The Painter
Jake vonAmleth sat in his formal living room examining the portfolio of the young artist who sat before him. The portfolio was a twelve by eight inch binder of portrait prints and they were astonishingly good. The paintings were so precise that they might have well just been photographs of the real thing, except the paintings seemed to have captured something more than any camera could. The people, which stared back at him in these amazing portraits, almost seemed alive. Their faces looked back at him, and he believed at anytime one of them could smile or wink and he wouldn’t be surprised. They had soul.
Rafi Alnathon, the creator of these amazing paintings, sat on the edge of his seat with his hands clasped together and placed gently on his lap. He sat attentively, waiting for a response from Jake. Jake looked up briefly from the binder, “They’re very good.”
“Thank you sir.” Mr. Alnathon replied astutely. He was college age, with a mess of curly brown hair and a red beard that was trimmed neatly. He was wearing a t-shirt that read ‘Slave of Fate’ draped loosely on his thin body. Some rock band. Jake thought to himself. Perhaps he attended that fancy private school close to the city. College kids always needed money.
The painter’s rates were reasonable enough, and Mr.Alnathon certainly seemed to have enough talent to paint Jake’s old mug on a canvas. The only thing was Jake had never heard of Rafi Alnathon. He wasn’t listed in the yellow pages or online. Rafi had shown up this afternoon in a blue Mazda and knocked boldly on his door. The whole thing was just peculiar.
“Do you have any references?” Jake inquired.
“No sir, just what you see in front of you.”
“You go to college around here?”
“No sir, I’m just passing through. Heard you wanted a portrait done.”
Had Jake told anyone about looking for a portrait artist? He didn’t think so. Of course he could have forgotten. His memory wasn’t what it used to be.
Jake was first generation American. His father had his portrait done, and his father’s father, and so forth for six generations. His forefathers had all been esteemed members of the Danish Royal Army. Of course the Dane’s did very little real fighting in history. Jake’s father had left for America during World War II and had become a television repair man. Jake was an elementary school teacher five years from retiring. He might not be a captain or colonel, but he was still a vonAmleth. No one would forget the vonAmleths.
In the past few weeks, Jake had felt a pressing irrational sense of urgency to have his portrait done. His forefather’s stared down at him from the framed prints that line his first floor hallway, encouraging him to do as they had done. It was tradition for the vonAmleth’s to be immortalized by art. He had called all the local artists, but with no luck. No one returned his calls and he could only get a hold of answering machines. Of course this didn’t surprise him. All the artist he’d met during his life had been spacey and unreliable hippies. Overtime his desire to get his portrait done became a need that instilled a terrible weight on his chest. Seeing Mr. Alnathon here was a great relief.
“I think you’ll do just fine Mr. Alnathon.” Jake smiled and closed the portfolio that sat on his lap.
“Thank you sir,” He took the binder and stood up.
“Now how shall I pay you? Before? After? I have never done this before; I don’t know what you are expecting of me.”
“I’d prefer the payment in advance sir if you please, for materials.”
Jake contemplated this for a moment. He imagined for an instant himself writing a check and handing it to this young man who would drive off this evening in his Mazda, never to be seen again. Of course that was silly. Mr. Alnathon seemed honest enough. Jake was just being paranoid. That was what was wrong with the world today, no trust. “All right, let me get my checkbook.”
The two scheduled afternoon sessions at Jake’s home. Jake would sit and model in his best suit and tie for the young painter who had estimated that painting would take two weeks or so. Jake got to know very little about Mr. Alnathon during those sessions aside from that the youth didn’t speak very much. He had inquired about his studies, his childhood, and even if he had a girlfriend, but only received a few ambiguous words. Mr. Alnathon didn’t have any secondary education, but had been a self-proclaimed artist all his life and was in love with his work. Each of these answers ended with a well-mannered “sir” or “Mr. vonAmleth”. The rest of the time Mr. Alnathon was focused intently on his work.
The painting progressed quickly in the first week and Jake was certainly impressed by the bold and confident brush strokes that fashioned his own portrait. By the beginning of the second week there was nothing left but the face which Mr. Alnathon had left for last. Jake asked him about it, “Why do you leave the face for last? Do you find it the hardest?”
“I used to sir. The face always presents such problems because the essence of the person lingers there.” He sighed and chewed thoughtfully on the end of his paintbrush.
“Used to?”
“Yes sir, a friend of mine showed me a trick a couple years ago. Ever since then, painting the face has been easy. I just like to save the best for last. The face makes the painting.”
“A friend? Boy, you’d have to make a deal with the devil to paint that good.”
Mr. Alnathon laughed, “Something like that.”
“Well I’m sure you do my old mug justice. Perhaps you could give me a bit more hair on top? Or maybe get rid of the wrinkles and this big sun spot,” Jake brought his fingers to his nose where a blaring splotch of melanin had collected over the years. “When I’m immortalized on canvas, I’d like to be remembered for something besides skin problems.”
“I’m a realist Mr. vonAmleth.”
“Of course you are. I suppose I can respect that.
“I think I will be finished tomorrow, all I have left is the best part.”
“Very well then, I shall go out tonight and buy a bottle of wine. My treat, to congratulate you on you very fine painting and me on my very fine sitting.”
Mr. Alnathon laughed, “That sounds wonderful sir.”
That night, Jake drove out to the liquor store and bought a thirteen dollar bottle of wine. The painter was young, and was probably used to the taste of cheap alcohol. He got in his car and left the parking lot. That night he would never make it home alive. A morning jogger would find his car the next morning embedded in a tree on the side of the road. The skid marks on the road told the last story of his life. He had swerved, trying to avoid something in the middle of the road, and lost control.
That same morning the painting was finished. Jake looked up from the painting, his soul on display for the world to remember. His age spot gleamed out on his nose, and his wrinkles creased in a permanent half smile. His eyes had a depth that would puzzle any practiced painter. At the funeral, when relatives viewed the portrait, they would comment on its soul. There was a presence to the image that eased their loss. No one saw Mr. Rafi Alnathon and his blue Mazda in that town again.