Ром Амор
Morphine the phantom of love
‘What a man!’ exclaimed her companion in delight.
‘Yeah, a real man is one capable of great deeds. And Vladimir was such a man. I remember, he even quit his career and business for her sake.’
Olga Dmitriyevna could not believe her ears and kept shaking her head in astonishment.
‘Of course, I do not know whether any of it is true, but I know for sure that there was a time when they moved to southern Europe. The tears his mother shed, anticipating having to part with the kids. I consoled her. Assuaged her. I kept telling her that it was all for the best. And to myself I thought that we all make reckless decisions when in love. After all, you have to agree that a person in love is a person who is out of his mind.’
‘Oh, how I wish my granddaughter would meet such a groom,’ put in Olga Dmitriyevna dreamily.
‘Don’t be so quick to wish someone else’s life for yourself. You never know what lurks beneath the surface.’
‘So, what happened to such a successful man? Why can’t he even pay bills?’ the friend asked Galina Olegovna snapping out of her daydreaming. ‘How could someone who had everything hit rock bottom? Did you see how he looks? He’s tall and has handsome features, but his skin is grey and there are bags under his eyes.’
‘When he broke up with the love of his life–’
‘Did she leave him?’ asked Olga Dmitriyevna, perplexed.
‘You can say so,’ Galina Olegovna looked at the lit windows of his apartment and sighed softly. ‘You know, my dear, evenings are still chilly these days, and I am not dressed for the weather. Moreover, it’s rather late, we’d better go home.’
‘Wait, tell me what happened. Did she leave him?’
‘I don’t know. All I know is that he is alone here. And has been for several years.’
Galina Olegovna stood up from the bench, grabbed her handbag and adjusted her scarf. She hugged her friend.
‘I would love to ask you over for a cup of tea, but –’
‘Not to worry,’ the companion interrupted her, ‘I also have so many things to do before my husband gets home. Promise me that we’ll get back to this story later,’ and catching a promising look, she continued with gratitude: ‘I was glad to see you, to know that, at your respected age, you are full of health and strength, even just a year after your loving husband passed away.’
‘I’m very grateful to you for your support,’ the friends kissed each other on the cheek, like young coquettes and parted.
‘Why in the world did I loosen my silly tongue with a person who has never known the taste of loneliness,’ Galina Olegovna thought, returning home with small slow steps.
I arranged my seven paintings in the spot where they spent each night and sat in the armchair by the fireplace.
I stared for a while at the yellow flame, at how it was devouring the dry pieces of wood with abrupt pops expelling air from them. I was seeing off another evening of my life. I was recapturing the warm touch of Marina’s loving hands, taking in warmth from the fire. I could see her sitting on my lap, laying her head on my shoulder, pulling at the top button of my shirt with her delicate fingers, sharing her dreams and experiences with me. And as long as the fire was slowly burning, I would spend my time with her – the woman I love. I love just as I did before. Just as I promised to. Dearly and forever. Her only, my Marina.
Chapter 3
It was rather chilly in the apartment. Only a handful of ashes were left from yesterday’s fire. I had spent the entire night in the cosy chair without undressing. I glanced at my watch and got up with jolt – it was already eleven in the morning. I had to hurry up if I did not wish to miss another trading day. I was fully confident no one would buy them today, so I had breakfast, picked up my burden and rushed to Andriivskyi Descent.
‘Good afternoon, Vladimir.’
‘Good day,’ I said to a woman who was examining my works, as I put my coffee down. ‘Do you wish to buy a painting? There’s a discount today,’ my tongue let slip those two silly phrases.
‘A discount? So, what’s the price?’
‘Which do you like most?’
‘Any,’ she replied with indifference, as she looked fixedly at me with her brown eyes.
‘Wait a minute, how do you know my name? I don’t recall you as one of my regulars.’
‘Regulars?’ The woman broke out in laughter, so I had to take out a cigarette. ‘You haven’t had one single customer in 6 months, and I doubt anyone in the neighbourhood would be willing to pay for this junk. My name is Viktoriya Aleksandrovna Shlepko. I’m the head of the public utilities service, and you, my honourable artist, top our list of the biggest debtors. It seems you are no longer concerned about us having cut the central heating and telephone line in your flat for non-payment? Well, our next step will be electricity and water.’
‘Hold on,’ I interrupted this wound-up woman, ‘you won’t be able to do that if only for technical reasons.’
‘Believe me, nothing is impossible for me!’ she shouted.
‘No, you’re wrong. It seems that there is one thing you find difficult,’ I said with a smile.
‘What thing?’ Ms. Shlepko asked.
‘You can’t figure out how to make me pay my debt, isn’t that so?’
She took out some document and hurled it at my stall where my paintings were displayed, adding: ‘Legal action has been taken. Keep in mind that I will no longer wait till someone buys your paintings. Find the money and show up at court with it. You will pay dearly for my nerves! And for the time I’ve wasted on you!’
Her shoulders winced in irritation and as she turned around and was about to walk away, my bleak words caught up with her: ‘I have no money for you!’
‘Well then, we’ll have to take away your desolate and most likely rotten dwelling.’
‘Are you planning on throwing me in the street, out of my own home?’ I was seething with anger. I took three steps, and was standing right in front of her, looking straight into her stony eyes.
‘Vladimir, if you’re unable to make a living from you blobs of paint, maybe you should think about drawing caricatures and cartoons?!’ she retorted grinning.
‘I’ll make sure the first one will be of your nasty face, Viktoriya!’
‘See you in court!’
She turned around and left me in the street with the summons and the disapproving glances of my colleagues and passers-by who had witnessed the entire scene.
The day went by over seven cigarettes. Perhaps the woman from the public utilities service was right to some extent: today, too, went by without me selling any of my paintings. Maybe my drawings were really good for nothing? Since I had never dreamed of becoming an artist. I had never studied painting. I merely painted what I felt… But apparently, those feelings were not enough for the paintings to sell. Not to worry, I’ll paint a dozen more. If I need the money, I can allow myself to draw a trite field of poppies or the domes of St. Andrew’s Church against the background of the spring sky. It’s very simple.
I collected my pictures and trudged home. Perhaps, you are familiar with the mood of a person who has decided to give up on his or her principles or, to be more exact, just decided to digress from them for a short term. To change the angle of perception. And for what? Obviously, for the money. Money is that for which many people veer away from their principles and views.
As I passed the benches near my house, I greeted Galina Olegovna mechanically, who completely alone this time was enjoying the fresh air of the still chilly spring evening.
‘Dear Volodya, the head of our public utility service, a highly respected lady named Viktoriya, passed by today–’
Not waiting for her to finish, I said: ‘So it was you who gave her directions to where she could find me?’
‘Yes, I’m sorry if this has caused you trouble.’
I was getting worked up and about to let the old woman have it for being a blabbermouth, but I stopped in time, showing tolerance and respect for her age.
‘She said that if one tenant fails to pay his utility bills, she has the right to raise the issue of cutting off the whole building from the services. Please, have pity on us, quite a few elderly people live in this house. I don’t even dare think what diseases we might catch at our old age if it gets cold in our flats. Immediately mould, mildew and who knows what else will appear on our walls,’ the old woman continued to dramatize. ‘But most importantly, Volodya, I wouldn’t like see any tenants denigrate your good name and the memory of your parents.’
With an affected sadness, she adjusted the silk scarf that enveloped her neck with a sea of blue.
‘Yes, of course. I will take the necessary measures. No need to worry, Galina Olegovna.’
I approached her, placing my paintings on the bench, and hugged her, thanking her for her support. The woman seemed to cheer up at once: her sad face transformed into a face full of understanding.
‘I’d love to help you. But my pension barely covers my medicines. And my children don’t earn much either.’
‘Oh, no, I would never think of asking you for money.’
‘But remember Vladimir, I may not have any money, but you can always come to me for advice.’
‘Yes, of course.’
I was about to pick up my paintings, when the woman asked me to see her home, as in such chilly weather she could easily catch a cold. Thus, she emphasised again that she would not survive were the public utilities be cut off from the house.
I took her by the arm and led her little by little, with small steps, into the entrance.
As soon as I was in my flat, I prepared a quick dinner, made some coffee and was firmly decided on painting some tacky pictures. I walked into my cold studio, put on my old, frayed and paint-stained jumper and started work on a new canvas.
I spent seven hours on those “Poppies” and, no longer being able to resist the urge to sleep, I collapsed on the bed. Sleeping on it, as they say, is usually a good idea.
When I opened my eyes, it was already noon. I got ready and had some breakfast. Having lit the day’s first cigarette, I looked out at the sunny day, thinking that it would be great to stop smoking, and inhaled more nicotine into my lungs. People get addicted by nature. So I’d rather be addicted to cigarettes than any of the other evils of our time. I walked into the studio, and as I took a look at last night’s creation, I felt sick to the stomach. “How is it possible that a real man can actually paint such nonsense?” I asked myself and immediately obtained a reply: “Money works miracles.” The painting was only half-finished and required quite a bit of effort to shape it up. I poured some clean water for the brushes and went into the kitchen for a coffee.
It’s funny how we condemn others and vow to never to do what they do, but the time comes, and all our old ways of thinking just go to hell. Especially when you’re short on those green bills or whatever colour they are in our country.
Here I am, painting stroke after stroke, mixing paints, changing tonalities, playing with light and shadow – all of this in order to survive. For I feel absolutely nothing now. You might ask whether I like what I’m doing? Absolutely not. I’m just going through the motions, with no underlying ideas or spirit. Actually, there is one – the spirit of money. For I really need your damn money, buyers! I stopped: my hand was tired of dabbing colours. I was sick of looking at this vacuity and having to admit that it was I who created it. Time for a cigarette. I take another Lucky Strike and, filling my brain with nicotine and the room with smoke, I removed the picture from the easel and placed it on the table.
“Very well, Vova, a bit more and I’ll sell this piece of crap, and forget all about it,” I thought and, holding the cigarette with my teeth, continued to paint. “What would Marina say if she saw me now?”
My teeth clenched into a smile, pulling the skin of my face, and memories burst into my head.
‘Honey, you’re selling your soul again for a buck.’ I remembered her face. ‘If you want to paint, go ahead, if you want to sing, go ahead, if you want to go crazy, go ahead. But do it with your heart, with one hundred, no, two hundred per cent. Our life’s too short to waste it on earning paper.’
‘You’re right, sweetheart. But this paper eventually can bring you so much joy.’
‘No, paper can’t. Money is nothing compared to the process of earning it. When you enjoy that process, you can proudly say that this is your work. So, just think: how can a doctor treat if he can’t stand listening to patients complaining? How can an investigator resolve another murder if he feels sick upon the sight of blood? How can your bodyguard protect you, if he dreams about becoming an actor in theatre? Do you understand?’
‘I understand, but still –’
She cut my phrases short. I did not dare object. I just wanted to hold her in my arms, capture our moments and make us a bit happier still.
I stopped. My cigarette was over. The pack turned out to be empty, and even the extra pack of cigarettes in the kitchen table let me down today. I do not like it when I have to go out to the store for cigarettes. “Why not quit smoking right now?” Indeed, it would be great. I used to do without them before just fine. I took off the coat I had just put on and went back to the canvas. I fussed over this same painting for about an hour more, but the result was still nauseous. This painting started to annoy me. It was not even the painting itself, but rather the idea that I needed the money. A man who once could afford buying anything in this country is now scribbling to earn some pennies for bread! Was this really the choice I made five years ago? Was this really, how I imagined freedom? Was this really something what I wanted to do?!
I put down the brushes and went to the bathroom to wash. The cold water washed off the sweat beads that had broken out on my forehead. I raised my head and looked at my reflection. I saw before me the same person who I was so unhappy to greet every morning. From the days of the former carefree and enthusiastic man, nothing was left. Where did my success go? My wealth? My will to live?
Well, it appears that all of it has gone along with her.
Thoroughly irritated, I grabbed my coat and went downstairs for cigarettes.
The day was imbued with spring. Birds were returning home from southern shores. The sun was thawing the remaining patches of snow on the ground. People smiled broadly. Even the ever-gloomy woman selling cigarettes in the kiosk wished me a good day. On my way back, I lit a cigarette, deciding that I would quit smoking another day.
‘Good afternoon, Galina Olegovna,’ I greeted my neighbour at the entrance as she walked slowly with a loaf in her hand.
The elderly woman turned to me and smiled. She wanted to adjust her brand new light green scarf, but one of her hands was occupied.
‘Hello my dear! It’s so good that I ran into you. I have a favour to ask,’ she said as she took my hand. ‘An old good friend of mine is looking for a drawing teacher for her granddaughter. I thought of you immediately. What do you think?’
‘Well, Galina Olegovna, I’m not really a teacher.’
‘It’s true, you may not be a teacher, but you’re an artist, aren’t you?’
‘An artist whose paintings don’t sell,’ I clarified.
‘Someone will surely buy them one day, but for the time being, this is a great opportunity for you to earn some money and do me a favour.’
I knew that it wasn’t worth arguing with this woman, so I promised her to think about it.
‘Do think about it. It is quite a wealthy family. I know the girl’s grandmother very well. It won’t be difficult to teach some basic techniques to that child.’
‘A child?’ I asked warily. ‘How old is she?’
‘How old, how old – what’s the difference?! She pays, you teach – that’s the main thing.’
‘I have absolutely no experience working with children!’ I said flatly.
‘So here you go, this’ll be your opportunity to gain such experience! Hold this for a moment please.’ Galina Olegovna handed me the loaf. ‘I have to find the keys in my bag… it’s always in such a mess…’ She began fumbling around her handbag, and I became aware that I have had an overdose of her these past days. ‘Here they are. Found them. Well, let me know your decision today. It would be unfortunate if someone else was to make use of this opportunity.’
‘By all means,’ I promised as I went upstairs to my flat.
As I approached my new painting, I had to pull a face again. The drawing itself was not bad, but it was simply vacuous. Perhaps, someone might find something to like about it, but all I could find was revulsion at myself. I had promised Marina that I would never become a slave to money.
I glanced at the envelope with the summons, considered challenging it, refuse to show up and not pay a penny. But it dawned on me that Galina Olegovna’s idea might be a possible way out of the situation. It was quick money. If the girl was still quite young, it meant that she did not know much about art and I would be able to teach her the basics quite quickly.
I bolted to the ground floor, and rang the bell to flat number three and promised the old lady to take on her offer.
‘I’m so glad!’ She threw her arms in the air. ‘Wonderful! I’ll give her grandmother a call and tell her that with my help, her granddaughter will get the most talented artist in town!’
I slammed the door to my flat, and the draught opened the door to the balcony. I started a small fire in the fireplace and went to the balcony… I was relieved.
I admired the view of the Andriivskyi Descent and the Dnieper. The mighty river had almost ridden itself of the blocks of ice that had been shackling its banks. Spring is the time when you have to rid yourself of everything that has shackled you so far. Alas, that is not an easy task.
I stood there basking in the sun. It was blindingly bright, and as I closed my eyes, I could see the woman I still incredibly miss.
‘Do you think we’ll never have to part?’ she asked.
‘I know we won’t–’
‘What if I leave?’
‘Where to?’
‘Just vanish. What will you do then?’
‘I’ll find you.’
‘What if you don’t?’
‘Then I’ll make you look for me.’
‘How?’ she asked puzzled and a gentle smile lighted her face.
‘I’ll simply disappear, and one day you will remember my love for you and realise that no one had ever loved you as I had.’
‘Vova,’ she paused for a moment, ‘I’m so happy to have you.’
‘Does that mean that you won’t be leaving anywhere?’ I asked teasingly.
‘No, silly,’ she said as she punched my hand with her small fist. ‘And don’t you dare leave either.’
‘And if I do?’
‘Then I will forever be alone.’
‘Wouldn’t you try to find someone else?’ I said pulling her leg/tauntingly.
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’re in my heart forever. And even if you are gone, I won’t dare give this place to anyone else. I won’t dare touch someone’s lips, give sweet names to another man. I will not let anyone else touch me. And spending cold evenings alone, I would reminisce how you had replaced the whole world for me. Not just the world, the entire universe.’
‘Enough,’ I interrupted her. I felt uneasy at the thought that we might part. ‘We’ll always have each other, no matter what happens, no matter what.’
I kissed her cheek and, hugging her around the waist, stood behind her.
‘Look, over there, the Dnieper meets its inlet,’ I extended my arm to the south.
From my parents’ balcony, there is a wonderful view of the Andriivskyi Descent and of the reviving Dnieper in the spring.
“The exact same view, but such different emotions,” I thought as I stood alone on the sun-bathed balcony. “I did not believe it, but you still left… If only you knew Marina, how indifferent I am to this entire universe without you. Without you…”
My lips let slip a few phrases, and the careless wind carried them away, around the corner of the house, and further away, maybe to the edge of the earth, where the world ends and the entire universe begins.
Chapter 4
I would wake up and stroke her chestnut hair, cover her shoulders with kisses, explore the curves of her dormant body with my hands, while she hadn’t yet opened her eyes from her slumber and she was not bestowing on me her tender gaze. A wave of pleasure would sweep over us; we would hide in the sheets. I would enter into her looking straight into her eyes. She would extend towards me and fall back down. I would hold her in my arms, taking pleasure in the movement of our bodies, the meeting of our souls. She would cry out my name in orgasm, and after a moment in fear.
We were in some dark deep waters. She was drowning, gasping for air. I tried to dive deeper towards her, but something prevented me from reaching her. Marina was stretching out her arms to me, but no matter how hard tried, I could not reach her. She was calling out, but I could not make out her words. Water was filling her lungs. She was going deeper and deeper, dissolving in the darkness. The water prevented me from reaching her, as if something was keeping me at a distance. I felt like my body was not responding to my mind. She was almost gone. I filled my lungs with the seawater, hoping to follow her. Something pushed me to the surface. Gasping for air, I flung my eyes wide open.
It was just another nightmare. I tried to pacify my heartbeat. Fragments from my dream would keep playing over and over again in my head. I leaned back on the sheets of my cold bed, stroking the space around me. She was not there. Never again will the woman I love lay there.
I would close my eyes and go back to her.
‘It’s only a dream’ Marina said as she stroked my head, like the mother of a frightened child, ‘a bad dream.’
‘You were slipping from me,’ I hugged her tighter.
‘I’m always here. I’m always with you,’ her lovely voice whispered to me.
‘Always with me,’ I muttered in my dream.
Chapter 5
The kitchen was a complete mess. It has been a long time since I had not cooked a proper meal for myself. Usually, I oatmeal with nuts and fruit did it for breakfast. Sometimes, I replaced that with an omelette and sausages. In short, whatever would take less time to prepare. My lunch always consisted of a sandwich and a coffee. When for dinner, I enjoyed deliveries. I loved Italian pizza and Chinese noodles. Of course, they were not brought in from Italy or China, but for the price of a coupon. These were the lavish dinners of a bachelor.
I was preparing steak with fried potatoes. Last night’s dream would not leave me. Outside the window, the thermometer had rocketed to seventeen degrees above zero, and it was only March.
“I’d love a drink,” I thought as I opened the bar. “Not much of a bar though.” There was a bottle of expensive rum that has been lying around for seven years, and a cheap bottle of wine. It was not lunchtime yet, so I left the rum there for another year or so and uncorked the wine bottle.
The steaks were starting to burn, and as if out of spite, the doorbell rang.
‘Coming!’
I quickly scraped off the pieces of meat from the pan and transferred them to a plate. I wiped my hands and headed to open the door for the uninvited guests.
‘Good day. My name is Valeria. Friends call me Valerie,’ said a smiling girl as she extended her right hand. ‘You are my new painting teacher.’
It was the same beautiful girl who had called me rude a few days ago.
‘Are you going to ask me in?’ she asked as she lowered her hand without waiting for my shake.
‘Yes, of course.’ I stepped aside letting my pupil in. ‘Rude?’ I asked smiling.
‘It seems so.’ Valerie nodded, and we both laughed.
‘To be honest, I was expecting you at three.’ The fingers of my hand reached for my eyebrows.
‘My dad was giving me a lift. He has some business today in downtown. We do not live close to the Andriivskyi Descent, so I tagged along. But if I’m too early, please let me know,’ she said as she moved slowly back to the door. ‘I can take a walk around here and come back in an hour.’
‘Oh, no. That won’t be necessary,’ I said trying to remedy the situation. ‘I’ve just made lunch. If you’re hungry, I’d be glad to share it with someone.’
‘Mmm…’ She closed her eyes and inhaled the smell of the food, adding: ‘I haven’t had a burnt meal for a while. So be it. I’ll keep you company.’
She laughed and without waiting for my help took off her coat, put it on the couch and ran to the kitchen.
‘How can I help?’
‘No need. I’ve already burnt what there was to burn.’ We both laughed. ‘Have a seat at the table.’
I served her a plate and one for myself.
‘Oh, that’s too much for me.’
‘It’s fine, you don’t have to finish it if you don’t like it,’ I reassured her.
‘You haven’t introduced yourself,’ the girl said boldly, looking straight into my eyes.
‘Vladimir.’
‘Patronymic?’
‘You can call me by my first name.’
‘You, too.’
She was probably insinuating that from the very start I was ill mannered to call her by her first name.
‘Bon appétit!’ I said.
‘You, too!’ Valerie replied.
‘Would you like some wine?’ I stood up for the bottle, which was on the table behind me, but then it dawned on me. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t, you’re probably too young to drink.’
Without looking up at the girl, I poured some red wine into a cup. When I was done, I was feeling awkward as she was staring straight at me in silence.
‘Is anything wrong?’ I said at a loss.
‘Yes, something is wrong.’
Valeria got up from the table. I thought I had hurt her, but she confidently came up to the kitchen cabinets and, as if knowing the location of the dusty wine glasses that I never used, took one wineglass. She rinsed it under cold running water, and came up to me, put the glass on the table and poured the wine herself.
‘I am seventeen already, and wine is the last thing that can harm a person at my age’.
She was seventeen. She said it so proudly. But she was only seventeen.
‘Well, to our meeting!’
Valerie raised her glass to my cup to clink, but I moved my cup away, took a sip and said: ‘I’m sorry, I don’t clink glasses.’
‘Why not?’ she asked puzzled.
‘I’m not used to it.’
She took a sip, sat down at the table and began to eat.
I do not know what confounded me so much about her, but I just sipped my wine slowly and watched her. “Can all schoolgirls be so carefree at this age?” I wondered.
‘Is anything wrong?’ she said noticing my gaze.
‘No, everything’s just fine.’
We went on with our lunch. To break the silence, I decided to ask her a few questions: ‘How long have you been painting?’
‘Two years. And you?’
‘About seven.’
She looked surprised but did not bother with the figures.
‘So, what do you paint with, Valerie?’
‘Watercolours, oils, pastels.’
‘Have you taken any painting lessons before?’
‘Yes, as a child, my parents enrolled me in an art school. I used to really like it. Then I quit, and only five years later did I get back to this hobby, which can become my vocation.’
‘Wow!’ I said as I nodded. ‘Is that so?’
‘Yes, if someone were to ask me what I’d like to do for the rest of my life, I would definitely say paint.’
‘That’s an interesting aspiration,’ I said and started cutting the second piece of meat.
As if not eliciting any real understanding from me, she looked down at her plate with the potatoes and steak and after having a small piece of the meat, said: ‘You’re not a bad cook.’
‘I don’t cook at all.’
‘Oh, then I’m very lucky that you decided to reveal this side of you on the day you were going to meet your new pupil. I will remember this dish.’
‘I cooked it for myself.’
She felt the nervousness in these words and changed the subject to one which was even more inappropriate.
‘Do you live here alone?’
‘Yes,’ I said quickly, tossed the last piece of meat into my mouth and started chewing energetically.
‘Why?’ the girl asked naively. She probably did not even realise that she was rubbing salt into my wounds with these questions.
‘Valerie, it’s none of your business.’ I placed my fork on the plate and stood up from the table. ‘Have you finished?’
‘Yes,’ she answered changing the tone of her voice.
I put my dish into the sink and was about to remove her dish, but I noticed that her plate remained mostly intact.
‘But you haven’t touched it?!’
‘I’m not hungry,’ she pushed her plate away and took a sip of the wine.
‘Well…’ I put her plate aside, took my cup of wine and invited my pupil into the studio.
‘Can I take my glass with me?’
‘Yes, you can. But I hope you won’t turn into an alcoholic during our lessons.’
She smiled again and followed me out of the kitchen.
‘How many hours a week would you like to attend?’
‘Vladimir, I have to fulfil some entry requirements to the Academy of Arts mid-summer. I hope to improve my skills greatly by that time and I think I’ll need at least one lesson per week. What do you think?’
I disregarded her question and asked whether she had brought any of her works along. Valeria took out her phone and showed me photos of her paintings. I was pleasantly surprised. This seventeen-year-old girl was definitely talented.
‘I believe you are perfectly capable of meeting those requirements without my help.’
‘No, Vova, you don’t know how strict selection is to this Academy. A hundred applicants per place, and all of them paint no worse than I.’
‘Well then, let’s make you the best applicant! How is the selection process conducted?’
‘There are certain criteria. We have to present our works, drawn from nature. They will be evaluated and only then I may be admitted to the competition, where I’ll have to demonstrate all my skills and painting technique.’
‘Then we should focus on painting from nature,’ I noted and lit a cigarette.
‘Right.’
‘Do you mind?’ I pointed to the lighted cigarette.
‘Not at all, go ahead.’
Valeria looked around.
‘So, this is your studio.’
‘Yes.’
‘And is this your latest work?’ She walked up to the table with the canvas with the blue sky and a field of poppies. ‘That’s strange, this painting is nothing like the ones I saw yesterday on the descent.’
‘You’re right. Do you like it?’ I asked her with dubious indifference.
Valerie was silent for a moment, then said: ‘It is different…’
‘How different?’ I said as I puffed out smoke.
‘It lacks that depth of sadness which I noticed in your other works. It is warmer but, at the same time, superficial, so to speak.’