Muse

I always wanted to make a living painting. As a child, I spent entire nights at my desk, scratching out silhouettes of warriors, Donald Ducks, or Teletubbies with a pencil. The choice depended on what was on TV and what my intracranial nut, or rather, brain, was occupied with. Then I switched to paints and ran out into the fields, creating forests, vast expanses of meadows, and wild streams with long brushstrokes. I passed through the stage of fruit lying in a basket relatively painlessly. Pears were my best. Grandma Weronika once said they were the most delicious and juicy fruit she had ever seen.

Of course, after graduating from high school, I went to the Academy of Fine Arts. Surprisingly, they accepted me. Five years passed like a whip, and I recall that time with slight dismay; it seems like a blur to me. Some people, plenty of wise heads talking about wise things, and of all that – least of all art. The art I was looking for. However, I graduated with distinction, and then, unable to find a job for eight months, I began a brilliant career at the local branch of one of the world's largest corporations, part of a dynamic team of passionate and smiling young people.

I served hamburgers at McDonald's.

I was doing quite well. I diligently fried sliced ​​potatoes, wrapped an ex-cow in leaves of pristine genetically modified lettuce, and with my trademark, cheerful expression, I made dozens of kids happy by handing them chocolate-covered ice cream.

I sank into stagnation. The days blended together; my university friends went abroad, tempted by the smell of pounds and euros. They did more or less the same thing as me, earning four times as much. I was working overtime, trying to make ends meet, paying off my student loans, handing a wad of cash every month to the fat woman who rented me a studio apartment.

I traded my paintbrush for a hot tray of cutlets. Art for Ronald McDonald.

To make matters worse, when I found out my childhood friend, Frederick, nicknamed "The Elephant" (because of his enormous nose, but otherwise a fantastic guy), was getting married at the end of the next month, and a nasty coffee stain, despite all the detergent and dry cleaning in the world, wouldn't come off his suit, I realized I was very, very behind financially. I hadn't touched a paint in nine months. An anti-creative pregnancy. I felt that chapter had closed long ago; everyone is entitled to their youthful follies, but in the face of the so-called humdrum of life, some dreams have to be buried six feet underground. With a heavy heart, I decided to sell my easel. Sturdy, three-legged, and made of excellent quality wood, it's sure to find a buyer. And I'll be able to buy myself a new suit and go to the Elephant's wedding.

One rainy day, I wrapped it in wrapping paper and set off for the city center. On the tram, I had to validate an extra ticket. Other passengers eyed me with surprise. I ignored these curious glances, staring at the sky. It's fascinating how many shades of gray nature itself can create. The gray of the autumn sky is a shade more vivid than the gray of ten-story apartment buildings lashed by rain, but those grays can't compare to the gray of the ragged puddles my tram passed by, once blue, now muddy and... gray.

I let my gaze drift boredly over the faces of the passengers.

Then I noticed her.

She was standing at the other end of the car, leaning against the ticket validator. A cream sweater. Long, copper hair. And eyes, wide, as if perpetually surprised, wandering from the easel to my face, and back again, endlessly. She bit her lip. Seeing my expression, she smiled, and her lovely cheeks flushed slightly.

I didn't know what to do with my hands. My right hand first unconsciously searched for my pocket, sank into it for three seconds, then escaped, stretching toward the railing. But at that moment, the tram took a sharp turn, and the carriage lurched; I flew into a fat man in a suit and tie. He muttered something under his breath, pushing me back upright. I tried to keep a positive face, which was all the more difficult since I kept bumping into passengers, trying in vain to grab the railing.

The stranger gave me a sympathetic smile. The tram stopped. I was still three stops from the pawn shop I'd chosen, but all it took was a nod of encouragement from the girl, and I was pushing my way toward the door, crushing my feet with the easel's blows and jabbing my elbow into the fat man's ribs.

We stood facing each other, between two lanes of traffic. Rain began to fall. Silvery droplets landed on her copper hair.

"Do you paint?" She gestured to my package.

"Sometimes.

" "Okay?

" "Let's just say I'm not complaining. But I'm still far from perfect." I smiled modestly (at least that's what it was supposed to look like), but she didn't smile back. She seemed preoccupied with some dilemma.

She brushed a soaked strand of hair from her forehead.

"Will you do something for me?" I can tell you right away, this is an unusual request.

"Hmm. How unusual?

" "It depends. I want you to paint me."

Oh, right. That day, I was supposed to solve my financial problems, buy a suit, return home that evening, and, after slumping in my armchair with a cup of hot tea, call Słoń and finally confirm my arrival. Everything was finally starting to take a turn for the better. But now, the stranger on the tram was trying to disrupt my carefully planned order, acting in direct opposition to common sense, my famous common sense and spectrum of wisdom, my sense of life. The cynic on duty in my intracranial nut was already searching for the most appropriate rejection: "Hmm. You see, I was just about to sell this little gem to make ends meet," "You must be ridiculous, baby," or perhaps "you should have reported it about a month ago." However, since I was only, and still no less than, twenty-seven years old, I said after a moment:

"No problem. Where and when?

"

I gave her my address. She was supposed to come the next evening. Of course, I hadn't sold the easel. Back at my studio apartment, I unpacked it and set it back in its place. My predictions were actually fulfilled in one respect: right after dinner, I found myself in an armchair with a mug of tea.

There was something intriguing about this stranger, something that made me uneasy. She was young, clearly younger than me, yet she didn't look like a student. When she tucked the note with the address into her coat pocket, she glanced at me gratefully, then ran towards Okrąglak. There was something feline in her movements... I stared blankly at the easel. I'll call Słoń after the matter, and in the meantime, I'll put in overtime this weekend and prolong my love affair with hamburgers. The land of garlic sauce. Two ice creams with toppings, only four złoty, bring a friend, invite a friend, you can also buy a cheese roll and sink your teeth into it, feel the ketchup squirt from the space between the patty and the lettuce... God, enough of this! I'm rambling. I finished my tea and went to bed. Sleep wouldn't come; I endlessly recalled the girl's gestures and words.

I didn't even know her name.

*

"You live nicely. Modest, but comfortable. Are you studying painting?" She gestured to a stack of books. "Human Anatomy in Painting," a five-hundred-page tome, was covered in a thick layer of dust. The girl had been carefully looking around the room for several minutes.

"Studying.

" "Oh."

She was wearing beige trousers and a black camisole. She smelled of autumn.

To break the awkward silence, I offered her tea. She nodded, her eyes wandering the shelves.

"Do you want raspberry, lemon, or plebeian?

" "Plebeian?

" "Earl Grey for fifty złoty. Cheap, but good. Will you be tempted?

" "Raspberry."

I poured boiling water over the bag.

"Actually... We haven't introduced ourselves yet." And I like to know who I'm painting.

"Does it help you?" she asked, standing by the window.

"I don't know... I think I feel more confident then. A model stops being just a model, becomes a person of flesh and blood, gains an identity."

"Alicja. My name is Alicja. And yours?

" "Robert."

She sat down in an armchair. The glow of the setting sun was tangling in her hair. It was a wonderful, luscious color. I handed her the tea. The girl took the cup in her entire hand, as if it weren't brimming with hot tea, but—let's say—cold juice.

"Very good," she praised.

"My favorite.

" "Do you live alone?

" "Yes."

Silence. Suddenly, all the words, the ready-made phrases I used to treat guests who crossed the threshold of my studio apartment, flew away and vanished into thin air. I felt like a twelve-year-old puppy welcoming a friend home for the first time. "Yes, Mom, we'll study." "Yes, Mom, this is Joasia, from my class. I'll help her with math." Will you buy us some cookies?

And the most intimidating factor wasn't the girl's beauty. Sure, a pleasant shiver ran down my spine as she passed me in the doorway and I inhaled her scent; I feasted my eyes on the sight of shapely shoulders, a smooth neck, long, copper-colored hair that now rested on the back of my favorite armchair. Besides, I'd always had a weakness for a woman's eyes, especially those wide-eyed, perpetually surprised, eager for the world. Needless to say, Alicja was my type. But it wasn't her beauty that left me speechless. An aura of mystery surrounded the girl, a subtle hint of the pleasure that only discovering the unknown can bring. The way she shook my hand after saying her name. The exchange of glances on the tram. The way she sat, almost imperceptibly stroking the arm of the seat, as if to savor the feel of cool skin.

"Paint me. Now.

" "Yes... In the armchair? With tea?

" "Yes."

I set up my easel, prepared my paints and canvas. It wasn't a difficult painting. I knew this space, I knew this armchair. Alice sat with her legs tucked under her. I traced the general outline with a pencil.

"Am I sitting right?

" "Fix your hair," I replied in a low voice, for I was beginning to enter a forgotten land, a world where only I existed and a white expanse where, at my will, colorful fields or dark catacombs could bloom; the sun in a summer sky or the moon; fire or water. This was my world, my element. I no longer paid attention to the girl; only the next brushstroke mattered. I energetically blended the colors, trying to find the right shade.

I finished a few minutes before midnight. Alice, despite remaining almost completely still, didn't seem tired. When I placed the last line—a timid shadow on her blouse—she immediately jumped up. She stood in front of the canvas for a long time, gazing hungrily into it. Meanwhile, I brewed a strong coffee.

"So? Do you like it?" I asked, handing her a mug. She nodded.

"So this is how it really is, how do you see me?

" "A painting will never reflect reality. That's what photographs are for. A painting will always contain a part of the personality of the person who held the brush.

" ​​"Yes?" she asked, but I could have sworn she hadn't heard half my words. She looked mesmerized. She reached out her hand toward the canvas...

"Not yet. The paint isn't dry yet," I said.

Her slender hand hovered in midair. Alice's gaze traced the ripples of color. She looked at the painting as if seeing herself for the first time. Like a blind man suddenly restored to sight, confronted by an ocean of color and light.

I left her alone. I went out onto the balcony to breathe the crisp night air. I glanced at the girl a few times. This was another piece of the puzzle. The fascination with my image: Here's one contour, there's another, the line of the lips, the outline of the shoulders, the image of the body multiplied by my eyes.

Before she joined me, I had had my coffee.

"You paint brilliantly," she said.

"It's pure craft, mechanical brushstrokes. That's what they taught us, after all. Fidelity.

" "Do you think true art is based on this, on fidelity, on replicating reality?

" "To a certain extent, yes," I replied after a moment's reflection.

"What do you do, Robert?

" "Art.

" "Do you sell your paintings?

" "No. I sell something much more... mundane.

" "What?

" "Potatoes. Or more specifically, the fried variety. French fries, I mean."

"Don't joke," her face lit up with a smile.

"I'm deadly serious. The art of my daily work consists of contorting my face into a trademark smile, precisely dropping chopped potatoes into boiling oil, and arranging round cow patties on a metal tray.

" "I would never have guessed. You deserve better.

" "Many people do," I replied with a shrug. "Aren't you cold?"

She was wearing only a blouse, even though the temperature wasn't above fifty degrees. I was already freezing myself.

"No. But I have to go. Just one more thing...

" "What?

" "Your fee.

" "Don't even think about it! It was pure pleasure for me.

" "Me too," she said, searching in her purse for her wallet. She pulled out a few banknotes. "Six hundred zlotys will do?"

Shock.

"You've got to be kidding.

" "Not much? I'll give you nine hundred.

" "I don't earn that much in a month. You don't have to... God! Six hundred zlotys for one painting?"

"Not for one," she denied. "For three. I'll drop by tomorrow at the same time. Can I?

" *

She arrived on time.

"How were the hamburger sales today?" she asked, hanging up her black coat.

"Not bad. But today the French fries were the winner. French fries and the new kids' set, this time with a plastic man. Bob the Builder is a hit. Tea?

" "Oh, yes."

"Would you like the raspberry one from yesterday?"

She nodded.

As I bustled around the kitchen, I stole glances at her. She paced around the room, examining every nook and cranny, picking up every book. Finally, she stopped in front of the canvas.

"This morning I came to the conclusion that this is one of the worst paintings I've ever painted. Pure sloppiness.

" "I like it. Even more than yesterday."

"The client, our master," I smiled, handing him the tea. "But if you want, I'll paint him again. Now I know what to pay more attention to. "

She sat down in the armchair, sipping the aromatic infusion in small sips.

"For what?

" "You have wonderful hair. It deserves better than these few lines. And shadows. Look how it fits on your blouse. Completely... unreal. Unphysical. Second-year students use chiaroscuro better. I don't know what happened. I haven't painted in ages, and...

" "You're much more talkative today than yesterday," she said suddenly.

"Yes? I didn't notice. What? Does it bother you?"

"No. It's very nice.

This brevity, this restraint of movements... Who was she?" Seeing the sunset light caress her neck, I felt a fire bloom in my lower belly. If only I could slip my lips along that luminous path! Heat. I must have lost track of time, because the next thing I noticed was her surprised expression. I had to cover up the awkwardness of the situation with something, immediately!

"You, on the other hand, seem very mysterious to me. In fact, I know nothing about you."

She put down her cup and shrugged.

And I remembered words I'd found long ago in a book. A fragment of a dialogue between the hero and a beautiful woman. The dialogue was full of subtext; it was clear they both wanted each other. The tension grew with each passing moment. At one point, the woman uttered these words: "I'm an enigma. Guess me."

"What would you like to know? How old am I, what am I studying?"

"Not necessarily. I mean... Yes. For example.

" "I'm younger than you, as you've already noticed. Let's say... I'm studying. Let's say pharmacy. Are you happy?

" "Let's say yes."

She was lying. Without the slightest doubt. She reached for the cup and watched me, narrowing her eyes. I felt defenseless and naked. At the same time, I was furious with myself, for I was overcome by an increasingly strong desire to approach the girl, to take the cup from her small hand, and approach her wonderful lips, so close that I could smell her hair. On the one hand, yes, the situation suited me perfectly; it pleasantly tickled the male ego. If I hadn't given in to such fantasies, I would have begun to doubt my masculinity. On the other hand, however, I was enraged by my submission to these primitive desires. How is it that a person, faced with such a situation, loses their will? A hideous feeling: to be a slave, a prisoner of one's own body, of moist urges. To fight or not to fight?

"I want you... To paint... A portrait..." She stopped, seeing me walking toward her.

Who was talking about fighting? The battle was lost even before I fully realized it was happening. I wanted to kiss her. Right here and right now. Screw reason, thinking kills.

I sank into the depths of her dark eyes. Alice's hands were trembling...

...And they dropped the cup.

She screamed and jumped up from the armchair. Fortunately, the cup was almost empty; not much spilled, most of it landing on the armchair and the floor.

Needless to say, the spell was broken? Suddenly, I regained control of my body. I was human again, not an animal. I led her to the bathroom. And then something very strange happened.

I opened the door and turned on the light. I wanted to help her, to give her a towel... But as soon as we crossed the threshold, the girl screamed and turned to me. She looked terrified.

"Don't come in! Get out now!

" "Okay... I'm leaving now," I said, disoriented.

She pushed me into the hallway, but behind her I noticed something that, at first, surprised me greatly, but in the second... Well. There was no second.

Because as soon as Alice saw the surprise on my face, she pressed her lips to mine and gave them a long, hot kiss. I instantly forgot everything. The world dissolved into warmth and sweetness; I was numb with happiness. This must be what a mouse in cheese country feels like. Nothing could compare to those few seconds of communion, of bliss, of ecstasy drowned in the air.

Nothing.

Pulling away from my lips, she slammed the door.

As usual, in moments of total mental derangement, I migrated to the balcony. The cool air cooled my red-hot synapses. Had it really happened? And... Why? The silliest question possible, yet it haunted me.

What had I seen? I tried in vain to unearth a fragment of memory. It was a bit strange: As soon as I thought about those few seconds, my mind seemed to slip into other tracks.

On a different track. Oh, yes. To our kiss, of course.

"You'll freeze," she said, standing next to me.

"I won't. I have hot blood," I replied. The closeness of her shoulders, neck, hair made me hold back with every ounce of strength.

"A portrait.

" "What portrait?

" "I want you to paint my portrait today."

All evening, as I held my brush, I thought about the kiss, which we hadn't mentioned again in our conversation. I tried to control my trembling hands. Art demanded it. Art! What does one touch of lips mean to the world emerging beneath my hands?

The painting turned out perfectly.

*

"What are we painting today?" I asked when she entered my studio apartment the next day. Tea was already waiting on the table, and I'd also bought cookies and flowers. I wanted to thank her.

I fell in love with painting again. The night before, I'd felt like a god. After she left, I couldn't sleep for a long time, until I finally got out of bed and, in the moonlight, gazed at Alice's portrait, her features imprinted on the canvas; her hair, falling over her smooth shoulders... I must admit, I'd captured their color perfectly. The paint had already dried. I ran my fingertip over the rough surface of the painting. Mine. My work.

"You'll see. For now, I'll happily drink some tea. Have you made it yet? You can smell it on the landing.

" "It's already waiting for you."

She surprised me once again. Of course, the doors to my studio apartment were really solid, wood-paneled, and very tight. One day, on my way to university, I left the music on. The Stone Roses were playing at full volume until six in the evening. I only realized it when I crossed the threshold. And the neighbors hadn't heard a thing all day.

Alice approached the paintings, which were standing side by side. I had already become accustomed to this ritual.

"You really have talent.

" "Thank you." But I didn't capture everything yesterday either. There's something about you... That I can't name. I look into your eyes and feel like something's slipping away, some part of your radiance. I feel it, but I can't capture its outline. It defies description. That's why it's not in the painting. When I was painting, I thought I'd recreate it from general features, the character of the gaze... But no. It didn't work out. Maybe today I'll find it and...

"And?

" "And tame it. Or at least I'll try. You see. That's what distinguishes a true artist from a street cartoonist who'll caricature you for fifteen złoty. All the greats of this world: Da Vinci, Renoir... Vermeer," I added. "And just look at his 'Girl with a Pearl Earring.' Wait, I have a color copy somewhere...

" "Don't look. I know that painting.

" "They managed to put more than just colors and shadows into a painting.

" "You want to tame me?" she asked, adopting a pose I knew perfectly well. Slender hands took the cup, as if afraid of its fragility.

I sat down across from her.

"I dare not think about it.

" "Are you limiting yourself? You – an artist? Shouldn't you be breaking horizons instead of shrinking from them?

" "Show me a horizon and I'll break it," I said, sitting closer.

She stared into the bottom of her cup for a long time.

"In my presence, you've already broken at least three.

" "Yes? Which ones?

" "You've painted two paintings. Every act of creation is a victory over yourself. Over your own weakness. Would you agree with me?

" "Those are two horizons. And the third?

" "A third..."

She adjusted her hair with an uncertain movement, as if considering how to answer.

"Actually, what do you want to hear? Because it seems to me you've already answered that question.

" "I want to hear it from you," I said, feeling myself slowly transform into a typical male and moving even closer. I felt the warmth of her breath. She wasn't running away. Quite the opposite. She held out her hand; At first, I thought she wanted to stroke my neck, but her slender fingers froze on the back of the chair.

"You won't hear me," she looked into my eyes. "I won't let you win.

" "Then set me another challenge. A person must have something to fight for.

" "I don't have to. A true artist always finds the next horizon," she whispered, leaning toward me.

The ultimate temptation. I wasn't even surprised or alarmed by the fact that my free will was merely a memory. Alice had cast a spell on me; I was bound by invisible threads. Absolutely subservient to her every gesture, I drank in the words from her lips, the memory of which kept me awake at night. Somewhere at the back of my mind, question marks flickered: What had I noticed in the bathroom? I couldn't remember. Why hadn't she even groaned when she poured boiling water over herself? How had she smelled the tea before entering the house? They were all terribly distant, marginal, unimportant in the face of the sweetest game possible, a game where there are no losers, only winners, sharing the sweetness and warmth of each other's bodies.

Her breath brushed my lips. I closed my eyes, prepared for a miracle, or the end of the world.

Then she asked,

"Will you paint me?

" "I will.

" "Here. Now.

" "As you wish.

" "Naked," she added

.

Nerves tense like bowstrings at an archery competition. Hands shaking. Art. You're here for art! The brush tip trembles, uncontrollable—a tool that has become the enemy. A chaotic stream of thoughts. Dreams. Before me, a bare canvas and Alice. Lying on the couch, intently observing my every move. The simplest tasks were difficult for me; I spent forty minutes mixing paints. She undressed slowly, gracefully, as if paying homage to her perfect body. I wanted to explore its every shadow, to siphon life from every crease, every contour, to lightly kiss my way from her feet to the autumn-scented land of copper hair. You're here for art! She said nothing. I had to say something to drive away thoughts of her perfect form, hidden in the shadows. I mentally challenged myself to be an animal. It was that moment when a man stops controlling his actions, becomes a specialized breeding machine. A prisoner in his own body. A feeling both awful and wonderful.

"I should actually thank you," I choked out, gasping for breath. I had to, I simply had to say something! To temporarily break the bridge stretched between our bodies, to concentrate on my goal, to break the trance... "I'm painting again. If it weren't for you, the easel would have ended up in a pawn shop.

" "Ah. That's why you had it with you that day, on the tram... But why did you want to sell it? It doesn't look old or worn.

" "I haven't painted in a very long time. And I desperately needed money. Not exactly a glorious memory for someone who wants to call themselves an artist.

" "But you didn't. Maybe it's fate?

" "I don't believe in it.

" "I do. Think about it. It's impossible for life to be just a series of coincidences, big or small, but always coincidences." I can't believe you've never considered this. We're part of a greater harmony," she paused, as if trying to find the right words. "A person isn't born without a purpose. Everyone carries within them a certain gift that guides them through life. Everyone carries a certain secret...

" "It's funny you should say that. I've never met a more mysterious person in my life..."

I waited for her answer, but Alice remained silent. Meanwhile, I guided my brush with increasing confidence. The initial daze had passed. Trying not to succumb to my instincts, I focused on the challenge. Beneath my hands, the painting blossomed like a spring garden.

When I put down the palette, the moon was already hanging over the city. It was a cool autumn night.

"Is this the last painting?

" "Yes.

" "Will you visit me again?"

She didn't answer. Silence fell over the apartment, unbroken by the slightest murmur. I sat down on the floor, right next to Alicja. She turned onto her side and took my hand. She gently ran it over my face. I closed my eyes. I felt the smoothness of my skin, its firmness, its texture. I sensed that her eyelids were also half-closed. Then her hand moved to her lips, and Alicja gave her a short kiss. With a decisive movement, she moved it lower, along her neck, and lower, stroking her breasts and stomach.

I don't know if it's possible to die of happiness. Something tells me I was very close.

*

As I write these words, I'm already calm. Almost all my emotions have drained from me, leaving only a vague anxiety. This story ended four days ago. Now I'm sitting at my desk, it's late evening, and next to me sits a mug of tea. Plebeian Earl Grey. Somehow, I don't like raspberry tea anymore.

You guessed right.

When I woke up the next morning, Alice was gone. Every trace of her presence had vanished from the apartment. Even the teacup sat neatly in the cupboard, though I could have sworn I hadn't washed it. Strangely enough, it was exactly where it belonged, on the middle shelf. Alice had also taken the flowers I'd forgotten to give her, inflamed by desire.

When I saw the empty vase, I felt as if I were slowly emerging from a deep sleep. The most wonderful dream of my life.

Which didn't change the fact that the moment I awoke, I was overcome with anxiety.

I remembered what I'd seen in the bathroom.

As if someone had suddenly turned on the light. Wake-up call! Dreams over, time to return to life. Exactly... When I finish writing these words, I'll finally call the Elephant. He deserves a few words of explanation. I'll tell you about Alice. Why not? She was wonderful. However, I think I'll leave out one detail...

That before she closed my consciousness with a sweet kiss—that moment, in the bathroom—over her shoulder, I noticed...

It's hard to write.

But I'll try.

Alice had no reflection in the mirror.