Page 86 of Until You Came Along
“Thank you, flatterer. Shall we go?”
“Let’s enjoy tonight, I’m in the mood for a good time,” he said, smiling.
“I always am,” I said, also smiling.
When we were in the car, Baco brought up the subject of his brother.
“Tell me what’s happened with Hermes. He barely speaks to me, and only about work-related matters, and he spends all day locked in his office. I think he only speaks to his secretary and only when absolutely necessary. I guess he’s really pissed off.”
“He doesn’t speak to me at all. We haven’t had any contact since he left my place the day of the argument.”
“Are you kidding me?” he asked, surprised.
“No, but I suppose it’s for the best. I don’t want you to feel guilty because if he made such a drastic decision over something so trivial, it’s because he didn’t really value ‘that’ thing we had,” I stated, remembering the way he had referred to our relationship.
“I’m sure he’ll reconsider. My brother is a blockhead, but it’s obvious he has strong feelings for you and he won’t be stupid enough to lose you.”
I exhaled with resignation. I didn’t want to hear those words because I didn’t want to get my hopes up for something that I was sure wouldn’t happen.
“I’d prefer not to talk about Hermes anymore, really. I can’t cling to what can’t be, and although you want to make me believe otherwise, I assure you that what we had had no future. Can we change the subject?”
“He’s more of an idiot than I thought if he loses you because of his stupid pride,” he stated.
“Tell me about the exhibition, and I also want to know how you’re doing with your paintings.”
Baco looked at me with resignation and began to tell me about the two artists exhibiting that day and then went on to tell me about his new painting. When he described the latter, he did it with such emotion and passion that I began to imagine how he transformed the canvas into a masterpiece.
The art gallery where the temporary exhibition was being held was bright and colorful. We were greeted with a welcome drink and given the catalog. We began to tour the place, and I could confirm the passion that Baco felt for this art. We stopped at each painting to admire it and exchange opinions, but my friend observed everything with such meticulousness that each onetook us a good amount of time. Each painting had a label with its number and the title of the work. One of them particularly caught my attention, and I was admiring it for a long time, so much so that my friend continued on and left me there. In the painting, you could see a woman from behind, standing on the banks of a river observing the landscape. The painting was beautiful, but it conveyed a lot of sadness to me. That woman transmitted pain; you couldn’t see her face, but her pose spoke of dejection, she seemed to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders. I don’t know how long I was observing it, completely absorbed, but it wasn’t until Baco returned and pointed it out that I realized some tears were running down my face.
“Delfi, why are you crying? Is something wrong?” he asked, concerned.
“Am I crying?” I said, wiping away the tears. “I swear I hadn’t noticed. It’s just that this painting is wonderful, but I was struck by the sadness it conveys. Don’t ask me why, but I feel the need to enter the painting and hug that woman to give her comfort and ease her sorrow. Don’t you feel something similar?”
“Honestly, I don’t. I agree that the work is wonderful, but it doesn’t convey sadness to me; it conveys peace. You’re very sensitive, and I think these days you’re more sensitive than ever,” he said, looking at me with a certain pity in his eyes.
“You might be right,” I affirmed. “But how can it be that we appreciate different things? I assure you that I only feel her sadness.”
“Art is like that, it fosters emotional reactions in people who enjoy it, the artist seeks to generate that.”
“I believe you because you’re a great artist and you also manage to generate all kinds of emotions with your paintings,” I affirmed.
“And you are a great friend and my number one fan,” he said, putting an arm around my shoulders and smiling.
We spent several hours at the gallery, eating some appetizers served by waiters circulating through the venue and drinking a couple of glasses of white wine. Baco introduced me to several acquaintances, including the artists, and we spent a long time talking with them. Afterward, we went to a restaurant for dinner; even though we had eaten some appetizers, my friend said he was ravenously hungry. We went to a restaurant near the gallery. Baco ordered “Hake in green sauce with roasted vegetables” and I ordered “Mushroom risotto with crispy parmesan.”
“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to upset you, but when we were at the gallery, I thought I saw Hermes. When he noticed I was looking at him, he slipped away and I lost sight of him. I looked for him, but I didn’t see him again. Actually, I’m not sure it was him, it was probably someone who looked similar,” he said, making a gesture with his hand to downplay his comment.
“Why would your brother go to that exhibition? Could he have been invited?” I asked, although I was sure Hermes wouldn’t go to those types of events.
“I doubt it, but you were there, and in that case, my brother is unpredictable.”
“Baco, you have quite an imagination. Your brother didn’t even know which exhibition we were going to, did he?”
“I didn’t say anything, but it’s not very difficult to find out. I don’t think there are many exhibitions in the city right now.”
“Still, I don’t see why he would be there. What interest would he have in being in the same place as us when he’s not even speaking to us? Don’t you see it doesn’t make any sense?”
“There’s no one more blind than the one who refuses to see,” he stated, looking at me seriously.
