Alex
June 23, 2013
at Moor’s College,
I was speaking with my mother on
the phone in the morning. My parents live in Moscow, and I call every day. Today she wanted
to make sure where exactly in the backyard I was sitting with my cup of coffee,
closer to Kathie’s side or to Ashlee’s. I confused her by saying that we moved
the table into the middle of our tiny patio, and I was not in the sun, but in
the shade of the Japanese maple. “Then,’” she said, “you must be closer to
Kathie’s side.” “Maybe,” I answered,
“but if so then very insignificantly.” It was her love for details that might
help me in writing, I thought and felt irrational anxiety of running late. I
made arrangements neither with homeless nor readers, but I had to
rush on my mission, anyway.
In town I walked through the lawn
in front of the library. There were many people lying next to their bags, but I
didn’t stop. I crossed towards Franklin Institute. The bench where I found Aaron last week was occupied by a father and two kids. From there I saw my aim. He was
a bearded man, who with a strong gesture just threw a peace of green cucumber. “Hi,” I said. “God be with you!” “I want to ask you for a
favor.” “What can I do for you?” “Can I paint your portrait?” “This is
impossible! I am the god’s servant; you cannot paint my portrait! Do you know
the man named Jesus Christ?” “Yes, I do. I am Lena” He paused, “They know me as William.”
“Your name is William?” “They know me as William here. Jesus taught in spoken
word, in written word and through his servants! I am his servant. He taught us
to love our neighbors. I love you and I want to sit with you and have a
conversation.” I sat down on the bench next to him. “I want to listen to what
you have to say, and…” but he interrupted, “I am more interested in what you
can teach me!” I was looking in his shining eyes. He was formidably handsome.
“Can we speak while I am painting?” “This is impossible! What do you want to
paint for? Will it help you to understand god? No! Instead of talking with me and having meaningful spiritual exchange you want to make me an unanimated object!
Tell me, can a portrait talk back to you like I do? Does it have lips or tong
to speak to you?” “In a way it can," I said, "I happened to be an artist, and painting talks to me. It is my way of
connecting. I believe, I can capture your essence, at least for myself, and it
will help me to remember…” “No! You cannot paint me, but I love you. Who is one
person in the world you love?” I paused thinking of my children, my husband, my friends, hesitating to name the one. “What? I am asking you who is one
person in the world you love, and you cannot answer me right away?” “I love my
mother…” “Your mother? God taught us love! I love you, but I am going to walk
away now, because you are still thinking about painting my portrait,” and he
started to collect his things. “William,” I said, but he interrupted me again, “God
is love and he taught through his apostles and through those in the world who
listen to him. He taught that god is good and that he cares for his people and
nothing can happen to them, which is bad. You are my neighbor, and I have love for
you…" ” If you have love, why don’t you listen to what your neighbor has to say?”
He paused somewhat puzzled. “Thank you, William,” I said, “and although I
didn’t paint your portrait, it has been a very interesting conversation.” “God bless you,” he uttered and strode away across the lawn.
I got up from the bench and in a
few paces found myself in the light of Venus’s smile. Resting on the bench far
out of the earshot she seemed to know what I’ve just been through. Those who
know him as William must be familiar with his wards, I thought. Her smile was
inviting. “I am an artist. May I paint your portrait?” She turned to a man
sitting next to her and begged him like a child, “I want to, please, let her
paint my portrait!” He looked strict. I introduced myself, “I am Lena,” Venus was smiling. Her soft olive skin and toothless mouth made her look like a baby. Her articulation was unclear. She repeated her name three times pointing
out in the sky to help me to understand what “Bebus” meant, still, Alex’s
translation was helpful. “I don’t like people taking advantage of us,” he said.
“You know what I mean? People would come to you and ask you questions, and
write down in the notebook everything you say, take your picture, and then you
see it in a newspaper… People make money off us.” “Alex, please,” she begged, "let her paint my portrait!" He turned to me and said generously, “Why not? She is an independent being.” “Thank
you,” she said and jumped off the bench, “I have to go to bathroom.” “Be careful,” he called after her. “You are
very kind to your friend,” I said. “Venus is my wife,” he clarified. “Where is the bathroom
she went to?” I asked. “ At the library,” he explained. I was unpacking my paints. “May I paint you while she is gone?” How long
it will take?” “Not more than forty minutes.” “Ok. We might use some tips.” “I
will give you tips,” I promised. “I call
it tips, because that’s how I made my living. I used to work at the airport,
carrying people’s luggage. I was paid $2.5 per hour, no benefits, but with tips
it made me a decent living. I lived in an apartment then, had children, and all.”
“What happened?” “That’s what happened,” he pointed at the braces on his right
leg. “You got into an accident?” “I was in a number of accidents. Hit by car,
shut. Bullet doesn’t hurt. You know what hurts? Taking it out. Then I couldn’t
work any more. I draw my check from the government once a month, seven hundred
dollars, but it’s the cost for the rent,” he laughed, “and how about
cigarettes?” He took out a cigarette and lit it, “Are you smoking?” “No.” He
waved his palm fanning smoke away from me. “It’s ok,” I said, “I don’t mind.” “Here
she is,” he said, but I couldn’t see her. “Here,” he said, “she is going to get
more food. There is food there. Rich people donate, and churches give it out.
You can get anything you want. The man you were just talking to…” “William?”
“Yes. He is crazy. He speaks smooth, but he is not right in his head. He never
washes, wears dirty cloths.” “You are
very neat,” I said. “It’s because I take care of me and her. There are plenty of shelters around here, you
may take a shower any time.” “Can you do laundry there, too?” “You through away
dirty cloths. You can always get clean cloths here. They give it out away every
week.” Venus came back with a plate of green salad and hamburger. Alex shared cigarette with her. She smiled. “She will paint me first, and then she will paint you," he explained."It’s because you went to the bathroom. She promised us some tips.” Venus nodded
happily. “People take advantage of us,” he repeated. “I don’t see how it hurts
you if I tell people your story,” I said. “Nothing’s wrong in
telling people our story, but they make it public. You
know what I mean?” I nodded. I took out a new paper to paint Venus. Alex looked
at his portrait and smiled politely. “You have beautiful eyes, Venus,” I said.
“Green,” she nodded and chewed with her mouth. “Hazel,” Alex corrected. “No,
green,” she insisted. He laughed. “Alex told me that you have children,” I merged. “No," Alex waved his hands, "not with her! I had another wife then.” Venus smiled. “Where did you
grow up? ”I changed the subject. "In New York,” Venus answered. “When did you come here?” “My parents
brought me here when I was seventeen, and I had a nervous breakdown,” and she
smiled again.
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