in the rain.
I didn’t look back, nor even look at where I was going. I needed to find a taxi or something that could take me away from here. And in the hard rain, running, all the time I was crying. I knew time would come I’d have to accept that some things weren’t really meant to be. Fate brought us together, but fate tore us apart. I tried to cheat fate by coming back and see what could be mended from our broken lives, but nothing was there to mend in the first place. Love never existed in me the day after I left, while he, the treacherous him, lived life in a new love, but still had the nerve to show everyone his memory of me. I blame my pathetic, pitiful self for ever turning back. It was me who came to him before, and he never ran after me. And now I’m doing the same mistake of coming to him and finding myself getting hurt more than ever.
Dear rain, how could you relent with me like this? Do you feel my sorrow too? If you do, then take me with you now.
I toyed with the blue piece of folded paper.
I’ve had enough of everything.
With a scream I threw it in the wind and rain.
I’m so tired of existing.
~To be continued
8/20/14
4:52pm