Why?”
“Just because. Come on, move this pretty ass and open the mystery room door. I want to check it out.”
She unwillingly leads me to the bedroom she keeps locked out, as if she’s hiding a big secret there. When she opens the door, the smell of paint and thinner hits us. She walks in and opens the curtains, while I wander around surprised at what I see.
I thought there would be average paintings. For what Malu has told me, she’s never taken art classes and everything she knows, she’s taught herself or learned by watching videos on the internet. She uses her sixth sense to lay on canvas what’s on her imagination. However, to my surprise, her work seems really good. Of course, I’m no art expert, but to the best of my little knowledge, I could see great potential. I head to a pile of paintings in a corner: landscapes, people, a boy on a surfboard trying a maneuver, half the face of a sad woman with black tears running through her cheek. Those paintings bring up different feelings for me. I immediately reach for my phone in my pocket and call Hellen.
Hellen’s a friend of my parents who owns an art gallery. By the age of fifty, she possesses an incomparable sincerity. She’d be able to take a look at Malu’s production and evaluate if we could get anything for it.
“Have you ever shown anyone these paintings? Like, selling or something like that?” I ask Malu while I wait in line.
“No, never” she replies, to which I shake my head turning my attention to the phone.
“Hi, Hellen. Rafael Monteiro here. How are you? I’m great. Sorry for bothering you so early, but I need your professional opinion. A friend of mine has some paintings and today she’s finally agreed to show me. I’m no expert, but I thought them quite good. Could you take a look and give us an expert opinion? She has to decide if she’s still going to pursue a career in arts and we’d really appreciate an evaluation from a professional. Sure, I’ll text you the address right away. Looking forward to hearing from you. Thank you.”
“What was that?” she asks looking confused.
“Hellen owns an art gallery. She’s stopping by in a couple of minutes. Apparently, she’s been looking for a new artist to exhibit in her gallery for about months now, since the one who was booked decided to leave everything behind and move to Paris.
“Exhibit?” Malu sounds strangely scared.
“What? Isn’t that the goal when someone paints?
“Oh… I don’t know.” She looks at me apparently lost. I pull her closer to hug her.
“What about this? Hellen stops by to take a look at your paintings and tell us if you have a chance of turning this into a career. Then, we’ll see what to do about the house situation. When your grandparents died, haven’t they left you and your brother some sort of trust fund?
“I suppose so, but the Judge has always told me I could only get access to it by the age of twenty-seven.”
“Do you have any paper attesting that?”
“I don’t know” she looks at me, takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. “I don’t even know what a paper like this looks like. What kind of shitty Law student am I?”
I look at her and can’t help but laughing of her frustration.
“Come on, my dear foul-mouthed girl. Show me where you keep your papers and I’ll search for it.”
Chapter five
“And maybe I wanted to give up, but maybe, just this once, I should move on.”
Ana Carolina
Malu
All that fear that I hadn’t felt when facing the possibility of starting over hits me now that Rafa has called that art gallery woman. Holy shit! I’m not ready to show anyone my amateur artwork. It’s hard enough to have him wandering around and touching my stuff, let alone having a stranger here.
Feeling my whole body trembling, I go to my bedroom where all my papers are. I feel stupid for not having any idea about my rights. At least, I’m organized regarding my paperwork. I come back to my atelier to find Rafa standing still, looking at one of my paintings on an easel. Curious to know what’s that he’s looking at so closely, since the easel was facing backwards, I get into the bedroom holding a folder in my hands and stop right next to him. Hum… shit.
“Where did you find this?” I ask, putting the folder over a stand, suddenly feeling shy.
“In that corner over there.” He points to some paintings which were leaning to a cupboard. I don’t even remember putting them there.
The painting he’s looking at is a self-portrait in watercolors. It’s a nude, wherein I’m lying down on a canopy bed with red satin sheets, displaying an uneven Chanel haircut style in my natural color: black. I had my breasts exposed and my hips covered by a thin almost-transparent fabric. Beyond the red sheets, the spotlight was on my tattoos: colorful flowers on my right shoulder, a sentence in an infinity shape on my wrist and a rose starting from my left ankle going all the way down to my foot.
My face had a serious look, with languid eyes and parted lips. It’s definitely a sexy portrait, but I’ve never considered sharing it with anyone.
Without saying a word, I come closer and lift the painting up to put it back where it was.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Putting it away. You were not supposed to see it.”
“Why not?”
“Just because. I haven’t painted it for showing publicly. There are some things that are personal.”
“That’s your most beautiful piece. It’s sexy, sweet, inspiring. You must show her” he says in a low voice, which makes me stop midway. I lean my head down and he comes closer, holding my arms from behind.
“No… I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because it makes me feel… exposed.”
“It’s beautiful, Malu. If there’s one painting, she should see, that’s the one. You must share your art with others.” He says precisely the one thing that would be able to convince me at the exact moment the doorbell rings. He takes the painting off my hands, put it back on the easel and, holding my hand, walks towards the front door.
A petite old lady with blond hair up on a bun is standing at the door. She’s wearing a beautiful green dress, low heel shoes, and an elegant handbag. Her makeup is impeccable and, when she sees Rafa, she opens a welcoming smile and hugs him, who, in turn, leans down to kiss her on the cheek.
“What a pleasure to meet you again, my dear. You’re using your hair short now, so handsome” she says making him smile.
“That’s my pleasure, Hellen. It’s been many years since we’ve met in person, hasn’t it? You still remember me with long hair.”
