Page 16 of Portrait of A Lost Artist
I took a little longer than expected to write back. Sorry about that. I had been trying my best not to pick up the dictionary to write this, and it took me so many fucking tries only for me to fail. I’m trying to learn Spanish, so that’s why some of these sentences look like they were written by a three-year-old.
I’ve tried it all when talking about alcohol. A secret between you and me, but I have my own issues with drinking...I can have anything, from beers to champagne. I’m trying to get that behind me so I can remember who I was when I was sober, but I would be lying to myself (and you) if I said I don’t crave it from time to time. I’ll have you as my guest to recommend me Cuban drinks that don’t get me back to square one.
I asked my friend who is teaching me Spanish (Identity Unknown; he asked me to keep it a secret) what the rules for accentuations are. There are three words that can explain that. Words that are ‘Agudas’, ‘Graves’, ‘Esdrújulas’. Your name is the latter. That word sounds so weird; I have yet to learn how to pronounce it. (Time to use LOL, I guess?)
Truth be told, I’ve never really gone through heartbreak. Yes, I’m twenty-six; I should know what heartbreak is like, but I don’t. I’ve never loved someone enough for me to stay. I guess you could say that I haven’t had the chance to stay for long enough. That sounds like I always run away, but I don’t. People around me don’t really care about that.
But I can only do what I can offer, and that’s having a friend to talk to. I’m not sure how we can communicate since my Spanish is poor, and I would feel embarrassed to speak to you face to face, but we can try. For now, letters are fine. I can read what you have to say, even if it’s just snippets of what you want me to know about you. I’ll give you a few facts, if that helps you.
Hi, I’m Nathan. I’m twenty-six years old. I was born and raised in Los Angeles, California. Laugh all about it, I’m a Beverly Hills child, so different from everything in Havana. My favorite color is red. I enjoy washing dishes, but I’m awful at it. I am amazing at drawing and painting, though I haven’t done it in a while and I’m trying to get back to it...
And I think you’re the most gorgeous woman I’ve seen in so long, so if drawing you will make you notice what I watch each time I see you, prepare for letters with a sketch at the end.
Tell me about you, woman with the overalls.
At the end is a drawing of me, though it is a rough sketch overall, with my fingers threaded in between the straps of my overalls, pulling at them with a flush to my face. My lip is caught between my teeth, and I can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the moment. I imagine what an odd sight it must have been—me, trying to wrestle with my own swirling thoughts while simultaneously gathering the courage to hand him the letter I had so carefully written.
I dart through the rooms of the house, my urgency fueling each hurried step as I seek out paper and a pen. The familiar scent of old canvas and dust fills the air, grounding me as I finally find a blank sheet. With the ink gliding smoothly across the page, I unleash the thoughts swirling in my mind, pouring my heart out onto the paper. In this moment, it feels as though I’ve discovered a confidant, a silent companion who listens without judgment, entirely separate from the tangled emotions associated with Lorenzo.
Just when I’m midway through the letter, I realize that I don’t know where Nathan is staying; neither can I find him at Aseré because he doesn’t work there anymore.
Shit, maybe that was our goodbye, unknowingly.
Isn’t that for the best?
?CHAPTER SEVEN
NATHAN
“Funny you’re the broken one, but I’m the only one who needed saving.”- Stay by Rihanna (ft. Mikky Ekko).
FOR THE NEXT TWO WEEKS, I WANDERED THE VIBRANT STREETS OF CUBA, SEARCHING FOR WORK.The relentless sun shone down on vendors and residents, all grappling with soaring inflation. It quickly became evident that locals, with their connections and knowledge of the community, were the favored candidates for jobs. My efforts felt futile; like whispers lost in the vibrant chaos of daily life. Hence, I relish returning home and talking Benicio’s ear off, where he listens to my worries and stories, while he teaches me more and more Spanish. He’s a great teacher, but he already failed me on a test.
The Monday blues leaves me with Benicio’s favorite song “El Chacal” playing from some old radio in the back; he lays on that old couch that he barely dusts off as I lurk through my phone. Simon has texted me, time and time again, even calling me to the extent that made me ponder if I should change my phone and never respond again. However, since he’s not asking how I’m doing, more so telling me the events that I should go to—like my mom’s latest movie Red Carpet—, I don’t plan on replying.
Though I don’t have enough information about Mom as of late, and she hasn’t written as much as one would think a mother would—she’s busy, and I’m old enough not to need her on my back all the time—. I receive a video from Renna, filled with bright red exclamation marks that leap off the screen, demanding my attention. As I watch, my heart races, pounding against my ribcage with a mix of excitement and anticipation, drawn in by the promise of discovering her whereabouts.
