Morphine the phantom of love

Prologue

“I love you” we whispered to each other, basking in the tenderness of each other’s arms and eyes. I had never experienced happier moments than those spent with her, with her sweet lips, which with their contours kindled my urges, with her eyelashes, which timidly froze in anticipation of our flaming flights of passion. Those flights transported us to the summits of blissfulness. Blissfulness was to be with each other, to have each other, to love each other.

We were like teenagers. We would get caught in the white silk sheets that filtered the warm midday light and filled our world with an innocence and lightness of being.

‘Biting again?’ said Marina, gently pulling her lovely cheek away.

‘If only I could eat you,’ I said jokingly, kissing her neck, feeling the palpitations of her beloved body under me. ‘It’s all I have left, lightly biting into you.’

Ah, that soft skin, as if silk draped her body… Those gentle fingers straying on my nape… Those tender lips timidly parting as they sensed me approaching…

It seemed we could make love forever. And after those long nights of passion, we always had enough strength and desire for a repeat round in the mornings.

From the day we found each other, my morning hours were not only filled with special new colours but were also pushed closer to noon. I, an early bird before, could not stand the thought of leaving bed while this ravishing creature lay beside me with her eyes sweetly shut, and start my day while she went on seeing her vivid dreams. Over time, I picked up Marina’s habit of sleeping in, still sensing in my sleep the presence of my beloved. Even when I would awake, fully confident that it was time, I would let myself plunge back into my dreams if I saw that my precious woman was still deep asleep. It is only one of a few habits that have remained with me from my time with her. Today I can confidently say that she wholly changed my world like no one else.

Chapter 1

Glistening with yesterday’s rain, the sett-paved road led the casual passer-by, gaping tourist or resident rushing to work along Andriivskyi Descent. Past displayed paintings and reproductions of talented artists and less talented sellers, people scurried, scrutinising every work, trying to find the brushstrokes of a masterpiece or a genius in works, which often lacked any whiff of artistry.

Having arrived earlier than usual, I took my paintings out of my black bag and set about hanging them perfunctorily in no particular order around my stall. It was just another unpromising trading day of a man wearied of life.

‘Let me tell you your fortune, young man,’ said a woman to me with the voice of an old woman and the appearance of a gypsy past her prime.

‘Are you out of your mind? Get lost! I’m not going to waste my time and money on your fables!’

‘Fables to some, and to others a life’s worth of advice,’ she hurled at me, grimacing with an anticipatory smile.

‘I said get lost! There are enough quacks here as it is!’

‘Well, you may call me a quack, but while you had your eyes shut, you’ve missed the bad hand life had dealt. Oh you people, I come to you with the truth, and you blindly chase me away! Never mind, dearie, you’ll soon understand… Get sight of yourself on the canvas and all become clear… Then you’ll remember the gypsy… Recall her words… But it will be too late then, you won’t save yourself, nobody will save you. She will be your ruin, mark my words.’

The old woman plodded away, grumbling and resenting me for turning her down. But I don’t believe in anything anymore. I simply exist, flip over lonely days and dispel cold nights.

I have been trading in this place for many years in a row. It can hardly be called trading – it’s more a display than anything else. A display of a life’s emotions. Every morning I unveil to the world my seven paintings and at nightfall I disappear with them.

Andriivskyi Descent is a special place, a corner of ancient Kyiv that captures the imagination with its beauty and charm. It is no wonder that it attracts throngs of tourists and lovers, who take in its beauty and try to keep a piece of this atmosphere as a memento, buying one of the overpriced paintings or just taking a plain photo of it with a brand new iPhone, to emphasise once more that “I’m a Homo sapiens, and I know about art or at least beauty”. This is what the local artists count on when they exhibit their creations for passers-by, in the hope that some tourist would have a few thousand to spare on a unique painting in the City of the Soul.

If one manages to sell at least one during the day, he is either lucky or has simply slashed the price. To use economic terms, he has used a dumping pricing policy. Such dealers are not welcome here. The community of artists and sellers of paintings has its own tacit rules: if it becomes known that you have been slashing your prices, the others will find a way to squeeze you out of the community.

Like any other business, this one is just as cruel, although it may appear small in scope. Surviving on money earned from it is not easy, but this statement probably holds true for my entire country. Be that as it may, if you have the brains and the knack for it, you will surely make it. Take for example the Pozhalovykhs: From morning till dusk, Valentin sells mediocre paintings that his wife paints at home. They manage to make ends meet rather successfully, given that their eldest son is pursuing higher education abroad and their daughter attends a prestigious school and a lot of other extracurricular activities.

You may ask why I have deemed their paintings mediocre? Well it’s quite simple: they are devoid of any subject. Mostly, they are just beautiful paints on a canvas. Well, of course, one might find some deep meaning and philosophy in a tulip opening against a timid blue sky. But I’m afraid I have to disappoint you: the artist did not intend to convey anything to you, well perhaps if only to say: “Buy my painting. It will perfectly go with the interior of your kitchen.”

Such “deeply philosophical” paintings are the bulk here. “A Field of Red Poppies”; “Kissing Lovers in the Street”; “Reflections of St. Andrew’s Church Golden Domes”; “Kyiv’s Chestnuts in Bloom”; “Lonely Pier”; “The Dog in the Manger”. Hackneyed still lifes are the typical offer of the local imaginations. Yes, of course, there are exceptions. My colleagues and discerning buyers place me in the ranks of such exceptions.

People such as I are the minority here. We might not be geniuses, but we are people who use art to express emotions. We paint not for the sake of money – there’s never enough of it anyway – but in order to quell the overpowering urge that at times bursts out of the firm hold of our consciousness and being.

Gennadiy Vasilyevich is perhaps the only one I truly respect for what he had to go through and what he is trying to convey to people through his paintings.

You are probably aware of how hard it is to get through to people's hearts in this twenty-first century of ours. Recklessness, greed, and the power of facts, technologies and unfiltered information run the show. People switch off their subconscious and sensory perception of the world, and give themselves entirely into the hands of the materialist beast, fuelled by human frailties and fears. The fear of being less than someone else, the fear of being poor, the fear of being not needed and forgotten, the fear of being criticised and judged, the fear of being unrecognised…

So, Gennadiy Vasilyevich skilfully tries to strike a chord, to ignite a spark in people’s hearts and lay bear their fears. That not everybody is ready to face these fears is a separate issue. In Gennadiy Vasilyevich’s paintings you would not find an array of bright colours lavishly brimming over on a spring day on Andriivskyi Descent. You would not remark on their beauty or aesthetics. His paintings make place for nothing but the truth. For fear can only be conquered when you look truth right in the eyes.

And it seems to me that the people who buy his paintings get closer to their real selves.

The emaciated and bony body of a nude woman, stretching lengthwise against the background of grey and green clouds of cigarette smoke, with put out stubs strewn at her feet, may seem repulsive to the viewer at first sight. The skin of the seemingly young woman is flabby and shrivelled. Dark circles under her closed eyes betray her fatigue, induced by life or simply lack of sleep. The elements create the impression that she is partly dead, yet somehow partly alive. And it is up to the viewer to make out the full picture.

I personally see one idea: we consume our lives not knowing why. We are in a state of half-slumber, wasting our physical and intellectual potential on dubious pleasures, inexorably leading us to death.

Having greeted Gennadiy Vasilyevich and exchanged a few words with him about the weather – that seemed to announce rain – I grabbed a pack of Lucky Strike from my pocket and lit a cigarette.

‘You’re a hopeless chap, Volodya,’ observed the old man.

‘Not really, Gennadiy Vasilyevich, but my life lost all sense a long time ago.’

‘Would you like me to draw you in place of this girl with a cigarette?’ he continued grinning.

‘No, I tend to think that viewers would find the naked body of this personage more to their liking than mine,’ I said as I glanced at a group of high school students on their way home.

‘You should quit smoking, get your life in order and set yourself some goals… You see, you’re a healthy man, you’re neither old nor stupid, you still have half of your life ahead of you, but you’ve renounced everything so early on.’

‘I haven’t… It’s just that I stopped living a long time ago. Life without her is life without myself.’

The old man patted me on my back, as if to let me know that he knew what I was talking about, even though he could not see a clear way out of this situation. He, too, had had to part with a beloved. But parting with his children was far more painful for him…

He had it all: a dream job, a beautiful wife, wonderful kids, the respect of his colleagues, financial security and popularity with women (though he was indifferent to the latter as he sincerely and impetuously loved one woman only – the mother of his children). But in a blink of an eye, his familiar life fell apart, like the sky had fallen in, and it has never been the same again…

It was a cold December evening and outside the window of the well-to-do house of the head of the district committee, on the porch, it was snowing heavily. Through the white ashen blanket, outlines of neighbouring houses and trees were peeking, and in the two living room windows the lights went on. Gennadiy Vasilyevich’s wife reached for the ringing phone.

‘Hello!’ said the slender and elegant wife of the local hotshot.

A dry voice said something into the handset without much intonation and, without waiting for her to respond, vanished under the persistent short phone beeps.

‘Who was it?’ Gennadiy asked as he entered the room.

‘She wants to see us all,’ the woman said slowly with her last ounce of strength, turning so pale that even her expensive French cosmetics could not mask it now.

‘C’mon kids, let’s get ready! We’re going to see granny!’

The father’s voice reached the children playing in another room. They carefully collected their toys and put them into a huge cookie tin.

‘Is she feeling worse?’ he enquired.

‘The doctor said she was dying,’ said his wife with her eyes downcast.

He approached her, sat down on the edge of the chair and embraced her, transferring his warmth to the freezing hands of his beloved.

Elvira never knew maternal love as a child. She had always believed that the only people who really loved her were her father, who died too soon, seemingly not able to bear his spouse’s bitchy disposition, and Gennadiy.

After losing her father, Elvira was never able to forge a relationship with her mother who had always been too demanding of her, never sharing her views and judging her with one glance without ever concealing her contempt.

But now, despite all these difficulties and tensions in their relationship, Elvira felt like she was losing a loved one. It does not matter what kind of a mother a woman is, she always remains connected to her child by a special bond. The same bond remains unbroken, even after a mother’s passing.

Elvira should have been ready for this by now as this was the eighth month of her mother’s hospitalisation. The doctors have long wanted to discharge her and let her die in the arms of her children at home, in the family circle. Only Gennadiy Vasilyevich’s clout settled the issue and convinced the chief physician to keep the dying woman under the supervision of the men in white coats. Both spouses agreed that their children should not have to witness their weakening grandmother dying whilst no one could help her.

Sasha was ten, Mark seven. They were the pride of their parents. Smart, handsome, and exhibiting exemplary behaviour, the boys were set as an example at school, and their parents’ friends jokingly called them the future of the Komsomol over drinks at dinner parties.

Gennadiy got the children ready, put on their winter coats and asked the eldest to tie up Mark’s hat. He glanced into the living room expecting to see his wife ready, but Elvira was still sitting in the chair.

‘Sweetheart, we’d better hurry if you wish to bid her farewell.’

Elvira looked up from that one point at which she was staring, turned to Gennadiy and said: ‘You’re right.’

She got up grabbed her mink coat from him and put it on in a rush. The coat was about seven years old, but it remained her pride and an object of envy for many of her girlfriends in her circle.

‘Wait. Perhaps we should not take the kids,’ she said undecided, watching the children buttoning up in the entryway.

‘Mom, mom… Is something wrong with granny?’ asked the ten-year-old son running up to her and embracing her legs. She just looked at her husband while stroking her son’s head.

Gennadiy looked away towards the window where it was still snowing in the falling dusk, and thought that he should not have let off his driver over this weekend.

‘Darling,’ Elvira addressed her son, ‘you know how much mommy loves you?’

‘Yes, mommy.’

She kissed him on the forehead with her dry lips and hugged him real tight. At that moment, Sasha hugged her and his brother.

‘I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the children accompanying us,’ Gennadiy decided. ‘She’s the only grandmother they know.’

They got into the warmed-up car. The kids seemed to realise without the need for words the gravity of the situation, they were sitting silently in the backseat tracing figures with their warm fingers on the frosty windows. Gennadiy closed the garage gate and drove out of the yard.

Their black Volga raced down the highway. The wipers barely managed to wipe the snow from the windscreen. Elvira barely managed to wipe the pearls of tears flowing from her eyes. He took her cold hand into his right hand and stroked it trying to assuage her in silence.

The snow outside her window drifted the memories of her childhood and youth. Those moments when, despite everything, she offered her love to the woman who brought her into the world. All those tears she shed on account of her mother and her cold-hearted attitude, and now again her mother was making her cry. Oddly enough, all those old grudges that Elvira nursed in her heart had now disappeared somehow. Now, she felt she would give anything in the world for her mother to remain with them. To be able to gather as a family again around the table for Christmas. To share their pride of the two boys. To cook together, eat together and wait for the son-in-law at home. To listen together to hairdressers gossip about their families at the beauty parlour. To grumble at each other for a reason or without one.

He tossed her hand brusquely. She let out a loud scream. Snow mixed with the crystals of broken glass and burst into the car. Her mother appeared before her, embraced her with her warm arms and signalled her to follow…

Screams… Ambulance sirens… Someone’s sobbing and moans could not awake the two boys whose bodies were entangled in black iron covered with the white ashen blanket of December snow.

That night, he lost everything and more – he lost those he was living for. The truck driver who drove into the oncoming lane was brought to justice, but that did not bring Gennadiy’s family back. Doctors could not save Elvira, and the children died on the spot. God spared Gennadiy, leaving him to live for himself.

It has been years now that he has been painting like crazy. A man without talent had to pay a huge price for it. Maybe it was sent to him to convey to people something that transcends their lives through all these paintings… That which should be appreciated and cherished every moment of one’s life, for this life is liable to end so abruptly.

Chapter 2

They say that in order to realise how inconsequential one’s troubles are, one sometimes has to look at a person whom life has taught much harsher lessons. Obviously, quite a few people are impermeable to such lessons. So, here we stand, Gennadiy Vasilyevich and I, selling our paintings.

After putting out my finished cigarette, I set about arranging the paintings the usual way and looked at my old Breitling. Well, it is probably the last thing I have left from my former life: two gilded hands, confidently punctuating the intervals of my worthless life. It was already half past ten in the morning, so I was quite surprised to see a group of high school students surveying the paintings of my colleagues.

School is the most carefree period of one’s life. Almost nothing prevents you from goofing around the city during classes. One is so naive and happy that falling in love becomes a common affair. One girl follows another, and yet you are assured that this one is the one, knowing fully well that you have no clue about these matters. But you never fail to assume an air of a harried ladies’ man.

Four cute girls and the same number of high school boys dragging along behind them approached my display. I could clearly recognise in the guys’ look that my exhibited paintings sparked some interest. Before coming upon them, they were giggling and poking fun at the works of the other sellers, swaggering before their young cuties, but now they all fell silent. Two of the high school girls gave a disdainful look, softly whispering comments into each other's ears and pulled the other girls by their hands. A minute later, the group moved on.

‘Who on earth would buy these gloomy pictures?!’

‘Really! It’s spring outside, time for love and joy…’

‘I could have scribbled that myself!’

‘Dima, you can’t write your name properly, let alone paint something!’ The three girls burst into laughter as they walked away. Their friend alone froze here staring at “Three Minutes before the Storm”.

‘Do you paint them yourself?’ asked the fair-haired girl.

‘Yes, I do.’

‘They’re beautiful.’

I usually don’t respond to such comments, but this time I quietly said: ‘Thank you.’

‘Could you teach me?’

‘Teach you what?’ I asked, puzzled.

‘I like the way you choose the hues. I think this is what adds sensuality and expressiveness to your pictures, making them special.’

To be honest, I was enraged. I had always known that my paintings were different from those of others, but it had absolutely nothing to do with my choice of paints. It was the years of pain went into each one of them.

‘Back to your classes!” I snapped, making the young girl shift her gaze from the paintings to me. Her very familiar gaze, which shone like two small bright lights, confounded me.

‘We have no more classes today. Could you teach me? My family will pay for it,’ she said with a mixture of impudence and pleading.

‘Look here, I’m not a teacher and have no desire to become one today. I paint for myself. If you like what you see so much, then just bring by your parents and let them buy you these pictures,’ I said nervously, not wishing to go on with the conversation.

‘You’re rude!’

‘Me? Whatever. I couldn’t care less about what a passing-by high school girl has to say about me.’

Irritation flashed across her face, luckily her friend intervened in time to save me from this child.

‘Let’s go, enough loitering! We’re all waiting for you!’ she said as she dragged my buyer away.

‘I’m coming! Just let me say goodbye to this vulgar gentleman.’

‘Goodbye, Mr. Vulgar. I hope you will be able to sell at least one of your paintings. Though I really can’t see how!’

‘Bye-bye!’ I retorted and took out a fresh edition of the economic news from under the stall, in which I read every day about how my lovely country was heading, full steam ahead, to hell.

I stopped paying attention to the high school students going away or passers-by; I only diverted my attention to light a cigarette every now and then, for a cup of coffee or to respond to the occasional questions from customers about the price. Hearing the price, they would quickly disappear or try to teach me something with their inane remarks.

I usually disregarded comments about how pricey my paintings were or that they were not worth the money. Who is to say what is worth how much and I for one would certainly know my efforts’ worth.

‘Really, I sometimes get the impression that you just don’t want to sell any of your paintings,’ Gennadiy said, interrupting my reading.

‘That’s not true. I’m just waiting for that customer who will be able to recognise in these fragments of canvas something bigger than just a good combination of colours.’

‘You know Volodya, if you lower your prices, even a little bit, there’ll be a line waiting to buy your paintings. But as far as I can remember, it has been seven month in a row that nobody has bought any of your works.’

I said nothing in response.

‘You come here every day, take out the same seven paintings, and at the end of the day, you pack the same seven paintings in cellophane and take them back home.’

‘So be it. Or are you suggesting that I dump?!’ I replied with some irritation.

‘Vova,’ the old man continued, ‘your paintings are some of the more expensive ones here. So I would think that your arcane economic “dumping” doesn’t apply in this situation.’

‘And what if, Gennadiy Vasilyevich, I’m not here for the money?’

‘Well, then let me salute your manly ambitions before you go home and leave your paintings on consignment at some gallery. However, we both know that no matter how insignificant money may seem to our souls, it still plays a significant role for our bodies.’

Every time something comes out of this old man’s mouth, it’s like a well-said aphorism. What if he’s right? Perhaps I should have lowered the price a little. But what will I do after I sell all my seven paintings? He’s not aware that I’m no longer painting. That eighth love story still stands in my studio under a layer of dust, suspended on the canvas waiting endlessly to be completed. It’s almost a year now that I’ve had no time for it.

In the beginning, it was supposed to be a lush field of red poppies, where I, in love, chase her. But I could not muster the courage or inspiration to trace Marina’s image for the eighth time.

I do not know what has gotten into me. Before, there was not an hour that I would not think of her. All my works were incarnations of her and my emotions for her. But now it seems as if my feelings have somehow been dulled. My feelings and pain are still there, yet my desire to pick up a brush has gone. I guess I am not willing to sell these damn paintings, because deep down I do not dare part with them. Perhaps, time has been working against me selling these seven paintings to keep her in my memory. No, that’s not it. Why keep her in my memory, if she is forever alive in my heart? What nonsense! I interrupted myself mid-thought and started packing the paintings in the covers.

The ancient street lamps were lit on Andriivskyi Descent. Tracing with my eyes the reflection of the artificial light on the ancient sett paving, I walked down the street. As I headed downhill, I left behind a few remaining sellers, kissing couples, old women strolling and wives rushing home. All those who had someone to live for. To live for one’s loved ones and relatives. For all those who I no longer had. I, a lonely artist, with pieces of a heart that once loved.