The Painter

There was a man who loved to paint. He had a son. They lived together in a small blue bungalow house by the river. Every morning the son cooks their food, while the father fetches water from the river. After that, the son walks his way to school, a kilometer from their home. He always buys bread from a bakery halfway, and gets some free sometimes. The father goes to the city to do business. They have a market stall; the father sells vegetables like cabbage, pepper and carrots. The stall closes at 4pm, but the father does not go home yet. He walks around the plaza, by the school, in the park, or anywhere in the city he would think of. He brings his camera and captures some photos of things which fascinate him. By the time he arrives home, the floor is already swept, the laundry is already done, the food is already cooked, and his son is only waiting on the door for his arrival. At night, his son makes his homework, and sleep at 10 pm. He stays awake, until sleep knocks him. He gets his jar of brushes and puts paint on his palette, fixes the canvass and begins to paint. What he captured with his camera earlier in the city, anything. This gives him happiness somehow, because of the little things that display beauty often ignored, which he began to see in the eyes of his beloved late wife. Once, he saw a barren tree, dry and alone. Its branches did not bear any leaf, not even a dry one, and it gave no shade. The park caretakers were thinking of the option to remove it because of its uselessness. He took pity of the tree, so he took a photo of it and made a painting of it that night. In the painting, the tree on the same position, full of thick green leaves and ripe mangoes hanging from the robust branches, and little children happily run around it. Some weeks after, he came back to the tree. He was thinking that the tree would have been cut down by that time. Like a miracle, the tree grew small green leaves, and children boasted about it to their parents. It was like magic of the paintbrush, of the palette, or the colors, or his camera, or his mere imagination; or it can be nothing explainable but a miracle. Some days after, he met a young lady who lost her engagement ring. Her fiancé did not know about it, and he would probably be mad about it. She was so lonely. That night the father painted the young lady with her children and happy with her wife in a big house. He tested his luck or his power or whatever he may call it. The next day, he saw the same girl walking by the bay with a man, and her ring back. And, they kissed in silhouette with sunset background. It was too much for coincidence, he thought. A young girl sat in the sidewalk. She counted coins in her plastic cup. He asked her, “Where do you spend your money?” She answered, “Bread. It’s all I can afford for food.” Suspecting that the girl was lying, he further asked, “What about your parents? What do they do?” The girl replied, “How I wish I have. My stomach is hungry, and so my heart is.” That night, he painted the girl in her same purple shirt, with a mother carrying her and a father undoing her hair. But he never saw her again. He hoped for the best for the girl, or peace at least. A very hot week came, and it was a big deal to the town. The crops and produces gradually withered and the business declined, including the father’s. As he walked by to observe the town, he saw the fountain in the plaza. Even the river near their house dropped to half the depth, so as the water systems in the town. The fountain had dried up. What would the little children feel about it? He thought. That night, despite of the very hot night, he painted the clear cool water rising from the fountain; the sky blue and clear, and the color of the vegetables from stalls can be seen again. The next day, it did happen. There came news about a coming devastating storm. The town was anxious of what preparations to make. That night, he painted something which looked like a forecast seen on TV. The artwork said that the storm will change direction and will eventually weaken to not destroy further any community. Next day, the clouds poured water just enough to water and refresh the plants in all town, but the storm did not come. Therefore it did happen. Feeling convinced that something about his art had magic, he felt creeps in his spine. Everything he had painted, for whatever scheme or chrome he used, or whatever time he painted, something changes in the subject. The change was always positive, and often close to what was on the painting. That night, when his son was already asleep, he felt trance visited him and he left home at midnight. The city was dull and lonely at night. How he wished the lights would sparkle and give the night a beautiful picture, along with the stars. But he was not the only one wishing for it. A dog sat near him, and it was humming a lonely song. And oh, the moon cried for the hopeless city which looks like ashes from space. He then went home, because the air felt like ice. Before he slept, he pulled his colored stencils and a piece of paper and drew a boy walking with the dog and the city of lights. It was Sunday and schools were closed. The market was busy as always. His son was outside the house, while waiting for the rice to finish cooking. The father got up and went out to see his son. “I found it sleeping here,” said the son, as he pointed to a brown rover with its nose beaded with rice bits and cabbage leaves from yesterday’s dinner. “I’m sorry, but I think we can afford to lose some leftover for this unfortunate thing.” It was the dog in the midnight. The boy would be his caretaker then, like what was in the drawing. The son was happy with his new friend. They walked along the road and by the bay and in the park. Ever since his mother went away, he had never felt company as this. Not even with his father. So, the innocent creatures played the whole day. They went home very tired, dirty and wet with sweat. Did they really arrive home? The father waited until the sun has set, and when his son did not return, he dragged his camiseta and sombrero and went to look for him. He became too anxious to be annoyed, too afraid to think of scolding his son as soon as he had seen him. Until late in the evening he roamed. And until midnight. And until the air felt like ice. He was too busy to be disturbed, but the lights captivated his longing heart, longing for the soft touch in his hair, sweet laughter in the air, cheerful grace in motion, overwhelming inspiration... and when he realized that the city was bright and alive that midnight, when the moon envied the colors from space, was his son lying in his foot, blood oozing from his forehead, with crushed left arm. Did no one ever dared to rescue? To even put splint to his broken arm? To even put gauge in his bleeding head? To even shout or call him at his son’s fall, if they cannot help? The city lights were opened, yet no one even noticed a young boy in red bed of his own, in the middle of the street. He brought his son home, and laid him in his blanket. The stars cried for him, and the moon wept from space. Anticipating that the ‘painting power’ did not expire yet, his shaking hands pulled the canvass, and started to paint himself and his son, like a portrait they smiled, and it revealed the image of a woman in the side of the boy. He did not finish the painting, and his body tired, leaving the face of the woman undone. The next day, he went to the plaza, not to condemn anyone. He was hopeful that one of these days, not more than a week, his son would be with him again. He saw the tree, now thick with green leaves and ripe mangoes, and children play under its shade. He saw the girl, who was already adopted by affluent parents who longed for a child for long. He saw the fountain, which showered clear water and many teenagers threw coins to wish on it. He saw the people from the nearby communities who chat with the people in the city about how the storm dissolved in the mountains. And, he saw the dog, which was with his son the day he went away. He ran to his house. It was in slow motion when he opened the door. There was a very bright light from the window in the bedroom. His son was not there anymore, who took his body? At his surprise, he found him as he turned back. The tides went deliriously joyous that they swirled and rose and raged, that they forgot about the blue bungalow house standing in the riverside. When the waves remembered, nothing was left but the history of a painter who painted hopes for the world which all, all came true.