The Conceiting Portrait (Part 12)

Max walked along the long corridors of books and files that were arranged alphabetically. He took several turns before he found Michele de la Vanilli’s diary. I thought you were burned to ash. Max opened the brown hardcover book that had crinkled yellow pages stained with ink. He sat down on the floor and rested his back on the book/file shelf.

‘16 May’ the diary began and he started reading.

‘Mother says that I must discontinue my passion to paint the nature’s beauty. She says that the only way I can survive is that I must put my heart and soul in serving the men of our nation. She says that only men are capable of empowering cities, towns and a nation altogether. I say, what a futile thing to believe! Women are equally capable of running a nation. Perhaps even better than men. We may not appear to be as physically strong as men, but we organise our daily life much more efficiently than men do. But alas! We live in such a stereotypical world.’

20 May

‘I’ve finally turned 18! The best part about being 18 is that I can finally make a change in the world. I’ve always wanted to sell my paintings and share my talents with the world. Father says that no one must discriminate his daughter. He has agreed to sell my paintings. I shall finally express myself.’

Max could see that same paper clippings he found in the library and brought a copy home for Clara’s research. He could say that she had not written anything for a long time until the time she turned 29. Then she wrote something that startled Max.

19 August

Today’s the day I get married to John. The only sweet man who ever understood me apart from my father and my brothers.

“Michelle de la Vanilli was a married woman” Max whispered under his breathe. He fished out his phone clicked photos of the pages ahead in her diary.

Sister Emilie was regaining her consciousness after sudden attack of fits. As her blurred vision cleared, she saw the orphans and nuns surrounding her bed. She sat upright resting on the pillow and reassured the orphans that she was feeling much better. She could see through the spaces between the crowd that surrounded her that Blake sat on a stool reading a magazine. She requested him to come and asked the others to leave. The nuns took the little orphans to their own dormitories as Sister Emilie and Mr Blake could hear their footsteps fade away. “I don’t know if giving you the psychologists address will help you or not. But if Jo feels that it is important to know, then I will not hesitate.” She held out a visiting card. Mr Blake accepted it and read it – Dr Petunia Joseph, psychologist and mental counsellor. XXXX596248. “It’s just another ten minutes uphill by walking.” Emilie smiled. Blake thanked the nun and donated a small sum of money before he departed for another walk to meet the doctor. Basil Blake could hear the nurses calling for one another to help them with a patient. He walked in after registering his name as a patient for Dr Petunia Joseph and asked the receptionist for an appointment. His name was called out after waiting for about fifteen minutes. He knocked at the door. “Come in.” came the command. He pushed the door open as the hinges of the door squeaked. “Please sit down.” Dr. Petunia smiled gracefully. She is hardly 37, no, 36 years old; black hair, reading glasses and an organised person. First impression seems to be fine. Blake concluded in his head by understanding her clean workstation. “Tell me, how can I help you?” she asked as he made himself comfortable on the wooden chair. “I’m here to know about a patient. Her name was Clara Weigel. She was brought up in Young Gnomes orphanage; ten minutes’ walk downhill. How long was she here for the treatment?” Blake asked directly skipping the introduction. Dr Petunia didn’t say anything. She was silent and a little hesitant. Blake couldn’t make out if it was because of his sudden interest in one of her patients or was it because of the presence of an unknown identity. But why the hesitation? He couldn’t make out. “She was here at a very young age. Of all the patients I have treated, it only required one shockwave treatment for her to recover. It was an instant recovery then. She never required anymore counselling or treatment thereafter.” She replied with tension. “I see.” Blake replied as he noticed a drop of sweat trickle down her forehead. “I shall not take up anymore of your valuable time. Thank you doctor!” he stood up and shook his hand. “We shall meet again.” He whispered in her ear and left the room. Petunia was panic-stricken. She inhaled sharply and dialled the telecom to the security gate. “Bring me the register this instant!”

Jo held a piece of paper tightly in her hands. It was the address of the waiter. She walked for a long time before she finally met her destination. She realised that the waiter had been right about his poverty. The waiter lived in a congested slum with barely any air to breath. She sighed to see that the door had been locked by a padlock. She searched for log of wood to break in but instead found an iron rod nearby and used it. She swung the door open to find several cobwebs scattered in his house; either because the waiter hadn’t cleaned up for a really long time or because the unhygienic circumstances had caused the spiders to dwell in his abode quickly without losing the opportunity. She quickly closed the door to avoid unnecessary attention from the neighbours and looked around for a source of light for the small beam of sunlight peering in from the partly dilapidated window was insufficient. As she tried walk around in the dark, she collided with something and yelped. She saw that it was a wooden chair with a table next to it. She found the switch board above the table and tried all the switches but none of them seemed to work. Great! That’s gonna be beneficial… She thought sarcastically. She pulled out the drawers and was delighted to find candles and a box of matchsticks. She lit a candle and placed it on the table. The sconce had illuminated the room enough for Jo to understand its basic architecture. She took out her phone from one of the pockets and clicked pictures. What scared her the most was the rope that still hung from the fan in a loop. Her palms began to sweat due to her irrational fear. Then she noticed something under the bed. A stick? Or was it another candle? It was a pen. She examined it and decided to take it back along with her. She then found a piece of paper on the bed and picked it up.

My life has no purpose. I have no friends or family. I do not wish to further continue this unhappy life and hence, declare that I am committing suicide.

Michael 

It was the note the waiter or Michael left. She didn’t find anything else useful there so she left the premises unnoticed; or at least that is what she thought.