‘To err is to human. To perfect is to God. Then, in there somewhere are the Artiste.‘
You, truly, were one.
Regret, you said, was a weak man’s favorite whore. Blatant you were, as always. Fierce in your thoughts about humanity and your disdain towards them and that translated into your work.
“Mortals and their pedestals of worship”.
‘Sciocchi con opinioni’
Opinionated fools. You would scoff.
It is November and like every year, rains have taken over here in Livorno.
Dried wood makes crackling sounds as the fire burns in the fire place.
The noise in the street is next to none. This evening has a silent tone to it. Depressing won’t be the right word to explain it, but there is something along those lines. Nostalgia, maybe.
“You have such a flawed expression of your feelings. Not all things are charming when flawed. “
You used to be unforgiving in your observations and expressed it with great honesty. I could feel a hint of moronic superiority complex, but I had gotten used to it. After all, you were an artiste. And like all great ones, you were a proud soul.
I sip some lemon tea. It is 17 years already. No wait, there are still 5 days to go. Time flies. Random thoughts continue to flow through my mind as the clock ticks. This time though TIME seems like it has read the tone of the evening and is being lazily moving along. I look through the window. The misty view of the fairly empty street, as if life is paused to a standstill apart from the tiny raindrops sliding downwards on the glass staining it in the process. To the right of that window is your last painting. It is a black and white painting with a tinge of color in the man’s eyes. His hands are torn and chained. His lips stitched together with thread. At the bottom it says.
‘Libero Arbitrio’.
Andre Cheialini.
It is hard to take your eyes of the painting though. ‘Libero Arbitrio’, it says… Free Will.
There is a knock on the door. I shake myself out of the thoughts and look towards it. It is Adriano; he is probably done for the day.
‘Signora, do you need anything else?’ He respectfully inquires.
I shake my head and dismiss him with a hand gesture. He bows and leaves. I am alone again.
Alone. or lonely. What difference is there to it? It doesn’t matter.
‘Sometimes you want to be alone by choice but lonely… you cannot choose such a tragedy‘.
You would smirk while explaining the difference to me.
Tragedy. You were my one tragedy that remains with me still. 5 days before it will be a 17 years old one. You want to outgrow it, but it stays like the early North Winds of December. It brings nothing but frozen chill that dampens the life with a dreadful silence.
Regret or nostalgia, whichever the case, you mourn the lack of something or the loss of it.
The fire has dimmed. The wood is all burnt. Darkness falls outside. The rain continues to fall. Drop after drop.
‘Knock Knock’. Adriano knuckles the big wooden stature of the door. There is no answer.
He slowly opens the door and looks at her. She is still sitting in her arm chair by the fire place. The empty tea cup is there. She is asleep with Andre’s painting in her arms.
“Signora. Signora Lusia”, he calls out. There is no response.
He walks towards her slowly and shakes her arm. The hand slides of the painting as the painting falls to the ground, the frame glass cracking with a shattering sound.
Regret, you said, was a weak man’s favorite whore.
Death, however, was a different story.
Love?… Oh you opinionated fool…
