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The Curiosity Shop

The Curiosity Shop

The painter, Romero, stood in front of his painting, bored with it. He put his brush down and walked to the window. Outside the colors were fresh.

For the first time, looking through the naked trees along Fourth Street, he noticed a small shop across the street. How many times had he looked out his window before and never noticed it? The Curiosity Shop. What was inside?

He walked back to his painting. Half-finished paintings leaned against the wall. On another easel stood a painting he’d started two weeks ago. Chaos.

The coffee in his cup was cold and disgusting and he threw it down the sink. Down the hallway in the bathroom, he studied himself in the mirror with disappointment. His heart ached. There was no joy in painting.

Back in his studio, he looked at the black and burnt coffee that remained in the pot from this morning. His life had become a stain on the world, what he produced stale and burnt. He needed something new.

Romero walked back to the window. Without thinking, he removed his apron, tossed it on the chair, and left the studio. He hurried down the stairs and out the side door of the gallery. At the crosswalk, he looked into the splintered sunlight through gnarled branches.

He crossed. Standing in front of the shop, he looked down the street, wondering if a fresh cup of coffee was what he needed, the bitter taste of this morning’s coffee still on his tongue.

His curiosity tugged at him and he stepped through the door. Squeezing through aisles of candles, icons, trinkets, exotic things from around the world, he paused beside a small table. A piece of jade bound by rawhide to an owl’s tail feather. Talismans everywhere. A sorceress perhaps?

From near the back of the shop, a woman called to him, “I’m here if you need me.”

He peered over a display case. Stepping around the case, he made his way to the back of the shop. When he saw the dark gypsy woman standing behind a counter, his heart fluttered. She was the most exotic woman he’d ever seen. An intense urge to paint her stunned him. Just as she was. At that moment. Shrouded in mystery, her image seared into his brain. Only curiosity restrained him from rushing back to his studio.

He stepped closer and she looked up. The deep eyes of a raptor pierced his heart.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello. Can I help you find anything?” she said.

“I don’t know, but no, I don’t think so, I just wandered in off the street,” he said. He fumbled for words.

“I can see that,” she said.

“My studio is across the street. Upstairs.”

“In the Firehouse Art Gallery?”

“Yes. You see, I was looking out the window and noticed your shop.”

“It’s been here a couple of years. You just now noticed it?”

“Well, yes, I guess so.”

“Strange isn’t it?”

“Yes. I mean, no, not really. I’m usually engrossed in my painting. Today I felt agitated, anxious, I don’t know why.”

“And you saw my shop?”

“I did. It’s strange, but something drug me to the window, a tug at my heart.”

The beautiful gypsy woman smiled without saying anything.

“And now I have this strong desire to paint you,” he said.

She looked at him. “Hmm. No one has ever wanted to paint me before.”

“You are fantastic.”

“Grotesque? Or something else?”

“Grotesque? No, not at all. Quite to the contrary. You’re beautiful.”

“But in a rather unusual sort of way?”

“Maybe. I mean, no, but you aren’t exactly ordinary. I can see now what my heart was trying to show me,” Romero said.

“You are sweet,” she said.

“What’s your name?” Romero asked.

“Mila. And yours?”

“Romero,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“And this painting?” she asked.

“Would you be willing to sit for me?”

“In your studio?”

“Yes, if that’s possible. I’d pay you.”

“Don’t be silly. That isn’t necessary.”

“But I’d feel better.”

“Professional ethics?”

“Well, not really, I just wouldn’t feel right about taking up so much of your time without compensation,” he said.

“It’s entirely up to you. Either way, I feel honored. By the way, I’ve been to several of your shows. Love your work. I even own three of your paintings.”

“You do?”

“I do. Have them on the wall upstairs. Can’t put them in the shop or someone would want to buy them.”

“You live upstairs?” Romero asked.

“I do. Just walk downstairs to open up the shop. Easy.”

“I’ve often considered moving into my studio. I have a sink, refrigerator, and microwave. A bed is all I need and I’d never have to leave my studio. Except to walk around the corner to the Hemingway Tavern. Seems I spend most of my evenings there.”

“It’s almost closing time anyway. How about you and me go over to the Hemingway to discuss our arrangement?”

“Love it,” he said. “Let me run back to lock up my studio. I’ll meet you back here in fifteen minutes. OK?”

“Perfect. I’ll see you then.”

Romero hurried across the street and bounded up the stairs. He washed his brushes and gazed at the painting, which seemed less faceless now. He grabbed his coat from the coat rack, hurried down the stairs, and locked the door behind him. The colors in late October filled him with wonder. He stood outside The Curiosity Shop looking back at his studio. At the rattle of the door, he turned around. Unable to refrain himself, he grabbed hold of Mila’s arm while she struggled to lock up. She laughed, fitting the key into the deadbolt. In the glow of sunlight, they walked arm in arm down the street to the Hemingway Tavern.

Inside the barroom, the last of the sunlight streaked through the windows and Romero led Mila over to one of the tall tables and pulled out a chair for her. Several of the regulars yelled greetings to Romero and he returned their greetings.

He introduced Mila to the four people sitting at the table next to theirs. She caught none of their names because of all the commotion.

Fortunato, the bartender, yelled over at Romero, “You’re going to ruin your reputation as a lone wolf, my friend.”

“All the better, compadre,” Romero yelled back. “A lone wolf  has only his slow decline to accompany him through the dark winter.”

“Indeed, the dark winter approaches, mi amigo,” Fortunato said. “You are wise to seek companionship.”

“Why don’t you bring us two beers instead of  your tired philosophy,” Romero said. “Is beer all right with you?” he asked Mila. She nodded, peering through the last of the sunlight.

“It’s odd that I’ve never been in here before,” she told Romero.

“I spend too much time here,” he said. “Painting can be lonely.”

“Any honest pursuit is lonely, I guess,” she said. “I trust you do it honestly?”

“I don’t know anymore,” he said. “At one time I thought I did. But I’ve lost touch with it. Or with myself, I don’t know. This is why I am so excited to meet you. You have renewed my interest in painting.”

“I am happy to be of service,” she said. “It isn’t often one has the chance to inspire an artist. You know, you’re a strange lot. Artists. Always on the outside peering in. What is it you’re looking for?”

“Quiet,” he said. “We’re looking for the quiet that might help settle our unquiet minds. Looking to put something to rest. Hoping our minds will finally find sleep.”

“I used to be that way,” she said. “Always looking for something. Never knew what, just looking. I thought I’d know it when I found it, but it never came. One day, I told myself there wasn’t anything out there. Nothing. After that, I let go. Ever since I’ve been happy.”

“I thought about giving up painting,” Romero said. “I came close a couple of times. It haunted me, though. In my dreams, bizarre, twisted paintings came to me. They closed in on me. I couldn’t get away. I’d wake up in a cold sweat, all out of breath, like I was having a heart attack. It was my heart’s way of pulling me back to painting. My heart won’t let me quit.”

“That’s a good thing. You shouldn’t quit. Things worth doing are never easy.”

“But this is what scares me the most. What if it isn’t any good? What if it has no value? What then? Would it all have been for nothing?”

“Listen, it has value whenever it is done. No matter what it is, it is the doing of it that gives it value. Not in the outcome. A coal miner doesn’t question whether what he does has value, he just does it. And in this, he gives it value.”

“But does he? Or does he just suffer through a meaningless existence?”

“But perhaps all existence is meaningless. We can’t concern ourselves with meaning. In the larger picture, nothing has meaning. It’s all a whirl of leaves and debris, the detritus of our lives. Decay takes over and our debris gives life to something new. Someone a hundred years from now might be touched by one of your paintings. They won’t know exactly why, but they will feel a stab of despair or joy or defeat or hope. They will feel a stirring inside of them from something you were able to get down on canvas. This alone gives meaning to your art. When you touch someone.”

“A soft touch of one’s hand to another’s face has more meaning.”

“Perhaps,” she said. “More meaning. But it isn’t always possible.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“Well, for one thing, you can’t just go around touching other people’s faces, can you?”

Romero reached over and touched Mila’s face. In the creases in his face, she could see his deep affection for her. At that moment, he understood that love comes to us in the most unexpected way. When we aren’t looking for it. It can’t be found in a painting. Or expressed in a painting. It can be felt only in a moment of soft reflection. And in a touch.

Mila reached up and took Romero’s hand. The sun was down now and the lights inside the Hemingway Tavern gave off a soft glow. They both knew that this moment would soon be gone but they wanted to hold onto it for as long as they could. Lovemaking would come next, followed by an intense relationship, and then questions and farewells and the return to loneliness. It is how it is done. Romero thought about his painting. It always began with the pleasure of lovemaking, followed by days of intimacy, followed by questions and then a final goodbye. It always ended. He couldn’t stay with every painting forever. Old paintings gave way to new paintings, new relationships replaced old ones. New levels of intimacy explored. Always the lovemaking first. Life is all about lovemaking. And it always ends. Reflection and sadness follow. What begins as an intimate touch ends in a desperate goodbye.

Fortunato, after setting two beers on the table, sat down at one of the empty chairs.

“This looks dangerous,” he said.

“Wherever you are, danger is sure to follow. You are like a plague, my friend.”

“But this is unfair,” Fortunato said. “Plagues are carried on the winds of distress. I bring only goodwill and charity.”

“Goodwill and charity,” Romero said. “Unlikely. Allow me to introduce you to Mila.”

“It’s a pleasure,” he said clasping Mila’s hand with both of his. “Celebrate and relish what has been put before you.”

Romero picked up his beer without turning his attention away from Mila. She felt for her glass.

“Cheers,” she said. Romero nodded and took a drink. When he set his glass down he looked over at Fortunato. “Haven’t you any other customers to take care of?”

Fortunato surveyed the crowded barroom.“My customers are well taken care of – always. They understand the need for reflection and contemplation. Never drink with an empty heart.”

A tinge of sadness touched Romero’s heart. He looked over at Mila, who also reflected on the meaning of an empty heart. Everything is transitory.

Fortunato, sensing the pensiveness that had settled over the table, stood with a flurry. “My friends, I must be off. Embrace. Enjoy.”

Romero watched Fortunato make his way through the crowd until he felt Mila’s hand on his. He quickly turned his attention back to her. “Your beauty is irresistible,” he said.

“Hardly,” she said, “but I appreciate your kindness. What about your painting?”

“In general,” he said, “or in reference to you?”

“I was speaking of your interest in painting me.”

“It is sincere, I assure you.”

“I have no question about this, but how and when?”

“That is entirely up to you.”

“Of course, I must keep the shop open, so I would only be able to sit for you in the evening,” Mila said.

“This works for me,” Romero said. “In fact, I prefer it. For the light.”

“When?” she asked.

“I am open,” he said. “Whenever works for you.”

“Well, why not start tonight?” she said.

Romero felt a flush of excitement. “Yes, tonight,” he said.

After they finished their beers they walked out into the deepening darkness and down the two blocks to Romero’s studio. She would sit for him for three hours tonight and for as many nights as it would take. She had restored his enthusiasm both for painting and lovemaking because of his boundless love for her.

He worked ravenously, the rapture of light and shade followed by unquenchable lovemaking. When inspired, art is breathtaking, insatiable.

Each night was a new ecstasy. She sat still, he painted, a fever raging in his heart.

On the last night, they shared a bottle of wine, and as they’d done previous nights, walked across the street to the little shop on the corner filled with exotic things from the four corners of the world and up the narrow staircase to her bedroom where they made timeless love. Afterward, he fell into a deep sleep. In the morning, she was gone from the bed. He dressed and went downstairs. The shop was closed. She stood on the sidewalk in front of the shop staring across at his studio. He stepped outside. Grabbing hold of her hand, he asked her, “What’re you thinking?”

She smiled at him but said nothing. She turned back to the studio. A strange feeling came over him. The painting was done.

“There’ll be more paintings,” he said. “I will paint you in different poses. Each one  will represent a transition in our life.”

“You are a painter,” she said. “It is how you see the world. You can’t help that, it’s who you are. I’m something different.”

“I love you,” Romero said.

“I know you do,” she said. “And your painting, too. Your life is wound desperately around your art.”

“But not my love for you,” he said. “It is different. Something distinguishable. Something identifiable.”

“No, I don’ think so,” she said. “It can’t be unwound.”

“But my love for you isn’t wound around my painting.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it stands alone, I assure you,” he said.

“You don’t know me,” she said.

“I do, though. You’re my mysterious gypsy. The reason I exist. The reason I’ve always existed. To find you.”

She turned toward him. “You don’t understand. You’re a painter, you’re meant to understand one thing and one thing only: how to get something on canvas that doesn’t belong anywhere else.”

“No, that’s not true. I know what’s in my heart. I know my life wouldn’t exist without you.”

“We have known each other for three weeks, hardly enough time to know what is in your heart.”

“I know, I’ve known from the first time I stepped into your shop. I was meant for this. My heart brought me here.”

“Your heart,” she said. “Hearts call out to things that whoosh in the night.”

He didn’t understand. What was she trying to tell him? Goodbye? It couldn’t be over. Things don’t just end. But in his mind, he knew things do just end. His heart had pulled him into something he didn’t understand. A cold place haunted by demons. Love is the great deceiver. The mistress of the dark.

She turned, stepped through the door and closed it behind her. He stood there not knowing where to turn. She was having a bad day, he would talk to her tomorrow. Everything would be all right.

The next day, after a sleepless night spent in his studio, he hurried across the street, but the door to The Curiosity Shop was locked. He peered into the darkness. In the storefront, his hollow image stared back at him. She was late in opening this morning, that’s all. In the fractured sunlight, he looked down the street toward the coffee shop. A cup of coffee would be good. Every step, he hoped to hear the scrape of the door behind him. Half-way down the block, he turned to look over his shoulder one last time. He pulled at the collar of his coat and blew warm breath into his hands. Coffee is what he needed now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

3 Comments
  1. I enjoyed it.

    • Thank you, Kelly. I appreciate that. I hope you are doing well. I miss you.

      My best,

      David

  2. I could read a book about this without finding such real-world apspaocher!

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