Page 56 of Portrait of A Lost Artist
Ezequiel hasn’t done his homework. He never really did. When we studied together, he’d even write both our names wrong in my notebook full of doodles and actual notes. He always claimed he understood things later, in his own time, but this situation is pretty obvious. When the security guards greet him and acknowledge his reservation for the next opening and tour of the art exhibit, they inform us that the guided tour has already begun, but we can go in and either find them or explore on our own.
The glass doors of The Golden Dime, one of America’s grandest museums, slide open, revealing elegant roses suspended from the towering ceilings. The lighting has shifted from stark white to a soothing rose-gold hue, and pamphlets are smoothly pressed into our hands by museum workers whose faces blur as they move on to the next visitors.
‘East Havana: A Story About Real Romance’, the pamphlet reads and upon opening the piece of paper, my mouth perches, throat dried, closing it in the blink of an eye.
“What?” Zeke asks, eyeing me with carefulness. “Hey, you look pale. Are you alright? I can fetch some water for you.”
“D—Did you check whose art exhibit this was?” My voice shakes when looking at him and, as if on cue, his eyes widen. He opens the pamphlet and the first page that appears is Nathan’s biography, a picture of him in a gray background and a white turtleneck displaying a more youthful face. It must be an old picture, but Ezequiel is reading with intent. “We’re leaving.”
“I had no fucking clue, but read!” He says, and since I’m not doing any motions to open the pamphlet again, still frozen in place, he speaks for me. “Nathan Calderwood’s piece, East Havana, is his last public art piece. He asked for his closure in the artistic world to be displayed in the biggest museum in the United States every February 14th.”
It’s March 1st.
Fuck.
The urge to spin around and never see anything related to Nathan is strong, but somehow, I take a step forward. The entire museum is dedicated to his interpretation of his time in Havana. A replica of an old Monte Carlo, bathed in light blue, sits in the center, instantly reminding me of the car Benicio’s husband always used to drive.
“We can always leave, if that’s what you want.”
“Give me a second.”
Barriers guard the car, displayed like an art piece, with the title ‘El Verdadero Amor’—hence, the translation would be true love—. The description says, ‘Love is cruelly taken away, but it always perseveres.’
I continue onward, examining the neon signs displaying common Cuban sayings. Phrases I had shared with him bring a fleeting smile to my lips as they illuminate in shades of pink and red. I try to suppress the feeling, uncertain about the rest of this exhibit, but as the faint sound of the tour guide’s voice directs my path, I see more fragments of his artwork.
Nathan had only shown me a part of his art. I’ve witnessed his art in sketches and park scenes, but this reveals his true depth. Melancholia emanates from this piece; the sculpture feels alive as the title ‘Last Goodbye’ resonates within me. It portrays a woman, her face etched against a man’s shoulder, seated on a staircase. I recognize the clothes I wore that day I confronted Nathan, tears streaming as I learned the truth, hours after our split. The man kneels, holding her close; an arrow—like Cupid’s—piercing his back, blood staining his shirt.
Tears wound up in my eyes, rubbing at them with the sleeve of my jacket and probably tainting its color, but I don’t give a shit. For the more I continue, the more I see glimpses of us. The entire wall in red has crumpled papers, mimicking the cards that we once shared at the beginning, with scribbled notes and phrases that I recall writing to him, forming the shape of birds flying in the wind the more they depart from their initial conglomeration.
What wrecks me entirely is what I see when I finally catch up with the groups of people, wishing to have their last taste of Nathan. More than the sculptures, replicas and the portions of our love that he has shed into light, there are also complete redemptions of me. Walls with stained glasses reading off the titles of the paintings he had made of me and of us, my face clear as day in each one of them.
The first one I see is a painting of a couple kissing, but cameras come for them in every corner of the painting, bathing them in flashes.
An ode to the sky and the beaches of Havana comes in another painting, with a woman venturing into the distance, a storm coming her way.
Another one shows my face in its profile, bumped nose, plumped out lips and hollow eyes. The waves of my hair swirl into the wind until they become words. Each a promise, a syllable to romance.
For a long time, a part of me held resentment that Nathan lived that kind of life and that, because he kept it from me, I never truly considered if I could have loved him with the baggage he carried. However, only a man deeply in love could create such art. He remembers every detail of me, from my favorite flower, hanging as decorations, to a painting of a tormented man composed entirely of teardrop shapes.
He had loved me.
I was the image of romance he had.
I bury my face in my hands, pressing the heels of my palms hard into my eye sockets until I feel arms wrap around my shoulders. Zeke’s familiar scent, a blend of musk, stone, and aftershave, envelops me as I decide to whisper the toughest truth I could ever utter:
“I want to see him one last time.” Because I had held captive in my throat the agonizing scream that would have implored him to stay, had he been within my sight. “Call me stupid, I swear that I am, but...if he did all this...I have to check how he’s doing.”
He had stopped being a painter, and his last ode to the art was me. Zeke nods, humming so low that his chest reverberates against my shoulder. “I’ll try to get in contact with him. Let me make a few calls. If finding him will give you closure, I will.”
I could regret this. It must be easier for Ezequiel to get a hold of him now that he’s famous...and that would mean coming face to face with the man I’ve tried neglecting for twenty-one months.
But shit, regretting is better than not doing a fucking thing.
