Chapter 2 #2
Perhaps it’s because Loris’ interest is part of his job description.
Listening to slices of life while he cuts slices of fruit, when the lone customer at the bar seems heavy-hearted.
He will care enough to give Charles his full attention, but he won’t care to the point of passing judgement. A safe amount of caring.
As long as Charles manages to emphasise why he loves the pen without touching upon the reasons why he needs it.
‘I can’t promise it will captivate you.’
‘Try me.’
‘It’s Russian, yes. It says The Mind of Wonders.
It’s the title of a book. Here it says Kaunas, the city in Lithuania.
And this coat of arms almost erased, it’s the signature symbol of the painter who wrote it.
The book. That painter wrote a book, but he was a painter, it’s… Alright, Charles, let’s be concise.’
‘Tequila’s fault, you said?’
‘Shut up.’
Loris rubs his grinning lips together, and Charles clears his throat.
‘I’m really into art. Fine arts, that is.
And I’m a huge fan of a Slovakian painter from the 1920s, called Olwinski.
He’s not well known, but he’s been one of my obsessions since I was a kid.
He only created one collection of six paintings, The Lands of Wonders.
Each Land was inspired by a different Eastern European city, and they’re absolute masterpieces.
The depiction of the cities is utopian and surrealist, but Olwinski also kept their essence and history somehow.
They’re incredible. This man was a genius.
And later in his life, he wrote an autobiography, The Mind of Wonders.
It’s a difficult read. It’s raw and dark, but it’s fascinating to glean all the hardship he suffered and how he hid it in the Lands.
The book is like a map leading to all the treasures we missed in the paintings.
It’s astounding. I love it. I… I truly love it. ’
Loris is done cutting limes. He’s facing Charles, intense and inquisitive, his arms folded over his t-shirt.
‘And so, the pen… Five years ago, I went to State Hermitage, the museum in St Petersburg. Hence the inscription in Russian. They own one of the Lands, and at that time they were exhibiting two. A loan from Le Louvre. And during the event, the gift shop sold limited editions of Olwinski-branded stuff. Notebooks, mugs, even socks. And pens. One for each painting. I bought and kept all six, but this one is special. It’s attached to the painting named Kaunas.
I adore it, but I’ve never seen it with my own eyes.
It’s owned by a private collector who secluded himself in Ustica, in Sicily.
Which I find a bit wrong. In the 40s, Ustica was a prison island where fascists banished thousands of people, including homosexuals.
And every true fan of Olwinski knows he was gay.
So it’s a dubious choice to keep the painting there.
The island is entitled to redemption, yes, but of all places… And I went off topic.’
‘It’s okay.’
‘In summary, this cheap pen is precious to me because it’s the closest thing I have to a painting I’ll never see.
Well, I have posters, which are closer to the real thing, but the pen was a limited edition so it’s as valuable as the painting.
In a way. A cheap way. It’s— I’m terrible at making sense.
But that’s why I’m grateful you kept it. ’
‘Interesting…’
‘I believe so. Not my story, but Olwinski’s life, and his art. It’s fantastic, he’s criminally underrated and—’
‘Fuck, sorry!’ Loris’ eyes snap up. ‘Yeah, I’m coming!’ he shouts at the group of construction workers in overalls waving from the patio. ‘I’ve asked them to stay outside when they’re dripping fresh paint, but they’re not great at patience either.’
‘I’ll let you work.’ Charles puts the pen away in his bag. ‘Thank you for listening.’
‘That’s what I’m here for.’
Jack the illustrator is taking a break from his rest and watches them as they cross the room.
Once outside, Charles squints again to adjust to the brightness. It’s warmer now that his anguish has fallen away. He will have to remove his coat before climbing up the Heath or Elsy will bar him from her personal space at dinner.
‘Slacking off, Loris?’
‘Give me a break, Richie. And a second. Charles, just one thing!’
‘Yes?’
‘The Mind of Wonders isn’t an autobiography.’
‘Sorry?’
‘It’s a convoluted made-up life story. It ruins everything that’s great about Pavel Olwinski. Sure, it’s well written, but it’s the biggest fraud in art history.’
‘Sorry?’
‘It was nice to meet you anyway! Okay, lads, what can I get you? We’re out of Sharp’s, but don’t shoot the messenger.’
The friendly booing that erupts from the table muffles Charles’ third ‘Sorry?’, and Loris disappears behind arms dripping paint.
So Charles edges away, short-circuiting.
He’s yet to reconnect the right components when he enters the park. It’s only when he passes by the first pond that light bulbs come on in Charland.
Loris knows of Olwinski, but Charles didn’t check before flaunting his expertise, because he assumed the barman would have no clue.
Charles’ stomach turns.
Loris knows of Olwinski, which must be the reason why he didn’t discard the pen.
Charles’ heart swells.
Loris knows of Olwinski but is full of shit about him.
Charles’ blood boils.