Page 9 of Portrait of A Lost Artist
“Hello...?” He rasps out in a deep voice, broken Spanish clear through the pronunciation of his words. The stranger laughs at himself, that row of perfect teeth glistening, contrast to the lines that carve on the sides of his eyes. “Uh, for you.”
As I prepare to speak to him, considering suggesting that we could talk in English if that makes him more comfortable, he clasps his large hands around mine, bringing them together over the letter, before he walks away from the bathroom. Ridden speechless, I toss a look towards the letter, then towards the door.
Who is this man? He doesn’t look like he belongs around here. People on our side of Havana know my family; they wouldn’t treat me with such carefulness. Maybe they would have questioned why my heart feels so shattered, much like my makeup—which, at this point, looks like a total disaster. However, he kept it easy. Left me a message; maybe because he couldn’t communicate with me properly, or so he thought.
I lean against the counter where the sinks are, toying with the delicateness of the paper before I open it fully. I almost laugh when I see the logo ofAseréin the corner. He took this page from my dad’s agenda, that’s for sure.
Though, what is interesting is that he cut out a few newspapers to spell out my name, in different shapes and fonts. The Spanish comes across as somewhat fragmented, almost like it was plucked straight from a dictionary. Despite that, the meaning shines through and is easy to grasp.
Verónica,
I didn’t know if your name had an accent mark there or not. I looked it up in all the ways, and finally got it (or so I hope).
Well, hello. You don’t know me, obviously. I’m just a stranger that saw a very unfortunate circumstance. I don’t know what happened out there, or why you locked yourself up in the bathroom, but everyone was looking for you. That’s when I learned—through eavesdropping and Google being my good-old-companion—that you are the daughter of my boss. The boss who wants to fire me (P.S: Do you guys use LOL here, too, or should I go for ja-ja?) (P.S 2.0: Does ja-ja have accent marks?). That’s also how I got your name; they were all asking about you.
But that’s not the topic at hand. Sorry, I talk a lot and divert from what I should be saying. I’m hoping that I am not writing nonsense, because it’s been two hours since I’ve started writing this letter; everyone is drunk and I still can’t find the word for what I’m about to say.
Heal.
Forgive me if I don’t conjugate the verb properly, but once I heard that, time heals all wounds. I’m still waiting for my own wounds to heal, and I don’t know if it’s totally true; I also can’t promise that time will pay you back for all that you’ve lost, but I can promise something. A smile like the one you had when you stepped out of the restaurant deserves to return sooner than later. It will.
And since I know I must sound like a neanderthal—another tough word to find in the Spanish Dictionary—, I will leave it at this. At me trying to find words, bravery and perhaps, the time to tell you that, as a stranger, I hope you realize this is not the end for you.
Must sound strange coming from someone you don’t know, but if I’ve learned something in my twenty-six years of living is that I don’t want to leave another thing unsaid.
In the meantime, let all the words I wasn’t able to tell you because I don’t have the patience to work with a dictionary be told through this doodle.
-Nathan.
I'm speechless the moment I see the drawing at the end of the letter.
He reduced his handwriting to a tiny font, cleverly carving out space for a whimsical line drawing of me. Carved out of pencil, with flocks of messy hair in a braid that let strands fall on each side of my face. I’m looking to the side in the picture, eyebrows curved and slim, the hoods of my eyes paired with short eyelashes. He even got the lopped nose that represents me and medium-sized lips that curve into a smile. The hoops, the turtleneck, even though it is just a portrait, it exudes the knowledge of a person who had known me for years, and he did it in just mere seconds of watching me.
I can’t help but smile at this, pushing the letter into my purse and aiming to reach him once I walk out of the bathroom. Much to my distaste, however, he had already left by the time I was ready to know who Nathan really was.
“Babe, I need you to tell me if you’re really okay.”
Alessia has asked me that question for the past three days, as if her life depends on it. I roll my eyes at her words, tossing my head into the keyboard and groaning loudly. For a portion of a second, I don’t even care if I wrongly press a letter and I end up ruining the code that I have been working so hard on debugging. A website we had created two years ago is having issues with their voting system, and considering that they have a contest going on, it needs to be resolved as soon as possible.
If only my head wasn’t in the gutter, I could probably work properly. That’s not the case now, however.
I lift my head up in a matter of seconds, because the annoyance I feel for being the center of attention is not worth the hassle that I’ve gone through the past three days. Alessia stands with her purse hooked under her armpit, her black tank-top tightening to her carved waist. The blazer that she insists on wearing, even with Havana’s weather, is on top of her shoulder. She looks at me with worry in her dark brown eyes, and I have to shake my head.
“F-I-N-E. Spelled out. Totally fine. I’ve never been greater.” I don’t even trust myself when I say it, so I’m certain that Alessia doesn’t eat it up. She’s about to open her mouth to retaliate, but I interrupt her. “If you ask me one more time, I swear to God I’ll make you pay the office’s monthly fee on your own—”
Alessia and I agreed on everything when we started working online. We have a company that we work for, but we have our own space. We need to talk to each other on the daily, be on the same page, and also not get distracted by homely matters, like snacking or watching TV. Hence, we decided to pay a monthly fee for a little office one of my dad’s friends was giving away. We decorated it to her will and vision, however, with crisp glass desks and black paintings I made to hang on the white walls.
“I was going to ask you to come to Zeke’s event. He invited us, I just forgot to tell you since you've been busy. He’s playing at Rosa’s bar today. Some drinks and some fun never hurt anybody.” Alessia waves her eyebrows, but an idea has never sounded worse.
I normally enjoy going to Zeke’s events. That includes a few cocktails, dancing with Alessia and sharing a few words with...the unnamed man.Meaning Lorenzo.
“Pass.”
“But—”
“I’m not dressed for a night out and I need to finish this project, Al. I’ll be fine. I’m fine, actually.” If I say it out loud for long enough, then maybe it will be alright eventually.
Alessia puts her purse down on my desk, pursing her lips. “Then, I’m not going.” She says, like a child throwing a tantrum. “Who the hell am I going to dance with if you’re not going?”
