Page 18 of Portrait of A Lost Artist
“It looks just like me!”
The old man has tears in his eyes when his granddaughter shows him the piece of paper, and I can’t stop the smile that blooms from my features. This day had begun horribly, but it took Cuba and its people to make me feel better.
“¡Mijo!” my first client says as he lifts me from the bench and grasps me in his arms like a father would. I don’t recall the last time I received a hug that felt so forgiving and thankful, but when he pulled away from me, he called a few people over with his hands. “Come on, let’s get some drawings done! This is pure art!”
I understand Spanish more than I can speak it, but I clasp my hands around his, nodding at his words when saying what is most meaningful to me: “Thank you.”
Someone else stands in front of me, already posing as they ask me to draw them, and I can only bring myself to laugh and nod. Sure, I won’t make money out of this—and I don’t expect to, honestly— but maybe I can regain my love for art.
When Benicio learned about the little business I had been partaking in, he dove head-first into making it happen. Now, as I settle onto my favorite bench, a delightful sense of familiarity washes over me. Before me, a wide, wooden stretcher bar sprawls out, its surface rich with the textures of past creations. Just in front of it, a vibrant sign hangs, its bold letters proclaiming: “Get A Drawing!” in Spanish. The colors of the sign seem to dance in the sunlight, inviting passersby to pause and engage in the world around me. And Benicio ran the word around, that’s for sure.
I am used to being surrounded by people. Others just adore watching the chaos from the front. The reason why someone would rather record a house on fire than call the firefighters first. As if it was a scenery that they needed to share, to show that they were there to watch it burn and crumble to pieces. The world has forgotten to heal, instead of exchanging. However, that changes when people grow interested in the portraits. I do them for fun, though some insist on tipping me and I let them for the sake of making them feel better, giving them to the homeless who mingle around to chat with me from time to time.
I reach my bench, splaying a cloth underneath me so the ceramic doesn’t get too heated, and I am ready to sit down to wait for the first client. I have a beanie on, pushing all the strands of my hair away from my face, only to show the rich color that my skin has earned in Havana, just barely golden, gleaming because of sun rays.
To my right, the cat that has been my unexpected companion for the past five days lies sprawled contentedly, her soft gray fur gently draping over my jeans like a cozy blanket. I watch as she elegantly curls up, a regal presence even in her relaxed state. I ponder the idea of inviting her back home with me, imagining the warm moments we could share, as I offer her the remnants of my breakfast, a small token of my new affection.
“Hi, Opal. Eat up first before you lay on me, alright?” I mutter, and she seems to understand me, purring at my words and going over to the place where I had served a silver plate with her food.
The surprise came to me when the first client that I got was none other than a woman with extremely wavy hair and pompous lips, hidden behind the letters we had shared. Veronica looks gorgeous, as per usual, and though I hadn’t seen her in so long, a part of me got excited at the sight of her. Like a child crushing for the first time. I’ve only lifted my face from watching Opal—that’s how I named her—eating on the ground when Veronica comes face to face with me, covering the sun with her small height.
She has a white dress that reaches her calves, molding to the curves that I have grown to adore. My bottom lip gets caught in between my teeth when the blouse she has thrown haphazardly as a jacket blows with the wind, her fingers toying with each other before she chuckles softly.
“I heard about some foreigner who draws, and I imagined it must have been you.” Surprises seem to come and go with her, don’t they? Veronica speaks English fluently to me, slightly accented, but still quite proficient. The accents you might hear from Latinos living in Texas.
I let go of my lip, babbling out a few words before my mind became clear. “You’ve spoken English all along?”
“Yes, I just didn’t know if you were an English speaker until we kept on talking through letters.” Then, it suddenly dawned on me that she had never responded to my last letter. Sure, I hadn’t explicitly confirmed that she received it, but I had placed the note deliberately within her reach, right in her line of sight. “So, how much is it for a portrait?”
“Free,” I say, shrugging, only to watch her toy with her wallet.
“We say here that money is the result of our sweat,” Veronica explains, sitting on the wooden chair I had bought upon Benicio’s requests, so my clients could have somewhere to pose in. “I’m paying you, Nathan.”
“No. I can’t let you pay me. I don’t need the money.”
“You’ll need it, eventually. Cuba doesn’t have it the easiest with the economy. You must know this.”
“I know, but trust me on this.” Before I could continue speaking, I grasped a pencil in between my digits, feeling Opal trail to my lap. “How much time do we have for the sketch?”
“An hour. I came during my lunch break.”
“Alright, I can do that.” I spare a glance at her features. She has rid herself of most of the makeup she had when I met her. Her lips carry a faded hint of what once might have been perfectly painted pink lipstick, now smudged and soft around the edges, giving her a casual allure. Strands of messy hair escape from the loose ponytail at the back of her head, playfully cascading down, while a claw clip struggles to contain the wild silkiness. She sits comfortably with one elbow resting on her crossed legs, chin cradled in her palm, her gaze thoughtful yet captivating. In this imperfect moment, she embodies an effortless kind of perfection.
“What do you do for work?”
“I’m a software engineer.” She sighs at her words, though the title alone lets me know how smart she must be. “There are no jobs for that here in Havana, but I went to the United States years ago to study and my mom had a health condition back then, so I had to come back. My friend from university tagged along with me, and we worked for a freelance company. We’ve done well ever since.”
“Oh, so you lived in the States for a while?”
“Got a scholarship in Texas.”
“A whole scholarship?” I ask, watching as a smile plays at the corners of her mouth. Then, her cheeks dip a bit and while they don’t create dimples, a shadow lies there. I can’t help but grin back, returning my gaze to the drawing in front of me. “You must be pretty smart.”
“...Or stubborn.” Veronica complies, toying with the brim of her dress before pressing her lips together. “So, you’re from Los Angeles...”
At the mention of who I am, I tense up. I don’t want Veronica to know me as Nathan Calderwood, the Hollywood mess that people have grown to both love and hate. Instead, I shrug it off. “Would you believe me if I said I don’t miss L.A right now?”
“I’d believe you. As much as I loved Texas, there is something so cozy about this place.” Veronica announces, sparing a look around the park. “...I missed it; even though I planned on staying in Texas for a while, I would have still come back here eventually. Well, my best friend Alessia loves it here, so I guess it’s a popular occurrence.”
