The Painting

“Sire will be here in a bit. Please wait there,” said the butler, expressing a bit of disgust at the unwanted disruption at mid-day, the time of the day when he remains really busy doing dusting and cleaning. Not that guests don’t visit the Johnson’s mansion during mid-day, but these guests weren’t worth any more explanation or attention, he concluded.

About an hour later, a bulky brown-haired Mr. Johnson, not more than forty by appearance, painter by profession, wearing a mulberry silk overcoat, walked down the stairs, smoking a Sobranie. Relieved at the sight of this arrival, the woman and her five-year-old daughter, his two guests entered the hall. This was their fourth visit in the Johnson’s mansion with the same purpose. The woman was in a rugged woven gown, minimally stitched from the sleeves. The little girl’s clothes were better off than her mother’s; she had an expressive blank stare in her young eyes, which screamed deeper turbulence than the mysterious ocean. It was similar to something else in the room.

“I am here to collect the wages that was due to Patrick. He is down with small pox and can hardly move. The nearest hospital is about fifty kilometres from the slum and travelling and admission will cost us a large fortune. It would be really helpful to us if you paid us his dues.”, said the woman, repressing the sobbing undertone that had started popping up in her voice.

“O yes I am yet to figure out Patrick’s accounts, along with two more of my butlers and my gardener. I’ll do it once I get time. You know I have a huge important deal coming up tomorrow that requires all my attention. O I have got a call to attend. I beg your leave for today,”, Mr. Johnson left hastily, hardly completing the statement. The woman turned to leave, dejected for the fourth time in this unsuccessful mission of collecting her ill husband’s dues.

Mr. Johnson though, was not lying. He actually had a big business deal coming up that would yield him a promising sum. On the wall of his huge drawing hall, hung a painting, an abstract one, oil on canvas. It wasn’t framed well, but the mesmerizing painting had an understated charismatic charm to it. The painting was a story, in which the colours and the strokes blended in harmoniously to create a raw imagery of the mind of the painter, the master storyteller. It was this painting that Mr. Johnson was about to sell to the chairman of the biggest grossing chain of cultural museums in the States for about two hundred thousand dollars. The deal was finalized and the final monetary transaction was scheduled to take place the next day.

The next day, there was immense commotion at the Johnson’s mansion. The cops had come in, started investigating as the Police Commissioner spoke to Mr. Johnson.

“So you say the painting was here last night when you checked in?”

“Yes Sir, it was right here…as I woke up this morning, it was gone!”, Mr. Johnson replied, his voice hoarse from crying and shouting all morning. The officer noted all details in his diary and was about to leave when Mr. Johnson said, “Sir you need to find out my painting at the earliest. It is one of my most valued creations. It took me about a month to finish the painting. I was about to sell it for two hundred thousand dollars to the Smithsonian American Art Museum. It’s worth more than a lifetime to me.”

As the Commissioner was about to leave, a junior constable came in and whispered something to him. His expression changed into a confused one. He instructed Mr. Johnson that the latter should accompany him to the field. They all got into the police car and drove to the field beside the slum. Mr. Johnson looked perplexed. Have they found out about the painting? He thought. His thoughts were shaken by a sudden jerk, which indicated the car's reaching it's destination, after a thirty minutes drive. As they got off the car, Mr. Johnson could spot his visitors from the previous day at the field. As they got nearer, he saw that beside the woman, on the ground, there was a long patch of soil, darker than it’s surroundings, on which two twigs were planted, making a cross shape.

“Patrick died last night. His condition had got worse. Before we could accumulate some people from the slum to ask for help, it was all over. We could not afford a proper coffin for him. But in order to bury him, we needed something that was close to Patrick’s heart. That was when Susanna went running and brought something…”, she stopped at this, grasping for breath and hope. Five-year-old Susanna sat beside where her father lay buried.

That was when Mr. Johnson and the officer spotted a little triangular outgrowth in the soil beside the burial ground. The police’s team dug up the soil to find out it was Mr. Johnson’s two hundred thousand dollars worth painting; it was buried with its corner stuck up the ground.

“Susanna brought this painting last night…”

Before she could complete her statement, the Commissioner turned to Susanna, whose face did not even register a slight convulsion. On the contrary, she continued staring at her father’s burial ground with the same ardent stare.

“Why did you steal Mr. Johnson’s painting, girl?”, asked the Commissioner.

“O she can’t answer, she’s mute since birth…”, said Susanna’s mother.

Susanna’s eyes had resemblance to the painting. They shared the same tempestuous clarity, voicing a lot of raw emotions, as if screaming out loud everything that was unjustified. The colours of the painting somewhat faded into turbulent sea of emotions those pair of eyes withheld.

The Commissioner picked up the painting. The small signature at it’s right bottom corner read “Patrick K. Jonas”.