6th January, 1906
To Whom It May Concern,
My name is Johnathon Williams. I am an artist. I was born in 1886, twenty one years ago, and in 1905, I was offered a job as an art consultant for an eccentric millionaire ― one of the wealthiest in the country ― Matthew McKinley. And this is my story.
I come from humble beginnings. My father passed when I was a toddler, so my mother, the fiercest of souls, was tasked with raising an only child in a house where food was a scarcity, in a country torn prior by civil strife. Working as a domestic servant, we traveled throughout the American South. She was a reserved person and spoke only of my father in the darkest of nights. My father? He was a painter. He collected only the finest brushes and colors and made only the finest of strokes. My mother spoke of how he was obsessed with one incomplete painting of his. The painting itself was of a humble size, not more than a sheet of paper. No one knew as to what he was doing. It appeared to consist of an outline of an avian, of sorts, on the road, in rush hour of, what appeared to be, downtown New York. To everyone else, it made no clear sense; therefore, many just dismissed it as a work of artistic heresy. He claimed it would have brought him riches and saved our family from our financial woes. Till his final days, he worked on it. At first, the idea of a benevolent tomorrow infatuated my mother, but she too, eventually, transpired all hope. Tuberculosis got to him, before we got the answer. I kept it. Wherever we went, I kept it framed in my luggage. In the rain and in the sun, I kept it. I assured myself that there existed something about that painting that connected me with my father, where reality had failed to.
My mother noticed my skills early on in life and sent me to New England when I was eighteen. I began work as an art renovator in the New York City Museum. It was my no means a good job, but it was a job. I found an apartment in the borough of Brooklyn and sustained myself quite easily. When I was twenty, I received a letter from Birmingham, Alabama. It was from a hospital, informing me that my mother had been diagnosed with smallpox. A year before I had left her, and a year later, she had left me, permanently. She did not have much to her name and no one to leave it to but me, but she asked that a letter be mailed to me, asking me not to come and let my dreams guide me. I recall that night quite vividly. I sat and looked at my father's painting. I shed no tears. I just pondered. It never made any sense. It had wings but possessed no body. It was on a road, but around it, no asphalt, no emotion. There were cars, but no one noticed it. Eventually, daylight broke the darkness, and I carried on with my life. I went to my job, and I came home. I stared at the painting, and then I slept. I woke up the following morning, and I went to my job.
A week later, I received another letter. It was from Matthew McKinley, the real estate developer and investor. Success was synonymous with McKinley throughout New York. He was an inspiration to many, even me. From rags to riches, and that too, by his late twenties. He offered me employment as an art consultant. I thought of it as my big break. I thought of it as my chance to prove my worth. His mansion was on Stratton Island, the wealthiest borough in the area. Stratton Island was in ways more of an island than people understood. It was itself one of the richest boroughs, but it was immediately surrounded by exceptional inequality and crime. However, fifty dollars, every week, including domicile. He made an offer that I could not refuse.
On the Monday that followed, I went to his residence. The gates were stone. Dark stone. Solid. Lofty and solid. It was like a citadel of sorts, cut off from the entire area. On the outside, the only indication that a person lived there was a small black sign that had his name engraved in what appeared to be silver. I was greeted by one of his servants; he walked out as I approached the gate. There was no bell.
"Williams," he said, firmly.
"Yes?"
"Mr. McKinley has been expecting you all day."
"He did not specify a ti―"
"Come."
His mansion was at the end of a vast polo field of a garden. Around its perimeter, a wild assortment of colors and flowers, and inside, the grass was one shade of green, of one length. In the middle, was a tree. An apple tree that appeared to be lost. It disturbed the impeccability of the entire scenery. His mansion was of maroon stone bricks - dark maroon stone bricks. The architecture was so meticulously uniform, it surely would have driven any true artist insane. It was at the other end of the garden.
"This is magnificent. Who maintains this garden?" I said.
No response.
I brushed it off, and we walked inside to the blood bricked mansion. The front door opened into a large living room. The ceiling towered high. Between the room, was a large arc, which served no purpose. In the middle there was a writing, that too in metallic. It said in, I assumed, latin, 'epoh laedi.' The walls decorated with the finest mahogany planks. There were two sofas facing each other; a chair and a small table that faced the opposite direction, towards a fireplace. On top of the fireplace was a massive portrait of a beautiful, young lady, in her mid-twenties. Opposite of the portrait was a massive mirror that appeared out of place.
"Coffee? Tea?" he asked, with a perplexing degree of hospitality.
"Water," I responded.
"As you wish," turning around, "Mr. McKinley will be with you in a minute."
I sat there for a while. Maybe ten, fifteen minutes had passed? There were small decorations everywhere, but not a single clock anywhere in sight.
"Here you go," another servant came.
"Do you know what the time is?"
"No, Sir."
I looked around a bit. There were so many pictures of that woman, but none with him. Of her childhood, adolescence, and then that was it. On a separate table, there were the estate contracts he had amassed throughout his career. But not a single picture of himself.
"Looking around, boy?" a deep voice said from behind me. I looked around and saw a fifty year old man, in a properly done jet black suit and tie, vest coat, and a silver pocket watch with a fine silver chain. His face was fresh and possessed a half-smile, a smirk of sorts, which made him come off as neither too contentious, nor too pacifistic. "You must be Williams. Johnathon Williams." He extended his hand.
"It is an honor to meet you, Sir." I said, extending mine.
"Please. Take a seat . . . so tell me, have you considered this position?"
"Yes. The offer you made. It was hard to decline, you see." I smiled.
"It will involve you to look around pieces of art throughout my house. See its potential for resale and, or restoration. Please know it will be a daunting task. Do you think you shall be up for it?"
"Like I said. It was hard to decli―"
"You will also be introduced to the inner workings of this house."
"It would be an honor."
"Well then," he smirked, "let's get you settled in then. I'll get the contract delivered to your room by tomorrow. . . Adam! Show Williams to his room. Make sure he feels right at home."
I
The following day, I moved in. I brought whatever possessions I held dear. My room consisted of a high bed and a table for work. I placed my palette and brushes and set up my father's outline next to my bed. The room was attached to a rather lavish bathroom. It was around evening when I went outside into the garden. Mr. McKinley was there, in his suit and tie, trimming the luscious green shrubs.
"Mr. McKinley!"
"How was your first night's sleep?"
"Quite fine," I replied, "do you know when your staff arrange a clock for me?"
"Soon."
"I. . . alright. When can you brief me on my duties?"
"Soon. We have all the time in the world." he said. "Come here, look at these bushes. These are Colombian roses, the finest in the entire continent. Roses all look the same," picking one out, "however, sometimes even seeing is not believing. Smell it." I sniffed a little. It was as if sweetness possessed a scent.
"This is marvelous." I said.
"Yes. Yes, it is. Take it. Keep it safe." He handed the rose to me. "Come on inside, let us discuss inside."
We walked towards his dining room, a rectangular rusted-red wooden table, perhaps Latin American mahogany.
"Tell me about your parents."
"Both of them have passed. My mother only a few weeks ago."
"I see. My sincere apologies. Did she have anyone; a sibling, uncle, aunt?"
"No, Sir. Only child, just like my mother."
He exhaled. "That is unfortunate."
"Mr. McKinley, you were going to brief me on the painti―"
"Yes, yes. Come back to me in five days. Your blood is still warm, enjoy yourselves right now." He paused, "but do tell me about yourself."
"My father died when I was young. He, too, was a painter. One of the finest. He left me one of his incomplete portraits; his finest works. I've only heard stories of him."
"Good ones?"
"Yes."
"That is nice," he said, "you see, I, too, have lost someone very dear to me in my life. I believe we can relate in that matter."
"Is she the ones that you have portraits of?" I questioned eagerly.
"Yes. That is her." He smiled and then sighed, just a little. That was the first time I had actually seen a joyful smile on his face.
"I am truly sorry for your loss." I said, "I cannot even imagine how you must have dealt with it."
He smiled, "if I may ask, when you cried for your father, what words of solace were you provide with?"
"Patience." I replied
"Patience is what joyful tell the wounded when they run out of ways to justify why they have what the other person does not." The Old Man said.
II
I spent that night wondering about that woman. My room's lone window was positioned towards the East, so I rose with the sun. It had become high time that I dealt with my clock-less matter. I went down the garden. McKinley was sitting underneath his dispositioned apple tree. I circumvented the garden, to avoid meeting him. Near his towering gates, was the servant who had let me in.
"Sir!" I yelled.
"Yes?"
"My apologies, but I have not gotten your name."
"James Masterson." James said, rather apathetically.
"James, do you know where I can find a general store around here?"
"Walk with me."
With a single thunderous clap of his, the gates opened, and we walked towards the market.
"I must ask. You would expect a millionaire to have some spare clocks." I inquired.
"He does not want to," he laughed ever so slightly.
"Pardon?"
"He just chooses not to, as simple as that."
"I fail to understand."
"Nothing matters to him, my friend." He laughed, "time is the least of his worries. In his possession is a masterfully crafted pocket watch. It was given to him by his late wife."
"The painted woman?"
"His wife. He gave him that watch. It has worked for over fifteen years."
"But why?" I added.
"Perhaps, confirmation? When you can no longer strive, you lose ability to face the future. You digress into a state of a hollow transient being; an object that just exists not because it can, but because it has to. Perhaps, people agree that he no longer has anything left to strive for."
I did not speak after that. We entered into this small farmer's market. It was in the part of New York that I had never seen. A walk of no more than ten minutes led to the true depravity of humanity. Women and children stranded on the streets begging for food; begging for some relief. James flew past them, pushing and shrugging. At the end of the market, we found this old clock maker and I bought myself a gold plated wristwatch.
Walking back, he walked devoid of any emotion.
"Is everything alright?" I inquired.
"Oh, but of course." He replied.
"If I may ask, where are you from?"
"Virginia."
"How long have you been here?"
"About five years."
"Married? Children?"
"Neither."
"Why not?"
"Time just flew by, my friend. I do not even recall where it went. Last letter I got from my family was years ago."
"Any significant other?" I kept pestering.
A bittersweet smile appeared on his face. "Christina."
"What happened?"
"Really interested in the life of a butler, are you?"
"Every story matters. My mother always told me that."
"I haven't heard from her in 38 months. Mr. Williams, inside these four walls, time slowed down. The outside world carried on as it did, and we just became relics of an era that was forgotten by the world. We were not ever trapped here. Nobody forced us to stay. Yet, all of us did. The world carried on. We held onto what we had left outside with dear life." He paused. "All of us. We became ghosts of sorts."
"I'm so sorry."
"Don't be. I earn much more than all of the people in my town, combined." He smiled. "Is that not the dream?"
Upon our arrival, he was still underneath the apple tree, still fidgeting with his pocket watch. It had been two hours. The dark clouds began to congregate together; it was going to rain any second. I had to know more about this man; I just had to. I went and sat next to him.
"Afternoon," I said.
"Williams," he responded, "how was your sleep?"
"Nothing out of the ordinary. I had gone to the nearby market to arrange myself a watch. I have a tendency to constantly check the time. Mother taught me that. Time is of the essence after all."
"Of course, and that is true." He sighed, "I see you have gotten gold." He said it, as if I had done him some injustice.
"I. . . did not know."
"Oh no, no." He laughed, "you see, silver shines and gold glitters."
"My apologies. I do not understand."
"Silver knows what it is. It is humble, accepting, and innocent. Gold does not. It blinds you. Like every object in this world, it tells the world more than it truly is worth, and the world is then infatuated by it. It tries to prove a point. How many points will you prove till you realise that it's just not worth it anymore? You will not. You will prove your points and justify your actions till your last breath."
"I. . . I." I could not add on to that.
"My story is a lot like yours." He said, breaking the silence. "I ran away when I was a child from my home. I had nothing to my name, but I just could not reconcile myself with the acceptance of failure. Failure transgressed wealth. Failure was acceptance. Acceptance of my state. I not only requested more, I demanded more than what they had to offer, and that was the labyrinth I found myself in. I did not know what I was looking for. I needed to fill this deep, gnawing hollowness inside me that ate―chipped away every last bit of sanity I had. In the night, when the Union soldiers left for their duties, I walked. I walked and came to New York city. I worked in the steel factory. I worked to prove my worth, and I did. That benevolent man gave me twenty dollars to do with what I wished. I invested. That twenty, became a twenty-five, then a forty, then a hundred, and then a thousand, and then when panic of 1873 came, I bought that very factory from that benevolent man. I was by no means rich; I just existed, but I felt alive.
"Every single day on my way to work, I would stop by this bakery. It was in East Manhattan. It was a rather small one, but boy, did they know their way around baking." He smiled, again, something so strikingly different, "Veronica Davis. She was the daughter of the owner. Her lusciously long, light hair, a smile that filled every single gap in my heart, and those black, glossy eyes, those oh-so beautiful eyes. She was my friend, boy. She was my only friend. In a life dominated by a pursuit to fill an omnipresent, gaping void, she encompassed it, without even trying.
"When the second panic hit, the factory and her bakery went under, Veronica and her father lost every penny to their name. The only thing I had to mine was this estate around you. Back then it was just this empty garden around you. I asked them to live here. In the summer of 1875, many years ago, we were in this very spot, and we planted an apple tree." You could see the tears in his eyes well up; it was like he refused to acknowledge them. Acknowledge that he felt pain. Pain that would have made him human. "I promised her that I would one day make a living for us that she would never have to worry about another penny in her life again. . . And in return for that promise." You could have seen the tears fall and heard his low gasps. "In return, I asked her to promise me that she would sit in the shade of this very tree and be beside me." He said, lying back on the tree. The dirt and dust of the ground, gathering on his coat.
"I am truly sorry," I replied, looking towards the ground.
"How can you be?"
"I. . . I do not."
"The answer is you cannot. You say you cannot feel what I feel. Williams, there is some pain in this world that must be felt for it to fade."
"Sir, may I ask you something?"
"But of course, boy."
"You must surely consider yourself successful now. In this age, everyone cheats and defrauds his way to wealth and prosperity. The common man is nothing to them. They are just a tool, a cog of sorts. You proved them wrong. You are one of the richest men in this country. You must surely consider yourself better than all of barons?"
He smirked, that usual smirk. "There are no, and shall never be, just laws that govern life. This world exists not with just laws; it just exists with laws. At the end of the day, it does not matter how you did it, who came second, whether or not it was just. What matters is that you did it, and nobody could say otherwise." He paused, "do you think I'm successful?"
"Of course!" I said, almost disparagingly.
"Then what is life, if not an inordinate illusion of perspective?" The Old Man said.
IV
Four days had passed. At seven in the morning, I heard a knock on the door. It was Mr. McKinley in his habitual suit, vest, and tie. He looked as fresh, as if it were ten. I, on the other hand, had a few drinks from his kitchen the night prior and was not remotely as polished.
"I see you have been to the complimentary bar," he condescendingly said. "May I come in?"
I pressed my hand against my forehead, desperately trying to somehow alleviate the massive migraine. "It is your home, Sir."
"Estate," he replied. He walked in and sat on the chair adjacent to my table. "Here are your dues." He handed me a letter, which contained fifty dollars, a week's wage.
"But I haven't don―!" I retorted.
"You will," he promptly interrupted, "you will. Don't burden yourself. There are a bunch of pieces I would like for you to see, but in time. For now, decompress." I began to become frustrated. I exhaled incandescently. For someone who spoke with great motivation and passion about efficiency and productivity, there this man was, one of the richest estate developers in the country, sitting and procrastinating every attempt of mine for work. He seemed like a man who felt as if he had completed life. A man who had received this one immense, yet paltry, joy early in his life, that everything afterwards, could not provide him with any stimulation or sensation. He was a man, who was numb to both joy and pain. I exhaled again. "Is this painting you were telling me about? The one shrouded with ambiguity?"
"Yes."
"What do you think it is?" he asked.
"I think it is of a butterfly, one that is immune to the greed and avarice of the city life, especially in this city. A butterfly that is immune to the cynicism and pessimism that comes with people's belief that greed is good or shares the belief that one must fall for the other to survive. But what does it matter what I think? You tell me."
He gave me a half smile, his signature smirk, a little and got up to look around it. McKinley sighed. "Why does it matter what I think?" He paused, "if you believe it is that, and not a dying moth, one that's fallen from the sky, asking for help from the bystanders, but to no avail. In broad daylight, it lies there, and everyone moves on with their lives, as if nothing ever happened. They stand like vultures. If you believe it is your butterfly, then, Williams, who am I to say otherwise?" He paused again. "Do you believe that is that you see in your father's painting?"
"Yes, sir. Yes. I do." I said, without even the slightest of hesitation.
"Then, what is life, if not an inordinate illusion of perspective?" The Old Man said. I did not speak after that. This man was too hopeless to get to. One of the finest business minds of our generation, a waste. I sat on my bed and drank the last bit of stale whiskey I had left. "I see you have a fondness for drinking?"
"Well, I do not generally approve of such activities. But with recent speculation of prohibition, it would be hypocritical of me to say that I do not enjoy a good drink here and there. What about you?"
"I used to be quite the drinker in the years that followed '75."
"What happened to Madame Veronica?" I interjected.
"In good time. I am aware that the nature of my profession, many people enjoy a good drink off and―"
"Andrew Carnegie isn't famous for drinking."
"Edgar Allan Poe," he responded, "no sane person holding that drink consumes it because it is good for them. They drink it not because it is good, but because it is bad. They drink it not because they want to live, but because they want to die. You are fully aware of my lust for efficiency. When the drink stops serving its part, why should you do yours?"
"Edgar Allan Poe was a poet, Sir."
"Years ago, I wrote short poems to make sense of the world. Veronica was an avid reader. At first, I wrote to tell her stories, but then it quickly turned into a way to get close to my love. On my way to the factory, I would always drop by a new poem that I had written the evening before. Later, she encouraged me to send out my poems for publishing. I could not allow it to interfere with my business, so I hid it from the world and wrote under various pseudonyms. I did not want the success that came. It wasn't for the world. It was for her. Just her. In nothing less than a blessed and prolific writing career, all I ever wanted was a piece, a sentence, a paragraph that moved her. On my darkest nights, it was her who stayed up till dawn to read whatever nonsense I had penned down. It was her whose reviews I would ardently wait for, because I knew that if she did not like it, no one in this forsaken world would―"
"Then why did you stop?" I interjected.
"I wrote for her, and when she left me and I moved to these four walls, I just stopped. I had lost my only reader. To this day, these four walls guard this secret. The publishers claimed the poems were from a ghost writer that had faded way in his sleep from old age, and people eventually forgot, like the always do."
He looked out the window, towards the apple tree. "The tragedy with us poets and artists, by the nature of our profession we attempt to not only understand humanity, we attempt to justify it. People say we make our own infinites in our work. . . I disagree. We, rather, face the lack of them, every waking second." The Old Man said.
VI
On the sixth day, the day he asked me to come to him, so I could have been briefed on my job. I still had not spent a penny of my earnings. They sat inside the envelope, in the exact same position in which he had left it in my drawer. I had not earned it, yet. It was seven in the morning, when I looked out my window, there Mr. McKinley was in his natural place, underneath his apple tree. He was writing something, or perhaps, reading something. It was good to alas see him doing something productive; it seemed to apparently satiate my curiosity as to how he was so helpless and pathetic. The sun was ripe and the air, crisp, when I walked out into his garden. There were a multitude of servants in his 'estate'; however, it appeared as if all of them avoided the garden itself and circumvented it. I walked into the shade of the tree.
"Williams," he quickly said, putting down his pen and paper, "tell me, how was your sleep?"
"Excellent, as always."
"Excellent. I have been meaning to ask you something."
"Before you do, I thought you should know that is the sixth day."
"And?"
"You requested to see me in six days, so you can bring me up the speed on my tasks and duties."
"Oh. My sincere apologies. It's been six days already?" he half smiled, half sincerely, "where does the time go." I did not respond. "I am funding this art competition for the state of New York. To enter you must have a complete and original work of art and along with it an essay or text explaining your piece. When can you finish your father's masterpiece?" I was perplexed. His blissful ignorance astonished me.
"I've been holding on to it for years!" I revolted, "and you expect me to get it to you in days?!"
"Three weeks," he nonchalantly replied. "you know what it is. Why mustn't you accept it?"
"What if it isn't?"
"What if it is?"
"You don't understand."
"What is life if not―"
"An inordinate illusion, Sir, I understand!" I exhaled furiously. "My apologies. Mr. McKinley. I do not know what came over me."
"Don't apologize. Emotion is good."
I saw James take a few steps into the garden. Mr. McKinley gave him a stare; he walked back. There was a definitely a reason they were not entering it. "How did you deal with her loss?" I said.
"Come again?"
"How did you deal with her loss?" I repeated, "the loss of a loved one?"
He smiled and lowered his eyes to the roots of the tree. "I wrote about it. I regressed into my writings. I began to live in my lines. Writing became the greatest disguise that I wore. It hid the reality of my life and my circumstances. I sought refuge in a world where I had control. Where I could finally be free." He paused, allowing an ever so slight sigh. "That was the goal, wasn't it? Williams?"
"Pardon?" His composure appeared to unravel every second he spoke.
"To acquire success and money? It was not what I sought. So, I kept writing more, kept sending, and kept getting issued. No one understood. No one noticed that none of this was for wealth. I didn't want anyone's God damn money. For what? For what?" Finally, an emotion from him. He quickly recovered. "What people did not understand was that it was not about money or fame. It was about getting an answer. They felt every word I wrote. But no one bothered to provide an answer. I had everything. I had achieved everything they said I needed, yet I felt this gnawing emptiness―" he paused. "When the drink stops serving its part, why should you do yours?"
"You miss her."
"She understood me. I did not want this. I did not want any of this. What good is any of this when you no longer have anyone to give it to. No one to wake up to. No one to fold into. No one to embrace. Many like you have come through these four walls of my Red Palace. All of them brought with them stories and hopes, yet all of those stories faded over time from the blinding glitter of gold. I wanted the woman who built me. I wanted my one true love. She brought out me, in myself, every time I was with her. I kept my end of the promise. I kept my end of the promise all these years. . . They lied to me."
"They?" I questioned.
"This world. This world lied. They said that if I had all of this, I would have been content. My friend, I have never been this sorrowful to prove anyone so wrong in my entire life." It was as if his inner thoughts were spilling. Thoughts that had been sown away in the dense threads of avarice of the world. Thoughts which would have made him remotely human. "Writing is just marking on paper. We give the words power. We do."
"Is this why you write?"
"When you write, in essence you attempt to transcend to a different place in space and time. In theory, you attempt to console your own emotions. But in reality, all you do is just talk to a piece of paper, something that cannot challenge what you tell it." The Old Man said.
XV
On the eve of Christmas, I was walking on the outskirts of the estate. You could have gone miles in a direction and still not find a single home. Mr. McKinley made sure he was absolutely isolated and broken off from this world. This very light layer of snow had completely covered the brick road that led to his mansion. I walked around it, thinking about all he said. The four red walls did possess a power of isolation that I had never seen before. The walls served as more than just simple barriers. They were dividers of thought. They kept outside happenings: out, and inside stories: in. The red walls were the silent observers; trapped in time and space, damned to see the inside happenings.
After two hours of pacing in the cold, James came from behind me. He was much more prepared for the cold than I was.
"Sir, why are you outside?"
"You act surprised. You live with Mr. McKinley, and yet, you still request for logical reasons for anything." I said.
He smiled. "Walk with me." We walked towards this lake. It was lightly frozen from the top, but you could have easily spotted the fish in it, roaming around, free from everything, blind to everything.
"What happened to Veronica?" I quickly said. I just had to know. The curiosity and enigmatic nature of that man was getting to me.
"I was his first worker. The first man he ever hired, so many years ago. You sort of lose track of time when things stop happening in your life. McKinley was always an eccentric human. He could never befriend anyone. However, with Madam Veronica, he was different. I assure you. He became this person that was, at least in some manner, likeable."
"But what happened to her?" I said, as I wiped the snow from a bench and sat down.
"In 1881, there was an explosion on a train from Boston to New York."
"And she was on it?"
"She was there for a visit to a convention. McKinley had recently secured a major contract from the state and wanted to have her take time off. I remember that day. She was hurrying back, two days before the event." James sighed, which appeared to be more of a slight gasp, "when he got word, you can imagine what happened next."
"This was decades ago."
"You act like he knows that? There's a reason why he does not know the time. Ask him. He won't know this year either. His illusion of perspective? Mr. McKinley, the estate developer, the mighty business mind, is just a rotting carcass with a brain attached to it."
XVI
Almost three weeks had passed, and I had been paid, in full, for all of them. A hundred and fifty dollars sat in my drawer, in three different letters, just as he left them. They were untouched and unearned. By now, I had gotten too frustrated and disillusioned by what I had seen. I thought about what James said. He appeared as such a hopeful man, with all hope drained in him by a feckless cynic. I feared what would have become of me had I overstayed my mental capacity. No money on this Earth was worth having all sensation beaten out of you.
A storm was coming that Christmas Day in 1905. We all felt it. The garden was covered with snow all around, and not a single person was insight from the window. I had decided that day that I was going to resign and go back to my old job in Brooklyn, where I had not only made a living but had also lived.
By ten in the morning, the clouds were nearing McKinley's estate. I packed everything I had brought but left my father's painting as is. I walked down to his living room. The one I had been in on my first day. He was there, sitting quietly in front of the fireplace and the picture of his love, underneath the mahogany arc, looking away from everything in the room. He was staring at a purple plant. I quietly sat on one of the sofas.
"Williams?" He called.
"Umm... Yes." I said. "How did you know?"
"No one is allowed to come in on me like that."
"My apologies."
"No need."
"Mr. McKinley, I have come to inform you that I am going to resign from my apparent position as your art consultant."
"But why?" Mr. McKinley distraughtly said.
I absolutely could not have held it in anymore. You could hear the wind battering against the windows. The white blizzard was here. "I cannot take it anymore!" I yelled, with all of the air present inside of my lungs. "I cannot take this nonchalant attitude! I came here to work. And yet, all you have managed to do is just defer this to another day. Here is your money. Take it. I have not used it, because I don't want it. I do not need your depraved money. I do not need any money that has been touched by debilitating cynicism of a broken man!"
He came to the sofa opposite of me and sat down there. He gave no smile, no smirk, and no emotion. He inspired and then expired. "You requested art?"
"Yes, sir. We had an agreement."
"Then look at that," he pointed towards the marvel of a picture of Veronica. "Look at it. What do you see, art consultant? Explain to me exactly what is it you see that is relevant in this picture."
"I see a lost love. I see a lot of pain. Why else would someone have no picture of themselves from their childhood yet have one massive picture of a loved one. I see broken dreams. That is why you have that mirror opposite of it, so no matter where you look in this room. On that chair or this very sofa, you get to see her. That you may somehow get the feeling that she is still here. This portrait is not special because of the art that went into it. It is special because of the love and emotion that the art portrays. . . These are all signs of guilt, but why? What guilt is there?"
Mr. McKinley rested his head back on the sofa. His vest coat, suit, and tie, all perfectly looking, all jet black. "It was July 1881. I had four development projects in two boroughs of this city. Our home was being constructed, these very walls around you. I would work throughout the daylight hours; however, I always managed to return by three. At three, you would get two and a half hours in winter and three in summers, to watch the sunset. We watched it together, almost every day, underneath our apple tree. I watched it grow from a sampling to the marvel it is today. I kept my promise.
"In July of 1881, it had been eleven years of knowing her, and eight, loving her. Love is funny, my friend. Throughout my life, I was told that must choose wisely and not excessively. But what investment is greater than companionship, Johnathon." It was the first time he had used my first name. "What is love, if not a shout from a dark cave, hoping someone would hear and respond? My heart harkened for her voice every day. I trusted her. In this business of life, trust is a valuable thing, and yet, I trusted her oh-so much. I did not want my associates to tell me it would have caused no harm. I wanted her to tell me it would have been okay, and I would believe her, because she said it. I would believe her, because I loved her. Veronica did not care about any of this. I could have been a shoemaker, and she would have loved me no less. But I was not a shoemaker, Johnathon. I was Matthew McKinley.
"I sent her to this convention in Boston. It was fake. Behind her back, I decorated the entirety of our home and was going to propose, Johnathon. I was going to propose. I sent her a message that an emergency happened, and she immediately had to return to New York. There are two trains which travel from Boston to New York, both of them stop in Connecticut. Both of them left Boston that day." He could not go on without gasping. Tears came down in a steady stream down his face, accompanied by shallow and frequent gasps. He covered his face with both hands, and screamed, as softly as any gentleman could. "Only one stopped in Connecticut that day. The train derailed into the sea. Everyone drowned on that train, even my sweet, sweet Veronica. Her body was preserved by the waters. The benevolent waters. I was able to see her face one last time, before we buried her under our apple tree. My sweet, sweet Veronica."
"You could not have known. These accidents. . . You just―"
"No," he retorted, as soft as ever. "No. Nothing you say will ever change the fact that had I been a shoemaker, a poultry farmer, a baker, just not Matthew damn McKinley, Veronica would have been alive today. She would perhaps not have been with me, but she would have been alive. My sweet Veronica would have been alive, and I would not have to live a second more of this damned life. A life in which I beg for answers to questions that I do not know how to ask."
"What is life, if not an inordinate illusion of perspective." I said. I had no more words. None. To console someone who not even time could console, would have been an insult to his love.
"Let it be a lie!" He yelled. "she knew that it worked both ways. They were ends of the same blade, and only one end did not harm the wielder. Look!" He pointed towards that mirror and paced towards it. "Look above you." He pointed towards the latin words on the arc, epoh laedi, "Veronica made that arc! She wrote those words to always remind me that you had to see a certain way to be happy in this world." He shifted the mirror up, and the words revealed themselves. 'ideal hope' Tears fell from my eyes. I brushed them away, as fast as I could. "She wrote them for me. She put this mirror here. She did this. She made this man, and how did this man repay her? He killed her." The Wise Man said, as he fell to the ground and screamed in pain.
The storm was raging.
XVII
I could not leave that night. Partly due to the storm outside. Partly due to the storm inside. It was the day after Christmas; I remember it vividly. I rose from my bed. Usually someone would come up and drop by breakfast in front of my doorstep; that day, nothing. It was probably a product of the storm. Servants were probably in their own quarters. It was alright. I was not particularly hungry that day either. Outside the window, the apple tree, as resolute as ever, had an eggshell white blanket of snow on it.
I came down to the living room. Not even whisper, anywhere. And there the Old Man was. He was sitting, as he usually did, quietly. On the sofa, a letter had my name on it. I opened it.
Dearest Johnathon,
It is with absolute humility that I tell you all of this. In the slightest of hopes that you and your mother shall forgive me.
When your mother died three weeks ago, I, too, received a letter from her. It was the first time that I did in years. You see, I have been trying to get to her for, perhaps, decades now. It was no coincidence that I chose you to come here in my estate. It was no coincidence that I offered you this job. There was no job as such. There is no art in my estate that I will ever sell.
She informed me that she was dying, and that she had a son; an aspiring artist in the boroughs of Brooklyn, who possessed an unbreakable and unyielding heart. Someone who was, himself, immune to the rapacity and avarice that this city had to offer. She asked me to take care of you. She is my sister, Johnathon. You are my nephew. When I was young, I told you that I ran away from my home in the South. I was born as Matthew White. But that was no name for the 'successful man', so I changed myself. I became Matthew McKinley, a name so impeccable that it, itself, echoed of wealth and power. Only my loving Veronica knew this, and she accepted me.
I waited for years for a reply from your mother. I had already failed one woman. I could not have done that to another. I needed someone to take over this. I needed someone with an unwounded heart to take this estate, and turn it into a home, again. In my locker, with the code 01-875-0, I have left a will, in which everything to my name is yours.
"NO," I yelled. I knew exactly what he was saying. I went to the chair, and there was. In his vest, suit, and tie. All jet black. All impeccable. A lifeless corpse; lifeless in a way that he had never been. His eyes closed and his mouth foaming from poison. I called for help. I yelled. I screamed. But with no efficacy. The walls had seen too much tragedy, and unfolding before me was another one.
As for me, my job is done. I have been waiting years for someone to walk through these four walls. I want to see my love again. I want to get my eternity with her that I was denied as a result of our mortality. I have nothing more to say to this world. I have two requests though:
My body be forever placed in the North side of the apple tree. Veronica was buried there.
In this letter, I have attached a ticket, and booked reserved your place my art competition.
The 'what if' in my life haunted me. That 'what could have been' tore apart my sanity every day. We craft our narratives that we tell each other, Johnathon. We are the masters of our own myths. I do not fully know what your father meant. I doubt even he knew what it meant when he started years ago. But, it is yours now. Your art is what you intend it to be. It is your story.
And now I am going to hope, like Vericona taught me all those years ago, and hope for the best, like you do each and every day of your life.
And with ideal hope, what is life, if not an inordinate illusion of perspective.
My name is Johnathon Williams. I am an artist. In my twenty first year, I was offered a job as an art consultant for an eccentric millionaire, one of the wealthiest in the country, Matthew McKinley. And this is my story. This is the story of my art piece. In it there is a butterfly, and around this butterfly is a patch of lush green grass, on the asphalt, in Times Square. People drive on. The world carries on. However, this butterfly is unyielding. To this butterfly, it is in its own world. It cannot be sewn away into the dense threads of avarice. This butterfly is unyielding. And this is what it means. I call it 'The Poet.'
His estate has been donated to the orphans of New York. They shall make it their home and reclaim all the misery those red walls were subjected to. The building will house many children who will learn to hope again. Both the orphanage and my attached work are named after one person.
Matthew McKinley ― The Poet.
The Red Palace: a novel - Coming in 2022.