The Artist

– An artist?.. – She asked. – What do you need? I do not work at this time.

– I came to you for a different business, mistress.

– Why did you come? – Anxiety sounded in her voice and a wrinkle appeared between the thin black eyebrows.

Gods, why did you create her so beautiful! The Artist looked down, pulled the strap of his bag, where he carried his tools and paper. His mouth twitched as if he wanted to smile, but did not dare.

– With your permission, I have come to draw a portrait.

She leaned back a little, look intently at the man pondering his words. She wore a wide linen dress; a strand of glossy black hair fell from under her headscarf. But nothing could hide her beauty. The Artist was examining the dust on his boots.

– Usually men come to me for other things.

– I… I beg your pardon, Mistress Lou; I came to draw not your portrait.

For a moment, she was seized with terror, which turned her into a marble statue.

– Get out, – she whispered and tried to shut the door.

The Artist approached abruptly and put his foot to the doorpost. The woman shuddered, let the door handle and stepped back.

– Wait, mistress. I'll show you my drawings.

– Go away to whence you came, Artist! – Her voice trembled.

Dust rose around the man as he squatted down in front of the door and opened his bag. The woman hugged herself with her thin arms and stepped back further into the house. Daylight from the opened door illuminated the porcelain skin of her face and hands, twilight blurred the lines of the dress. The Artist did not look at the woman. Carefully he pulled out the folded drawings. He held each drawing in front of her for a few seconds then folded again and put aside. At first woman stood motionless, waiting for him to finish. Then something captured her attention. He began with the usual drawings – city street; market full of people; some boys, throwing stones into the river. Then he moved to the children's portraits – from tiny babies to boys and girls about ten years old. Some were sitting; some were lying, some were standing at full height.

Something united all these portraits, but the woman could not understand what. She came closer and unfolded again one of the portraits laying aside. It was a teenager boy with black curly hair dressed in Turkish costume, sitting in the shade of a tree. Sunlight on his skin was so real that one could feel the heat of the sun.

– I travel around the world, mistress, – said the man as if he read a question, ready to escape her scarlet lips. He forced himself to take his eyes off the woman's face and pulled out the last portrait.

It was a blonde girl about six years old in a satin dress sitting on a chair in expensively furnished room.

– Why didn’t the family want to keep this portrait? – Woman asked, thinking of something else: what unites the Turkish boy and the girl from a rich family?

– I draw only for myself, Mistress.

Portraits captivated. The woman looked at the artist. He was still sitting on his haunches, looking down at the ground. Everything about him was somehow long: long fingers nervously squeezed the bag strap, long nose located on the elongated face, framed by non–cut sandy hair. His skin was tanned and dry. She could not determine his age – he could be both 35 and 55. Who would let such a man into a rich house?

– How did you know about them? – Woman asked, standing up.

– Rumors.

The artist rose, too, and it turned out that he was not much higher than her.

– What kind of rumors?

– Will you let me in, Mistress?

– What kind of rumors, Artist?

He smiled and immediately moved his head in the way as if he wanted to shake off the smile.

– They say that if husband who didn’t come home at night, tells his wife that he was with Lou, the wife will not be angry, but will go to church to thank God because her husband returned home alive.

– This I know. Do not play with me. How did you know about them?

– I am a free artist; I wander through towns and countries. I hear things, I memorize things, I paint a picture in my head.
The woman looked at his tanned face. He looked away.

– I was in your hometown. People say ...

– People say that once there was a woman so beautiful that the Devil came to her and spent a night with her.

– ... God cursed her, and she gave birth to monsters.

– Little sick children, Artist.

– That is what people say. Will you let me in?

The woman hesitated. Once the Darkness itself stood at her door and begged to let it in.

– Come in.

***

She closed the door, as if cutting off the summer, and the house was again immersed into the cool shade. Heavy curtains did not allow sunlight to get inside. Woman lit a candle and turned to the Artist. Now he looked straight at her, but could see only a reflection of the fire in her eyes.

– You're coming after me. Step quietly. Leave your belongings here – today you will not draw.

Not one footstep or wooden board creaked as they walked up the stairs, as they passed through a long corridor, which was drowning in darkness. The Artist has counted three doors on each side by the time they halted. Candle flame twitched on a thin wick as if it wanted to escape.

– It's a large house, Mistress Lou.

– I have money, Artist. But not everything can be bought. Not a word now.

Her hand covered the door handle and turned it gently. The door opened slowly and revealed the room. Woman pressed her long elegant finger to her perfect lips. Artist’s heart began to beat faster. Stifling a sigh, he lowered his head and followed the woman.

– They are unable to stand the sunlight, but cannot sleep in complete darkness, – woman's voice sounded tender and soft.

The Artist finally raised his eyes from the floor, but did not immediately see those whom he so much longed to see. He expected to find a complete darkness around him, but the candles were burning in the corners of the room. It seemed that this room had no windows. Everything was dark – the walls, the floor, the furniture...

The woman sat cautiously on the edge of the wide bed. Her hand, painted with bizarre shades from candle flame, gently caressed the black curls of the sleeping girl nearly five years old. Her face seemed porcelain, like her mother’s; her lips were the scarlet stain on white. She breathed in, as if sensing a strange smell, and yawned, revealing small, sharp teeth. In the depth of the bed her sisters began to move.

– Mom?.. – Sleepy voice of one of the triplets sounded from a pile of blankets and pillows.

– Go, Artist, do not tempt fate, – said Lou, – if you are brave enough to return, come when the sun is at its zenith. My babies wake up at sunset, and they are very hungry.

***

Of course, he returned the next day. After knocking softly at the door, the Artist held his breath and listened to the sounds in the house. Lou opened silently and invited the man inside with a barely noticeable nod.

He came every day and in the uneven candlelight filled the sheet of paper with simple outlines, peering into the faces of sleeping girls. “Scratch–scratch–scratch”, touched pencil the paper. Artist carefully looked away from the woman, who was always sitting on the edge of the bed. If he were a sculptor, he would be happy to carve her face in the rare marble, to transfer all her curves to the cold stone, steal her beauty from the time... Artist sighed and drew the last line. Enough outlines, it's time to start the real drawing. He stood up, though it was at least an hour till sunset, and moved toward the door. Lou joined him on the stairs.

– You've finished early today.

– I do not need more outlines, Mistress, – said the man, admiring the color gradation, created by the skirt of her long maroon dress, touching the wooden wall. The sun was still high. By all means not to raise my eyes! Not to get caught by her endless eyelashes... So close to the goal!

– You said you were in my hometown.

Artist turned away, sat down on a footstep and closed his eyes. Even now before his inner eye he could see thin black eyebrows, red lips and elegant curve of her neck.

– Artist... Have you seen my father?

It felt as if the whole house held the breath. One could hear the wind chasing dust in the streets; birds folding their wings to nestle in the tree; someone turning the pages of the book.

What should I say to you, Lou?

– No one else wanted to talk to me about you.

What should I tell you?..

– What did he tell you? Artist?..

– He cursed you.

– That I know. He was a priest, and worshiped his god. But people said that he was too proud and despised the church people, so his god laughed at him, and gave him a daughter, who, unlike her father, loved all people.

– You're talking about this god, as of one of many.

– There are many gods, Artist. People create gods, worshiping what they have chosen. Things become a god. The Devil is also one of the gods.

– Your father wanted to kill you.

– Not from the very beginning.

Artist heard that she was smiling. Her voice was a whisper of wind playing in the treetops.

– I loved all the people, Artist, but I especially loved men. I accepted each of them and bestowed love to every. I think my father’s god was delighted as he watched his faithful servant falling mad with hatred.

The Artist’s shoulders tensed for a moment, but then relaxed again.

– Once the Darkness knocked at the door of my house. The Infinity. The Dust of centuries. There are many names and incarnations of the one whom people call the Devil. In exchange for a night with me, I demanded what I was craving for – a different kind of love.

The rustling of fabric told Artist that Lou also sat on the footstep. The sun slowly passed, giving away the house to a gray–blue thick twilight.

– When my girls were born, it was clear that they are unusual. Midwife had no chances. People tolerated me a couple of years because they were afraid. The first one to break off was my insane father. He gathered a crowd, infected it with his hatred, and people with torches broke into my house in the night. That was their mistake. My girls are nocturnal creatures. Only few survived, but my babies finally fed up enough. For too long they were nurtured with only with the blood of animals. Was this what my father told you?

Artist was barely breathing. If the woman was sitting face to face with him, she would see that the sand runs out of his closed eyes instead of tears.

What should I answer you, Lou? Should I tell you how after talking to the old man, splattering with saliva and hate, I sent him straight to his god?

– Living here is hard for us, Artist. I cannot give them everything they need... But still you will not have them.
The man opened his eyes and stared into the darkness, with his hands united.

– You are silent, Artist. Many years have passed, and you have other face, but my girls can recognize the blood. It was the only reason why my father survived that night. If you were a mere artist, that night when you showed up on my doorstep, would be the last night of your life. My kids need to eat. When you walked into the room, they woke up, but you're still alive.

– I have to take them away. I take all my children.

– I will not give them to you.

– They do not belong here, you know that.

– Their place is with their mother.

– I cannot take you, Lou. People are not supposed to live among those whom they call the infernal creatures.

Again the house was still. Again the dress rustled behind. Lou raised and lit a candle. Artist sat strained, dim. His shadow danced and writhed on the walls, stretching to the ceiling, bending down to the floor. Lou walked down the stairs, carefully passing by the Artist. He stared down at the floor, where she put the candle.

– I have lived too long among the creatures who call themselves human beings. Look at me.

– No.

If a man could just look at you without risking to forget himself! Flame crackled and did not want to burn smoothly. The Artist reached out and took the fire into his palm.

– Look at me ... Artist.

Dress fell to her feet. No, no, no! The man looked up.

***

When the sky began to lighten at the East, a man, woven of sand and road dust, came out from the house of Mistress Lou. He sat down in front of the door, opened his palm and let out a small fire, which immediately grabbed the wood and in a few minutes embraced the building. In the morning people thanked each one his own god, when they found burned ruins where the infamous house stood. Someone remembered seeing a wandering artist, who left the city at dawn. A bag, stuffed with folded drawings, hung behind his back. However, he was holding one canvas at his chest.

You said, Lou, that what people worship becomes a god. People had been worshiping your beauty for too long.