THE LAST PORTRAIT

I see him every day. He comes here, sets up his canvas on a stand, opens his paint tubes, lays out his brushes and starts painting. Every brush stroke he makes is in silence, accompanied by the whispers of the salty breeze and the lingering fragrance of the moss on rocks.

He doesn’t look at any object for reference. His eyes are fixated on his canvas alone; it’s like he has the picture in his memory.

I wanted to see what he would possibly paint. But his unwavering gaze warned me not to disturb him. Once the town is covered with the scape of dusk, tinted with mauve and Prussian blue hues, he packs his canvas and leaves without a word.

He never looked distracted even once. He was immune to the hustle of the lake. The lake wasn’t much populated though, with only tourists paying occasional visits.

One twilight, before the sky turned black, I had been taking one last stroll for the day. And I saw him again: his white beard waving with the wind, his concentrating eyes, and his brush obeying his command. He was still painting under the flickering of one of the street lights.

I managed to take a peek at his painting from behind. It was a pale white woman, probably in her mid-forties: with a languid smile, as if she had been drained of every last energy she had and was forced to grin. Her eyes dimmed of light, her gown in a faded purple and her top in a dull white. Her stature seemed to convey she was tired of life.

“You knew her?” I asked. My eyes looked keen for an answer as he turned to the sound of my voice.

“Indeed.” He answered quietly, his gaze shifting back to the canvas.

I wanted answers.

“How?” I bluntly asked. It was commanding, but he didn’t mind.

He turned towards me again, his face emotionless like the stuck clouds in the sky.

“And who you might be?”

“A tourist. I see you every day.” I admitted. He nodded.

“She was the muse of my paintings. The anchor of my life,” He started. I could see the tears threatening to fall from his eyes. But he held them back.

“It was the wee hours of the morning, and I would come to this very spot searching for new ideas or landscapes to paint. It was that time for an artist when he felt like he had painted everything but was still finding something he had not painted yet. My mind was boggling and clueless.

My vision found me a colourful sight. A young woman in a red skirt was dancing by the waters of this azure lake. She had the prettiest smile and the most shining eyes. I had decided; that she was to be my new portrait.

But I never realized, my talent could bring me love. Our small friendship turned into a love affair. We talked and shared the things we rarely intended to reveal, we got close. It shattered my heart when she confessed she was to be betrothed to another man. I started to avoid her. She tried to reach out to me. She called my number but I blocked her. She tried from different numbers but I ignored her. Fame started to acquire my presence. I sold one of my paintings to a rich billionaire and got permission to paint his portrait. Through my surreal achievement, I earned a painting studio and hired a few employees to sell my art. News had reached her too. She came to my office a couple of times, and I utilized the power of my authority to convey my absence to my manager. I was selfish. This is why sometimes when there is a part of life you know and you are accustomed to, that’s the only part of life god intended to show you. The rest was sheer luck. Luck can turn on any side at any time. You may be rich in a minute, or poor in a millisecond. Had I realized earlier, that she was my lady luck all along, fate would have been kinder.”

“One night, she came to my cabin when no one was there. I found myself not daring to look into her eyes. It seemed to hold the pain of her dark past.”

“You ruined me, Jacques,” she started with a listless smile on her face. “I wished I never met you. But sometimes, I ask why I didn't meet you sooner. It’s not a coincidence that we fell in love when I was about to be tied up with another man! I started to believe in love because of you. I wasn’t the same woman you see me now; hapless and distraught. Nay, I was strong and independent, free from despair. Until you came in like the breeze. You gave me love and reason to live. You sheltered me with the affection I yearned for. But I shouldn’t have trusted you with the truth of my situation. I thought you would accept and help me escape the shackles I was bound to. I wanted you and you alone. But you betrayed me. I’ve given up on the fact that you would ever take me back. It’s futile to think about the impossible. My love for you hasn’t died yet, Jacques! Come to the lake one last time, tomorrow by twilight. It’s my last solace to cure me of my past life. Please,” 

I decided to give it a chance. One last chance.

And that dusk remained sweet milk fresh in my memory. She was waiting for me by the bank, in a purple gown and white top. She had a face wrinkled with sorrow. Grey hairs showed no joy. The sea-blue eyes that lost their vision. She noticed my presence as she turned to me. I had brought my old canvas, brushes, and paints just like I used to. She tapped on the rock, gesturing me to sit next to her and I did. I looked into her eyes again, gawking and drooling for her. She lost her usual brilliance but she was still beautiful. I took the courage to purse my lips against hers. She didn’t retaliate. Her fingers searched for my shoulders to hold for support and I guided her. I held her spine; it was a fragile stature. Light as a feather, as if it could break anytime. Her skin was soggy, but I ignored it. We didn’t let go for a while. Old memories of youth flashed before me. When we finally broke to catch a breath, she had a beam I saw for the first time in a long haul. I smiled.

“I didn’t know how much I missed that,” She sighed laughing. I chuckled.  “But I know I haven’t come for that. I need to ask you a favour,”

I held her hand in a promise “Anything,”

“Paint me one last time,” she asked, smiling. She was sure of her wish.

She posed herself just how I had pictured. It took moments to complete it; you know it isn’t easy. I blew the sand from the corners of my canvas before I signed it. I was about to hand it over to her, but she was gone. All I could find was a piece of paper on the spot she sat on.

“Thank you, for the last portrait. For the last time. – Julia Hernandez”

 

I searched for her. I kept searching for her, yelling her name. People looked at me as if I were mad. But people never put themselves in others’ shoes. It reminded me of when she kept looking for me and I would dust her away. I should have known. The last portrait drove me crazy. It was as if she was the only woman I knew to paint, and no one else. My mind was stuck in the cat-and-mouse game of life. Fate was cruel. Extremely cruel. Maybe this was what they called Karma. Yes, it should be. I gave myself up: My dreams were broken just like me. Life became a puzzle I had no interest in solving. I left myself with my old canvas and paints; that taught me to be humble.”

The painter resumed back to his painting. His action was clear: he refused to speak further. The last portrait became his only portrait. Crazy, how Paris, titled the city of love, could have stories of love that failed. Madly in love: how ironic! I sighed and left without another word.