"Turn around," he says.
"What?"
"Turn around. Your back facing the table. I'll pay you extra."
When the translator obeys, shaking head and mumbling offended, the Englishman looks at the painter and nods.
The painter takes a long puff. Then nods, as well.
From here on the conversation adopts an even quirkier form. Two men face each other, take turns to speak and wait. The third, middle, man listens and delivers with his back.
"No one can draw or photograph her. Too big for canvas, she is. No one can repeat her image, one can only witness. If one tries to recreate or even remember too hard...Bad things happen. My grandfather would tell me of it but I wouldn't listen," the painter explains as he opens the notebook, unfolds an old raggedy paper, neatly pressed until then, then peers at the Englishman proudly. "I dare say it is the closest depiction of her in the world. It better be. For it cost me a hand. My good hand. Some luck, that is. Extraordinary."
The Englishman leans forward, unfolds the triangle, and studies the drawing inside.
A scribble, really. Pale charcoal circles repeated again and again as if by a child's hand. The circles are interrupted by a torn gash–the point where pressure had gone past what paper could take. There was no abstract art here. Just a madman's doodle.
The new bottle arrives and "pop" goes the cork. This time the Englishman drinks, too. He drinks fast, no savor to it.
"I see nothing of particular interest. Scribbles. Circles. A hole in an old paper." The Englishman speaks into the recorder on the table.
The painter presses his deformity against the scribbled paper. The uncut nails haul along, a dark mixture of paint underneath the shells.
"Look further... It is there... Look beyond the lines," the translator recounts, uneasy in his chair, a gloating to his tone.
The Englishman looks closely. His weary mind or the wine responsible, a form shapes in his vision.
"This... This curve here... This was the nose," the painter explains via the human device.
There, among the chaos, is perhaps, a profile–reminiscent of a nose but the line had curved and repeated aggressively over it. It could have been anything.
"Seventeen, I was, when I drew this. Until then, I was my family's treasure, a true progeny of the brush, they said. After that one day I became the black sheep, cast away, forgotten. You must understand, my father was a good man, harsh but just. I come from seven generations of painters, some very good, some mediocre, none truly great. To have had a true gift, and thrown it away...Or better say, allowed it to slip from my grasp, this was real crime against the family.
"I heard the story from my grandfather. He was a painter, too. A superstition that ran in his generation and before. Like sailors and women on board. Only, about what should be painted and what not. A story. Of her. The Woman. How she came from the caves, a vision not meant for human eyes, slippery like a jellyfish, unbearable like staring at the sun," the painter continues, his mustache red from the wine, his bad hand dancing to the rhythm of his words, at times to those of the translator, too, a sort of visual echo.
"I was young and boiling then. Everything a matter of life and death. Chased girls like a hound, and drank Absinthe with my friends. We adored not the local classics but a crazy Dutch painter, who cut pieces of himself in tribute to his love for a prostitute. And sure, I thought my grandfather was feeding me a fairytale, I could not get it out of my mind. In fact, it was all that I painted–a woman of mystical proportions, no two portraits alike, changing something every time, always trying to depict her the way I imagined her from my grandfather's story. Or what was missing in that story. The one no one could picture. I never succeeded in my mind but I sold a lot of paintings. My father was proud of me.
"Then one day, as I sat at a café, no different from this one, I saw something: a gorgeous lady I had never seen in town before. Back in the day we had even less visitors. Yet no one seemed to notice her the way I did. She stood out, gorgeous beyond comparison, but there was something else to her...I couldn't quite make out her features, couldn't avert my eyes. Before I knew, my hand was sketching. I only had a charcoal on me but it didn't matter. I had to put this fascinating woman on the paper."
The painter drinks two consecutive glasses of wine. Not without delight, either. His own story caresses his ears; repetition turns it into music lyrics. He rolls another cigarette.
"And then?" the Englishman breaks his ennui.
"And then she saw me. What else? She sensed my eyes on her. Felt the lines of the charcoal tracing her features, falling into shape, locking her down with a net. She gave me a smile like nothing I'd seen. But to this day, I cannot tell you what kind of lips or teeth it wore. If she had mascara, or the color of her eyes. I cannot tell you anything, in fact, not a single stroke more than this sketch you see, even though I claim to be a man of detail.
"What I can tell you is that the moment this smile fell upon me, I felt a tickle in my hand. It grew into a stiffness, and finally into the worst pain I had experienced until then. Until now, for that matter. A spike, all the way to my brain. When I regained consciousness, she was gone, like a bad dream or delirium. No one would believe me."
He waves the dead meat at the end of his arm and smiles victoriously, gold and decay on display.
"An alcohol-induced stroke, the doctors said. Devil, and traitor, my father said. I learned to paint with the other one but this was my talent hand, I lost something beyond a limb. That something-something we all crave to touch. Today I still paint but no one sees it."
"And you never saw her again?"
"Never. Only a blank image I could not forget but not quite bring either. A ghost memory that never goes away."
Good story, the Englishman thinks but decides to go along with it: "Along my travels, I met strangers, heard things. Things like she's a descendent of the foul copulation of Gorgon Medusa and a muse. Some said it was Adam's first wife, Lilith herself. The whore of Babylon. Bound to haunt dreams of the children of Adam. That in her image hides both mankind's knowledge and vanity. In her image, brilliance and madness linger, awaiting to be held in the eye of the beholder. True or false, just as you, I could not get it out of my mind. What a good myth will do to you, right?"
"Now it is my turn. Let me ask you this," the painter begins, back on the serious side of his coin. "All you artists, historians, why you want to capture a piece from the flow? Photographs cripple memories, portraits stiffen faces. Attempting to record is to ruin authenticity. To pause a river, to freeze a bird in the sky. It is like running a needle through a moth, pinning life down. If you did manage to put her down, her magic would be gone. The world has become a picture on display. A zoo. Some things are to remain uncaught."
The Englishman speaks through a sip of wine, gargle to his voice: "Someone's got to." He shrugs with a smirk. "Someone has to be the first."
As he lifts his glass to a toast, something flies by his periphery, almost hitting him but instead bouncing off the translator's head with a thud. Before the Englishman has a chance to react, the painter picks up another cork from the table and shoots again; the translator dodges that one.
The painter is back, returns to cold serious, eyebrows clutched, nearly touching.
The rest happens too fast but in the end the Englishman manages to prevent the brawl, hopping between the two Italian men like a referee. The only casualties are a broken glass and the half-full bottle of Rosè, bleeding on the cement floor.
Amid the torrent of curses, it becomes clear that the translator had been peeking, trying to catch a glimpse of the sketch on the table. The Englishman stuffs a few more bills into his hands and the man is released from service, foul gestures and threats at his fellow countryman on the way out.
He and the painter now sit at the table alone, no Rosetta Stone between them.
The painter looks at the ground, says something about the wine, regret in his voice.
The Englishman orders anot
her bottle, while trying to figure out how to proceed.
The recorder records, unconcerned. It does what it does.
"All those years. Why did you keep it?" he says to himself; then tries again but this time consults his travel dictionary and points at the "depiction" on the table. "Why? Perche`?...Salvo?
"Avevo paura." The painter lifts shoulders apologetically, gives him a brief gold-and-rotten.
"You were afraid to throw it. Couldn't bring yourself to do it," he says to the recorder or himself.
"How can I make you remember? Anything at all."
The sun is ready to descend, bathing the old Italian countryside in a tone of ochre, cinnabar, and magenta–as if taken from the dry oils on the painter's fingertips.
The painter sits mellow, smokes and studies the foreigner across the table. His face is calm, stoic, no sign of the golden grin. A feel to the air is present at the table, like the two of them were friends for years, silent because all has been said, simply sitting together, enjoying comradeship on a hot summer day.
Lips apart, the Italian is about to say something when his mind wanders elsewhere. His gaze averts, drifts away from the Englishman, settles on the background of the restaurant. The Englishman notices because it bears the sudden mark of change, like a wind that carries the smell of fire.
For the first time today, the painter's eyes clear; the same sharp wind chases away the miasma, and leaves behind clarity; the blue replaces the undefined. Across the table, the Englishman now watches a pair of young eyes.
Without a sign, the painter gets up from the table. "Toilet...Uno momento," he says and slaps his belly; gives the Englishman a signature grin. Then he turns and vanishes between the tables with such haste the foreigner is left with no chance for comment.
"Rare bird," the Englishman says to the recorder, his one true listener.
Moments later, looking down the terrace, he catches a glimpse of the painter descending the lower cascades of Matera. He takes two steps at a time, and never looks back. His limp hand whips low behind him like a tail.
The man turns to find the ghost that chased his source away but sees nothing out of the ordinary. Locals and visitors over simple wooden tables, talking, smoking, drinking, marveling at the view, waiters sliding between them, no hurry to anyone's move.
Still there, on the table, lays forgotten the "impossible" depiction.
The Englishman folds it carefully and pockets it away. A silly souvenir from a summer in Italy. He decides to frame the scribble to remind him of his own folly.
He sighs.
"It's time to go home," he says to the recorder but the little black box has nothing to say; keeps blinking red.
He stares at the floating, half-empty bottle. Gasps. Smiles. He handles his liquor hardly as well as the painter. Pours himself another, takes his time.
Suddenly, he feels a strong pull for the caves, as if drawn to crawl back inside, deep into the Earth, never come out again. Then his eyes extend beyond the caves and the river. He is already sipping tea back in London, wrestling in despair a PHD thesis hunt that led nowhere, ready to abandon it over the next adventure.
With nothing more to do, the Englishman's attention falls on a woman looking for a seat. He has not had his Italian romance yet.
The woman, young or old, he cannot say from the distance, is definitely attractive. Or attractively clothed, at least. Something to her.
Before he knows it, boredom leeks from him like mercury and forms words, adjectives. He describes her to his future self; bent low, his chin touches the table, lips move a few inches from the recorder's ear.
The "record" button pops up. Strange. He checks, and there is still recording space left. He wraps fingers around it, keeps it on.
Chinese shite...
... Aghm... Sunset in Matera...
Her hair is red... No... blond with red curls...
Red entirely...
Her nose...
...
Her neck. Like a swan's... A tiny mole... No, a tattoo... Or a necklace....
The tape recorder is hot in his hand, almost burning. It must be the battery. Torched as if he left it in the sun or in an oven. But he continues, thumb on the "record" button, lips pressing at every vowel.
Her ears are...
Her ears...
Damn...
Her ears are shaped like...
Focus. It's really hot... Must be a sunstroke. Note to self–wear a hat in Italy.
What is she doing now? What?...She's talking to a waiter. Tall young guy with long curly hair in a blue shirt.
Now she does something...Points at the menu...
As she speaks to the waiter she freezes a moment...Right there...Her mouth stops just mid-sentence. Her expression straightens. She rubs her neck like it is stiff or it itches. Her cheeks pull at the corners of her mouth to reveal a set of flashing even teeth. She must be a model.
Perhaps her hair is blond, after all...
Damn. Can't breath in this heat...
They exchange words...She nods. The waiter bows and takes the menu.
Her nose is slightly curved but small...Familiarly curved...He coughs into the recorder; his tongue feels somewhat swollen, perhaps an allergy to the local wine.
She takes a table on the far side of the restaurant. Sits down and...Turns this way. My way.
Her eyes are on me now...
...She smiles...
And what a smile it is.
The recorder cycles one last turn, chews on tape and stops.
About the Author
Vasil Tuchkov is a graduate from the American University in Bulgaria. He writes fiction primarily in English, though he is a full-bred Bulgarian. Vasil is a professional self-employed multi-media artist – practicing in the areas Guerrilla Marketing and conceptual design under the brand Studio Rubik (www.studiorubik.com)
He spent time abroad as both emigrant and traveler; was lucky to live in San Francisco, LA, Las Vegas, Odessa and Kiev – the Ukraine, Scotland, and Amsterdam.
His first novel Trumping Fate, Vasil wrote in Bulgarian at age 15, which at 17 he published with a major genre publisher in the country – Bard (www.bard.bg). At the time he was into fantasy, and so was his work - a fantasy trilogy, later translated into Russian and published in the Ukraine.
Tuchkov has just finally been able to get back to the rhythm of completing longer work. He is a recovered gambler, a weakness, which took him years to overcome through his writing.
He is also the founder of "Living Museum" and "Living WEB", a dynamic platform for installations and festival, fusing art and technology (www.enterlivingweb.com ; http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kflBzHcwghI – his TedTalk for more clarity).
His novel Cyan was short-listed for Rethink-Press' New Novel Competition 2014.
In addition to Cyan, Tuchkov has a completed novella, a bunch of short stories, and two novels in progress.
Undead Cyborg Girl
by Kim Wells
Summary: When she wakes up undead after receiving a cyborg assassin upgrade surgical procedure, Undead Girl's life is forever changed. Is it for the better? She has all the skills, but she needs a job, she needs some friends, and she needs to remember who she is. Part 1 of the Cyborg Story trilogy.
"Though both are bound in the spiral dance, I would rather be a cyborg than a goddess." ~Donna Haraway
"Why not both?" ~Sean Wells
The girl woke in complete darkness. She licked her lips, felt them sting with a frosty sensation, like the morning after a snow. She wondered, "Where am I?" She felt weird, lacking something indefinable. Not expecting an answer, she asked herself, "Am I dead?"
She had been swimming in a dark sea of stars, warm and salty. Alone. She remembered a loud beeeeeeping tone that wouldn't quit, and agitated voices. But that was gone now. Just the darkness. She turned her head, still seeing nothing. Then, a single red blip of light. She focused her eyes, which felt intensely sharper when she thought about it, and saw a digital readout,
heartbeat and blood pressure machine.
Oh. A hospital. No. Clinic. THE clinic, and the cyborg assassin implant.
She remembered going in for the operation, but not much after. She looked at the blips on the machine for a long time, feeling sleepier each time the red pulse appeared. They beat slower than she thought they ought to. She didn't feel herself breathing very often, either.
Maybe I'm dying, she thought.
"No," said a voice in her head, tentative, as though it had never spoken before. The voice, which must have been herself, but somehow separate from thinking, spoke with a surety she didn't want to think about. She surrendered to the sleepiness and dove back into the warm sea of stars. She'd figure it out later.
The next thing she knew, lying still but awake, she realized she heard voices.
A woman said, "She's technically dead. But somehow alive. The doctor called it undead. I call it a freaky zombie."
That sounds weird, the girl thought. Who are they talking about?
She opened her eyes to a room filled with light. The voice belonged to a woman standing next to her, who startled when she saw the girl's eyes open. Another woman stood across the room, moving gadgets around. They both stopped what they were doing when she opened her eyes.
Haltingly, the woman said, "How are you feeling?"
Remembering the questions of her sleepy ride through the darkness, the girl found she didn't care to answer, but instead everything struck her as incredibly funny. Instead of answering the nurse, she laughed. Hysterical tears dripped from the corners of her tired eyes.
The nurse looked startled, then angry, then both nurses left the room abruptly.
The first nurse stage-whispered as the two women left the room, "She died on the table just as they were putting in the chip." The other, with a sound like shivering in her voice, responded, "What is she?"
This exchange made the girl laugh more. Everything was hilarious. The voice in her head, the one that had given that gentle but tentative "No" informed her that she was, "...creeping everyone out." She laughed again, and decided to go back to sleep. Undead. She giggled. What did that even mean?
UnCommon Bodies: A Collection of Oddities, Survivors, and Other Impossibilities (UnCommon Anthologies Book 1) Page 11