Page 38 of Portrait of A Lost Artist
I move instinctively, my body acting independently of my focused gaze. My palm finds the doorknob, and I twist it. The scene that greets me looks as if the room were made of paper: destroyed walls and fragments of what was once furniture. Jagged pieces of wood jut upwards, and clothes lie scattered on the floor, likely torn to shreds. The tangible evidence of Benicio’s cherished love is gone, leaving only the echoes of their shared memories.
“My God...” I mumble, awfully knowledgeable about how difficult this must be for him. Losing the last portions that kept you close to someone you still grieve is the worst likely feeling to exist.
“There’s nothing I can do, can I?” Benicio asks, his voice a soft murmur, and as I pivot, I notice Veronica’s hand resting on his shoulder, her thumb gently stroking his skin while he gazes at me, his expression a clear display of shattered hope.
Though, luckily for me, I may lack a lot of things, but money isn’t one of them. His memories and his beloved are irretrievable, but I can provide him with a room. A glimpse of what was once there, I mean.
“I know what I say will do nothing to help you heal, but just keep this in mind...” I move over to him, keeping my voice levelled. “He wasn’t there. He is here with you. He will always be here with you.”
Benicio shakes his head, bottom lip quivering as an ugly sob leaves him. “But I want him here. Fuck, Nathan, I need him here with me.”
Once again, I engulf him in a hug. Veronica pulls away at that moment, but with mumbles against his skin, I tell him, right at his ear: “I’ll give you your room back, I promise.”
“I miss him.”
“I know you do...” I whisper, wishing to mend his wounds, but knowing I am not the person to help him heal. There, as our hearts hammer together, I realize I have my family here. In him. And I have to show him the gratitude I have for him.
How so? I am not sure myself, but money can help a bit with my idea.
“So, what are we doing?”
December brings deeper shades to Veronica Del Real. To say that I love it would be an understatement. In the last three weeks, my attention has been consumed by the architects and bricklayers as they construct these four walls from the earth, preventing me from truly seeing what’s developing between us. She’s worked. Here at the house with Benicio, we shared meals, trying to create moments just for us.
A routine, of sorts.
This morning is the first time I have her all for myself, and vice versa, and I’m a little tempted to grab her by the waist and ravish her with a kiss with how gorgeous she looks. Her hair flows down her back, its bulk behind her ears causing a slight lift. Burgundy defines her lips, and even without other makeup, her mouth—the one I’d gladly worship—is the focal point. She’s currently wearing one of my puffy black coats over a simple ensemble of a black t-shirt and jeans.
She can probably still smell the coffee in my breath when I get closer to her, pointing at the blank wall in front of us. “I was thinking of what to do with this room. I already bought the furniture that looked the most like what Benicio had here, but I kept wondering if it would be enough...” I trail. “So, a painting came to mind. Some kind of reminder of what they had, right on this wall. And I wanted you to collaborate with me.”
Veronica looks at me like I am a monster with three heads, squinting her eyes before laughing incredulously. “Me?”
“Is there anyone else?”
“I’m...Nathan, this is important shit. I’ve never done something this important.” Neither have I. I’ve painted for celebrities, cast their best moments on a canvas, but nothing has felt like this. So important and yet so simple. “I can be here with you, but you’re the proper artist—”
“We both know how to do realism, and I have an idea in mind.” I browse my phone, leaning back slightly to angle the screen so she can see it clearly. “Benicio told me their first date was at a park. He knew he was in love with his husband then. I want to paint them by a sunset, sitting in the swings, hands interlocked.”
I show her the picture that Benicio had sent me of the two of them somewhere when we had first met. Benicio’s husband presented a stark contrast to him: salt-and-pepper hair, a thick beard, and considerable height. Yet that stern face melted into a sweet smile whenever he was near my friend.
“God, I hadn’t seen his face in so long...” Veronica let out, zooming on the picture with two fingers before humming. “I think one person should do the scenery and the other should do them.”
“You were just saying no,” I tease, only to get a glare from her, moving her eyelashes up at me as if to scold me.
“I could totally leave right now.”
“I never said that, but you said no just seconds ago.” Continuing to get on her nerves, I hear her groan as she pushes me away with a movement of her shoulder.
“You sold me on the idea, and I feel like I owe him.” She ducks down to inspect the paints that I had brought, choosing a few before taking off her jacket. “Mom always shamed them for loving each other, and while I was never on her side, I’m her daughter. She won’t ever apologize, but I want to do it for them. To cherish what they once had.”
I place both hands around her waist as she stares at the wall, imagining what she could do. My lips expand on her temple, drunk on her scent of her—like coffee and her favorite vanilla perfume—. I mumble: “It wasn’t your fault, sunshine.”
“I know.” Her only free hand splays on my two palms connected over her abdomen. “Like...yeah, it may not turn out as good as you imagine it with my input, but I want to do it. For Benicio. For his loss.”
“Alright, let’s get to planning, then.”
With a pencil, I sketch what I imagined in the twists I exchanged with the sheets, wondering what I could do to make this room more personal. I draw the outline of the two men in the center, showing her the space that she has for imagining Cuba in the background, painting it in its purest stance. After a while and selecting the colors, we put on some music—some Celia Cruz, just as she likes it—and get to work.
It’s been so long since I’ve painted that it feels like I am another person grabbing the brush. I doubt more than I decide, so different from what it once was, but when I let my heart guide instead of the lines that I had drawn for me to stay on, it feels a little easier. I relish on painting the outline of Benicio’s glasses, or the tanned shade of his skin, highlighting the pinks, shadowing the browns. These swing chains echo the ones in the park I went to earlier this week, though these bear more rust, introducing a touch of darkness to the vibrancy that defines Veronica.
