The Masterpiece

"Astounding!" the client said. "Simply astounding."

"So you like it," Tortini responded, though he felt that the statement was needless.

"Do I like it? This is - there are no superlatives to describe it. This painting doesn't just look like him - you've captured his essence. I feel like he's in the room with us!"

"Of course," Tortini stated flatly. "That's why I'm called 'Tortini the Great.'"

The client pulled out his billfold. "How much do I owe you?"

"Five hundred."

"Five hundred? That's all?"

Tortini sighed. "That's what we agreed upon."

The client pulled out a green wad of bills from the billfold and flipped through them. "Here. Take this." He laid eight hundred-dollar bills into the palm of Tortini's paint-stained hand.

Tortini stuffed the bills into a pocket of his smock. Emilio, Tortini's apprentice, covered the painting and took it off the easel to give to the man.

"My wife is gonna love this," the client said gleefully as he left the studio.

"Not bad for two weeks' work," Emilio said as he plopped down on the paint-splattered, threadbare couch by the window. "God, how I'd love to be like you. They always pay you more than what you ask. I bet that guy will send you four more who will want you to paint a portrait. Think of all the dough you're going to make!"

"Money? Bah! Who needs money?" Tortini hurled a tin cup at Emilio, who moved his head aside. "Money pays the rent!"

"If - if not for money, then why do you do it?"

Tortini glared at his apprentice. "Immortality, my feeble-minded student. Immortality."

"But you're so good at what you do. People come from all over the world for you to paint their portrait. Your paintings will be admired forever on their mantles. Isn't that immortality?"

"Fool! You just don't get it. Every master needs a masterpiece - a great work of art that is far above the rest of his work. A work of magnificence." Tortini took a step toward Emilio, who lowered his eyes. He pointed a brush at the assistant. AAnd you might ask, 'Why hasn't Tortini the Great painted his masterpiece?' Well, I'll tell you. It's them." Tortini waved his brush at the city that stretched out below the studio window. "Them."

"Them?"

"Yes, them, my parrot-brained pupil. I haven't found the right subject yet." Tortini walked over to the table and uncorked a bottle of wine. He looked back at his apprentice. "What would the masters be without their masterpieces? Where would Van Gogh be without his Starry Night? I need a subject worthy of immortality, something that has not yet been done." Tortini took a long swig from the bottle and wiped his mouth with his paint-stained sleeve. "When I have painted my own Prostitute at Her Mirror, I will have then attained immortality. I will never attain immortality while I am painting some spoiled, pimply-faced brat for somebody's Mother's Day present. You see, it's all in the subject. Before I can achieve an immortal masterpiece, I need a subject who carries the immortality in himself, for I am faithful; I can only paint what I see." Tortini took another mouthful.

The apprentice rose to his feet. The master sometimes became violent when he drank. "I think I have to go now."

"Good. Just get out of here. And lock the door behind you. I don't want to be disturbed."

Alone in his studio, Tortini the Great stared out across the cityscape below. The afternoon sky was gray and it looked as if it might still rain. "Immortality," he whispered. "That's what I want. Immortality," he whispered again. Then he washed down that thought with another swig.

Emilio had only been gone a few minutes when someone knocked at his door.

"Go away!" he yelled at the door. The knock came again. "I said go away! I'm closed." He brought the bottle to his lips.

The knock came yet again, patient, no more insistent than the other times. Tortini thought that perhaps Emilio had forgotten some of his supplies again. "Dammit!" he muttered. "I'm going to beat that boy."

He unbolted the door. Standing there was a well-dressed gentleman wearing a long, black overcoat and top hat. The man appeared as if he were on his way to a nineteenth-century opera house. Tortini's lungs had been primed for yelling, but he stood mute.

"Are you Tortini the Great?" the man asked him with a vaguely Eastern-European accent.

"I am he," he replied.

"I heard you paint the greatest portraits in the world."

"I'm not taking any more projects," Tortini said. "I have enough work to - "

"But I can pay you well. Very, very well."

"I told you, I'm very busy already. Come back some other time. I'm closed for the day." Tortini shut the door in the man's face, and just as he did so he thought he heard the man utter a single word: Immortality. He opened the door again. "What did you say?"

"Mr. Tortini, I have a special project for you," he continued.

"No, what did you say before that?"

"Please," he insisted. "Allow me to enter your studio so we can talk."

Tortini sighed heavily. What was there to lose? He opened the door and allowed the man to enter. He stepped inside and looked around. Tortini suddenly realized he was still holding the bottle of wine. Deftly, he slipped the bottle behind a stack of canvases leaning against the wall.

"My, my, my," the visitor clucked. "Look at this studio. You certainly are a true-blue artist, aren't you?"

Tortini looked around the room at the paint-specked sheets, canvas, and threadbare furniture. He wondered what the man saw, or what he was looking for.

The man spoke: "It was once written that the measure of every man's artistic work is the portrait of himself, Mr. Tortini."

"Is that so?"

"Yes. So couldn't it follow that a portrait painted most cleverly would contain the very essence of the subject?"

"I have never thought of it." Tortini scowled. He was not in the mood for philosophical discussions. "I don't have time for this." He opened the door and motioned. "Out you go."

"Please, Mr. Tortini, allow me five minutes. If you do not accept my proposal, I will depart with humble apologies."

Tortini stared at the man, then with obvious reluctance, closed the door and leaned against it. He crossed his arms imperiously. "Let's hear your proposal."

"I'd like you to paint a portrait for me."

"Okay, who would you like me to paint for you? Your wife, your mother, your poodle?"

The man let out a long, suddenly boisterous laugh. Something about the laugh unnerved Tortini. "No, not at all," the visitor replied. AI would like you to paint yourself."

"You want me to paint myself?"

"Yes," the man said quietly.

"Most of my clients have other subjects in mind. Who is it for? Why do you want it?"

"The painting is for me. And why do I want it? Well, I haven't decided that. But I am a collector of lifelike, fine art, only the best. In fact, I have a collection that spans the globe and many centuries. Your work will fit in quite nicely with my collection."

"Is this some kind of a joke?"

"No joke, Mr. Tortini. You're certainly are cynical, aren't you? I will pay you well for your effort."

"How much?"

"One-hundred thousand dollars for a full-sized portrait."

Tortini's mind reeled at the thought of receiving such an outlandish sum. "You would pay that much for a portrait of me?"

"Yes, but what use is all that money without the immortality that comes with it?"

"Immortality? What do you know about immortality?"

"Wasn't it you who said that you sought to live forever by creating a masterpiece? Didn't you say that all of your subjects were inadequate? Who could paint you better than yourself when only you know all of your epiphanies and dark secrets?"

Tortini scratched his beard pensively. "I see your point."

"Yes, if you paint yourself, you may create a work of unequaled, terrible beauty. You say you paint what you see, but are you able to transfer more to the canvas than what can be seen?"

"Have you been talking to Emilio?"

"Let's just say that though I am not much of an artist myself, I am able, at times, to place myself into his frame of mind. What do you say? Will you paint your portrait for me?"

Tortini mulled over the offer. The visitor's reasoning seemed sound. And though the large sum of money was impressive, what appealed to Tortini the most was the incentive to paint the portrait that could very well become the masterpiece, the capstone of his career, the work that would grant him immortality. "When would you like this work completed?" he asked finally.

"As soon as possible."

"I can get started on it right away."

The man smiled. "But what about your other clients?"

"They can wait."

"Wonderful. Your zeal pleases me. But there's one more thing I require."

Tortini narrowed his eyes. "Ah a catch! I knew there would be one!"

"The catch, if you wish to call it that, is that I don't want just any ordinary painting of yourself. I want this painting to capture the very soul of your being. I want to be able to look at this painting and feel as though you are standing next to me. I want this painting to capture every detail, every detail down to the last tiny wrinkle on your face. Are you up to the task?"

"Don't insult me," Tortini the Great sniffed.

"Very good. And now one more thing. I have some special paint I would like you to use."

"Special paint? I am very particular about my paint."

"Mr. Tortini, the climate of my country is, shall I say, inhospitable to paintings. The beauty of your work would not last if you used ordinary oil paints. Many artists have used my paints with wonderful success. I'm certain you will like them."

"I can try them, I suppose."

"Good. I will have them sent to you by courier tomorrow. Now, for the advance." The man produced a wad of bills from his coat pocket. "Will fifty-thousand be enough advance? Fifty-thousand now, and fifty-thousand when you complete the project." The visitor counted bills into the artist's outstretched hands. "You should be pleased, Mr. Tortini. Even Rembrandt never received such an advance for his work."

The man handed him a business card and shook his hand. His touch was soft yet firm; it was strong and confident. "Work quickly after you receive the paint, Mr. Tortini. I will have to return to my country soon. I will visit in about a week to check on the progress of your great work."

After the man left the room, Tortini rushed to the door and locked it. He felt acutely nervous and vulnerable with so much money in the room. He looked at the white business card the man had handed him. It read, in gold lettering:

Mr. D. Ballonis
Commodities

Tortini wondered what commodities Mr. Ballonis dealt in that made him so rich. Were paintings and other works of art "commodities"? Tortini pulled the bottle of wine from behind the stack of canvases and uncorked it.

When he heard a knock on the door, Tortini was still lying on the couch in the studio where he had passed out the night before. "Just a minute!" he yelled. His mouth tasted like old leather.

He dragged himself off the couch to the doorway. There he found a brown package wrapped with string. He looked down the long hallway. The courier had evidently left quickly. He examined the package; it was addressed to him but carried no return address. He cut the strings and opened the package. Inside were colored tubes of paints without labels on them. He spent a few hours mixing and thinning them to his liking then prepared a fresh canvas on his easel and tried out the paints. He found them smooth and quite to his liking, though they smelled odd. He thinned them a little more, then set up a large mirror so that he could see himself, full-view.

First, he sketched an outline of himself in pencil. He would paint himself standing in a park - no, an ocean scene. No, that would be inauthentic, inaccurate. He would paint himself in his studio. Yes. That would be best. After all, he was an artist, and what better place to paint an artist than in the birthplace of his creations?

Soon, the sketch was finished. He began to apply the paint. He started with the eyes, as he always did. They were the windows to the soul, he believed. He looked at himself closely in the mirror. A bit more of the green. Yes - that's it. Now for a little black.

Hours flew by. He preferred to start with broad strokes then to go back to work out the details. He made a great deal of progress on his face and shoulders. Finally, he put down the brush and stood back to look at his work. It was coming along well.

Tortini painted the background setting of the studio for a while, then moved back to his face. He worked on his chin and the curving of his lips. Daylight turned to night. He felt increasingly sleepy. He looked at the clock. It was midnight. Then he realized that he hadn't eaten all day. He peeled an apple from a bowl of fruit he had used recently as a prop. He felt slightly dizzy, and his hands felt as though they were detached from his body, animated with a mind of their own as they moved the paring knife around the apple.

Tortini ate the apple slowly, languidly, while staring through his window at the sleeping city. After the apple was gone, he went back to the couch, leaned back, and closed his eyes for what he intended would be only a few minutes. He awoke to the sunlight shining down upon his face. He cursed to himself when he realized how many hours he had slept. Quickly, he used the toilet, ate the banana from the bowl of fruit, and then positioned himself in front of the easel, where he remained for the next several hours.

The daylight shining through the skylights aided him in detailing the painting. He used his finest brush to draw each of his eyelashes, one-by-one, in elegant detail. When he had finished, another wave of weariness came over him. He decided to take a break. He stepped back from the painting and scrutinized his work-in-progress. Mr. Ballonis was right - this just might be the masterpiece he had always dreamed of painting. Even he had to admire the almost maniacal detail that he had put into the image coming together on the canvas. After he had rested, Tortini went back to painting his torso and the squat wooden stool beneath his foot. The paint flowed from his brush evenly, smoothly. Its odd smell rose from the canvas, stronger now. Tortini decided that the smell was reminiscent of fresh meat. He wondered what ingredient in the paint gave it the peculiar odor. The studio was beginning to smell like a butcher shop.

Another day passed, and Tortini began to grow weak. Still, he pressed on. When his hand began to tremble and he could not hold it still, he took a break. He put down the brush and took a step back to look at the painting. Even he was startled at the lifelike quality of the image. His knees wobbled. This was turning out to be the masterpiece he had hoped it would be. He retired to the couch.

There came a knock at the door. He tried to rise to his feet, but he was so weary he could scarcely move. "Come in!" he called out to the visitor behind the door.

The door opened. It was Mr. Ballonis. "Greetings, Mr. Tortini," he said as he removed his hat. "How is the great work coming along?"

"See for yourself," Tortini said proudly.

Mr. Ballonis looked at the painting. He took a step back, cocking his head as he examined it. Tortini studied Mr. Ballonis' poker face for a reaction. He thought that perhaps he didn't like it. Finally, Mr. Ballonis smiled. He turned to Tortini. "Outstanding, Mr. Tortini. Your work is outstanding."

Tortini sighed. "Is it me?"

"It is you."

Tortini gazed at his work from the couch. Indeed, he felt as though his double were present in the studio with them.

"The reason I'm here, Mr. Tortini, is time. It seems I have to cut short my visit to your country. This means I will need the painting finished sooner than I expected."

"When?" Tortini wheezed. He was dog-tired as it was.

"I will need it by tomorrow night."

"Tomorrow night? I've been working on this day and night as it's been. It cannot be done."

"Mr. Tortini," Mr. Ballonis said as if he were speaking to a child, "even Goya could not have painted such a great work with such swiftness and precision. But you are greater than he is. You know this in your heart. You've always known this. Look at what you've done in the time you've had. Will you disappoint me?"

Tortini the Great thought this over. Mr. Ballonis seemed to know him very well. And it was true; he genuinely felt that he was at least as great as or greater than the old masters. Tortini rallied his strength and propped himself up on the couch. "I am Tortini the Great. I will finish this painting by midnight tomorrow."

Mr. Ballonis' smiled broadly. "Outstanding. I will be here at midnight to pick it up." He put on his hat and picked up his cane. "Good afternoon, Mr. Tortini."

After Mr. Ballonis had shut the door behind him, Tortini wobbled to his feet and sat on the stool before the painting. He felt so weary that he could barely prop himself up. But the painting had to be finished. With renewed determination, he picked up the brush and dabbed it in tan. Moments later, the door to the studio opened and Emilio poked his head inside with a worried look on his face.

"Come in, Emilio." Tortini said. "I've something to show you."

Emilio entered the studio, cautious. "Master, I've been so worried about you. It's been five days and I have not heard from you. I have tried to call you, but it seems your line is not working."

"I am working on my masterpiece, Emilio. This is the painting that will gain me the fame I seek."

Emilio went over to the painting and looked at it. He flinched.

"What do you think? Is it not great?"

"Is - is this what you're been working on for the past five days?" he asked, trembling.

"What's wrong? You don't like it?" Tortini demanded savagely.

"Master, perhaps you've had too much drink."

"And why do you say that?"

"Master, I see nothing on this canvas. The canvas is blank."

Incredulous, Tortini gazed into the eyes of his image on the painting. His eyes gazed back at him. Indeed, the painting seemed more vibrant and alive than that of his reflection in the mirror. "Are you telling me you see nothing at all on this canvas? You don't see the image of your master?"

"I see nothing."

Tortini slapped Emilio, who fell to the floor more from the expectation of a strong blow than the actual blow itself.

"You see nothing?" Tortini asked again.

"No!"

Tortini kicked him in the ribs. "How dare you make a mockery of me!"

"Master, I don't see anything!"

"Little fool! You see what you want to see!"

Tortini kicked Emilio a few more times but grew weak quickly and felt as though he would faint. He staggered back to the couch to catch his breath. Emilio remained on the floor, curled into a ball, more terrified than hurt.

"I'm painting this portrait for Mr. Ballonis. Surely you crossed him in the hallway as you came to the studio."

"I saw no one in the hallway, Master."

"You must have. He left only seconds before you came to the door."

"Master, I saw no one in the hallway. The hallway was empty."

Tortini sneered. "And the canvas is blank? You indignant little imbecile!" He mustered his strength and heaved himself to his feet. "Do you think I'm a fool? Get out of my studio!" he said, pointing to the door.

"But I'm telling you the truth!"

"Out! Now!"

"But, Master!"

Tortini staggered over to Emilio, and like a drunken man, dragged the boy to his feet and hustled him out the studio door. "Don't come back," he yelled as he slammed and locked the door. Feeling drained of energy and wheezing for breath, he fell to his knees. He wanted to sleep, but then he remembered that Mr. Ballonis would return for the painting tomorrow night. He stared at the back of the canvas on its easel. The painting would be completed, for he was Tortini the Great.

The hours passed, and the painting was amended in even greater detail than before. His will power pushed his skilled hands, and the paint flowed easily from his brush to the canvas. He worked on the painting for the rest of the day, then far into the night. Soon, he could go no further. He laid down his brush and slept for a few hours.

He crawled back to the easel. Before he began, he stared hard at his face in the mirror. He seemed to have aged years in the last week. His image on the canvas seemed more alive than he did at that moment. He had just turned his stool to move back to the painting when he thought he saw movement in his peripheral vision. He turned to the painting and stared at it. For a brief instant, he thought he saw the image on the canvas blink its eyes. He stared at the eyes of the painting. Though they looked real, they did not move at all. He attributed the phenomenon to lack of rest and continued work on the painting.

By the time he was putting the final touches on the painting, it was close to midnight, and the smelly paints had been nearly used up. He added a final few brush strokes to his right cheek. Suddenly, he felt as though someone had touched him there. His vision blurred. He swooned and fell to the floor and could barely move. He summoned all his strength and crawled to the couch. He lay down and stared at the canvas on the easel. His work was great. It seemed real, to stare back at him, maybe with pity. Undeniably, the painting was a masterpiece: immense, intense, and immortal.

There came a loud ringing in his ears, and through the ringing, he heard the door to his studio open. He craned his head to see Mr. Ballonis enter.

"Greetings, Mr. Tortini," he said, not seeming to notice Tortini's recumbent form on the couch.

Tortini tried to speak but found that he was too weak. The ringing in his ears intensified. He had a sense of vertigo; it was as if someone had lifted one end of the couch and was now moving it. Fine work. Fine work, indeed, he thought he heard Mr. Ballonis say above the din. Now the room seemed to be spinning around Tortini. Faster and faster it went until it appeared as an iridescent blur of smeared paints. The vertigo intensified until he felt as though he were a frayed feather tossed about in the winds of a cyclone. He wanted to vomit, but he did not have the energy to follow through with it.

Then the spinning stopped and he saw himself from the easel across the room, motionless, sprawled on the couch, his mouth agape, lips a deep blue.

Mr. Ballonis stepped in front of his line of sight and spoke directly to him. "You've done well, Mr. Tortini. I'm very impressed."

Mr. Ballonis took a wad of bills out of his black overcoat and put them in the paint-stained hand of the man on the couch. Tortini tried to speak, but his mouth felt cast of stone. His right cheek still itched with moist paint.

"Yes, Mr. Tortini," Mr. Ballonis said wistfully as he produced a black cloth in which to cover the painting. "You have created a masterpiece, but I am the greater Master."

And with that, Mr. Ballonis covered the painting, and all went black for Tortini the Great.

          CHARLES ROCHA