The Artist
by Zaher Alajlani
The Artist
Two giant mountains with tall beech trees cradled Marseau. A dirt road split the Transylvanian village in two and ended a few meters before the churchyard. Thickets stood like sentries on each side, interrupted only by the occasional house here and there. I say ‘occasional’ because the village had only about a hundred inhabitants—mostly shepherds and farmers whose teeth were either rotten or missing.
From their good teeth, one could distinguish the very few wealthy people. The most prominent of those was George Bogdasan, the father of the young, beautiful Ligia. George owned Marseau’s only grocery store. He’d often ride his burgundy carriage to the nearby city of Cluj and return with several wagons of goods mounted by malnourished young men. They helped him unload and carry the bundles and boxes to his warehouse in exchange for bread and cold meat.
The Bogdasans lived right next to the church where Father Iacov and his blind adopted daughter, Crina, lived in a spare room in the basement. When she was about ten, Crina fell ill. Her eyes became watery, her nose runny, and her temperature high. Her peasant parents tried the remedies of the poor. They put vinegar-soaked, damp washcloths on her forehead, gave her pickled cucumber juice, and prayed. Only when they realized that her vision had become very dim did they seek help from the young Father Iacov. He managed to send her to a hospital in Cluj, but it was too late: Measles had already stolen Crina’s eyesight. Soon after, consumption claimed her father, then her mother.
The unmarried Father Iacov adopted her. Then, when the grieved girl would shake, say, “I miss my parents,” and weep, the priest would hold her, kiss her forehead, and say, “Come, sweetheart, let me read something beautiful to you.”
He’d read her magnificent passages from the Gospel of John and chant holy Orthodox hymns. Among the icons she couldn’t see, Crina grew into a solemn young woman with tanned blonde hair, a petite frame, and a heart kept tender by nights of unceasing prayer. She memorized every inch of the church and learned how to care for herself and her father on her own. She was a marvelous cook who took pity on the elderly and the orphans.
Most people in that village could afford only one meal a day. Though Father Iacov made sure that there was enough food in the pantry for her to eat three or even four times daily, Crina never ate more than once. The rest she gave away to those who had nothing. Sometimes, she’d even give away the only meal she had left. “You take it. Don’t worry. I’ve already eaten,” she’d tell her white lie with a smile. “The blind saint,” the needy would call her, but that was it. No one saw her as anything but a kind servant.
Crina was still a woman, however, who desired the love of a man. Her entrenched sense of loneliness didn’t make her bitter, and she was a stoic who smiled at torment. Her predicament was not that she couldn’t see, for she knew that most of the bustle of life was not worth seeing anyway. Her tragedy was that no one truly saw her. No young man invited her to a dance or asked her to go for a walk in the forest. She didn’t hear any of the compliments given to young women. No, “You look beautiful today,” or “I love how you laugh.” Even Cristian, the supposedly sensitive artist, said nothing more than a cold greeting when he saw her. He never bothered to smile. And why would he if she couldn’t see it anyhow?
She always had a tingly feeling in her heart when she heard his voice, smelled his musky cologne, or listened to his footsteps approaching. Yet, he was blind to her feelings. He never recognized the tender tone of her voice when she replied to his casual salutations, nor did he see the dignified suffering pervading her lineaments when their brief conversations went like this:
“Good morning,” he’d say upon entering the church to visit Father Iacov.
“Good morning, Cristian. How are you doing?” She’d beam.
“Good. Good. Your father is in his office, right?”
“Yes.”
He’d leave her standing broken and knock on Father Iacov’s door. The last thing she’d hear before Cristian closed the door was her father saying, “Come in, Cristian. Welcome. Welcome.”
Like all the young men in Marseau, Cristian was in love with Ligia and her breasts, which were like two ripe apples, and her jet-black hair that flowed down her slender shoulders and touched her peach-like bottom. Whenever she passed by, men would turn their heads and grin awkwardly as though saying, “Here comes the girl who has it all: beauty, fortune, and noble blood. Lucky is the man who’ll win her heart.”
Luck got on Cristian’s side, for Ligia didn’t pay attention to anyone but the blue-eyed Clujean youth who’d moved to the village some years prior and built a small distillery. In winter, he and Father Iacov would frequently visit her father. They’d sit by the fireplace in the spacious living room, drinking and discussing the raging Russo-Turkish War. Ligia would come in with small plates of pickled cucumber, roasted nuts, or whatever balanced out the taste of alcohol.
“I’m glad you moved to our village. Father Iacov and I can’t discuss such things with any of the peasants here. They’re unrefined,” she’d often hear her flush-faced father saying as he twirled his handlebar mustache. “Did you greet Cristian?” he’d then tell his daughter.
Ligia usually replied with a shy smile followed by a lowered gaze and some standard niceties. She liked him, certainly. His shoulder-length hair and city accent intrigued her, but his artistry impressed her most. Summertime in the village had become exciting since his arrival, for he was an amateur actor who’d assembled a theatrical troupe from some of the few literate locals. Throughout the pleasant season, on a makeshift stage in the churchyard, they put on famous tragedies, especially those in which the hero died.
He was not an awful actor and didn’t stutter his lines like his comrades, but by no means did he excel in anything but death scenes. When the prop sword struck him in the chest, he’d bulge his eyes and tremor, then fall to his knees while pressing his hands on his wound. He’d mutter his last words and fall on his face. The audience always responded with a standing ovation that echoed in the church where Crina knelt in prayer. Father Iacov would tap the thigh of whoever sat next to him. “Marvelous. Such a talented young man,” he’d say. Mr. Bogdasan would be the last to stop clapping.
Young women encircled him after the performance and asked, “How do you do that? Who taught you how to act? Do you think acting is an inmate talent or something you learn?”
He always gave a different response, depending on whether he felt like being humble or not. His answers ranged from, “I don’t think I’m talented, but I work hard,” to “God has given me this amazing talent to bring joy to all of you.”
Ligia never missed any of his plays, too. She’d sit gracefully on the ladder-back chair, a princess among peasants, showering him with looks of admiration and crying whenever he acted the death scene. One pleasant summer night, as she saw his eyes absorbing her, she joined the rest of his admirers. She stood under the clear star-full sky, holding a rose she’d plucked from her spacious garden.
He pushed through the crowd and walked towards her. “Did you like the play?”
She blushed, clasped the stem, and whispered, “It was magical, especially the death scene,” before looking away with eyes heavy with shyness.
“I’m glad you liked it.” His smile came across as confident and charming. “So, do you always carry a rose around? You know, in Romania, we carry garlic for protection against vampires?” He could feel the fire of her lust glowing before him.
“N-N-No.” Her awkward laugh came on, then faded away. “It’s for you.” She extended her hand.
He looked at it, then at the rose, and thought that her shapely, thin fingers with their clean and trimmed nails didn’t belong to a mere noblewoman in Marseau. They could’ve easily belonged to the hand of a princess who lived in one of those high Transylvanian castles with watchtowers, guards, and drawbridges. He took the rose, smelled it, put it behind his ear, held Ligia’s hand to his lips, and kissed it.
She moved her hand away, muttering, “No.” But her eyes gave away her approval.
From then on, they began their courtship in secret to avoid the insipid gossip of the villagers. It was still warm, and there was no place better than the splendid Transylvanian forests to make love to a woman on a summer afternoon. As they stood among the lofty trees under the watch of the nearby mountains, Ligia would slowly undo the buttons of her dress one after the other as though testing Cristian’s patience. His thirsty eyes gulped every bit of her exposed flesh. Finally, Ligia’s dress would hit the ground, and soon after, the two of them would be on top of it, rolling in desire. The sky melted with heat, and so did the two lovers.
They spent that summer making love and exchanging veiled looks of desire when surrounded by people, especially when she sat in the audience watching him acting his death scenes. They talked little when they met. She never inquired about his past nor cared to know what brought him to her village. She treated him as something precious and new like a girl treats a dress or a pair of shoes.
“You know, I love the quiet of Marseau. It helps me feel distant from all the pain and suffering I left behind in Cluj,” he told her once after they’d made love in the forest.
“There’s no need to think about the past or pain now.” She caressed his hair. “You have such beautiful hair. Do you know that?”
He smiled and said nothing.
“You know I love you,” she added.
“I know. I love you, too.” He kissed her, and they made love again.
There was fog, rain, humidity, mud, and an aura of misery when fall came. With his troupe’s help, Cristian dismantled the stage and stored it in the church’s cellar.
Father Iacov blessed the youth. “We’re waiting for the next summer. I’m sure you’d do more amazing performances then. My son, when you act those death scenes, you incite passions in us that remind us what it means to be alive.”
“Of course, Father. The Lord willing, I’ll be reading more plays this winter to perform next summer.”
“You do that. Doamne ajuta (May God help),” said the priest before Cristian left.
The winter was unforgiving that year. The temperature kept plummeting, and heavy snows often blocked roads to nearby cities. Many cattle died. Everyone complained but Mr. Bogdasan, who sold the canned food he’d stacked at a higher price.
“You see how hard it is to bring supplies from the city. Everything costs more now. Trust me, my profit is even less than before,” he’d lie to the customers.
This frigid weather wore down the two young lovers. The colder it got, the less they saw each other. Whenever Cristian visited Mr. Bogdasan with Father Iacov, he’d excuse himself to go to the bathroom only to sneak into the kitchen where Ligia was overseeing the maid preparing food or washing the dishes.
“Hey,” he’d whispered to her. “Ligia.”
“Keep doing what you’re doing until I come back,” she’d tell the maid, grab Cristian by the hand, and drag him to the corner of the long corridor. “Are you crazy? She might tell Father.”
“I don’t care. I love you. I’ll ask him for your hand right now.” He’d try to kiss her.
She’d push him away. “Not here. Not now.”
“When then? When? I miss you.”
“I miss you, too, but now it’s not a good time.”
“Why?” His eyes would pool with tears. “I’m sure your father would accept if I tell him I want to marry you?”
“I know. But—”
“But what? Don’t you want me anymore? Don’t love me anymore?” He’d hold her hand.
She’d pull away. “Of course, I do. But I hate winter. I don’t want us to get engaged now. Let’s wait for the summer. There’s the sun, singing birds, bloomy forest, clear nights, and your beautiful plays.”
“Ok. Let’s put off the engagement until then. But I miss being with you. I miss touching you. Why don’t you come to my house?”
“Doamne Fereste (God forbid)!” She’d put her hand on her chest with her mouth agape. “What would people say?”
Cristian would bite the corner of his lower lip while looking at her with eyes oozing desperation.
“Go back to the living room so father won’t suspect anything. Go.”
“When would I be able to talk to you next time?”
“I’ll let you know, I promise. Go now. Go,” she’d tell him before he retreated to the living room like a defeated soldier.
She never kept her promise, and he never ceased hurting.
Men may survive battles and bear the scars with pride. They may survive disease and triumph against nature, but no man can truly survive the repeated rejection of a woman he loves. Such wounds always remain open; time doesn’t heal them but pours salt into them.
The bitter taste of an unrequited love ravished him like a crippling disease. It made him apathetic and lethargic. He spent more time at home until he eventually stopped going to the distillery, leaving it in the hands of his four workers.
“Sir, this is the profit for this week,” they’d say when they visited him.
“Put it on the table and leave,” he’d reply.
“It is around fift—”
“‘Put it on the table and leave,’ I said.”
They’d look at each other, then slip out of his place, closing the door gently.
Without even looking at the money, he’d return to what he had been doing before they bothered him: sitting in his rocking chair opposite the window in the living room, drinking alcohol, and staring at the gray sky floating above the snow-covered forest and mountains.
In his drunken stupors, he’d sometimes trudge toward the Bogdasans’.
Maybe I’d see Ligia. Perhaps this time, she’d come back home with me. I’d lay her on the bed and get on top of her. I’d kiss her lips ever so softly like a monk kisses a holy icon, then smell her neck. Then, I’d have her, and she’d tell me that she missed me and that I should ask her father for her hand, he’d imagine.
Nonetheless, an avalanche of spite would hit him when his eyes fell upon that extravagant structure housing the woman who’d broken his heart. He felt as though the closed shutters were mocking his pain. To hell with Ligia. To hell with the Bogdasans. To hell with this village. He’d walk back to his home, crushed.
There were times, especially when the weather got slightly better, when he saw Mr. Bogdasan and Father Iacov standing by the front gate, talking and gesticulating.
“Come on, Cristian. Join us. It’s been a while,” they’d shout when spotting him.
He’d throw his hand in the air, yell “Some other time,” and disappear.
People started spreading the word that Cristian had become a mean alcoholic. Naturally, the farmers and shepherds were eager to believe it, for such unrefined people usually revel when an educated person goes mad. The elite of Marseau was also thrilled because they got the chance to feign sympathy while enjoying new gossip.
“The poor soul, I used to like him a lot. But he destroyed himself. A good man must master his impulses,” Mr. Bogdasan would moralize to Father Iacov.
“I think I should visit him and give him some advice. After all, I’m the p—”
Mr. Bogdasan would interrupt Father Iacov. “You’re a respectable man of God. What if he attacks you or insults you, that won’t be good at all. That would affect the church’s standing, which is not good for any believer in the village. If Cristian needs help, he must come to us. Remember we invited him in vain several times to talk to us?”
“Yes.” Father Iacov would shake his head.
“He’s not even going to his distillery, I hear. I’m sure he’ll soon lose his business like he lost his mind.”
Mr. Bogdasan was right. Cristian began getting poorer.
“I’m afraid you need to employ other people,” Cristian’s foreman eventually told him. “Two of my fellow workers are sick now. The third is moving to Cluj, and I,” he coughed, “I,” he coughed again, “I better find a less tasking job in some city, too. This is last week’s profit.” He put the stack on the table and left.
Cristian immediately went back to his drinking and pointless horizon gazing. Soon afterward, the distillery became as useless as Cristian’s existence.
In his self-imposed exile, Cristian began going through a vicious cycle of agony. He often had a low-grade fever and vomited the little food he force-fed himself. At night, his temperature went up, and he writhed and shivered. He’d think of Ligia and recall their conversations in the forest. “There’s no need to think about the past or pain now,” Ligia’s words played over and over in his head, breeding misery that, unlike his money, accompanied him until late spring when he began spitting blood.
He immediately knew it was consumption. He found himself in a prison inside a prison: homebound and trapped inside his weak flesh. In his dreams, he’d see himself standing on the stage, acting, and getting admired. He heard applause and cheering crowds and could feel the affectionate eyes of young women fixed upon him. But that was all in his dreams. In reality, only the eyes of death were ogling him.
Death was no longer a third person to him, someone else’s, or something he acted. Death was now his own, and he could only refer to it in the second person. “My death. My awful, untimely death, I know there’s no way to run from you,” he’d mutter every time he went into a coughing fit and turned white handkerchiefs red.
He started thinking less and less about Ligia. By the summer, there was almost no food in his pantry. He tolerated hunger and kept drinking whatever alcohol he had to ease it. He slept more, threw up more frequently, and often fainted. He began putting ropes around his stomach and fastening them tight. He’d heard somewhere that this was a common practice during a famine. “But there’s no famine,” he told himself when starvation finally broke him. “I can go to the forest and find something to eat, some berries or mushrooms.”
The sunlight, fresh air, and singing birds assaulted Cristian when he set foot outside. There’s a happy world, a living world outside my walls. He closed the door and began walking, wheezing with every step. I can’t. I can’t. I need to rest. When he reached the edge of the forest, he put his back against a tree trunk and slid down like a dewdrop until he sat in its shade. I need to rest. I’ll close my eyes for a minute. He did so and then died unceremoniously, without the glamour of the stage, the admiring looks, or the cheering. He didn’t grab his chest, nor did his eyes protrude. It was such an unremarkable end, like blowing out a candle.
Two local foresters found his dead body and took it to church the next day. After three days, in line with the Orthodox Christian tradition, Cristian was prepared for burial and taken to the cemetery. Only the gravedigger, Crina, and Father Iacov were present, for everyone else in Marseau was attending a play performed by a professional theatrical troupe that had come from Cluj. “Hamlet. Come see life and death happening on the stage,” the poster said, and Ligia was the first to be intrigued. She wore her best dress to the play. As the gravedigger threw dirt on Cristian’s coffin, Crina began crying.
ABOUT “THE ARTIST”
“The Artist” is a story of an unlikely revival, one that is attained through tragedy. Neither art nor love revives Cristian, the story’s protagonist. The standing ovation, admiration, and Ligia are all but a “chasing after the wind” (Ecclesiastes 2:11). Only when Cristian begins to suffer does he undergo a revival, realizing that there is “a happy world, a living world outside [his] walls.” Because of its bleakness, some readers may find it difficult to view “The Artist” as a story of revival or even as a Christian story. But that is not the point of fiction or Christianity. Fiction must explore the dark corners of life, and Christianity, to borrow from Saint Paul, is about the “good fight.”
Zaher Alajlani is a Pushcart nominated Syrian short-story author, editor, researcher, and translator living between Romania and Greece. His work has been featured in various publications, including Agape Review, Ariel Chart, Bandit Fiction, Active Muse, Revista Echinox, The Way Back to Ourselves, and The Journal of Romanian Literary Studies. He is a prose editor for Agape Review and a proofreader for Metacritic Journal for Comparative Studies and Theory. Zaher is working on a Ph.D. at the Babes-Bolyai University of Cluj-Napoca. His research focuses on early modern horror fiction, the relationship between science and religion, and the 19 th-century mad scientist prototype. He speaks English, Arabic, Romanian, and Greek.