309

***

"Your paintings have arrived from Mendoza all of a sudden, Emiliano," said Lourdes as he placed the empty jar on the altar of the grand nave.

Emiliano was so engrossed in his work that he simply continued to paint wordlessly for a moment before looking startled and turning to face Lourdes downstairs. "From Mendoza?"

"Wasn't Don Joaquín storing all your paintings?" Lourdes looked confused as well. "Why did they suddenly arrive here? And only yours too."

Emiliano blinked at him for a moment before slowly descending the ladder. "I don't know."

"They were placed in your room, apparently, but judging by the way the paintings were described as 'they, I gather there aren't just one or two."

"Let's go and see." Emiliano took off his paint-stained apron and headed out of the grand nave.

Trailing after him, Lourdes asked, "Our contract with Don Joaquín can't have been annulled, can it?"

"You said it was just my paintings, Lourdes. Also, we are currently employed by the archbishop of Bilbao. When we came here, our relationship with both Don Joaquín and our sponsor was concluded."

"On paper, yes, but we decided to repay them-"

"We still have time to do so."

"But wasn't part of the deal that our sponsor could entertain themselves with some of your old paintings in the meantime? Why would they send them back, then?"

"My paintings aren't entertaining," Emiliano commented with an amused huff, glancing over at Lourdes before facing the front again. His smile faded.

"I've lauded your talent incessantly, haven't I? Emiliano, you are going to go down in history for your art. I still wonder someone as untalented as me is still at your side."

"Your talent is much more admirable, Lourdes."

"I do create paintings worth selling on the street."

"Don't say that. Without your talent, you never would have been accepted by Don Joaquín or sponsored by our patron. They all liked your paintings, after all."

Emiliano encouraged his friend as though he was used to his self-deprecating remarks.

Though Lourdes pretended that this wasn't the case, he was always thrilled to hear Emiliano praise his art. At first, Emiliano had figured that Lourdes's negativity stemmed merely from an effort to be humble, but once he found out about his friend's insecurities, he made sure to encourage him regularly. And though they weren't rare, Lourdes treasured every word of praise coming from Emiliano.

After a few more exchanges, they arrived at their accommodations. Emiliano froze in his step as soon as he opened the door to his room and was faced with the scene before him.

There were countless paintings taking up the very small room, making it difficult to even enter.

"How many are in here...?" Lourdes muttered as he stepped inside first, managing to find a place to stand between the paintings and the small bed. "Aren't these the first paintings you made that first winter in Oligarchia?"

Emiliano could tell which paintings they were just by a cursory glance. He stepped next to Lourdes and picked up the first painting to look behind it. Without saying a word, Emiliano sorted through one painting after another. They were of the jeweler in El Tabeo, the small village in a valley on the outskirts of Malaga, Inés's veil draped over a bible, over which was placed a wedding ring, the countryside chapel in Viedma they were married in, the rainy harbor in Sevilla... His hand paused over the dreary sky of Sevilla. He stared at this very painting for a while.

"You painted all these around that time," said Lourdes. "Within four years of that first winter, I would guess."

"That's right..."

"You said that a relative of yours lived by this seaside, didn't you? You went there a few times."

"Yes, I did."

"It's a wondrous painting even now. It's as though I am there in person."

Emiliano's fingertips slowly brushed over the dried oil paint that formed the clouds. "Well, I painted it when I was there."

"Only geniuses like you would make things sound so simple."

"I am not a genius," Emiliano replied, withdrawing his hands after looking at the last painting of an alleyway in a city. He may have once been shone bright with great talent, but he was now simply doing the same thing he had done for many, many years.

"I don't see that one large painting of the black-haired woman sitting by the window. You painted that one around the same time as well, didn't you? And it was the painting you spent the most time on. That one was absolutely incredible..." said Lourdes as he recalled the painting. "If you were to submit it to the Biennale in Divalua, it would undoubtedly be selected as the painting of the year."

"You haven't even been to Divalua, Lourdes. I am not nearly skilled enough to send in anything to that place."

"You haven't been there either," Lourdes retorted. "When I first saw that painting, I felt like I was standing in that woman's presence... I really did."

Emiliano let out a huff of laughter, his eyes downcast. "You seem to let art make you feel a certain way rather easily. I suppose that is also a skill."

"You would call anything a skill... I still remember it clearly. It felt as though I was standing there in the middle of the day, staring aimlessly at the woman and her child, and suddenly came to. I felt sad as I watched her, for some reason, despite the bright sunlight. That's why I still remember it so well. I would often steal glances at it when we were still in Oligarchia."

Emiliano didn't reply as he sank into a reverie. He didn't remember ever looking at the painting in question properly once he had finished it. He had never put himself into the shoes of the man who would one day face the scene in person. Whether he might feel sadness, joy, or love. He did vaguely remember what it looked like, but even the mere thought of the light floating around the outlines made him feel as though he couldn't face it. Just as he couldn't watch the woman on the street kill her own child once again.

The reason for this was different, of course. While the latter had been too horrible to face once more, the painting... though he had painted it himself, the memory did not belong to him, so he felt that he wasn't entitled to it.

"It was a gaze that felt like the woman was unreachable." Lourdes continued to express his admiration for the painting that wasn't there. "No man would look at a woman like that if he didn't love her. The sight of her back turned looked fragile yet strong at the same time... Yes, it all felt very forlorn."

Emiliano stared at the empty wall, as though the painting Lourdes was speaking of was leaning against it.

Lourdes seemed to have really liked the painting, as he continued to lament its absence. He seemed to have forgotten all about how strange it was that the paintings that should have been safely stored by Don Joaquín were suddenly here in Bilbao. He then flopped onto the bed and rustled about as if he had discovered something. "Emiliano."

"Yes?" Emiliano answered blankly, still staring at the wall.

Lourdes turned over the expensive-looking, sealed envelope in awe before holding it out to his friend. "There's a letter here."

"Oh..."

"Should I leave?"

All that was to be found on the envelope was Emiliano's name, written in concise and elegant handwriting. Emiliano stared at it for a while.

Taking his silence as a yes, Lourdes patted him on the shoulder and left the room.

Emiliano continued to simply stare at the envelope for a good while even after he was left alone. Once he finally snapped out of it, he began to carefully undo the seal that was evidently from some high-ranking noble family he couldn't possibly recognize and read the letter. In it was written:

"I am sending the paintings that were illegally obtained back to their original owner. Don Joaquín has already been paid for them, so do not worry. The necklace, along with the pendant that was displayed at Doña Angelica's Jewelry, has also been returned to its original owner. She now knows what you know. She has been given peace thanks to it, and I pray that this will bring you peace as well. - Cárcel Escalante de Esposa"

Emiliano caught sight of more writing on the back that bled into the front of the paper. When he carefully turned it around, he was faced with a single sentence.

"I thank you for recording my memory with your noble hands."

His eyelashes trembled for a moment before a smile bloomed on his face. He turned the letter around again and lowered his face against it. He let out a long breath he felt as though he had been holding his whole life. Then he spent some more time gazing at his own paintings.

When he later opened his door again to step out into the hallway, he found Lourdes leaning against the wall and entertaining a small boy.

Emiliano called out to the child who was halfway hidden behind Lourdes. "Luca."

The boy perked up at the quiet call and came running over. "Don Emiliano! You called?" Lourdes slowly trudged over and ruffled the child's hair.

"I told you, you need not call me a don," said Emiliano. "I have a favor to ask you."

"Please go ahead."

"Would you carry a painting for me?"

"Of course. However many you would like!"

The boy was one of the orphans who had lived on the streets of Bilbao, begging for alms to feed himself. He had been born many years before Luca would have been, and they didn't have any similarities to speak of, but he had somehow caught Emiliano's eye. Half a year ago, when he had asked the boy his name, tossing him a coin, he had answered that it was Luca. It was apparently the name his mother, who had died two years ago while raising him alone, had given him.

Emiliano had then taken him in and made him an errand boy. The once emaciated boy now had much more meat on his bones, and he had grown much taller. Emiliano would give him little errands throughout the day just so he wouldn't get bored; he had even asked a kind priest to teach him how to read and write. Luca didn't seem particularly interested in studying, but he was bright and had no problem learning passages of the holy scripture by heart. He liked watching Emiliano paint and trying his own hand at drawing.

He would most likely be able to achieve anything he wanted in life, as long as he wasn't too ambitious.

Emiliano stared after the boy who gleefully went into the room ahead of him and then waved Lourdes over. "I have a favor to ask of you as well."

"Do you want to move those paintings? Where?"

"To the incinerator."

"What?" Lourdes asked incredulously.

"I must burn them all, so please help me."

"But... why would you burn those beautiful pieces?"

Emiliano went in the room to pick up one of the paintings himself and smiled. "Because it's finally time for me to forget."