Read Illicit Canvas: political romance and stand alone romance Online
Authors: Joanna Mazurkiewicz
The next day we don’t wake up until ten. My head is pounding again. I mixed too many spirits with wine at the bar last night. It looks like Bruges suits us both. It’s so romantic out here and I feel calmer waking up next to Ethan in the morning. When I think about the art dealer, I’m back to being a nervous wreck. It’s another name on the list, another person that could help us in finding my bastard father. At the beginning I thought that my search was all about closure; now I get that it’s also about rebuilding a family history, fixing my irrational thinking.
“Morning,” I sing, stretching my arms. “This bed is comfy and I don’t think I want to move my sexy arse out of here.”
“We should go out for breakfast. It’s a beautiful day,” Ethan says, staring out at the clear blue sky. We are lucky; it’s cold, but we fought the sun.
“I’m starving.”
“Okay, get dressed and let’s go. Enough lounging for this morning.”
We choose a small bistro near the hotel in the square. We have some croissants, coffee and then eggs. The food is delicious. We are both relaxed, but I sense that there is something in the air, a thrill of anticipation. I don’t know at all what to expect. There have been too many disappointments.
“Crap, I’m stuffed now,” I say, patting my lovely stomach that Ethan is so well acquainted with. He smiles and takes a sip of his coffee.
“Are you sure that you’re ready for this?”
I keep smiling, but a deep and wrenching fear settles in my stomach now, crushing my confidence to pieces.
“Yes, I am. This has gone on for too long, Ethan,” I assure him, lying to myself.
“All right. I want you to know that I’ll be there for you,” he adds, squeezing my hand. I let go of a small gasp, and after a short argument about the bill, we return to the hotel.
In the car, Ethan checks the address. Voltare’s main office is farther away from the main square, on the outskirts of Bruges.
It’s a beautiful day and I don’t know why, but I’m hesitant. Maybe it’s because I’m afraid of another disappointment. I think that I’ve grown so much in the past couple of weeks and this can only set me back.
Fifteen minutes later we pull up by a side street. It looks like Voltare owns an antique shop next door to his workshop. I walk around the car and take the painting out of the boot, feeling on edge.
We check out the antique shop and one of the staff members lets us through to the office. The place is filled with beautiful but expensive-looking pieces. Voltare’s collection is well maintained. He has built a rare portfolio. The smell of paint clouds the air—it is a smell that has been following me since the day I sat down to paint for the first time.
There is a man in there who looks like a local, typing furiously on the computer.
“How can I help?” he asks in French.
“We would like to speak to Lucas. Is he available?” asks Ethan, squeezing my hand.
“Can I help you with anything? Mr. Voltare is setting up paintings for an exhibition that's on tomorrow,” the young man replies.
“No, I’m sorry; this is quite important and personal. Can we see him? We won’t take much time,” Ethan continues. He always acts so cool and collected, it seems like people pay him to be polite.
The man disappears and I try to breathe steadily, but the tension is slowly getting to me. I hear a loud discussion in Flemish in the distance and after some time an older man appears. He has a thick black beard and copper hair.
“Please, come through. I’m extremely busy today, so this has to be quick.”
“We appreciate it and won’t take much of your time,” Ethan says.
He walks us though a long corridor and soon we find ourselves in a large room where the exhibition is going to be held. It’s a wide plain white room, very spacious.
“How can I help you?” he asks.
“I got this, Ethan,” I say, knowing that I need to take control, get involved. This whole thing is about me.
I explain to Voltare what I’m searching for, letting him know who gave me his details. “I think I better show you. Many people don’t believe me when I say that there is a third copy,” I add. He is looking at me strangely, like he is confused but intrigued at the same time.
For the first time my hands are steady when I unwrap the paper, and when my painting is out in the open, I feel nothing. It’s like the anxiety has vanished and I want people to see my creation.
“Impressive and thrilling. Who painted this?” he asks.
“I did, the way I remembered it,” I say, massaging my neck. “So have you seen it? We didn’t have much luck with other dealers, so I’m”
“Yes, I have and I know the owner personally, but you’re wasting your time. He won’t sell it; he loves this painting.”
My heart drops and my mouth goes dry. For a long, sluggish moment I stare at him without saying anything. Ethan’s hand creeps over my back.
“We just want to talk to him, please,” I say because Arwen has gone too quiet. She keeps saying the right things, but this man won’t give her any details. He protects the privacy of his clients.
“Have you got his address?”
He looks at me then and narrows his eyes. “You don’t want to buy any art from me?”
“No, Mr. Voltare, we don’t, but it’s important that we speak to this man. We have been trying to track him down since September,” I say.
“All right, we can make a deal. Sell me your reproduction and I’ll give you his details.”
Arwen pales and I stare at Voltare, angry that I didn’t see this coming, shocked that he’d dare to propose something like that. He must sense that Arwen will do anything to get what she needs out of him.
“Why? Why do you want the painting?” I ask, curious, trying to steady myself.
“Because I do, Mr…?”
“Rivera, Ethan Rivera. This is my girlfriend, Arwen West.”
“I can’t sell it to you. It’s the only memory about my father that I have,” says Arwen with a heavy voice.
“I’m not allowed to disclose any personal information about my clients, and that particular one likes his privacy.”
I want to punch this arrogant bastard. My palm is itching and I’m angry. He isn’t protecting anyone; he is making a business transaction.
“Fine then, in that case I’ll sell it to you,” Arwen sighs. I touch her shoulder, pulling her aside.
“Arwen, this doesn’t have to be done this way. You love this painting,” I tell her.
She smiles. “It’s the past and I need to move on. I just want to have this whole thing behind me. It’s time.”
I exhale, looking back at Voltare, who is watching us with grave intensity. He is using an innocent girl to get what he wants, knowing that he can make a large profit on her painting.
“She wants four thousand euros for it and she won’t take anything less,” I say, shoving my hands in my pockets.
Arwen opens her mouth, probably to protest, and I shake my head slightly.
“I might give you three and a half.”
“Four. We both know that this painting is worth more than that. Arwen created a superb reproduction from the original that no one has seen for years. We both know how valuable it is, and we both know that you will do anything to buy it.”
Voltare scratches his beard, not taking his eyes off the painting. I have done some research, and there is a great mystery about this piece that will make many collectors want it. I’ll let him have it for now, but her painting won’t stay in his possession for too long.
“All right, we have a deal.”
Arwen is too quiet and I have no idea what’s going through her mind. Voltare writes the address of her father and we exchange the money for the painting.
Her breathing is shallow when we step outside she looks slightly pale. I bring her to me, hugging her, because I don’t know what else to do.
“Ethan, have you lost your mind? Four thousand euros?” she hisses.
“Okay, I’m sorry. I should have asked for more.”
My heart is pounding faster than it should and I think I’m having a panic attack. I have just sold the only painting that kept me sane. Ethan has lost his mind.
“More? Are you fucking crazy? The painting was hardly worth anything,” I shout. Yes, I was attached to that piece of art, but now I can finally get some real answers.
He runs his hand through his hair, staring at me in confusion. “Arwen, it’s a reproduction of a very rare piece. You don’t even realise how talented you are. He will sell it for more than four thousand euros.”
My jaw drops and I stare at him in disbelief. He can’t be serious. “Ethan, listen to yourself. Some of the established artists don’t sell their work for that much. I can’t believe that he agreed to that ridiculous amount.”
“No, Arwen, established artists sell for much more than that, some in the range of fifty thousand euros and up. Because this is a reproduction, not an original, it wouldn’t command a price that high, but with the mystery surrounding D’Orsay’s work, Voltare will probably double his money. You’re still new to this business, but I have done a lot of research, and trust me, Voltare got himself a real gem at a bargain price. I saw the way his eyes glittered when you took the wrapping paper off. He likely wants to exhibit it tomorrow night.”
“What am I going to do with that kind of money? I mean–”
“Stop it, stop thinking and analysing it. I’m the luckiest man in the world having you close.”
I stop and look at him, realising that I have fallen in love with him. He is kind, caring and perfect. Wide, pulsing love spreads through me, igniting the fire in my belly. I want to tell him everything, scream that I finally found the missing piece of myself, but it’s too early, he won’t understand. Ethan has become a part of me—my life wasn’t worth living before him. He woke me up from a long dream. Ethan has changed me from that withdrawn, damaged girl into a confident woman.
I look down at the address that Voltare had given us.
“It’s an address in Brussels, Ethan.”
“Tell me—what do you want to do, Arwen? We don’t have to stay here. We can leave now.”
“I want to go, but it’s our weekend away. We had so many plans and we’ve barely seen anything.”
Ethan laughs and brings me to his body.
“It’s just the beginning, baby. We have the whole future ahead of us,” he whispers in my ear and my heart is melting. It’s hard to believe I only just met him. I feel like we’ve known each other in the past, maybe in a different life.
We start walking in silence until we reach our hotel. Ethan helps me pack. The phase when I felt hatred and degradation has passed—now I’m excited about the unknown.
Ethan checks us out and several minutes later we are in the car. The drive back to Brussels isn’t long and there is no traffic. Ethan doesn’t cut corners; his satnav is taking us straight to my father’s address.
I check on my phone that he lives on the north side of Brussels, slightly on the outskirts. When Ethan slows down I begin to sweat, breathing faster than I should. We move slowly through a housing estate. There is nothing special about the houses and I keep looking for something familiar, anything that can tell me why my father has chosen to live his life here, in these ordinary surroundings.
“Its number thirty-seven,” Ethan says, and a second later we pull in next to a detached house made of red brick. There is a car parked outside, a small Fiat, and the grass looks like it has just been cut. All sorts of thoughts start to circle around in my head. None of this looks how I imagined. My father liked the sea and art, and in one of the letters that he left my mother, I read that he refused to compare himself to common people.
Maybe it’s a mistake; maybe Voltare gave us the wrong information.
“Should I come with you?” Ethan asks, throwing me back to reality. I blink a few times and clear my throat.
“Yes … right, I think that’s a good idea. I want you to know that I’m not ashamed of being with you despite our age difference.”
“You don’t need to explain. We are together and no one is going to change that.”
Shortly after, I get out of the car and start walking towards this gloomy home. When we finally reach the door, I feel even more surreal; my head can’t get around the fact that behind that door is my real father. Ethan gives me a warm smile, and then I knock. It’s a firm and loud knock. There is someone in the house because I hear steps and my breathing accelerates.
Then a tall, elegant woman opens the door.
The wife.
“Can I help you?” she asks in French. She is pretty, wearing a navy fitted dress; her hair is dark, falling on her shoulders in wicked waves. Ethan nudges me with his elbow, letting me know that I should start talking.
“Yes, we are looking for Mr. Pevez,” I say, nearly enough choking on his name. She smiles again, wider. It’s a fake smile, I can tell.
“You’re looking for my husband? Unfortunately he’s out at the moment. Would you like to come in? He shouldn’t be long,” she asks.
I exhale and look at Ethan. Is it wise for us to talk to her while my bastard of a father is away? She’s a stranger, but I want to know if she is his reason. What the hell is wrong with me? I should be happy that I’m here. Ethan is staring at me intensely and I’m aware that I have been standing there without saying anything for quite some time.
“Yes, right, we will come in, thanks,” I finally say.
“My name is Brigitte, by the way,” she adds. The house is yet again nothing I would have expected. Plain and simple. In the living room, right on the main wall, there is my father’s painting. My breath hitches in my throat as I know that I hadn’t made any mistakes. I have found him. On the wall I spot pictures of his family: Brigitte and a girl possibly four or five years younger than me. She has the same black straight hair and pale complexion. The world around me starts to spin, because I realise that I have a half-sister. This woman Brigitte—she is her mother and I wonder how much she knows, how much my father had revealed to her.
Ethan stares mesmerised at the original painting that he got to know so well.
“Yes, it is beautiful, isn’t it? My husband is very fond of it,” she replies, walking us to the large open-plan living room. The house doesn’t look anything like I would imagine; even the wooden table seems like it wasn’t picked out by him. “Please, would you like to sit?”
“Thank you, Brigitte,” Ethan mutters and I try to suppress my nerves.
“So is there anything that I can help you with?” she asks, looking at Ethan, not me. Maybe she finds him attractive and she thinks that I’m his daughter or something. What’s wrong with her? Can’t she see that I look like her husband?
I start flexing my fingers and after some time I realise that no one is saying anything. The awkward silence is stretching. I look at the kitchen, the living room, trying to picture this family living a normal life, without me and my mother. The questions… I came here to ask questions and find reasons why he abandoned me.
“Arwen, I think you should start.”
I take a deep breath and begin, wondering if I’m doing the right thing. Maybe I should wait for my bastard father. After all, I have no idea if she knows anything or not. When I meet her eyes, there is no warmth or suspicion.
“I’m here because of your husband. He’s my father.”
There. I said it. I wait for her to digest my words. She raises her eyebrows, but doesn’t react. Maybe she doesn’t believe me or doesn’t want to. She is super-calm and this is freaking me out.
“Your father?” she repeats, almost like she wants to pretend that she didn’t hear me.
“Yes, my father and now your husband. He abandoned me when I was ten years old. Me and my mother. We lived in Saint-Malo.”
She takes a deep breath and her eyes shift into recognition, then anger.
“How did you find him? How did you know that he was here?” she asks and I’m pretty sure that I’m losing her.
“Well, he had vanished—disappeared on us. My mother refused to explain anything and she didn’t want to talk about him. This went on for years and by the time I was eighteen I managed to track down his friend, and he revealed that my father was back in Brussels.”
Brigitte stops breathing then and her pupils dilate. Her eyes wander down to my lips and hair. It feels strange to be sitting in front of her. Of course there was another woman, a different family. It looks like I wasn’t the daughter that he wanted.
“But you found him,” she says quietly.
“I had nothing; no leads or address. I enrolled at the university here and I was determined to find him,” I explain. “That painting on the wall, that was the only thing that I remembered. Some art dealers helped me to locate him, so here I am.”
“Yes, and here you are,” she says with irritation in her voice. “And that’s why I don’t get it. Why didn’t you just leave this whole thing alone? It’s been years.”
“Excuse me, but don’t you think you’re being a bit insensitive? I had him in my life when I was a child and then he just vanished, never to come back again. Do you think that’s okay, growing up and not knowing?”
I’m losing my cool with her; my heart is pounding away, skin crawling with fury.
She shakes her head. “It was your mother that took him away from me. We were engaged, happy, when she walked into our lives. But of course, she could never admit to what she’d done. Yes, your perfect mother had broken our engagement. Shortly after that they moved away and then nine months later you were born.”
My head is swimming with confusion. This can’t be true; the bastard always said that it was my fault. My mother is a good woman; she wouldn’t run away with someone else’s fiancé.
“Is that what he told you?” I ask her, smiling, like I’m truly amused.
Brigitte doesn’t like it and her eyes grow bigger and angrier. “Your mother took him away from me and used you to make him stay with her. Years passed by and I moved on, started seeing another man, and I finally got over him,” she explains, throwing it in my face. “Then he shows up after four years telling me that he isn’t happy, that he made a mistake.”
“Arwen, I think we should go. You shouldn’t be speaking to”
“No, Ethan, I want to hear it. I want to know everything.” I cut him off and turn to face Brigitte again. “I want to know why he vanished. Why he has never tried to visit me.”
Brigitte purses her lips.
“Because of your mother. She couldn’t keep him, so she gave him an ultimatum. She told him he could leave, but then she wouldn’t let him see you ever again.”
I can hardly breathe, trying to figure out if she is only saying this in anger. This can’t be the real truth. Ethan shifts on the chair next to me and I don’t dare to look at him.
“My mother would never do something like that.”
Brigitte laughs. “I’m sorry to be the one to break it to you, but it’s true. They were having problems for years. Ronan talked about the fact that he made a mistake marrying her. She didn’t support him in his art and creativity. She was always so cold and distant. We talked for years, and when my other marriage broke down, Ronan came back, leaving his old life behind.”
Ethan wants to say something, but I give him a sign that I’ve got this, that he doesn’t need to interfere.
I’m trying to breathe steadily, but this whole thing is overwhelming, crushing down on me like a pile of bricks. I don’t want to believe in any of this.
“Why would she say that? I get it, the marriage wasn’t great, but I was his daughter and he abandoned me.”
“He had no choice,” she adds dryly, looking away.
There are so many more questions, but I came here to close this chapter of my life behind, to get some sense of relief.
“Tell me, was I the reason that he left? He always said that I was a mistake, that I shouldn’t have happened.”
“Arwen,” Ethan says, but I shake my head, silencing him. It’s better if I know the truth now.
She glances at Ethan briefly and then back at me. “Your mother wanted to keep him, so she got pregnant. He wasn’t ready to be a father, but I guess he tried in the beginning. I’m sorry, but we loved each other deeply and your mother destroyed it. I don’t regret anything and he doesn’t either. It’s your mother; she’s the one who destroyed your life”
“That’s enough, Brigitte,” Ethan says, getting up and cutting her off. He looks livid. I’ve never seen him like this—red face, fists clenched and shallow breaths. His amber eyes meet mine and there I see it. The concern, the sorrow. “You shouldn’t even be speaking to her. We should go back.”
My stomach churns and I feel like I’m going to throw up right now. “I have to use the toilet. I think I’m going to be sick,” I say.
Brigitte gets up abruptly. “I will show you. Come,” she snaps.
When I’m finally alone, behind the closed doors, I hear Ethan and Brigitte arguing. My breathing comes in staggered gasps, so I run the cold water and start splashing some all over my face. My pale and hollow reflection reminds me that this is not the end. Dad pushed me to create art. Then he disappeared and left me with a sadness that hung over me for years. I remember that day when I woke up and felt like I couldn’t carry on with my life. My body felt alien, like it didn’t belong to me, like I had to end it.
I reach out, remembering that time three years ago. It was the day of my secret episode…
Unknown dismissive voices are reaching me, slowly spinning inside me. I’m a waste. My indecisive nature poisons other people. I stand in my kitchen overlooking the wide row of trees behind my house, observing as the wind swirls their branches. I feel like I’m in a bubble, not feeling anything at all apart from my own heavy misery. For one precious day I want to become a tree, just become an inanimate being; rooted deeply into the earth, grounded and solid, protected from falling, not caring about people’s opinions and their intrusive stares. It’s been years, seven maybe, but with each passing day the sadness keeps growing, pulling me back into the gloom, numbing me to life—to living.
I stare back at the prescription drugs that I managed to get. Mum doesn’t know, she doesn’t suspect anything. Right now she is shopping with Francois. It’s not her fault. I don’t blame her for anything. I’m the problem, the reason that my father vanished from my life, the reason that my paintings are useless, uncreative. Every day my darkness creeps in further and further. It’s like a dark creature stands over me, watching and waiting, preying on my soul. In the morning, I don’t have any energy to get up, knowing that I will never paint as well as my father. So what’s the point?
I take a few deep breaths and then drop a number of pills into a bowl, mixing them all together. I have thought about my options. The doctor isn’t much help. He thinks that I’m simply stressed. Mum has her own life. She is worried about me, I know that she is, but no one will ever understand what’s happening to me. I can’t go on like this, feeling unattached to anyone or anything. My head is going to explode.
I force the tears away and pick up the bowl, slipping as many pills into my mouth as I can. I’m choking, but that’s okay. No one said that this would be easy. I swallow, drinking some water, and keep shoving more pills into my throat. I’m losing count of how many there are left in the bowl.
My stomach revolts, but I’ll ruin my plan if I vomit and spit them out. Another couple of gulps of water and the pills move down my throat.
The thrill of excitement rushes through me. It’s funny; for so long I haven’t felt good about myself and now I’m starting to feel lighthearted. Sadness and gloom have been my companions for as long as I remember.
I don’t bother with cleaning. Mum won’t be home for a while and by that time it will be too late. Now it’s just a case of going through with the rest of the plan. I run upstairs, knowing that all these pills are inside me now. In a matter of minutes I will be feeling dizzy. I need to hurry.
I reach under the bed and pull out a thick brown rope, staring at it for a couple of seconds. I want to lose myself, end all this. My heartbeat speeds up. I reach out and flip the rope over the joist
that supports the first floor ceiling. It should take my weight. I tested it earlier with some heavy bags of clothes, and I was satisfied. I’m slowly getting dizzy, so I wrap it around my neck and stand on the chair.
My vision is blurry and tears are starting to stream down my cheek. Now sadness rips me from inside.
This is the only way. There is nothing I can do or change; the dark creature is closer. My father will never know. The paintings are locked in the cupboard, but I didn’t want anyone enjoying them, so I poured red paint over them. My head is filled with raging pain. I can’t keep my eyes open. Just a few more seconds and the sadness will fade away.
On the chair my feet giving it an abrupt shove, and I push it out from under me. I start choking. The rope digs into me, cutting into the skin around my throat. I’m suffocating, jerking my legs, hoping to bring the chair back, panicking. The pain is unbelievable, but real. There is no more oxygen. The pills were supposed to save me from my own self.
Shadowy darkness, the digging claws of death, the pieces of my heart on the floor underneath me. Everything comes together at once. There is nothing anymore. I choke, painfully hanging in my own house, slowly drifting.
“Francois, oh God … please help me!”
Why am I hearing my mother’s voice?
The rope digs deeper into my skin, but the pain subsides. I’m losing touch with this cruel world.
Several weeks later my mother told me that she had a feeling that there was something wrong and she asked Francois to bring her home. A few more seconds and I would have been dead. I was seventeen at the time. I woke up days later in the hospital, in the psychiatric unit. I couldn’t speak or eat anything for weeks. My throat was damaged, raw and painful. The doctors diagnosed me with depression. I had days to think about what I’d done. My plan didn’t work and the sadness didn’t simply go away. It was a desperate cry for help.