The Painter & The Faker

The yellow cab pulled up abruptly. I adjusted my sunglasses and hat again. An unconscious urge no less. An attempt to not be seen for who I am.

“Where are you off to sir?” He asked quickly. The cabby moved quickly too. Opening and closing the driver door in abrupt motions. Almost mechanical. He had lanky legs that I saw as he walked towards me. He put my large suitcases in the trunk. They barely fit. The cabby was thin but out of shape, he was huffing and puffing and out of breath after my suitcases. I did not say anything. He looked at me with a grin, hands on his hips. I handed him the card with the handwritten address on it. I was not up for conversation. It had been a long flight and Spain was hot right now. The cabby read the card.

“Amazing place senior, superb view! You are very lucky. We will be there in no time!” I got in the cab and lit a cigarette.

“I took the most beautiful señorita to a place not far from yours a couple of days ago.” The cabby said as we drove out of the airport. I did not say anything, instead I just took a long drag.

“She was gorgeous, the most sexy woman I’ve seen. At least seen all year. Beautiful curves.” He seemed like a person who felt uncomfortable in silence. He would make a bad subject I thought.

“It’s a small village maybe you’ll see her, you’ll be a lucky guy.”

“Mhmm.” I said with the cigarette in my mouth. There was still a long way to the house.

“What brings you here senior? Work? Pleasure? Work and pleasure?” He asked.

“Work.” I mumbled with my cigarette in my mouth looking out the window to the changing Spanish rural vista.

“Is that what’s in your suitcase?”

“Uh hu.”

“What type of work do you do? Bricklaying? Ha ha.”

“No.” I answered

“Steelworker then? Blacksmith?”

“It's paint.” I corrected him. I should not have said that. I should have kept my mouth shut. Just a while more. It was a mistake. One I would come to regret.

“Paint?” I swear I could see cogs and wheels move inside his head. Then he gasped and tapped the steering wheel once he got it in excitement.

“You’re that famous painter.” He looked at me. “I saw your photograph in the Madrid times! In that culture section.”

“Those photographs will be the death of us.” I muttered.

“You’re… You’re… You’re…” He was snapping his fingers. “Don’t tell me...  Don’t tell me…” I told him. “That’s right!” The cabby yelled. I tossed my bud out of the window. “Didn’t you have that gallery, showing or whatever?”

“Ya.”

“I read good things in the papers, the critics said it was an interesting and stimulating period in your career. Impressive.”

“Did you go to the gallery and see them?”

“No I didn’t, too busy driving trying to put bread on the table, get the wife nice things and decent wine. But the words of the critics, wow, you should have read them. Beautiful, the art strokes, and colours and textures. Beautiful, the critics said.”

“Vultures.” I mumbled.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“So what brings you here? Someone so rich and famous.”

I paused. “The solitude.”

“Oh great choice, the village you're going to is real quiet. Quant really. Beautiful gorgeous. Small, small village. Right by the river. Filled with the elderly, they shouldn’t know who you are, you’ll blend right in.”

“Great.” I said as I lit another cigarette.

Eventually we made it to the house I was renting. I had almost run out of cigarettes.

“Beautiful house you’re renting. Very lucky. Amazing! Right on the beach, great views of the young senioritas. Great vista, you should paint it senior. It would look great on canvas. The blues of the sea and the sky!”

“Ya.” That cabby would not stop talking. It had been a while since I last met someone like him. I paid him in cash and gave him a decent enough tip so he would leave me alone.

“Oh senior this is too generous, you spoil me. You’ve given me so much wisdom and knowledge, your presence was enough to move me.” He tried to give me the money back.

“Buy the wife a nice wine.”

“No senior, a simple autograph would be enough or a small sketch perhaps…”

“Just leave me.” I snapped. Suddenly the cabby became self conscious and sheepish. He apologized, turned around, walked into his cab and drove away. I looked at the house by the water and closed my eyes and took a calming breath in. The salt of the sea and warm air filled my lungs. I calmed myself. Hell is most certainly other people, now I was free of them.

I walked out to the beach and took off my shoes to feel the sand in between my toes, I lit another cigarette. I looked to the sea and the waves, almost demanding them in my mind to give me inspiration. They did not. I thought about why I came here. I thought about what my wife had told me. Perhaps I had lost it. Perhaps I had lost the muse. Perhaps I had lost the will to paint.

I finished the cigarette, walked back to the house, unpacked, undressed, they went to sleep. I tossed all night and felt groggy the next morning.

I started the morning, like any other. I made myself a french press, poured myself a cup and then pulled out my folder. I sat on a sturdy chair in the breakfast nook, in front of a window overlooking the road to the beach. I opened the folder and read the clippings of the critics. It was raving review after raving review. I flipped through them all, not reading any of them until I arrived at the one.

“A mediocre attempt, the artwork seems rushed. An attempt to produce something when the artist's soul is unable too.”

The review went on, all negative. The only negative review. One critic, William Montague. Never believe the mob, listen to the renegade, they usually know the truth. William did, that was the scary part.

The last gallery was a complete fraud. Only my wife and I knew it. I hadn’t painted anything in almost two years. My agent was on my ass to produce something, keep the buzz and all that. I sipped my coffee to keep calm and put my bad thoughts down. Futile. I had some of my unfinished paintings from my early days, which my wife hated, she was always telling me to either finish them or get rid of them. Stupid bitch. So I gave them to my agent. He put up the gallery. Everyone loved it. But William said it for what it was. Shit. I couldn’t look at the clipping anymore so I put it in the folder and closed it. I finished my coffee looking at the empty road.

I set up the canvases and my studio in one of the spare rooms. I looked at the blank canvas. I looked and looked. But I saw nothing. Maybe I had lost it. Maybe the wife was right and I’m done for. I looked and looked in silence, but I still saw nothing. I looked at my watch and the morning was almost over. Very productive, fuck me. I went to sleep not picking up a brush at all.

I woke up the next morning, had some coffee and looked at the clipping. Then I looked at the canvas. I did not paint anything. I saw the blank canvas in my dreams. It taunted me. It ruined my soul. The days we’re merging together and not distinguishable. Mostly because I did not paint any of the days.

It was not as if I was not attempting to paint. No not at all. I looked at the canvas again and again and again. It had worked in my past before. I stared the canvas down until the eternal muse spoke to me and I did it’s work. That was no more. Perhaps it was through with me, perhaps I had no more periods to give.

I remember thinking that when I first heard it. Heard her shuffle. The village was so quiet I’m sure everyone heard her on the street. She already attracted enormous attention already. At first I would glance through the thin blinds and only see her shadow, her outline and her figure. Then I began to peek, I pulled a part of the blind away so I could see her complexion, her colour, her eyes. Her name was Olivia, she was the woman who ruined my life.

She was stunning, young and had green eyes which would pierce you. She worshiped the Spanish sun. She walked over to the beach right at sunrise. People in this village always looked at her as she walked, everyone knew it. She did too, she liked the attention. Most people would take a siesta but not Olivia. That woman worshiped the sun like a true foreigner. Every waking hour of it she consumed at a pace unmatched.

Her beauty was a terrible distraction. Every time I was staring at the canvas in the early morning or going into the early evening she’d be walking. Her little tapping feet would echo into the street. Every time I looked at her beautiful form from the window. Then I would dream of her. Then when I looked at the canvas that as all I could see, Olivia was walking. I can’t remember when it happened on the trip but I snapped. I could not take it anymore. I put on sandals and walked out of the house and onto the beach where Olivia was worshiping. I was angry, I suppose when you are plan on saying things a certain way when the other person is an abstraction but when you see them in the flesh you become flustered.

“Hello.” I said.

“Hello.” She replied laying on a towel on her stomach. She did not even lift her head to look at me.

“May I ask you what your name is?” I asked.

“Olivia.” She answered now deciding to lift her head up and looked at me.

“Hello Olivia, my name is -”

“I know who you are.” Olivia interrupted, “I was raised in an artistic and cultured family.”

“So you come from old family money?” I assumed she lounged around like she was part of old money. I loathed old money.

“Why do you assume that?”

“Because of how you lounge around in the sun.”

“I worship the sun.”

“I can see that.”

“Oldish money. It came from my grandfather, I have not a care in the world.”

“I can see that too.”

“You’re fairly blunt and rude for an old man.”

“I like to think that I’ve earned that.”

“Earned it how?”

“Through talent, determination and achievement.”

“Sure.” I realized I had said something to upset her. “I’m sorry. I feel like this started on an advantageous foot.”

“Clearly.”

“How long are you in Spain?”

“As long as I feel.”

“You have proven to be very distracting to me.” I normally never had to work hard for these young artistic types. Olivia was different. At first it was frustrating, then fun, then frustrating at the end.

“By god you are blunt.”

“I have had a difficult time finding inspiration for the canvas.”

“Look ahead of you.” Olivia waved her open hand to the sprawling seascape.

“It’s not working for me.”

“Then be clear old man on your intentions.”

“Can I paint you?”

“There’s the question.” She smirked, she had all the power, she had all the power all the time.

“Well, can I?”

“And take me away from the sun?” Olivia said as she pointed to the sky and I looked to her tanned bronze body.

“Indeed.”

“How will I bronzen in a studio?”

“I suppose you won’t.”

She paused, deep in reflection.

“I will ask for something in return.”

“What?” I asked.

“I don’t know yet, I’ll know when it’s over.”

“Okay, shall we leave the beach now then?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. We will start tomorrow. I can’t cheat on the sun halfway through the day.”

I said thank you in advance and told her where I was staying. She said she would arrive in the morning. I left the beach.

The morning came. So did Olivia.

“Where do you want me?” She asked, she looked stunning. She dressed as if she was going to the beach. As if she was prepared for me to change my mind and tell her to leave, probably to her delight and preference. Then she would go back to worship the sun, the only god she worshipped, the only thing this pretty pagan loved. Looking back, god I hate her. I both loved and hated this most beautiful woman.

She held an umbrella open over her shoulder. She wore a bikini and a light clear white linen shawl over her shoulders. Sandals on her feet. She gave a half smile or a smirk, which brought out her eyes and symmetry off her face. She knew that smirk did that too. Us men are pathetic, I fell for it anyway, fuck you, you would too.

“In the studio.” I said. She put her hand on my shoulder as she sultry strutted by me.

“Where is that?” She asked as she passed me and I gazed at her ass as the umbrella almost hit my head.

“First on your left.” I answered as I kept gazing. By the time I closed the door and met her in the studio she was already sitting with the umbrella posing. She had done this before, I think I gave her a look which made it known that I knew it. I feel like she replied in kind. It’s amazing how eyes can communicate without words. I already had the canvas and paint set up in preparation of her.

“Try not to move. Please stay still.” I said.

“I’ll do whatever I please.” She replied.

“Pardon?” I asked as I made my first couple of strokes.

“I said, I’ll do whatever my body and soul desires.” She clarified, “Life is not worth living otherwise.”

“That’s quite a statement.”

“I’m quite a woman.”

“Are you?”

“Would you disagree with me, old man?”

I paused, as I adjusted some colour, “No I wouldn’t.” I said as I focused more on her body than her words.

“Good. That will be important for the next time.”

“What next time?” I said as the canvas grasped my attention and my mind.

“The next time you paint.”

“Paint what?”

“You know what.”

“What?” The canvas came easy to me. Every stroke fit. It was as if I could see in the future and could anticipate texture and tone and colour at once. I was entranced and painting without thinking and therefore without mistake. The canvas was coming to life. Looking back the goddess of the muse was using me. What for?! What for?! What for?! For being a talent, for being the best, what were you muse? But an exotic greedy worthless fucking bitch!

“My naked body.”

“What?” My artistic trance broke.

“My body.” She clarified. My mind was artistically drunk and playing tricks on me I thought. It was then that I realized I had painted. I had painted on the canvas which had run away from me for so long. The canvas was easy to talk to know. It was a great feeling, a shame it would not last in the long run, in the end.

I painted a work of art that day. The first one in years. I felt good. I felt powerful. I felt in control. I felt like an artist. I felt like I belonged as one of the greatest ever. I felt heavenly. The sun was setting, it had taken all day. Olivia sacrificed her sunlight for the day for me. For that I was grateful in a way.

“Are we done?” She asked. I nodded. She stood up and walked toward me to look at the work of art which I had made. She held my arm and put her head on my shoulder. I did not say anything. She looked at it. “It’s amazing.”

“Honestly?”

“Of course. Your last works were shit. My entire family agreed but this… This is good.” Her honesty brought me happiness then. It solidified what I had already thought, what I had already known. Olivia was like that, she would always say what it is that she thought to be true.

“Are you just saying that because it’s you?” I asked.

“Me? This doesn’t look like me at all. It’s a new period for you. I have not seen any artists do what you did here. That is saying something, I grew up in the backdoors of galleries.” She turned and looked at my eyes and said my name then said, “You’re a talent. Don’t forget that. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

Olivia left and I stared at my new painting all night long. I looked at the painting in disbelief. I could not understand how I could paint something so beautiful. It was stunning, colourful and mysterious. After Olivia left I did not eat anything, I did not drink anything, I simply looked at the painting in awe. I fell asleep in the chair. Her door knock woke me instead of the sunlight.

“You look tired.” She said.

“I did not sleep much.” I answered.

“I hope you are not too tired to paint me.”

“I am never too tired to paint.”

This session went like the first one. She laid in the studio, this time in a different swimming suit. She looked out of the window the entire time. Daydreaming about the sun which she was missing. She never said a word. Neither did I. Olivia only huffed and puffed and sighed and tilted her head. Upset as the sun was setting and I was done not one but three other portraits.

“They are beautiful.” She said, “Better than the first.”

“There’s a momentum to it.” I replied.

“If I am to miss the sun yet again tomorrow, your work must be better than today or yesterday.”

“I think it will.” I said only looking at my work.

“It better be.”

“You are an intriguing subject, there’s a lot to you.” I said a pithy attempt to be polite.

“But you have barely painted my uninterrupted body.” Olivia answered as she walked out the door. She closed it before I could say anything.

I made an internal oath to myself that I would not stay up all night admiring my work. I would not take part in that intellectual masturbation. That I promised. I made myself something to eat, realizing at that moment that I had eaten nothing in around two days. I wrote a letter to my wife saying that the retreat was looking promising and that I would have some work which I would be proud of. Work which both the gallery and I would like. I was short and brisk in my words. I was a painter, not an author. I dropped the letter off and walked back to the house and slept.

The sun did not wake me. It was Olivia looking over me instead. It startled me at first and then I felt embarrassed.

“Caught up on sleep I see.” She said.

“Did I not lock the door?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“I can come back tomorrow. There is not a cloud in the sky, old man.”

“No no… Please we must not stop the momentum.”

“Are you sure.”

“Yes.”

“If we must.” Olivia rolled her eyes and did not move one inch.

“Can you give me some privacy? I'll quickly get dressed and meet you at the studio.”

“Fine, if you will it painter.” Olivia said, “I’ll be undressed in the studio waiting for you.

She left me alone. I was taken aback by what she said at the time. I got out of bed and put on the clothes I wore yesterday and used water to pull back my hair. I should have been more careful, I should have been smarter. But I think that is something which most men claim, yet we all fail nonetheless.

I walked into the studio barely together as a human being and there she was in the studio. All her clothes were in a corner. She sat there with her legs crossed, naked and beautiful, every inch of her skin was perfect. She knew what she was doing, yet I let her do it anyway. Why? Because if you were a flawed man and you saw her there you would too. And if you tell me you wouldn’t, you’re either lying or you never saw her.

“Paint me.” She said after she called out my name. “Or I will leave you for the sun.”

I would like to be able to say that I did not think about this while I talked to her and while I painted her the first couple of times. Was I happy this happened, was I happy I could see her body like this? Of course. I stared deep in her eyes for a moment. Then I painted. It began slowly methodically. The slow speed turned into a steady speed. One canvas done. The steady speed picked up and turned into a gallop. Two canvases done. Then three.

She moved for me. She did not stay still. She moved as if she wanted to show off her tan. As if she wanted to show off every part of her body to me. To taunt me. To make me jealous. It did not work. She moved into countless different poses as if she thought of her own body as her own work of art. There was no way that her body could be a work of art. It was stunning, no doubt. It was beautiful, most certainly. But art? No art needs work, it needs tears and self doubt and inspiration and the muse. Art comes into being from hard work and determination. What did she do to get that beautiful body? She was born lucky and merely laid on the beach. Consistent sloth gave her her tan.

Her body gave me the momentum I needed. The gallop turned into an artistic sprint. Broad strokes filled with vigour covered the canvas. One after another I completed, layer upon layer. Until the paint was gone. I was exhausted. The sun was done. I looked at her. She was gently caressing herself.

“Are they done?”

“Yes, I’m done, exhausted.”

“No, I mean are the paintings done?”

“Yes.”

She stood to her feet and walked toward me. She touched my back with one hand and my painting hand with her other. She held it gently, rubbing it, trying to alleviate the pressure I put on it. She looked at the paintings as she touched me and I looked at her face, needing to gauge the reaction. To see if she thought the painting was worthy of her subject. Her mouth was open in astonishment the entire time.

“They are amazing.”

“You think so.”

“It’s the best painting you have ever done.”

“I agree.”

“You’re so talented.” She said to me. She put both hands on either side of my face and kissed me.

“I can’t, I’m married.” I said as I pulled back.

“I know.” She said as she kissed me again.

“I shouldn’t.” I whispered to her.

“It’s not about what you should do. It’s about what you want to do.” She replied. She kissed me again as she undid my belt. I did not stop her. She took off my pants. Soon I was naked with her in the bedroom.

She felt and made sounds like no other woman before. I thought I knew what was going to happen. Then it took a most unexpected turn. I thought I would enjoy her and move on. But instead she broke me, and she enjoyed doing it too. She tied my hands to the bed posts. I tried to pull away, I said something, I don’t remember what it was. So she gauged me with an article of clothing so she could not hear my objections. Then she slapped me as she moved her body on top of me. The merging of the sensations of pain and pleasure where merging like colours to make a deep change. Then she put her hands around my neck. She choked me so hard that my body went limp, the world around me began to flicker, and then I was gone. As I came to after passing out I saw tremendous colour in the world as I gasped.

Oliva undid my hands. Caressed my face, kissed the places she hit. Then whipped up our sweat and the evidence with a towel. I was so tired, so when she held me and told me that I should sleep I did. I did not say a word to her, she had her way in the way that she wanted.

I woke up and her naked body was not beside me. I put on some briefs and pants and walked out to the main part of the house. She was dressed and sipping a cup of coffee, sitting on a chair outlooking the front window. The same window where I had gazed at Oliva walking to the beach to worship the sun.

“How did you sleep?” She asked.

“Why bother asking?”

“Fair.”

She stood up from the chair and set the cup of coffee down on the floor. Then she walked over to the front door. There were all of my paintings at the front and stacked like cash instead of the art that they were.

“What are you doing with my art?” I asked.

“Taking it.” She answered.

“Excuse me?”

“I told you earlier that I would need compensation for my time and work. You took me away from the sun.”

“So you’ll take my paintings!?!”

“Don’t worry, I won’t sell them, I’ll keep them for myself.” She picked them up and opened the door to leave. I was livid.

“You think that because your body was the subject that you are entitled to MY ART! MY CREATION! It all has nothing to do with you!”

She looked at me and said my name, “You’d be a better painter if you were a better man.” After those words she left, the door closed behind her, and my paintings were gone. I was in so much shock that I did not run after her. Looking back I should have. I just stood there. Half naked a defeated old man.

I tried to paint for the remainder of my trip, yet I could not. Empty canvas after empty canvas stared at me. Inspiration was nowhere to be seen. No one can write, paint or create when they are furious, I don’t think that it is possible. I know it’s not possible, because I was unable to do it, what hope do other people have if I failed? None, that’s how much. I packed up my supplies, got a cab, got dropped off at the airport, and then flew home.

When I arrived home my wife asked if I was able to do any painting. I said I couldn’t and I didn’t paint a single work of art. I had a hard time sleeping. I tried to paint at home. I failed every time. As the days passed, more and more I became certain I had lost my gift forever. That the muse of creation had grown displeased by me and decided to curse me with a punishment worse than death.

Then one morning as I walked out to the mailbox which held the paper of the day, I opened it and began to read it on the street. I looked like a slob, I was distraught and felt defeated. Then in a moment I was filled with complete and utter rage! I looked at the paper and saw my name in the section, how I had painted such a beautiful gallery of paintings, which are now on display in Germany. That bitch! I thought. Olivia had sold and pocketed what I had painted. I was livid. I threw the paper in the trash, dressed myself and left without saying as much as a word to my wife. Soon I was on a plane to Germany, to reclaim what was rightfully mine.

As I was on the flight I could only hear in my head the words that were written. It was my best work. They said. A stunning new period in my artistic career. They proclaimed. Works so dynamic they put all other periods of mine to shame. My hardest critics relented. These works are to be put up in history as the pinnacle of our century. And even the critic, the sole critic that was able to stand against the crowd, the only one I respected, the only one who was able to call my bullshit and not be dazzled by my name or my fame, even he was amazed. I know of no artist worthy to be said in the same breath as Da Vinci and Michelangelo, with this period he has proven that he can innovate and extend the medium into the modern era, this is his greatest work, and his name should be remembered for it as long as humanity has art.

It was raining as I entered Berlin. I did not bring an umbrella, in fact I left in such a hurry I had no bag, only the clothes on my back and a wallet and a passport. I ran down the street in the rain and entered the gallery filled with rage and anger and soaking wet.

That was when I was shocked. I walked into the gallery and ignored everyone who came up to talk to me. I looked at all the paintings and artwork along the walls in awe. My rage and anger subsided as I admired the strokes, as I admired the colours, as I admired the beauty. I had not painted any of them. None of these paintings were mine. I lost track of time as I gazed at each one. I stared at the paintings and did not care that I was cold from the rain. I paced back and forth until my coat and my hair was dry. Then I saw her. There was Oliva, looking at me.

“Hello old man.” She said.

“Where are my paintings?” I said to her.

“Not here.”

“Did you paint these?”

“Oh no. I can’t paint at all. Never inherited the gift.”

“Then who painted these?”

“Would you like to meet him?”

“Of course.” I gasped.

“Then follow me and I’ll bring you to him.”

She led me to the front of the gallery. She opened her umbrella to save us from the rain and she took my arm. I was entranced by her like the first time I met her on the beach. She took me to a gloomy looking building. Something so dreary and disgusting I looked around me to make sure no one of stature would see me enter it. We walked up a couple flights of stairs and then she took me into a small apartment, and then opened the bedroom door.

That was the first and only time I saw the great faker. He was an old man, wrapped up in many blankets. He looked pale and ill. I saw brushes and paint supplies strewed all over the nooks and corners of the room. I saw his hands begin to shake and twitch. He struggled to hold a handkerchief up to his mouth as he coughed. Olivia walked over to help him. I stood there and watched. The old man looked at me after he was done coughing.

The Faker said my name then, “I’ve been painting you for years.”

“So you’re a forger.” I said with disgust.

“I think of a forger as a painter who simply lies about his name.” The old faker said to me.

“But you produce fakes. You paint them, that is what you do.”

“Sometimes a man must do what a man has to do to feed his family.”

“Disgusting nonetheless.”

“Not all of us are as lucky as you, to have notoriety and people who know your name on the street. But if someone looks at my work in the Louvre and gasps at the beauty, then sincerely sir what is the difference?”

“The difference is I don’t lie, I don’t deceive.”

“Ha!” The faker laughed and then began to cough again. I saw the blood on the handkerchief. Olivia took it away and brought back a clean one. “All art is deception. All art is a lie. That is why they look at it. Reality is all around them, in their everyday lives, is that what they want to see? No. They read fiction, not history. They watch the movies, not each other. They see beauty on the canvas because they are trapped in the dim dreary cages that are their reality.”

I decided not to humour this old man on his deathbed, no need to talk esoterically regarding our craft, to only come to no conclusion. “Where are my paintings?” I asked.

“Olivia showed them to me. They were stunning.”

“Where are they?”

“They made me admire the talent which you used to have. Back in the early days.” The faker continued to pontificate. “Which begot me to begin thinking, in admiration really, how much you change. How you move seamlessly through periods. Attempting one type of art, showing mastery, only to move on to another. As if you are attempting to be the best before your time, or rather before you are worthy.”

“What are you saying faker?”

“What I was thinking, was how unfair the world was. How I’ve touched so many lives with beauty, and no one will know my name. No one will know who touched their soul.”

“Your point?”

“You move so easily from one period to another, I thought it was only fair and just to make my contribution to your memory.”

“Those are your paintings?”

“Yes.” He said proudly, “They’re my work. The first pieces of art which I made on my own. The first time in my long cruel life which I showed my originality. The first time I put my own soul and not someone else's onto the canvas. And they were…”

“Beautiful.” I said. Even I had to admit it.

“Thank you.” He said, he began to cough again. Olivia was there beside him to help. “That is why I wanted Olivia to bring you here. So I could give my appreciation and thanks to you.”

“Where are my paintings?” I was growing impatient.

“Olivia has been so kind to me.” The faker said as he put his hand on hers. “This granddaughter of mine will get all of my earnings from this gallery of mine. She is the only woman who has taken care of me with this illness. I could die any day now the doctors say. I am happy to have met you. I am happy Olivia met you in Spain. She said you both had quite the time together, is that right?”

I paused, my face was white, “It was indeed.” I answered.

“He got so sick after he finished his paintings.” Olivia said, “A terrible illness, he could never move his hands the same way.”

“As if the goddess of art struck me down for all my sins after channeling the muse.”

“Where are my paintings faker!” I yelled, I had had enough after all of this nonsense.

“Why do you keep asking that question?” Asked Olivia.

“Because, he hopes the critics will think his art is better than what I painted.” Said the faker, “And he can take back his legacy, before it is gone.” Olivia paused in silence which portrayed revelation.

Tears began to fall down my face as I asked him for the final time softly and pathetically, “Where are my paintings?”

The faker said my name, then he said “Simple. I burned them all.”