Page 17 of Portrait of A Lost Artist
Benicio runs a hand over his head, pressing his fist to his chest and dancing with a swing of his hip as if he was there with his old lover, so he’s not distracted by the time I press play on the video, only to see Mom seated on a red couch, right in front of one of those interviewers with hypocritical smiles and claws for hands. She’s talking about the movie at first, as fresh as always, her dolled-up hair now with blonde highlights falling on one shoulder, a floral dress clinging to her body. The one she complains about because it didn't look like before.
“We all love you as an actress and we have grown up with you. From romance films at the beginning, then to your action ventures, and now, you’re starring in suspense pieces that cling to us and for that, let’s give Diane a round of applause!” The crowd goes crazy for her, hollering and clapping along to my mother’s smile.
“Thank you. No, stop it, that’s too much!” She’s familiar with playing with the crowd, and she points at the group of people before chuckling at their words. “That’s always the start of something good. Trying to get on my good side.”
“It’s impressive how you do it. An entrepreneur, actress, and a wife and a mother, too.” That’s where the interview is going. Mom is an expert in those matters, but I am not. I guess I took after my dad on that side because I’d rather drown in alcohol than have to answer to one of those interviewers who would twist each one of my words. “How is Nathan doing?”
“Nate, oh, my boy...” Cheeks tinged pink and eyes gleaming with knowingness, my Mom picks up the glass of water next to her and sips softly. “He’s doing amazing. I’m so ready to stop the press conferences and just join him back home.”
“We haven’t seen him out and about lately. Last time we saw him, a tragedy followed...”
Mom nods at her words, and I want nothing more than to claw the interviewer’s lips away from her face, just to see if she’d speak about a person’s life and the loss of a friend so easily if she didn’t have them. “Yes, he’s taking his time. I believe healing is necessary for everyone, and he’s my son. I want nothing more than for him to be happy.”
“We guess he is.” The interviewer then points at the screen, where pictures of me and my mom together had been passing through. “This is the last time we’ve seen Nathan Calderwood, everyone.”
A video of me on top of a table at that same party where Miles had taken his life is displayed. A pair of stylish glasses rests on my nose as I tilt my head back, downing a bottle of whiskey with a wide grin. I sway to the music, fists pumping in the air, but suddenly trip, almost crashing face-first to the ground. Laughter escapes me as I catch myself just in time. The problem is how the camera deadpans on my mom’s features at that moment, and she’s ridden speechless. Pressed to a corner of the room, basically being asked about her son’s doings.
I turned the video off before I could see what she had to say, typing a message to Renna.
To: Renna.
Have my lawyers work on this. Ask any interviewer who will be part of my mom’s press conferences not to ask about me.
Before I could see her response, perhaps read her scolding me for being so reckless, I stood up from the couch. I push my phone to the depths of my jeans pocket. I wrap an arm around Benicio’s shoulder, calling for his attention as the man works on some lunch for the two of us.
“I’ll head out for a walk. I’m not feeling so good.” I tell him, only to see him frowning as he fixes his glasses and scans me up and down.
“Want to talk about it? Lunch is almost ready and—”
“Tell you the truth? I just need some air. Alone. Please.”
Benicio studies my features a bit more, before he nods and lets me grab the keys to his house—the copy he gave me—, next I’m heading out into the blaring heat of Havana. With nothing more than my weathered backpack resting heavily on my shoulders, a deep tug pulls at my heart, anchoring it low in my chest. It feels as if the weight of my emotions has turned my breath into a fragile whisper, threading through the tightness that constricts my chest, making every inhale a struggle.
I don’t know where I am headed, or why my feet weigh so much as I paddle around on my bicycle. I’m going to lengths of Havana that I hadn’t visited, hearing children laugh as they stop playing to join their parents for lunch after school and watching old ladies reunite for their Monday getaways, between gossip and long-tongued speeches. I keep moving, already knowing the names of a few places, restaurants, pubs,bodegas, and more.
I arrived at the familiar park, where I had once delved into Veronica’s letters. To my surprise, it was bustling with life—families picnicking on Empanadas, children laughing, and friends chatting amid the warm, golden sunlight that danced across the grass. However, I take a seat on one bench, feeling more accompanied than ever and yet, as lonely as always.
When I lurk through my backpack to find a water bottle, I am surprised to see one of my sketchbooks there. I must have left it there when I wrote the last letter to Veronica, still unanswered and perhaps completely ignored by her. I have a few sketches of what I’ve seen around Cuba there, from flowers to Benicio as he cooks. I flip through the pages, not caring that my skin taints in crimson red as I stand under the bright sun.
Hours pass by with me just letting the pencil go over the pages. I miss working with paint, but sketching is less pressure. I don’t feel the need to come up with something perfect as I doodle, ready to run an eraser over where I made a mistake. Once I lost one of the most important people in my life, committing to something felt impossible. Each gleam of paint against the canvas felt unknown to me, and nothing came to fruition. I lost myself the same day that I lost her.
However, a shadow bathes over me when, after a few hours of drawing, I am ready to head back and take a nice shower that will rinse all the sweat away from my body. When I look up, a short old man is looking down at me. He has an enormous hat on top of his head, skin tanned by the sun, filled with wrinkles that make his cheeks hang the slightest, though he has a smile as he holds a little girl’s hand. The girl resembles him in his sweet grin, waving a hand at me. I hold two fingers up, with my pencil between them, as a greeting.
Much to my unluckiness, he speaks in Spanish. “Hello, I saw you were drawing and I wanted to ask you if you could...” Then, with his accent, I get a little lost in what he is saying.
“Hello, can you...say...again?” I cringe at the way I must be sounding, but the old man eyes what I suppose is his granddaughter before he lets go of her hands and points at my sketchbook.
“Draw.” He repeats. “Me and her.” Though he is still speaking in Spanish, I can understand him much better now.
“Oh—” I stand up, only to see him extend his hands.
“I’ll pay!”
“No, no!” I shake my head, sitting down once again and curling a leg under the weight of my hips. I stare at the man’s most prominent features and his granddaughter’s. His gigantic hands compared to hers, his plump lips, and her widened eyes in precious green. “Yes, I’ll draw you.”
People in Havana know each other, or at least, they have heard about one another. When I draw the man’s old hat and the way he has a few buttons of his rigged button-down done off, a crowd gathers around us. Someone has put some music on, and they are asking me questions. Some of which I answer, like where I am from and how long I’ve been here, but others, I don’t understand, so I let them slide.
I hadn’t realized how much I missed art until I put my heart and soul into it again. I wanted to do well because it was the first time I got commissioned to draw someone who wasn’t a celebrity; from those who only wanted to show off that they had something from me. When I finish my drawing, I sign the corner, ripping the piece of paper apart and giving it to the child, whom I learned was called Laureana, as she shrieks at the mere sight of her face.
