literature

Zenosyne (or The Art Curator)

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"Well this Monet piece is obviously a fake.”

Startled, I turned toward the voice. An old man snuck up next to me to also admire the painting. He had thick plastic glasses that hid his eyes and a scraggily beard with severe looking muttonchops. Lines of age and laughter and something else covered his face. He looked more like an ancient hobo than an art expert, but who am I to judge?

“How can you tell?”

He grinned; I counted nine teeth. “Because the real one uses more blue.” He lifted a liver spotted hand and pointed at a patch of lily pads. “These are too green. But it’s a good attempt.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “If they are going to put something in a museum, they should know if it’s real or not. What ignorant bastards. What fools! Pah!”

I looked at the fake Monet again before fully turning toward the man. “Why don’t you just tell the museum they’ve displayed a fake?”
He warbled, a raspy sound of mirth and too many cigarettes… or pipes. “Times are different. You can’t just barge in and say they dun goofed. Ah well.” He reached into his tattered suit coat and pulled out a well-loved notepad. “It’s… 2015,” he mumbled as he flipped, stopping about three-quarters. “Pen… pen…” He patted his pockets, coming up empty. “Do you have a pen?”

“Uh.” I bent over and unzipped my backpack, digging through crumpled exams, textbooks, and worn notebooks before finding one at the bottom.

“‘2015,’” he said as he wrote, “‘Fake Monet ‘Lily Pads.’” He pocketed the notebook and handed me my pen.

“Why’d you write that down?”

“It’s part of my job.”

I’ve never heard someone sound so weary. “What’s your job?”

He rubbed a weathered hand down his beard. “That’s the question,” he said more to himself. “I’m not sure if I remember much anymore. I’ve been at it for a long, long time, young’in. It’s hard, dangerous, annoying, and a pain in my neck. But very gratifying.”

I waited, clicking and unclicking the pen as other people chattered quietly around us.

“I suppose you could call me an appraiser. Or a curator.” He chuckled as if sharing an inside joke with himself and ran a hand across the wisps of hair on his head.

“An art appraiser?”

“If that’s what you wanna call it, young’in.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well,” he turned toward me fully, allowing me to look at his face. His sunken eyes pierced like an owl’s, blue irises of ice frozen but alight; his eyes were ancient. His thin lips curved in a smile. “I appraise more than art.”

There was a silence and I glanced back at the fake Monet. A soft beep sounded the hour from the old man’s wristwatch. He glanced at it and sighed again.

“It was nice talking to you, young’in,” he tipped his head politely. “I plan to see you in the future.”

I wasn’t sure if he could make it to the future or even if I’d run into him again, but I replied, “Hope to see you too. Nice meeting you, sir.”


:::^:::


“Hmm. I don’t think this should be here.”

I nearly jumped out of my skin, not expecting a voice next to me. A vaguely familiar old man in a beat up newsboy cap, raggedy coat, and thick glasses rubbed his hand through a thin beard as he scrutinized the painting.

“Why not?”

He squinted and leaned closer, his beaked nose almost touching the canvas. “Because Goya painted that for a close friend and that friend hid it away. I guess greedy art collectors got to it.” His sigh was heavy of sadness. “Damn bastards. Stealing all the good in this world to sell it. Pah!” He backed away from the painting and gave me a once over, his icy eyes feeling like an X-ray.

“You seem familiar,” I said. “Have we met before?”

“Don’t you recognize me, young’in?” He laughed his raspy laugh; I counted six teeth. “It’s been, oh, 15 years but I hoped you wouldn’t forget. See, you’re a special one.”

The light bulb flashed on. “Ah! You’re the art curator!”

He patted my shoulder. “There you go! I knew you wouldn’t forget me.” His eyes clouded over. “I’m always afraid they will.”

“But you’re still alive!” I spluttered. “Shouldn’t you—”

“Be dead?” He cracked another grin. “Bah! I have too much to do still before I take a dirt nap.”

“Still appraising art?”

“Among other things.”

“Is the job still as gratifying as you said it was?”

“Ah.” His smile fell. “At times. It’s become tiresome. I’m old. I’m tired. I’d like to die, but I don’t. I can’t, not yet anyway. Too much to do, too much to do…”

“What’s there to do?”

“Find misplaced art and document it. Find misplaced people and document it.”

“That’s grim.”

He closed his eyes. “Very.”

“Why do you just document it? Can’t you tell someone about it or have someone fix it? I’m sure the police would like to be aware of missing children—”

“You misheard me.” He wagged his finger like he was scolding a child. “I said misplaced. Not missing. Big difference. Big difference. Missing is not my area of work.”

“I thought you appraised art.”

“In a sense. Curate is a more accurate title.”

I glanced at the painting again; the eyes of the Goya piece stared at me with burning hatred. “What does a Goya picture have to do with misplaced people?”

“Everything.”

A tour group passed behind us, the perky guide waving her hands as she spoke of the wonders of the Renaissance. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the man shake his head.

“Who was the friend Goya painted this for? It’s an awfully angry looking picture.”

His eyes twinkled with a secret. “The friend asked for a painting of himself through Goya’s eyes. He wanted to know what others thought when they looked at him.”

“People saw hatred?”

A tear leaked from his eye and fell into his beard, trailing over the wrinkles on his face. “They saw anger because they did not understand how cruel the world is. How hard it is for people to fix things. They saw the man as hateful toward them instead of pained by them.”
“You seem very knowledgeable about this friend of Goya’s.”

“I am.” he replied. His watch chimed the hour and he pulled a handkerchief from his pants pocket, wiped his eyes, and shoved it back. “I am glad I was able to speak with you again, young’in. I’m afraid we will not meet again.” His smile was kind, knowing, ageless, like he knew the meaning of life. “Take care.”

He tipped his hat and shuffled down the long hallway. A couple passed in front of him, obscuring my view for a moment, but when they moved he had vanished already.
Zenosyne (n): The sense time keeps going faster

One of my assignments for an English class last semester was write a short story. I only had two ideas: write a story where the main character's gender is never mentioned (hooray self-insert) and an old man who seemed timeless. I asked my friend for a setting and this story came together. And I absolutely love this piece so I felt I should post it here.

I hope the message I'm trying to convey comes across. Please tell me your interpretation!
© 2015 - 2024 Mahersal
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