Picture This
Authors: Anthony Hyde
Tags: #Fiction, #Thrillers, #Readers for New Literates
ANTHONY HYDE
Picture
This
Grass Roots Press
Copyright © 2011 Tusitala Inc.
First published in 2011 by Grass Roots Press
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
The Good Reads series is funded in part by the Government of Canada’s Office of Literacy and Essential Skills.
Grass Roots Press also gratefully acknowledges the financial support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Government of Alberta through the Alberta Foundation for the Arts.
Grass Roots Press would also like to thank ABC Life Literacy Canada for their support. Good Reads® is used under licence from ABC Life Literacy Canada.
(Good reads series)
Print ISBN: 978-1-926583-34-1
ePub ISBN: 978-1-926583-56-3
Distributed to libraries and educational and community organizations by
Grass Roots Press
Distributed to retail outlets by
HarperCollins Canada Ltd.
To Miss Lynn, Miss Earl, Miss Smith, Miss Mackenzie, and Miss Hendricks, Crichton Street Public School
Chapter One
Love at First Sight
“Mr. Stone?”
“Paul,” I said. “Paul Stone.”
“I called about your paintings.”
“Sure. Come in.”
On the phone, she’d said her name was Zena da Silva. Pretty? She was much more than that: she was beautiful. Curves in all the right places. Big, brown eyes. She stepped into the room and looked around, and I fell in love with her. Sure, why not? I think it was the eyes, mainly.
Now those eyes widened and she smiled. “So you really
are
a painter, Mr. Stone.”
“What were you expecting?” I said. “Isn’t that why you came?” I laughed. I was laughing at myself. Was I really falling in love?
“I meant that you’re an artist, that painting is your life.”
“Well, I don’t paint houses.”
Yes, I was an artist. Poor. Struggling. Not quite starving. Painting was my life, but sometimes making a living was hard. My studio was the top floor of an old warehouse. I paid almost no rent, but the water only worked if you knew exactly how to bang on the pipes.
Once, I think, my studio must have been used to store spices. After a heavy rain, the air always smelled of cinnamon and cloves. But it was a great home for a painter. High ceilings. A huge window that filled the room with light. My beautiful visitor had a great view of the paintings I’d leaned against the wall.
I watched Zena as she bent down for a closer look at my work. That was a pleasure, watching her bend down. But don’t get the wrong idea. I fell in love because of her eyes. Turning up to me now, they were touched by sadness. And they made an appeal. A call.
Please forgive me
,
they said. She was pretending. Faking. Acting a part.
I’m not a bad person underneath
, those big eyes were telling me.
“I like these,” she said
She did, too. I could see that. But I could see something else. “You’re not going to buy one,” I said.
“I’m sorry. I truly would like to.” She paused. “I don’t know what to say. I’m embarrassed. You see, I really didn’t know you were an artist. A true artist, I mean.”
“But you came to buy a painting?”
“What I had in mind was a little different. I’m going back to Portugal soon. I am very close to my aunt and uncle there. They live in Lisbon, and my uncle paints as a hobby. I thought I would bring them paintings, pictures of my life in Canada. I have photographs. Could you paint a picture from a photograph?”
“Sure.”
Zena glanced down and opened her purse. I think she was glad to look away. She brought out three photographs and handed them to me.
One of the photos was a portrait of Zena, a nice shot showing her head and shoulders.
The second was the shore of a lake—pine trees, birch trees, huge rocks. The third showed three boys playing catch in a park, one wearing a bright red windbreaker. “I took that picture near where I live,” she said.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
You understand, I didn’t believe any of this. I didn’t believe her photographs, I didn’t believe in her aunt and uncle in Lisbon. But I believed
her
. Not who she was pretending to be but the person she truly was. The person I could see in her eyes. After a moment, I said, “All right. How soon would you want them?”
“In a week. Is that too soon? I want real paintings, oil paintings. One other thing... I already have the frames. I’m sure that is terrible, asking you to paint a picture to fit a frame—” She broke of and looked at me.
“Sure it’s terrible. But some people ask me to paint a picture to go with the wallpaper. You have the sizes?”
She went back to her purse. Again, I think she was glad to look away. She had the sizes
written on a slip of paper:
60×73 centimetres, 60.3×72.1 centimetres, 51.3×56.5 centimetres
.
“They’re not too big?” she asked.
“No, that’s fine,” I answered.
“Now, you must tell me what they will cost.”
“How much do you think would be fair?” I said.
She blushed. “No, no. You must say.”
“All right. I say $500 each.”
“Yes, good.”
“But you should bargain,” I said.
Her face turned pink. “You’re laughing at me.”
“No, I’m not. But you’re very pretty when you blush.”
She looked away again. When she looked back, her eyes had changed. Something hard had come into them, and I could see how strong she was, how tough. “I will come back for the paintings in a week,” she said, “and I will pay you $1,500.”
“What’s your phone number? I’ll call when they’re ready.”
“No, I’ll come back in a week. Next Thursday.”
“Where do you live? I can drop them off.”
“It’s all right,” she said. “I don’t mind coming. I must thank you, Mr. Stone, you’ve been very kind.”
“Paul,” I said. “You should call me Paul.”
She hesitated, but then she nodded. “Paul.” She held out her hand, and I took it. Small, warm, firm. I liked her hand. I liked her hand and I liked her smile and I liked her eyes, even when they had gone a little hard. She was tough. Strong. Sad. They were all part of who she truly was.
She closed the door behind her. I quickly crossed the room to my big window and watched as she reached the sidewalk and turned up the street.
She didn’t want to give me her phone number, or tell me where she lived. Who was she? What was she up to? Two questions. Here was a third:
Who did she think I was?
I’d been a surprise, something she hadn’t expected. I’d never seen or heard of her before. How had she heard of me?
I watched as she reached her car, a blue Toyota. She opened the door and slipped inside.
I believed her eyes and her hand, but I didn’t believe anything else.
She drove away and was gone, but when I closed my eyes I could see her perfectly.
Like everyone else, you’ll think I did this for the money, but you’re wrong. I was convinced by those beautiful eyes, from beginning to end.
Victor, a Crook
Three paintings, even small ones, are a lot of work for a week. I started right away.
I began with the landscape. Probably the most famous Canadian painters are the Group of Seven. In the years after the First World War, they hiked and paddled their canoes through northern Ontario, drawing and painting. Zena’s photograph reminded me of their pictures, the rugged rocks and the dark shapes of the pine trees, the sun flashing off the waves on a lake. Looking at their paintings, you can almost feel the wind in your face. I did Zena’s painting in the same style, broad strokes, full of colour.
