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THE PAINITNG It was a strange painting. An oil painting. It was neither signed nor dated and quite dark. The painting was showing the torso of a naked man with something like a red cigarette in his mouth, a match in his hand, and a white dove with open wings. Lisa wondered why she wanted to buy the painting. It was not only strange, it was close to ugly. The wrong perspective and the yellow light made the man look deathly ill and the white dove looked as if it would fall over any minute. And it was as if the man’s eyes were looking at her. Regardless she gave a twenty dollar note to the woman behind the table and the painting was hers.
Lisa had been driving around, not knowing what else to do with her Sunday. She had taken the ten o’clock ferry from Quadra Island to Campbell River and been driving south on the Inland Island Highway, when she had seen the sign for the yard sale. She had followed the signs, parked her car and twenty minutes later she was the perplex owner of an unusual painting. She couldn’t even imagine where she would hang the piece. A painting bought from one of the two tables of items at a yard sale in Willow Point. After that she went to the farmer’s market close to the pier, and strolled through the stands with local food, mostly organic, and local handcraft, mostly textiles. There were some nice pieces, a hand-woven vest in sunset colors, and a beautiful scarf made of hand-painted silk in various shades of green. And again she wondered why she had not bought something beautiful instead of the ugly painting. On the pier she bought a blueberry ice-cream in a waffle cone and ate it sitting on one of the wooden benches, watching the anglers. There was an info paper near the ice cream shop with the daily catches, salmons which weighted impressive pounds, but Lisa had never seen anybody really catch any fish and she wondered if somebody, maybe the people from the ice cream shop, made it up, so tourists would continue to try to catch salmon from the pier. Sundays had been easy when she was married. And Sundays had been very busy when the children were still young. Now Linda, the younger daughter, was studying Biology in Vancouver and Claire, the older one, was working as a real estate agent in Victoria. Dave, her Ex, was in Tanzania, on a photo safari with his new and young girlfriend. It was such a cliché. Lisa had even slapped him in the face when he had told her. How could he? The new girlfriend was nearly Linda’s age. Maybe this was the reason why she had bought that horrible painting. A man sucking on something red and an unbalanced dove. When had things started to go so wrong, Lisa wondered. Had it started to go wrong when they had moved to Quadra Island or had it started long before, maybe years ago, and they just hadn’t noticed? Moving to Quadra Island had been their life’s dream. They both had said so all their life. “When we retire, we are going to move somewhere remote, maybe onto an Island”. Close to the water so Dave could have a boat. Far away from the city’s hurry, somewhere beautiful and calm where Lisa would grow flowers. So when they retired, they sold their place in Mission and moved to Quadra Island. At first everything was going very well. Dave bought the boat and went fishing a lot. Lisa started to renovate and decorate the house. She painted the house herself in a pale blue and hired someone to fix the roof and the deck. She started to grow vegetables and flowers and put out some chairs and a table so they could have their afternoon tea in the garden. She tried to have contact with the neighbours, but the neighbours didn’t seem to be very interested. When she invited them over for a coffee or a barbecue, they came, stayed for an hour or so, but never long, and went home early. Marge and Tom, the neighbors, obviously weren’t really interested in any further social contact. And after a while Lisa gave up. After some weeks the house was ready. A lovely place. Their old friends from Mission came for a weekend in summer and Dave took them out fishing. But when summer was over, the place started to become lonely. Dave spent his days down at the marina, working on the boat, and Lisa realized that as beautiful as the view was - and it was beautiful, they could see the ocean from their deck - it was not enough. And in November, on a rainy Sunday afternoon, Dave had made his announcement. He had met someone. Her name was Jo-Anne. He had met her at the marina where she had been working during summer. She was young. He loved her, and he was taking her on a trip to East Africa. He hoped that Lisa could forgive him, but Lisa had said no, she could not forgive him. Dave had left, and Lisa was alone. What was she going to do with her life? Driving around and buying ugly paintings at yard sales was not a fulfilling occupation. She left the farmer´s market and went back to her car, sat in the car, and looked at the stupid painting. It certainly had a gloomy atmosphere. It was depressing. Who had painted it? Why hadn’t he signed it? Or she? No - Lisa was sure it was painted by a man, though she couldn´t explain why she thought so. She saw the time on the car’s clock and knew there was a ferry leaving soon, but she could not make up her mind to take it. No reason to go home. But what could she do else? Where could she go? What could she do? “You do have to do something, you know,” a voice said. A low voice. Lisa looked up and around, but she couldn’t see anybody and thought she might have been mistaken, when she heard the voice again. “It’s me,” the voice said. With horror Lisa realized that it was the man in the painting who was speaking. Which was not possible. Which couldn’t be possible. “Oh come on,” said the voice. “Don’t tell me, you don’t believe in things you can’t see.” “No, I don’t,” said Lisa. “Well - why are you speaking to me then,” said the voice. And Lisa realized with even more horror that she had just given an answer to an oil-painted man. I am going to go crazy, she thought, I am going to go crazy. “Start the car,” the voice said. Without wanting to, Lisa started the car and realized that she was actually waiting for directions. Directions from a painting. “Turn right,” the low voice said. Lisa turned right and then felt completely stupid. Taking directions from a painting. She thought: what am I doing? Is this how it starts, am I already crazy? Maybe her inner voice was directing her to a hospital where they would put her somewhere safe. Maybe forever. Lisa stopped the car and looked directly at the painting. “Who are you?” Lisa asked. “That’s not the question,” said the voice. “The question is: who are you?” “Are you alive?” Lisa asked the oil-painted man. It started to feel normal. Nearly comforting. “Depends on your definition of alive. Depends on where you draw the line. Depends on what you consider life”, the oil-painted man said. “Ma´am,” Lisa heard a knock at the window and looked up. An officer was standing at the window. Lisa opened the window. “Are you okay?” the officer said. “Yes,” Lisa said. “You are parked in the middle of the road,” the officer said, pen and paper already prepared, “you are blocking the traffic.”“Sorry,” Lisa said, trying to think of an excuse.“And it looked like you were talking to that painting over there,” the officer said, pointing at the oil painting. “I …,” Lisa said.“Are you really sure you are okay?” “I …, “ Lisa said. “Yes, I am okay. And no, I was not talking to the painting.” “Well okay then, move on,” said the officer and Lisa started the car. “Look, what you have done,” she said after a while to the oil-painted man. “You nearly got me a ticket.” “And that was only the beginning,” said the voice. “The very beginning. Whoever owns me, gets into a lot of trouble.” Lisa didn’t answer. Strange enough that she was talking to the painting. Stranger even that she started to feel scared. What if the man in the painting was right? What if the painting really was going to get her into trouble? What if … stop it, she thought. You are not superstitious. You never were. You are not starting to be now. She turned the car and headed in direction of Campbell River again. There was a ferry at a quarter past six and she was going to get it. She drove to the ferry, bought a ticket and waited in line. “But life will be a lot more exciting,” the man in the painting said. “I am not listening to you,” said Lisa. “You will have a lot more trouble,” the painting said, “and a lot more fun, and your life will be a lot more exciting.” “Who taught you to speak?” asked Lisa. “Was born with it,” said the oil-painted man. “Born?” asked Lisa. “Painted,” said the man. “Created. Made.” “And do you enjoy what you are doing?” asked Lisa. “Do I enjoy what I am doing?” said the voice. “What do you think? I am a painting, I don’t have any feelings.” “And how much trouble will it be?” Lisa asked. “A whole new world is waiting for you,” said the voice. “Imagine only what you can learn in prison…” Lisa looked at the painting again. The dark colors. The gloomy atmosphere. The ill-looking man. The unbalanced dove. Actually there was only one decent way to handle the situation, Lisa realized, when she drove onto the ferry. And in the middle of the journey, right between Campbell River and Quadra Island, she took the painting out of the car, went to the rail, and threw it into the Strait of Georgia. It floated for a short time, bumping up and down, and disappeared after a while. She wasn’t superstitious, but she wasn’t stupid either. It was bad enough she had talked to an oil-painting. Worse that she had thought the painting had talked to her. “Lisa,” a voice said. And Lisa really thought for a moment that the oil-painted man was talking to her from the sea, but it was Tom, her neighbor. “Nice to see you,” he said. “Marge is preparing dinner. Some friends will come over tonight. Will you join us? Seven o’clock?” “Yes, thank you,” Lisa said. “I’ll come.”She saw Tom getting into his car, and she stayed for a little while longer at the rail, looking down at the sea, at the white foam, half expecting to see the painting come up again, listening to the murmur of the sea, the oil-painting man’s voice still in her ears and for a moment she saw something waving at her. Something pale and yellow, but when she looked again, it had disappeared. She went over to Marge and Tom a little after seven. Not too early, not too late. Marge opened the door and Lisa went in and stopped suddenly. In the hall, right beside the big mirror was a painting. THE painting. She looked at Marge.“It is kind of ugly,” Marge said. “I know.” “Yes,” Lisa said. “You wouldn’t believe where I found it,” said Marge. “At the beach, this afternoon. I couldn’t leave it at the beach, could I?” Lisa didn’t say anything. She went into the dining room. Wondering when the trouble would begin, and if it would include her. |
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