Page 13 of Portrait of A Lost Artist
“No.” She talks as if I am her child, and then, she releases my hand.
I don’t have to record her to know what she’s saying, but I still do, only to hear three simple words:
“You’re fired.”
Much to my distaste, I have nothing else to say. I want to keep digging into the world of beingnormal; to get better at a job that is so simple for everyone else. People dislike this kind of job because apparently, they are too boring and easy to do. I nod my head, though my will shatters to pieces. I’m not good at anything, much less this...
I leave the apron on the hanger, running a hand through my hair and sending a last wave towards Pedro, who says something to his wife that goes completely ignored as she does the dishes herself. Angrily. Splashing water on the sides and cursing under her breath. Just as I slip out of the bustling kitchen, my skin glistening with sweat and infused with the intoxicating aroma of spices, a few curious glances are cast in my direction. From clients that had listened over the music, to people just arriving.
One of them is Veronica Del Real.
She must have heard the way Esperanza talked to me, because her bottom lip was trapped between her teeth, eyes down-cast by the heavy flutter of her eyelashes. I discover then that she has a wild head of hair, waves falling on top of tied edges, topped by a pair of sunglasses. The vibrant outfit she wore the night we first crossed paths now feels like a distant memory, overshadowed by her current attire. She’s clad in a muted gray overall that hangs loosely over a simple black short-sleeved turtleneck, the fabric dull and unassuming. She’s holding a box in her hands, one that we had filled earlier with lunch boxes for the children in need in the resident church that Esperanza goes to, but her eyebrows lift the moment our eyes meet.
I remain silent. Lowering my head, I pass by her with a weight to my heart and an insane amount of disappointment. Sure, there are plenty of jobs I could muster, but I wanted to get good at this. To fulfill my job like anyone else would and probably be part of a team. To talk to Paul and the guys, perhaps learn how to cook some Cuban cuisines.
The sun doesn’t seem as bright once I head out, some keys dangling from my digits to unlock my bicycle and get out of there as soon as possible. But where would I go? I still had six hours of work left, and Benicio was in his book club. The first thought that pops to mind is that I could visit a bar nearby, perhaps drown the voices in my head for a little while. To be the disappointment that I really consider myself to be, but I’m stopped by a voice that I am not quite used to.
“¡Oye!” When I turn around, Veronica is rushing to me. With such quickened steps that her sunglasses fall to the pavement, and she heaves once she reaches me. In her hands, a delicate letter lies folded, its edges slightly frayed, and an elegantly scrawled ‘N’ adorns the front in graceful cursive. I cast a fleeting glance from the parchment to her, curiosity shimmering in my eyes.
She cradles the letter to her chest, as if she fears giving it to me. Her eyes twinkle in a precious brown that I hadn’t been able to detail when we had first met, paired with thick eyelashes and those lips, shaded to perfection, begging to speak.
My shoulders release the tension that had built there, as if she has the power to do such a thing. She’s much shorter than me, having to look up to connect our gazes. And there I am, wondering how a woman like her has embarked on a road to heartbreak when she could have it all. Anyone she wants, for that matter.
She gives me the letter, patting her hands against mine with much more gentleness than her mom did. It’s a form of language, as if she’s telling me everything is going to be alright. That even through all the darkness, there is some light. And here’s my light, my trial and error to going back to being the man I once was. Or...someone better. Someone else.
She leaves then, giving a few steps back and returning to the restaurant when Esperanza goes out to call out for her. I get on my bicycle, not without tossing a look inside the restaurant, through its windows, just to see her mother conversing with her. She’s not listening, nodding along to her words and still turning around to look at me.
God, what a woman that is.
I decide to find somewhere new, to roam around Havana to chill somewhere and read the letter that is tucked inside my pocket. After long minutes of pedaling and letting the breeze lull me to nothingness, thoughts aligned with the idea of her, I reach a park nearby.
Sculptures of Cuba’s history blend in between the gray concrete, pigeons flying around the sky, walking a few steps in the park and then fleeing away. I decide to lie on the grass, between a few blooming flowers, and when I look up at the sky, I realize that there are still ways to fix this. If the sky can still gleam different colors in between day and night, it means I’m still living. I have another day, another chance.
The only obstruction between the sky and me is the letter. I trace it at first, before sitting up properly and getting my dictionary out of my backpack. That’s how I spend the rest of my afternoon, translating every single one of her words with some help from the internet. A smile plasters itself on my features, laughing along to a few of her words, nodding as if she was there with me. Veronica, who can make a page bleed her colors.
The drawing completes it. The cherry on top. I had met plenty of artists, madly talented at that, belonging to the records of history. None had really cared enough about making me feel better with their art. She did. Every line was etched with a sharp intensity, deliberate and piercing, as if she sought to draw every unspoken detail of my being into her memory, craving to unravel the hidden fragments of me that remained a mystery. She got the empty gaze, the faux confidence, the...nature of me.
Without knowing me, she had captured so much.
A smartness that I am sure belongs to her strikes the match in my mind to try again. I still have a language to learn and a new job to find. A pen to pick up to write another letter. This adventure may feel like it’s over, but it has just begun.
