French Window

Gustav was an artist, and as with all artists, especially those as talented as him, he was eccentric. A trait that might have easily explained his intense excitement as he entered the dusty living room of the old house. A house, which he had not even known to exist until three hours previously, when he had seen it, advertised in the property section of the paper. His eccentricity was also probably the reason he had called up the estate agent in charge of the property and arranged for a viewing on the very same day. But was it more than mere eccentricity that had driven him to this level of excitement and compulsiveness. Maybe it was the prospect of finding what he had been searching for for over a decade. Most likely it was a combination of both this eccentricity and his artistic genius, if there really is a difference between the two. The end result in any case was pure excitement, not quenched but rather intensified by every step that he took into the dry, musty interior of the house.

As he entered the living room, all of his attention was drawn to one thing. Built into the wall on the side of the room left of the door and opening out onto an overgrown garden, hung an exquisite pair of French windows. He was mesmerised by them even through the thick layer of grime that coated their surface.

“Perfect!” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands together enthusiastically. He strode quickly across the room and stood before them, hands on his hips as he surveyed the source of his delight. Standing over six-foot high, the carved framework now coated in dust, they stood majestically even in the midst of the squalor. He rubbed at the wooden frame gently and his grin widened as he observed the deep reddish brown wood. Turning eagerly to the glass panes themselves, he cleaned a small hole in the grime with his sleeve and peered through into the garden. His excitement hit feverpitch as he saw what lay beyond.

The garden, which appeared as a deceptively small silhouette through the grimy windows, stretched back for a good hundred yards and stretched the length of the house, another seventy yards, wide. It was bordered by overgrown shrubbery and weeds grew in unsavoury clumps on the lawn. But yet again, as in the case of the French windows, his eyes were drawn to only thing. A large willow stood in the centre of the garden. Its delicate drooping branches cascaded over, falling almost to the ground, enveloping the trunk in what appeared to be a massive bell. He stood still, his gaze directed out the window for a few more moments before he turned to the estate agent, his grin now stretching almost from ear to ear.

“I’ll take it!” he declared suddenly, shaking the agents hand vigorously in a state of agitated excitement, “It’s perfect! Just what I’ve been looking for.”

“I’m glad that you like it Mr. Bounerotti. Shall we return to my office to complete the paperwork?”

“Certainly sir, the sooner the better, I uh…have a little work to do,” he replied with a mischievous twinkle in his eye and one final glance at the window.

“Ahh, yes I see, the place does need a bit of work, but I believe that you shall find it to be a worthwhile investment,” the agent responded in his brisk, business-like manner.

“Yes, I have to say that I agree. Shall we?” Gustav strode from the room and beckoned to the rather stunned estate agent from the hallway.

“That has to be the easiest sale I’ve ever made. Who is he?”

Back in the agents office, Gustav sat in a plush leather chair, not so much looking at the agent as past him at the painting that hung on the wall behind. It depicted a warm summers evening. In the background the sun was setting behind a series of humpbacked hills. The few feathery clouds drifting in the sky glowed in yellows and pinks; so delicately painted that they did not seem so much as painted but rather floating on the canvas. The feeling of depth portrayed in the sky was stunning. In the foreground, a family sat picnicking beneath a large gnarled willow, painted with the same incredible detail as the clouds. So brilliantly done that one was almost tempted to reach out and feel the texture of the feathery leaves. A grin flashed across Gustav’s face as he observed the familiar signature, written with a flourish in the bottom right-hand corner of the canvas. “I wonder if he even knows who I am?” he laughed to himself as he diverted his gaze from the painting.

Gustav was, of course, the artist. “Sunset in Eden” was one of the first paintings that he had sold after he moved from his family home, a manor estate in Yorkshire, to live in London. He had left his comfortable home behind at little more than twenty to set up a small art gallery. At first he had met with reasonable success, his paintings rising in value with every sale. Then he made a gamble and rented out a larger property. The gallery, which showcased his own work and that of other up and coming artists, had become an overnight success and it rapidly gained its reputation as the place for amateur artists. Then his big break came. A rich collector had visited the gallery and was so impressed with Gustav’s work that he forked out fifteen thousand for the piece entitled “Lovers at Sunset”. The painting showed a young couple seated by the edge of a seaside cliff. Their silhouettes were dark against the crimson sun dropping behind the horizon. The most striking feature of the landscape however was the sea. Dramatic to perfection, the sun was perfectly represented on its rippling surface and the waves glowed in soft pastel pinks and reds. He received three times as much for it as any painting he had sold before. The following week another patron had offered twenty thousand for another of his works, and the week after “Mistletoe” sold for twenty-seven and a half grand, after a bidding war between two other collectors. “Mistletoe” was by far the highlight of Gustav’s earlier career. Basic in idea, it showed a sprig of mistletoe hanging from a branch. Exquisite in detail the mistletoe was in itself brilliant but the background stole the show. The forest, slightly out of focus stretched far into the background. The light penetrating the thick forest canopy played delightfully across the trees and the gnarled roots that he had painted projecting from the ground, even out of focus, gave a sense of their rough texture.

Gustav had talent; there was no doubt about it. At only twenty, not even a year out of home, the critics were already predicting a bright future for him. For the next ten year, his success continued. His gallery grew ever more popular and his paintings were always in demand. He worked away at his own projects and commissioned works for some of his patrons but all that time he was still only searching for one thing. Since the moment that he had sold his very first painting, what he had termed “His Masterpiece” haunted him in the back of his mind. He didn’t even know what it was. It was like a faint aroma that he couldn’t quite catch. He was closer to it at some times more than others but was never quite close enough to grasp it. He believed that he would know it when he saw it, and so was not worried that he could not put it down onto canvas. He was content to wait and let the idea grow along with his skill so that when the time came, it would indeed be his masterpiece. But this idea of ultimate inspiration, something just out of reach until it revealed itself, captivated him greatly. He had had glimpses of it in his dreams but it always faded into obscurity as soon as he awoke.

But now, sitting in the estate agents office, he was thirty-one and had less than five months to live. Four months previously he had been rushed into hospital after a series of blackouts. The results of the scans had found a tumour in his brain, long past any hope of curing. Given nine months to live as a loose estimate Gustav was crushed. He had lived for his art and even now, in his own manner, all that he really cared about was if he indeed had enough time left to grasp that elusive inspiration and complete his masterpiece; to accomplish the deed that had haunted his dreams for over a decade. Then five hours before he signed his name to the papers in the agent’s office, idly skimming the paper over his breakfast, he had come across the advertisement. A shiver went up his spine as he saw the ad and the image ran through his head too fast for him to lay his hands on; but now he knew. The old house was the answer to all of his dreams; there he would find his ultimate inspiration. Having made the appointment and met the agent, he had trembled with excitement all the way up the drive. When the agent had opened the living room door and he had seen the grimy set of French windows, a jolt of electricity had run up his spine and his heart had pounded in excitement as the image he had been searching for etched itself into his mind.

He signed his name to the contract with a flourish. He shook hands with the agent and was handed the keys. The agent showed him to the door, himself trying to hold back his excitement. He had been trying to sell that old place for over a year. He jerked back to reality as Gustav turned at the top of the stairs, grinned back at him and said, “That’s a nice painting you have there by the way,” before he turned and disappeared down the staircase. The agent turned back into his office, and his eyes, drawn by Gustav’s last comment, fell on the painting behind his desk. He strode over to the painting, smiling at the piece of art that had cost him fifty thousand in a recent auction. As he scanned the sunset, feeling oddly proud after his clients leaving remark, he saw the elegant signature in the bottom right-hand corner. The signature looked oddly familiar. He glanced blankly down at the cheque he was still holding. Seeing a signature identical to the artist’s scribbled on the cheque caused him to start. He fell clumsily into his chair. Something clicked inside of him as he remembered his client’s excitement at the old house.

“This is big,” he whispered to himself, “This is really big.”

Gustav wasted no time after he left the agents office. Finding a hardware store he hurriedly bought the tools needed for the restoration of his newly acquired house. He was at most fifteen minutes inside, and at least ten of them were spent standing in a queue. He left with a shovel, a pair of garden shears, a window cleaner and a large bottle of detergent. He bundled them into the backseat of his car and then stopped off at Smith’s Arthouse, the artshop he had frequented for the last ten years. He emerged from the shop half an hour later with a grin lighting up his face. He balanced a large four foot by three canvas under his left arm, five brushes, the smallest so thin that you could count the bristles on its head, wrapped in a paper bag and clenched in his left fist and a large box of paints held awkwardly under his right arm. There was more on his mind now than the house; indeed all that he really cared about was the French windows and the garden. He inhaled deeply as he settled the materials carefully onto the passenger seat of his car.

He liked the smell of the art shop. The proprietor Joseph Smith was himself an artist, not so well established as Gustav but he had a fair bit of recognition in his own right. His shop was the first place in the city for artists to source their materials. There was a great deal of respect between Gustav and Joseph. Both recognised each others work and took a personal interest in new pieces. Joseph had known that Gustav had found what he had been searching for as soon as he entered. They had talked long together about the elusive inspiration, Joseph himself had been looking for his twice as long as Gustav. He knew how little time Gustav had left and felt a sense of relief as he saw that his good friend would indeed accomplish his dream before the end. Owning the art shop had brought him into contact with nearly every artist in the city but he had never seen one quite as brilliant as Gustav. The potential and talent that he harboured was incredible and when he had heard of his friend’s illness he had felt nearly as much loss for the dream that Gustav might never accomplish as he did for the loss of his friend. This was not heartlessness on his part but he knew how much it meant to Gustav and indeed to him. To see another artist accomplish such a dream was something that Joseph lived for. Gustav had a flame burning within him, one that could not be quenched. It was the thing that set Gustav apart from other artists and Joseph had prayed that Gustav would have the chance to leave his mark.

But now seeing that Gustav had indeed found his inspiration, he was filled with a sense of hope and pride. No words concerning the work had passed between them, there had been no need. Gustav had caught his eye when he walked in and that was enough. He had called after Gustav as he left the shop.

“The flame flickers most violently before it dies my friend.”

Gustav had turned and caught his eye, he knew what was meant.

“Goodbye my friend, you’ve gotten your chance, now make it count,” Joseph whispered as he watched Gustav leave. He turned his back on the shop and stepped into the backroom that he had set up as his studio. He picked up his hammer and the small chisel he had been working with and turned back to the half-sculpted block of marble that lay on the table before him.

Gustav left the shop with his friend’s last words echoing in his head. He smiled to himself, hoping deep inside that the flame wouldn’t die prematurely.

A curse of genius, especially artistic genius is pigheadedness and Gustav definitely exhibited this trait. He would often work for hours at a new painting, sometimes spending more than ten hours of non-stop work on a piece. He was over zealous and more often than not stubborn and his new house was no exception. He returned to his house a little after five o’clock, having stopped for a late lunch on his way back to toast his new creation. He set to work straight away filling a bucket with water and measuring out the window cleaner. He started on the French windows, cleaning every speck of dust and grime from their surfaces. It was a tough job, the house had been unlived in for three years and three years of dust and condensation had done its job. He took him over three and a half hours to get the windows clean. When he finished he looked at them with a look halfway between satisfaction and humour, “What an interesting contrast sparkling windows make with a dusty old house and an overgrown garden, what a very interesting contrast indeed,” he muttered to himself smiling. It had grown to dark to begin working on the garden so dumping the tools untidily in a corner, he locked up and returned to his apartment.

The next day dawned, the autumn sun rising bright and cold and Gustav rose with it. He had planned on making an early start on the garden. He didn’t care much for physical labour but he applied himself to the job as diligently as he did to his art, indeed in some fashion it was his art, preparation being as important as execution. He started with the small patio outside the French windows. First he took his shovel and scraped out the weeds, which were growing between the cracks in the slabs. Unused to the physical labour he was sweating profusely by the time he had finished ridding the slabs of their unwanted greenery. Shaking the sweat from his hair he turned his attention to the muddied patio itself.

“How to clean this lot up eh?” he pondered, the semi-brown paving stones were far from the pristine white ones he had envisioned. Then he caught sight of the industrial size and strength cleaner he had used on the windows lying in the corner.

“Well if it cleaned the dirt off the windows…” He hardly even bothered to dilute the heavy-duty solvent at this stage,

“Improvisation,” he told himself, “Is the gift of an artist.”

Then a second problem arose. He had had the window wiper with which to clean the window but he lacked anything with which he could clean the slabs. Then he espied the window wipe in the corner.

“God bless improvisation,” he declared as he pulled off his shirt and wrapped it around the head of the wipe. He held it out for a few seconds admiring his handiwork before he returned to his cleaning duties. He dipped the shirt into the bucket containing the cleaning agent, ignoring the little hiss and steam as the cloth hit its surface, and allowed it to soak for a few seconds. Then , he scrubbed the patio. If anyone had been watching they would have been in stitches at his ineptitude as he awkwardly swished the makeshift mop to and fro. Sometimes however the ends justify the means and as Gustav hosed off the patio it became clear that his work had not been in vain, no matter how inept the execution.

“Either it really did clean them or it bleached them,” he laughed to himself as he surveyed the spotless slabs, “Maybe I should have added a bit more water.” He stopped laughing as a wave of dizziness broke against his forehead.

“Whoa I’m tired,” he thought to himself. But the feeling didn’t leave him and he lost consciousness as he staggered through the French windows.

When he regained consciousness the moon was high in the sky, glowing faintly, half hidden by a cloud. He glanced at his watch and groaned as he realised that he’d been out for over ten hours, it was now approaching midnight.

“Ten hours,” he whispered to himself, feeling the silence of the house close in on him, “God help me, ten hours.” He staggered to his feet, his right hand absently rubbing his left temple as he tried to soothe out the throbbing in his head.

“God I feel hungry,” he whispered again, then gave the idea second thoughts as his stomach churned, “Ugh…maybe not,” he groaned as he ran to the bucket he had used to hold the cleaning agent and stuck his head in.

“Ugh…that’s not good,” he moaned as he raised his head from the bucket a few moment later, his breakfast now bubbling in the remnants of the cleaner.

“God I really should have diluted that stuff,” he decided for a second time as he took his jacket from the old chair in the corner, “I’d better get home.” He staggered weakly to his car, not caring to lock the front door and slumped weakly into the driver’s seat. “Maybe I shouldn’t be driving,” he chuckled as he succeeded in sliding the key into the ignition, “Oh well…” he thought to himself as he pulled out of the drive.

He woke up groggily the next morning at about nine. The dull throbbing was still present in his left temple, but it was fainter than it had been on the night before. He slid stiffly out of bed and stumbled into the shower where he stood unmoving beneath the cold stream of water. When he had finished, or more likely when the water got too cold, he towelled himself dry and stood in front of the mirror to shave. He took a step backwards as he saw his gaunt face and the dark circles that had appeared under his eyes almost overnight.

“Shit I look bad,” he groaned, “It won’t be long now.” He sighed.

“I need some coffee, then it’s off to work I go,” he smiled at himself then finished, “Hi-ho hi-ho hi-ho hi-ho hi-ho.” That tune always made him feel better. It reminded him of the first time he had really started to draw. He had just finished watching Walt’s adaptation of Snow White. He had taken out a copybook and with his crayons had sketched almost perfect replicas of the seven dwarves. It was the birth of his talent and often while working he would hum the tune to himself. This was just another of Gustav’s eccentricities.

Joseph Smith walked into Joe’s Coffee-house, two doors down from his artshop. He was in very bright spirits. He had completed his sculpture the night before and was exceptionally pleased with his latest creation. He had called it “Bran”, a depiction of Fionn McCumhal’s faithful wolfhound. He had never really done many animal sculptures before and he was extremely satisfied with the result.

“Hey Joe,” he hailed the owner behind the counter.

“Hey Joseph, how are you doing?” came the reply. Joe was middle aged, balding, had a neatly trimmed goatee and was in a perpetually happy mood. “Why not?” he would ask, he had a great wife, an accomplished writer with two best-sellers behind her, two great kids, David and Josephine, both budding pianists. He ran a successful coffee-house that by night transformed into a jazz and blues bar. He himself was an accomplished saxophonist, and he regularly took to the stage to perform. “Hell. Life is great,” was a favourite saying of his and he must have repeated it twenty times a day.

“What can I do for you Joseph?”

“Give me a large coffee there Joe, I feel like a bit of caffeine this morning.”

“Looks like your not the only one,” he pointed over Joseph’s shoulder, “It’s a shame I’ve seen so much talent go to waste that way.” He shook his head sorrowfully. Joseph turned around, half expecting to see some blues artist in the midst of drug addiction, it wasn’t uncommon in the city. Instead he saw his good friend Gustav; face gaunt, eyes sunken, hunched wearily over a half-filled mug of cold coffee. He forgave Joe for calling him a junkie, God forbid he almost thought it himself for a second.

“He’s no junkie Joe, he’s sick, very sick,”

Joe raised an eyebrow.

“He’s dying Joe, cancer,” he turned his head so he wouldn’t have to look Joe in the eye.

“I’m sorry man, I didn’t know, Damn!”

“Never mind Joe, just double my order would you?”

“Hey sure, it’s on the house.”

“Thanks Joe, you’re a good friend.”

“Anytime man, anytime. Did you finish that piece yet by the way?”

“Yeah I did actually.”

“I’m looking for a present for my wife for our twentieth anniversary next week, is there a chance…?”

“Call by later Joe, I’m sure that we can come to an arrangement.”

“Thanks man, two Joe’s big cuppa joe coming right up.”

Joseph smiled, his friend’s quirky sense of humour always cheered him up,

“Joe’s cuppa joe,” he chuckled to himself as he left the counter and walked over to Gustav.

He sat down across from his friend and was stunned as Gustav raised his head listlessly to look at him.

“Hey Joseph, how’s it going?” he made a feeble attempt at a smile.

“I finished my sculpture last night, it turned out pretty good.” He returned the smile a bit too watery for his liking.

“Knowing you that means that it’s a bloody , masterpiece eh?” the old mischievous twinkle was still in his eye.

“I wouldn’t say that, it’s pretty good though.”

“Yeah I’m sure,” Gustav grinned again, life flooding into his face for a brief instant, “You’re too modest than’s good for an artist.”

Joseph smiled as he remembered his friend’s favourite saying,

“Cockiness and improvisation are an artist’s best friends.” He easily remembered all the times Gustav had discussed this with him.

“Without complete faith in one’s abilities, one cannot become great. How can one paint if one does not believe that they can paint well? How can one create great pieces if one does not believe them to be great? How can one be great, if he doesn’t believe himself to be great? Complete faith means that you believe that you can do anything, that you believe that you are the best. Maybe someone will create better pieces than you will, but still who’s to say he’s the better artist. Technicality is the straw that broke the camel’s back. Technical skill doesn’t make a work great, what makes it great is whether or not the artist has interpreted his vision as he wants. Maybe no one else will see it for what it really is, but if you accomplish what you set out to do, whether people like it or not, as long as you do what you were inspired to do, it's as good as a DaVinci.

The aim of an artist is not money or fame, it’s not acceptence or glory, it’s expressing the ideas that set you apart from those who don’t create. It’s about expressing those ideas that others might never understand. It’s about putting that feeling, that feeling of what you want to do, down. Not for the world to see, but for you to see for yourself. It’s about your soul, it’s about what makes you, you. It’s about every drop of paint, every chip of stone or every drop of ink being a masterpiece in itself because it is part of art. It’s not about money, it’s about perfection. At the end of the day, perfection isn’t perfect style or perspective, it’s the clarity with which you express the creative idea, the way you channel the river of inspiration through your hands, through your mind. It’s about creation, and when it’s about creation, every piece is great. And to be true to oneself as an artist, one must accept this.

You’re no better than any other artist, and they’re no better than you. We all inhabit the same plane of creativity at the same level. As long as one creates for oneself, it’s all perfection. Price tags don’t matter, they’re only based on peoples perceptions of beauty and art, not art itself. No one but the artist can understand the true meaning behind a piece. That’s what makes art so special. At the end of the day, it’s the only thing that you’ll ever do for yourself and probably the only secret you’ll ever have. You can’t share that feeling with anyone. If you’re blessed with it then accept it my friend, embrace it.”

Joseph remembered his friend’s speech clearly. He remembered his friend’s passion as he spoke, his pure and utter belief in his ability, his unconditional love for his creations. Joseph never showed it to anyone, but he felt the very same way about his work. But he buried this feeling deep inside, hiding it away until alone in his studio. Then he released it, allowing it to guide his hands as he painstakingly chipped away at blocks of granite and marble.

“Then maybe I’m not great,” he grinned back at Gustav, who only returned it knowingly.

“You’re no more of an average artist than I am Joseph. Don’t think that you can hide that from me. Birds of a feather flock together, or at least that’s what I think they say. It doesn’t take a genius to interpret that light in your eyes. You were born to create Joseph, it’s that simple. Just accept it.”

Joseph smiled back at his friend, wishing that he could be as frank about his work. “Well I’d better get going, I’ve got a lot of work to do if I’m to finish my new piece.” Slowly he rose to leave, his limbs stiff.

“Take care Gustav, you’re no good to anyone dead.”

“Yeah I know but it won’t matter in about a month’s time will it?”

“Gustav, just finish the piece okay. I hate to see a good bit of inspiration go to waste.”

“Yeah I will, don’t worry. I’ll die before I don’t finish it,” a grin flashed on his lips.

“That’s what I’m afraid of. Take care Gustav. I want to be the first to see it okay?”

“Only you man, I’ll talk to you later.”

It was dark by the time Joseph Smith turned his old Volkswagen into Gustav’s driveway.

“Man what a dump,” he though to himself as he stopped the car, “When he said that he’d work to do he meant it.” He smiled as he looked at the stained wooden front of Gustav’s two story monstrosity.

“Only Gustav could turn a place like this into a work of art, only Gustav.” He turned off the headlights and walked up the steps to the front door, the old wood creaking beneath his feet. His eyebrows rose as he saw the state of disrepair, the entrance was in, “How does he do it?” he shook his head. He knocked at the door, it was really only a formality as it swung inwards under his first knock.

“Great security system you have here man,” He called into the dark interior of the house. He grew anxious as the silence greeted him and seemed to grow deeper. He entered slowly, warped floorboards creaking noisily with every footstep. The sound echoing through the empty hallway. He started towards the door at the end of the hallway on the right. A faint crack of light was visible, coming from the space between the door and the floor where the saddle should have been.

“Gustav?” he called meekly as he ventured down the hall, “Gustav, are you there?” The surface of the door was gritty with years of dust and peeling paint. He groped tentatively for the doorhandle in the semi-darkness. As he eased the door open he half-expected to see Gustav propped up against a wall, rigid and twitching in a final fit. All that greeted him however was a lightbulb dangling precariously from a wire in the ceiling and a pair of immaculately clean French windows. He stared at them in amazement. Outside in the garden he saw Gustav, half-illuminated in the light, balanced on a ladder and carefully trimming the branches of an ancient willow tree. He could not believe the garden. It was as if he had stepped fro the rotting old house into a Victorian manor estate. The lawn had been trimmed down to a shapely inch high growth. The shrubs that bordered the garden were trimmed into lovely six foot high walls and in the very centre the willow tree towered majestically.

Joseph stood surveying the garden in awe. In the half-light produced by the lightbulb swinging overhead, the garden appeared oddly supernatural; half hidden in swaying shadows, the other half brightly illuminated in the shifting glow. Outside Gustav descended the ladder, wiping his arm across his brow. He stood before the willow briefly examining his work with a critical eye, before he turned and walked back towards the house. His shirt was unbuttoned and as he cam closer Joseph could see the toll that his disease and his art had exerted on him. His ribs protruded wickedly, his physical body deteriorating from the ravages of his prolonged illness. Thin veins snaked across his abdomen and his shoulders were bowed as if he was carrying a heavy burden. Sweat was dripping from his face, glistening along his shrunken body.

“What he does for his art, amazing,” Joseph whispered as he observed the costs of his friend’s creative mind. A mind that would have exerted a vastly greatly toll had it not been satisfied. Joseph knew that not completing his final work would kill Gustav sooner than any cancer would.

“Hey Joseph, how’s it going,” He croaked, his voice cracked and weak from the physical exertion, “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Gustav you’ve really overdone it this time, come on take a seat.”

“No thanks, I’m good. I have to finish tidying up anyway.”

“You can’t keep going like this, it’ll kill you.”

Gustav smiled, “There’s only one thing that’ll kill me, and besides, I’m finished with the garden. I’m starting on the piece tomorrow. I have to prepare the canvas.”

“You need a break, Ill do the canvas for you if you want.”

“No man, that’s my job. My work isn’t just the finished product, it’s the preparation, the start, the beginning and the end as well. How could I call my final work, my piece de resistance, my own if I didn’t do it all. Thanks anyway Joseph, you’re a good friend, but I’m on my own here.”

“At least spend the night at my place. Sylvia asked me to invite you around to dinner.”

“Sure why not? I haven’t seen her in a while. Just let me clean up a bit first.”

He grabbed a bucket of water that stood by the French windows and threw it over his head, shivering as the cold water came in contact with his cold body. Looking up and seeing his friends startled expression he explained,

“The mains are bust, and there’s no point in showing up to dinner all sweaty is there?” he grinned. He towelled dry and throwing his work clothes in a heap in the corner he changed into a black pair of jeans, a black T-shirt and a black jacket. He sat on the floor as he complimented his clothes with a pair of black socks and pulled on a pair of black leather boots. Standing up he ran his fingers through his shoulder length hair. . Joseph laughed at his friends fashion sense.

“Black, black and more black,” as he had once put it, “Black goes with everything, so why need another colour?”

Joseph loved the irony in that remark, especially coming from Gustav who had an eye for colour that could pick out jet black from coal black. . He would have been seriously surprised if, besides his work-clothes, Gustav had any other colour in his wardrobe.

“Okay, I’m ready,” he called cheerfully as he finished towelling his hair dry and shook it back into place, “Lead on Mr. Smith.”

Gustav groaned as he dragged himself out of the bed. He plodded stiffly over to the en suite, flinching as he caught his reflection in the full length mirror mounted on the wardrobe door.

“The sickness has not been kind to me,” he thought remorsefully as he surveyed his wasting body, “Well not much more left now,” he thought again, the morbid thought oddly comforting. Indeed, after what he had suffered in the last fortnight he was almost ready to let go, almost but not quite. He still had one more important thing left to do.

He bent over the bathroom sink as the basin slowly filled with icy water. He let out a sigh as he dunked his head deep into the filled sink, the water clinging in droplets to his hair. He held it there, under the water for almost five seconds before he jerked back, a trail of water flying from his face,

“C…C…C…Cold!” he chattered as he groped for a towel. He rubbed it over his face vigorously, relaxing as he felt the soft towel removing the biting cold.

“Hey Gustav, are you up yet?” Joseph called from outside the bedroom door.

“Yeah I’ll be out in a minute,” he responded, his voice cracking. He tossed the towel aside and going back into the room, began to pull his clothes on. He began to hop comically on one leg as he attempted to pull his boots on, an act, which culminated with him falling flat on his back onto the bed. Bouncing slightly as he landed on the soft mattress, he left out a little laugh. To Joseph standing outsider the door however it didn’t sound too healthy. He rushed into the room, panicking as he saw Gustav lying helplessly on the bed clutching his sides.

“Shit Gustav are you alright?”

Gustav did his best to respond between giggles, “Ha ha…fell on the…ha ha…bed…ha ha…so…ha ha…funny…” and he collapsed into unsurpressable laughter.

Joseph smiled, he hadn’t seen his friend in such a good mood for a long time. He himself collapsed into laughter at Gustav’s antics.

“You’re priceless man,” he laughed, “You had be scared stiff, and ha ha…look at you…” They both disappeared into their laughter again until Joseph’s wife Sylvia came to the door. She looked down at the two of them lost in a helpless fit of giggles and smiled, “Come on you too, your breakfasts are getting cold. Honestly how the two of you became successful artists I’ll never know.” She buried her face in her hands when the only response that came was another burst of laughter. She turned away from the door and headed back across the hallway to the kitchen. She passed Richard, her son, on the way.

“Whatever you do dear, do into go into Gustav’s room.”

She mourned her lost authority when five minutes later his laughter joined the others.

“Well at least Stephanie’s more sensible,” she thought as she cut up the waffle on her plate and brought it up to her mouth. It dropped back to the plate however, when her daughter’s laughter joined the others as well.

“Why me?” she asked once looking to heaven as she buried her head in her hands again and started giggling.

Gustav grunted with effort as he pulled the canvas over the wooden frame. He skilfully placed the small tack he was using to hold it in place on the side, and still holding the canvas taut he hammered it into the wood with two practised blows. His hand slid down the canvas and holding another nail in place he drove it home. Ensuring that the thick canvas was stretched out properly he glued the loose ends back over the sides of the wooden frame. Finished, he threw a cover over it to keep the dust off and went back into Joseph’s kitchen. He was humming “Hi ho” again and washing his hands when Richard came in the door and dropped his overweight schoolbag on the floor.

“Hey Gustav, how’s it going?” He asked cheerfully as he walked over to Gustav and clapped him lightly on the back.

“What are you so happy about?” He grinned back and winked, “You and Josephine going out tonight?”

Richard flushed at this and his grin widened, “Yes, but that’s not the point. Take a look at this.” He pulled a cardboard folder from behind his back and after flicking through the pages it contained, he pulled out a little sketch. Gustav beamed when he saw it.

“Hey Rich, that’s brilliant.”

“Thanks man. Look at the back,” He flipped the drawing over and pointed to a little pencil mark in the corner, “An A man, I got an A.”

Gustav took the sketch in his hand, careful not to smudge the pencil.

“This is good Rich. You’ve gotten really good.”

“I wouldn’t have done it without you man, thanks.”

Gustav raised an eyebrow, “Am I going to have to give you that lecture on modesty again?” a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

“No man you don’t.”

“Then what do you say?”

“I rock man, I rock.” He grinned back.

Joseph Smith was sitting in his usual place in Joe’s at the counter, waiting for Joe to finish with a customer when Gustav came in. He pushed open the door weakly and walked slowly towards Joseph with his head bowed. Stiffly he pulled himself onto the stool next to Joseph and gave a weak grin in greeting.

“How’s it going Joseph?” His voice was weak and cracked.

“Are you alright man? You don’t look too good.”

“Over the moon, I’m nearly finished.”

“Two weeks man, that’s fairly long for you.”

“Yeah I know. I’m going to make this one perfect.”

“Same as usual then?” Joseph grinned.

Gustav laughed hoarsely, “Yeah what else?” his eyes flashed to the shelf opposite the till, to where a six inch, marble likeness of a wolfhound was resting, “That your new work?”

“Yeah. Joe bought it for his anniversary. What do you think?”

Gustav’s eyes lit up briefly, “Perfect man, perfect. You’ve outdone yourself this time. Are you sure that you haven’t beaten me to my prize?”

“Not yet man,” he blushed slightly at Gustav’s reference to his own elusive inspiration, “Not yet Gustav, maybe next time.” He winked at his friend.

Gustav sat up straighter, “I think that I’m finally getting through to you. There was nothing modest in that,” A smile played on his lips as he tried to remain serious.

“There wasn’t was there?”

They exchanged looks and then they both grinned.

“Who said you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?” Gustav grinned wickedly.

Joseph’s face became a solemn mask.

“How many times do I have to tell you, I’m not old, just mature.” His mask cracked and they both burst out laughing. Gustav had to stop however, overtaken by a fit of coughing, deep and husky.

“Are you alright man,” Joseph was alarmed by the violence of the coughing.

“Yeah I’m fine,” Gustav struggled between coughs, “No worries.”

Joseph said nothing but he noticed a tear on Gustav’s cheek before he turned away to cough again. When he turned back it was gone. All that remained was a glint of moisture on his sleeve.

“Well I have to get going man. I’ll talk to you later,” Gustav slid awkwardly from his seat.

“Gustav?” Joseph called him back.

“Huh?”

“Take care of yourself man.” Joseph detected a faint wetness in his eye and a quiver in his friend’s voice as he turned and waved.

“Anything for you man. Goodbye.”

It struck Joseph as he watched Gustav walk out the door.

“I’ll never see him again,” he whispered to himself, “Goodbye my friend.”

Two weeks later Joseph answered the phone in his studio.

“Hello Mr. Smith. This is the Strand Street Hospital. A Mr. Gustav Bounerotti asked me to call.”

“Gustav? What’s wrong?” Joseph’s heart leapt to his throat before it sank to his stomach.

“I’m sorry Mr. Smith but Gustav passed away last night.”

“Gustav…is…dead?”

“I’m afraid so sir. I’m sorry for your loss. He did ask me to call you before he slipped away last night. He fell into a coma about midnight and passed away peacefully about five this morning.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“He asked me to tell you to pick up his things at the house. He said that there were a few things he wanted you to have”

“Thank you. Uh…when was he admitted,” Joseph choked back his tears.

“Three o’clock yesterday. He came in himself and was seen immediately by his specialist. He got worse as the day went on. He was in a bit of pain. But he did go peacefully.”

“Thank you sir. Is there anything else he wanted to say.”

“No that was all sir.”

“Well then I’d better go. I’m in a shop and I have a few customers.”

“That’s quite alright sir.”

“Thank you.”

“Goodbye sir.”

Joseph didn’t know how long he sat there after he hung up. The tears wouldn’t come to him. They stayed inside choking him.

“Gustav, my friend. I’ll miss you,” he croaked, “Goodbye.”

Already knowing what he would find, he didn’t give the dust time to gather. He pulled into the driveway of the house three hours later. As he reached the door to Gustav’s makeshift studio he paused and first reached his hand around the door to turn on the light. The days had long grown short and though it was only five o’clock, it was already dark. The meteorologists had predicted a white Christmas and Gustav was looking forward to it. But it wouldn’t be the same without Gustav. Knowing Gustav had changed his life in innumerable ways but nothing could have prepared him for what lay beyond the door. Gustav’s easel stood in the middle of the floor and there amidst the clutter of the old house and Gustav’s equipment stood Gustav’s final work. He magnum opus and as Joseph took it in, tears finally welled in his eyes.

“Beautiful Gustav, beautiful.” He sat on the ground before it while his grief flowed out.

Soft organ music was playing in the background, mingled with the sweet notes of flutes and violins. Gustav’s coffin lay on a raised dais before the altar. The silent congregation eyed it sorrowfully. They all knew Gustav. They had been his friends, his patrons, and some were his family. Gustav had touched all of them though, and he still was. Their eyes played along the display before his coffin.

Gustav had left a letter to Joseph, tucked between the easel and the canvas. In it he had specified the arrangements for his funeral, as he said, “I want to go out in style.” And he did. His coffin, softly illuminated in candlelight, sat amidst his final request. On one side of it sat a small statuette of bran, carved by his best friend Joseph. In the centre sat Gustav’s final work. “French Window”. The congregation and mourners had been amazed by the skill with which he had created it. The view was of the garden Gustav had spent so much time preparing. The sun was just setting and the willow was lit up in fiery reds and pinks. Its long shadow fell across the garden towards the observer who was standing behind a glistening set of French windows. The little reflections of light on the surface were painstakingly rendered. In the middle of the window a faint ghostly reflection of a man sitting at an easel was visible. One could just make out the shoulder length hair and dark clothing, but nothing more. This reflection was so well done that it didn’t interfere with the body of the painting at all. Indeed it was barely visible unless you were up close. Everyone agreed it was a masterpiece. Joseph stood smiling at it. His friend had made his mark.

On the other side of Gustav’s final work stood a small easel. On the easel, illuminated by a small candle burning nearly was a small pencil sketch. In it a man, shoulder length hair and dark clothes sat at an easel. A paintbrush was poised in his hand as he made a finishing stroke to the painting. Beneath the figure the title read:

Gustav Bounerotti-Artist.

Richard Smith looked at it, a tear in his eye, “You rock man, you rock.”