Chimera (3 page)

“Bastian!” Ferry bounds in the door, making his way straight to me and grappling me in an awkward man hug. It’s so tight I could suffocate if he doesn’t let go. Praise God he does—right before the stars in my eyes became blackness. Shit. I’m a little unsteady as he sets me back down to the floor. Ferry is enormous and built like a brick shithouse. I’m tall, but he dwarfs me. He has to be at least five inches taller than I am and a hundred plus pounds heavier, but it’s solid muscle. I can admit when another man is good looking, I’m secure in my masculinity. This man is easy on the eyes. Women flock to him for his looks and his notoriety. I won’t mention the other things I’ve heard women come to him for. He has quite the reputation around town for satisfying the opposite sex, and lots of them.

“Hey, Ferry. It’s been a long time.”

“Yeah, man, it has. Enough of the pleasantries. Let’s see it.”

Ferry was never one for mincing words. He says what’s on his mind regardless of how inappropriate it is or whom he offends. Running my hand through my hair, I resign myself to this fate. I feel as though I could throw up right here in the living room on the floor. Jesus. I’ve never had any apprehension about my art, but this is almost more than I can bear.

“Damn, Bastian. Calm down. We’re all friends here. You’re sweating like a nun in a brothel.” Ferry shakes his head at me. I get that he doesn’t understand my fear. From the moment he hit the top he hasn’t faltered. His career’s been strong, he beat the odds, becoming world-renowned and respected while still living. Most artists never achieve that kind of fame. In this profession, you have to die for anyone to think your work is valuable. Not Ferry, though. People pay tens of thousands of dollars for him to capture moments of their lives on film.

Ignoring his comment, I suck in a sharp breath. As I begin to release it, I take one step at a time toward the kitchen, trying to convince myself these people are here because they believe in me. Ferry follows me into the kitchen. I don’t turn on the lights. I allow the natural light that still remains to showcase the piece on the wall. He comes completely into the room before turning to face my work, as if he needed to see it at one time, not in pieces.

I watch in silence as he takes in my temporary canvas. When he starts to move, I step to the side. I can see him working, even though he says nothing. He moves, tilting his head, getting different angles, watching the way the remaining sun plays on the textures. Kneeling, standing, leaning, he contorts into some of the most uncomfortable-looking postures, but I remain quiet. I see the intrigue twinkling in his eyes. He sees something he likes, and his mind is processing how to capture it.

We stand there for an unseemly amount of time, Ferry working the shots through in his mind while I critique my work, wondering if I should kill Nate now or wait until the witnesses have vacated the premises. This nerve-wracking inspection is about to send me into a full-blown anxiety attack.

“I gotta tell you, Bastian. When I found out you were working again, I expected some caliginous pieces. I never thought you would recover the vibrancy you captured when you were with Sylvie. You’re the only man I’ve ever seen that could depict love, admiration, and sheer devotion with a paintbrush, and do it with elegance. I assumed anything you ever did going forward would be dark and somehow demonstrate your torment. I wasn’t expecting this. The way the shadows undulate across the piece creates a different work of art at every angle, and all of them are bright, illuminated in some strange way, refulgent. Seriously, Bastian, this is your best work yet. The textures, the colors you achieved—what the hell is it?”

I clear my throat, hoping to extract the nerves that have my muscles coiled tight. “Umm, that’s cream cheese and mixtures of berries and vegetables.”

“What the hell made you use food to paint, man?” He turns to me with bewilderment in his piercing gaze.

“I didn’t have any supplies. No brushes, no paint, no canvas.” I look to the floor as though it will save me. “I haven’t had the desire to work in years. I lost my spirit when I lost her.” I shrug my shoulders, kicking my feet at an imaginary object on the tiled floor. “I recently had the itch. It’s a tingle in my hand. I can’t really explain it, but it was my urge. I laughed it off at first, but the next thing I knew, I was in the kitchen pulling shit from the fridge and pantry trying to come up with any medium that would work. Moved the furniture out of the way and just fell into focus on the wall. A couple days later, this is what emerged.” My fingers find the back of my neck, in an effort to rub the tension away and try to relax.

“Sometimes brilliance is born from necessity, man. Glad you went with it. The question becomes…how do we immortalize it? Since it’s perishable, we have limited time before the food will start to turn and the colors will change and be lost. I don’t know how any of this will work, but my thought is to capture it in multiple days in a life to death sort of motif. Brilliance to murky. It could be showcased as one piece with several prints. I don’t know how long it will take to completely decompose, but I want it from inception to decomposition. What do you think?”

“So you want to photograph it over several days, knowing it will lose what it is today and turn into something ugly and unrecognizable?”

He turns to me with a huge grin adorning his face. “That’s exactly what I want. Life is macabre, man. It turns to shit quickly without warning; it’s an elusive bitch. One day it’s a plethora of illumination, the next its putrid pestilence. People try to hide that, so I’m thinking the middle days, when the colors start to lose their crispness, we use obvious filters in an attempt to cover the loss. Symbolic of the way people cover up the mess in their own lives. Bastian, I think it makes sense for you.”

Ferry’s right. It does make sense for me. I’m at the decay phase. I’ve put as many filters on my life as possible to hide it or cover it up, but the fact is, daily I think of my own demise, how I would take my own life to escape the pain. The agony has been all-encompassing. The only reason I haven’t done it is fear—plain and simple. Fear of the unknown. If there
is
something beyond
this,
why the fuck would I want to leave here to go
there
? To endure more of this? At least this pain is familiar. If I knew there was nothing but darkness, a definitive end on the other side, I would pull the trigger today, end it all. I know, I’m a selfish bastard and a coward at that, but it’s the truth. Nate, my only real friend, knows it. That’s why he checks on me daily. That’s why he’s trying so hard to find an outlet for me.

“Yeah, it does.”

“These are the colors of your soul, Bastian. What people don’t understand is that those colors are continuously changing in life. Through the ups and downs, they go from pinks and purples to deep shades of amber and crimson, to grays and almost unrecognizable blacks, and hopefully, back to greens and hues of orange, anything signifying life. They become your aura—like a kaleidoscope, ever changing. You’ve turned your wheel for the first time in years. Find the colors of your life again.” He grips my bicep with his hand, giving it a slight squeeze of encouragement and bit of a smile.

I give him a nod, acknowledging I heard him, but I’m unable to express any thoughts on the subject. I’m in unrecognizable blacks, but there’s color in the peripherals of my world for the first time in half a decade.

He walks out of the room, leaving me staring at my soul on the wall. I hear him talking to people in the living room, and one by one, they start to bring equipment into the kitchen: soft boxes, cameras, lenses, reflectors, and all kinds of other shit I can’t identify. I step back, giving them room to set up. It’s obvious they’ve worked with Ferry for years. They all dance around in choreographed movements. I note the intricate scarlet
F
adorning each black case. All his workers wear solid black, his signature monogrammed on their shoulder. It’s interesting to note
F
s waltzing as they work. The color creates trails in a sea of black. It’s oddly beautiful.

As they clear the room, Ferry comes in, picks up one of the several cameras, and then tips his head in my direction. I motion toward the door, indicating I’m going to leave the room, but he shakes his head. “Stay.”

I vaguely hear his staff in the other room, gasping at his allowance of my presence. “Ignore them. I normally work alone.
This
,” he says motioning to the wall, “isn’t normal.”

I watch from the corner in awe. Most artists create alone. I think. It’s really the only way I’ve ever worked, even in college when I was in classes, it seemed each student managed to fabricate their own little nook to work in isolation and the other students left each other alone. I’ve never watched someone else’s creative process. Sylvie worked in studios—although they were sound—while I worked in mine. These were our careers. Some people go to offices; we went to studios.

He really is a genius behind the lens. I can’t see what he’s after until he moves and I occasionally catch a glimpse of what he sees through the window of the camera. At times, I hear rapid clicks capturing his vision, and at others, it seems like ten or fifteen minutes go by without any noise. Once or twice he moves the light, but mostly, he uses his body to manipulate it instead.

When he finishes, he looks exhausted as though he hasn’t slept for days. He claps twice and his gang starts to file in, pulling out equipment, but none of them touch the cameras again, the red
F
s move uniformly as they collect things.

Walking over to me, he holds out the camera in his hand. “Wanna see?”

I straighten my posture and move away from the wall I had been leaning against. “Really? You don’t want to edit them first?” It surprises me he would allow anyone to see a raw photo.

He laughs and says, “I don’t edit. Either the photo’s right or it’s not. I don’t manipulate it to get the lighting I want or distort an image. The only editing I will do is ensure that there is nothing in the image other than your work, so I might crop out a piece of wall that snuck in.” His smile is genuine, and it finally dawns on me, he seriously believes in what he’s doing here. This isn’t a pity shoot or a ploy to humiliate me publicly. He sees something.

When I look at the display on the camera, I see it too. I’m speechless. I’m not sure how this will all unfold, but even if he’s unable to do anything more, this is beyond any expectation I had.

I raise my eyes from the camera and he smiles. “Told you.” He picks up his other cameras by the straps and walks out, calling behind him, “See you tomorrow night around seven, Bastian. Hope you can stand the smell as this thing starts to spoil.”

I follow him to the front door, escorting his staff and Wilt out while Nate sits his ass in the same place he was in hours ago. Closing the door, I turn to him. “What the fuck just happened?”

He stands, his presence dominating the room. “Your comeback.” With that, he strolls out my front door.

I
find
myself lingering in a bewildered high when my thoughts instantly turn to Sera, the reason for the twitch in my hand, and the piece on my wall. Wandering to my room, I turn off the lights as I go. I reach my bed and throw myself on top of the down comforter that instantly envelops me like a puffy cloud, and then roll onto my side to grab my laptop off the nightstand.

As soon as the computer illuminates, Facebook takes over the screen, bringing a smile to my face. I’m in awe; those colors and the familiarity of the site bring me comfort.
What an illusion
. My eyes focus on the side of the screen as I look for her name. I find myself elated to see the green dot.

Me
: Hey! You around?

She responds instantly.

Sera
: Hey you! How are you? I haven’t seen you online.

Me
: Things have been crazy here. How are you?

Sera
: I’m slightly stressed with the gallery opening in a few days. You’re still coming, right?

Me
: Absolutely.

I had completely forgotten about committing. Fuck. Dragging out the phone I’d purchased when Nate took me to get supplies, I realize it’s almost one in the morning, but I dial Nate anyhow.

Sera
: I really appreciate it, Bastian.

The phone rings as I continue to type menial conversation. He doesn’t answer and it goes to voicemail, so I call back. He hates it, but I know he’ll pick up if I call again. True to form, he does, probably thinking something’s wrong.

“Bastian? You okay?” He sounds half asleep and winded. If I didn’t know better, I would think I pulled him from an active romp with a lively partner, but he’s as single as I am.

“Hey, Nate. I need you to do me a favor.”

“What’s up?”

“I told Sera I would come to her gallery opening on Thursday, but I can’t go alone. Will you go with me?”

“You called me in the middle of the night to ask me to be your date to your wannabe girlfriend’s art thing?” I can hear the irritation in his voice, but I don’t care. This is one of those things he’ll overlook because he’s so afraid I’d off myself. I shouldn’t take advantage of that. He’s a great friend, but I know he wants me to actually be alive again, not merely existing.

“Yeah.”

“Fuck you, Bastian. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“So is that a yes? You’ll go?”

“Night, Bastian.”

“Nate! Seriously, man, will you go with me?” The fucker just laughs at me and hangs up. I toss the phone aside, knowing he won’t let me down, realizing just how much I love him. I’d never tell him, but he’s the only thing that has kept me alive for years.

I
spend
hours chatting with Sera online. There’s nothing of any importance shared, just the same bullshit, surface-level nonsense everyone shares in the get-to-know-you phase. We have lots of common interests in art and music, but that doesn’t surprise me. The number of people she knows that I used to run with does. I figured with the age difference, and as long as I have been absent from the community, the key players would’ve changed, but not so.

She flatters me by telling me patrons discuss my work regularly, but I know it’s not true. She’s as sweet as Sylvie was. Sylvie had this knack for making a person feel like they were the most important thing in the world, and somehow, she did it without ever telling a lie or fabricating anything. Truly a gift. One of the many things on a laundry list that I loved about her.

I begin to notice similarities in Sera and Sylvie through the casual conversation—little things like what made Sylvie laugh, or things she would make fun of me for in jest. Her overall playfulness, her exuberance for life, Sera shares those qualities. From what I gather, Sera enjoys a picture-perfect life in her short twenty-five years. She sees good in the world, and travels to beautiful places to study and work. What I wouldn’t give to go back six years, before Sylvie got sick, before death touched my life, when my outlook on the future was so bright.

When dawn starts to break through the windows, I realize how many hours we’ve been chatting. For the first time in years, time has passed in a flash with no recognizable pain or deafening silence. It’s the first time I’ve ever been able to think about Sylvie without crippling grief.

Me
: Random question.

Sera
: Shoot.

Me
: Where did your mom come up with the spelling for your name? It’s very unusual.

Sera
: Ugh. She’s a hippie and so is my dad.

Me
: Oh, so it was just to be different?

Sera
: No. It’s short for Seraphim. She still insists on calling me by my full name but no one else does. I stopped that in elementary school. I always thought it was strange and never liked it. Apparently, my parents tried for years to have kids and couldn’t. They gave up in their thirties thinking they’d never have any. My mom said she begged God to send her a little angel but he never did. About a year after they stopped trying, my mom turned up pregnant. Seraphim means an angelic being. A seraph is the highest order in the heavenly hierarchy of angels. They’re closely associated with light and purity. She refuses to shorten it to Sera because that takes the meaning out of the name. She’s crazy. I love her but seriously, coo-coo. Haha

I believe in karma. I believe in the world providing what you need as you need it. I’m not fond of the flipside of that coin—the universe takes what you don’t need as well. Everything has a time and purpose, and when its usefulness no longer exists, some higher power takes it. This angel is exactly what I need in this moment. I just wonder what she needs in return.

My eyes begin to weigh too much to hold them open. The fatigue steals my ability to contemplate the usefulness or meaning of Sera coming into my life. I tell her goodbye on Facebook before I drift off to sleep.

For five years, Sylvie has plagued my dreams, or maybe graced them. Every night she comes to see me, it’s a curse and a blessing. I sleep to see my wife, but wake to the loneliness I can only escape in my dreams. Her face is so full of life in that alternate state, like the day we married, not how she left me when she was sick. Her cheeks are a rosy hue, her eyes full of wonder and life. At least once a night, she throws her head back and laughs her deep, throaty laugh like she did when she thought something was really funny. It was the most real you could see her—a completely raw, guttural, deep laugh. I loved that sound more than anything in the world, including her singing, and God, could she sing. I loved the way her throat moved when her head tilted back and the way her hair swayed down her back. In those moments, she was the epitome of perfection.

She didn’t come to me last night in my sleep. It’s the first time in years that I can remember a night without her visiting. It takes me a while to realize it when I wake. It takes me looking in the mirror to see the absence of dark circles under my eyes from a restless sleep, and then the slight smirk of happiness as I think of Sera. It’s then that I instantly realize it: when she comes to mind, I didn’t see Sylvie in my dreams.

I start to wonder irrationally if Sylvie’s mad at me for not meeting her. I wonder if she thinks I stood her up. I shake my head as my eyes start to pool. The dishonor I feel for her memory is overwhelming. Rationally, I know I can’t control my subconscious, but emotionally, I feel as though she’s punishing me for flirting with Sera and didn’t show up to prove a point. A thought occurs to me that I push as far away from the forefront of my mind as possible… If my brain generates meetings with Sylvie to protect me from the life-threatening depression, those encounters may disappear altogether if I start to move on with my life. The thought of never seeing Sylvie again, never hearing her sing, never talking to her, never hearing that melodic laugh, is more than I can bear. But at what cost, I wonder.

Regaining focus on the man watching me in the mirror, I see my eyes are bloodshot from crying. I don’t realize the tears are still falling. I just ache. It hurts more than I can verbalize, as if she died yesterday. The hole in me is so vast, there’s more of it than remains of me.
Fuck
!

“God, I miss my wife!” I scream at no one and anyone who can hear me. “Why the hell did you take her? Why?” I can’t stand to see my sadness reflecting back at me. Without thought, my fist collides with the glass, shattering the image judging me.

Suddenly, Nate’s behind me, arms wrapped around me, restraining my struggle, keeping my arms pinned to my sides. “Calm down, man. You’re not alone. Come on.” He continues speaking softly to me, repeating the same things over and over as if he says them enough, eventually they’ll sink in.

Unfortunately, grief isn’t rational.

Nate has taken multiple shots from my fist to his face over the last few years during fits of rage. He never condemns or complains. He just suffers with me. After dragging me from the bathroom, he pushes me down on the bed where I proceed to bury my face in my hands with my elbows on my knees. I should be thankful I didn’t hurt my hand, but all I feel is grief.

“What the hell happened, Bastian?”

I don’t respond immediately, but he’s patient. He knows I’ll speak when I’m ready. He leans against the wall, waiting.

“She didn’t come last night.” It came out as wailing instead of talking.

“Sylvie?” he asks.

I swallow a sob and nod my head.

“Maybe she doesn’t think you need her anymore?” He says it calmly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world for my dead wife’s spirit to move on without me. I jerk my head up, staring at him with a mix of confusion and hatred. “Bastian, it’s been over five years since she died. In the last few days, you’ve made more progress toward moving on than you have in all those years combined. Maybe your mind doesn’t need her right now. I’m sure she’s close by. You’re going to have to give yourself a chance to live without her, man.”

He isn’t being cruel. He’s being real. No one else could get away with it. He kept me alive after she died. He tries to get me in counseling to deal with the loss; when that didn’t happen, he just decided to be here for me. Every day. Every single day. Everyone else gave up on me around the one-year mark, including my parents. But not Nate.

I can’t respond to him. Instead, I make eye contact, acknowledging I hear what he’s saying, even if I can’t accept it yet.

Stepping up, he grips my shoulder with one hand. “Allow yourself to breathe again. It’s okay to feel something other than pain. Sylvie would’ve wanted happiness for you.” He walks out of the room, I’m sure to wait on the couch for me to get my shit together and join him.

Hanging my head, I wonder if I’ll ever be able to function without her, to feel somewhat human, normal once again. Then I make the walk of shame to find my best friend.

“Sorry, man,” I apologize for yet another countless breakdown Nate has saved me from.

As usual, he waves me off. “So tell me about this shit you’re dragging me to as your date,” he says and laughs hysterically.

About a year after Sylvie died, the papers started reporting I was homosexual because every time I left my house, I was seen with Nate. He thought it was funny then and refers to it constantly as though it’s a running joke. I just roll my eyes at him.

“Sera has a gallery opening. She asked me to come.”

“Does she know you’re bringing a date?” He falls into fits of laughter again.

“Aww fuck. Do you really think she thinks I’m bringing a date? Jesus, if she does, and I show up with you, she’s liable to believe the shit the papers had to say. And you’ll encourage that crap.”

He’s laughing so hard at this point he can’t catch his breath.

“It’s not funny, Nate! Dammit. What the hell should I do? I can’t go alone. You know I can’t face that crowd by myself. But I can’t take a man.”

In between bouts of laughter, he says, “You sure can’t take another woman, asshole!”

I resign myself to taking Nate as my plus one. If I fly without my co-pilot, I’ll absolutely crash and burn. I can explain his presence to her later. I’d rather explain this than another damn woman.

“Fuck you. Pick me up at six-thirty. We can go grab a bite and then go to the gallery. The showing starts at seven, but we don’t need to be there until after that. Oh, and don’t dress like a damn slob, either—slacks and a decent shirt.”

He rolls in laughter again. “For someone who doesn’t want to date me, you sure as hell just planned one. I’ll pick you up at the aforementioned time wearing my Sunday best. Will I get laid for buying you dinner and taking you to a lame-ass gallery exhibit?”

“Nah, but at least you’ll be seen with the best thing that’s ever happened to you.” I toss a shit-eating grin in his direction.

“I’m heading out, Bastian. You gonna be okay? Or should we have a sleepover so I can take care of you?”

“I’m good.” Right before he gets to the door, I call out to him, “Hey, Nate?”