Page 48 of Pride
“He was a local artist.” He rubbed his chin in thought, then added, “I have to admit, I first saw his name on a wall of graffiti in the town. Not the tags you see when you’re on the train or in an underpass, but proper art, graffiti with meaning. Then one day, I was at a local art dealers and I saw that piece there...” Alex walked over to stand in front of a graffiti style painting and went on, “This was the first piece I bought. After that, I became hooked.”
I went to stand next to Alex to get a closer look at the painting. There was the image of a little boy, only about three or four years old, sitting on the ground in a puddle, but the puddle was red. He held an umbrella above him, to shield his body from the red raindrops falling all around him. And if you looked closely, you could see that each raindrop had a knife hidden inside it. The little boy had his head down, but his little fists held the umbrella handle so tightly you could see the strain in his hands.
“What do you think?” Alex asked me.
“I think...” I paused, swallowing to clear my dry throat. “It’s really tragic. The little boy feels danger coming from every direction. The puddle he’s sitting in shows a lot has already hit him, but he’s still hopeful of protection from the umbrella. He’s still fighting.”
“You interpret it the same way I do. There’s been a lot of tragedy in his life. You can see it in all his work,” he said, referencing the fact that he thought the boy in the painting was S.K.A.M. “Take this one, for example.”
Alex stepped to the side to stand in front of another painting of a huge eye. The iris was black and looked like shattered glass, and the pupil in the middle was red, with what looked like a drop coming down, as if it was bleeding. And hidden within the lashes were the words, ‘See No Evil’.
“It isn’t as sophisticated as the Follow Your Heart piece that was showcased at Berkeley,” Alex said as he stared at the painting. “But you can see the raw talent.”
“You were always going to buy that painting, weren’t you?” I asked, meaning the Berkeley piece. “It didn’t matter that I chose it. You’d already decided.”
And he smiled.
“The Heart piece? Yes. I’d already bought it before you picked it out, but it was nice to know you felt the same way I did.”
“You’re really passionate about his work, aren’t you?”
I thought I might break his heart if I told him what his idol was really like.
Maybe he already knew.
The idea of him having an accomplice was still floating in my mind, but it couldn’t be Alex. It just couldn’t.
“He was a guy who was down on his luck,” Alex replied solemnly. “A diamond in the rough. All he needed was someone to notice him. To take a chance and give him the platform he deserved.”
“And you gave him that platform.”
“I helped. But his talent gave him the platform. These days, people are only too happy to shout about what they hate. When they find something they love, they’re quieter. I was just a man who bucked that trend. I shouted about him, and now, other people can see his worth too.”
I felt a ripple of nausea wash over me. He wasn’t the person Alex thought he was, and that was somethingIwanted to shout about, but I’d always been silenced. My review, well, the words that Mr Gold stained me with, had brought out the worst in the artist, and now, I was living with the consequences.
People might shout about what they hate, but shame? That stays silent. Even I wasn’t speaking up about it as much as I should’ve. And I wanted to. I’d tried when I went to the police, but they didn’t want to know. Nobody wanted to know.
“Have you ever met him? Do you know his name?” I asked, anxious to hear the truth.
Alex frowned, considering his response, and then said, “You know I can’t answer that, Emma. His anonymity is something he takes very seriously.”
“I’ll take that as a yes, then. You know who he is.”
And if you told me who he was, you could help me stop what’s happening.
Alex paused for a moment, seemingly in thought. Then he said, “I may have got word to him, through his people, that you weren’t behind any of the articles in the newspaper. I thought it was important that he knew the truth... for your sake and his.”
I was surprised and grateful that he’d done that. It hadn’t helped, but at least he’d tried.
“Thank you,” I replied, despite not feeling thankful. He was still threatening me, after all. “Has he responded?”
“No,” Alex said, which didn’t surprise me. He hadn’t responded because he didn’t agree.
Alex proceeded to sing S.K.A.M.’s praises, telling me, “He started to do his live performances about two years ago. I was at the first one. Me, and about six other people in a park in the city. Now, he only performs to a select few, and those tickets are like gold dust. He’s an artist, a poet, a performer, a philosopher. There’s nothing he can’t do.”
Except keep himself restrained when things don’t go his way, and refrain from leaving bloody organs in women’s houses to scare the shit out of them. But I stayed quiet.
“Are you seeing him perform in Italy on Thursday?” I asked.
