Picture of a Small Town

Picture of a Small Town

Marta was a pillar of the community. She always had a friendly word and would never hesitate to help someone in need. She could always be counted on to help with bake sales, car washes, and the like. You could tell by looking at her that she was an artist by her funky, colourful clothes and chunky jewelry. Also, she spoke with a certain dramatic flair. I guess, looking back on it, you could say she was eccentric. Everyone liked her, though, because they knew her heart. 

Marta had an art studio on Main Street, at the end where the artsy shops were and the trendy cafes. I would walk past her shop on my way to and from school. I enjoyed looking through the windows at the paintings. If I put my face right up to the glass and peered in, I could see into the middle of the shop where her easel was. I stood mesmerized, seeing the first swaths of colour appear on the blank canvas, and the next day more, until a picture started to take shape. If she was there, Marta would invite me into her shop for a closer look. She was happy to share her knowledge with a fellow art lover - who wasn’t a critic. My favourite painting of hers was of a cat crouching as if getting ready to pounce. It was so lifelike and the features so intense. She used to joke that it was there to take care of the mice.

One Sunday, a man came to town that no one had seen before. He wore an expensive suit and drove a fancy car. He attended the community barbecue and mingled with the people. He seemed friendly enough; he spoke to everyone as he shook their hands. From the way he carried himself, I guessed he was a very important man. I noticed that when he met Marta, his smile turned into almost a sneer. Marta didn’t seem too impressed with him, either; she just went about her business, clearing away the dishes.

I was on my way to Marta’s studio the following Saturday when I saw the fancy sports car again. And there was the same man putting a FOR SALE sign on one of the buildings.

When I got to the studio, I noticed that Marta had finished the painting that had been on the easel. She showed me the finished product, and I admired it. It was a beautiful scene of a meadow with daisies and butterflies. I could almost see the green grass swaying and the butterflies’ wings fluttering in the breeze. 

I was in the storage room in the back, organizing paint supplies, when I heard a man come in and start talking to Marta. I looked around the corner, and I saw that same man. At first, I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but then their voices grew louder. 

“You won’t last six months here!” The man’s voice boomed.

“No, you’re the one who won’t last six months.” Marta yelled back.

The two started yelling back and forth in another language I couldn’t understand.

“You are a witch!” the man stated emphatically and turned to go.

I waited in the back room, shaken by the exchange I had just heard. When I came out, Marta had put a new canvas on her easel and was preparing paints to begin a new piece.

She was her normal, cheerful self again.  

“I’m sorry you had to witness that, child,” she said soothingly. I will see you next week.”

“What will this painting be?” I asked.

“Oh, this painting is a special one for a special client,” she replied

I made a point of going past the studio on my way to school on Monday. I pressed my face against the window and held my hands in such a way as to keep out the sunlight. I stepped up on my tiptoes and moved my head around until I could see the easel and the new painting. I was taken aback by the strong, dark colours. Although I could see that the brushstrokes were wispy, they seemed heavy at the same time. I told myself that this was just the background, and I couldn’t form an opinion about the painting at this stage. I went away with an uneasy feeling that lasted for most of the day.

I saw the man again—I'd taken to calling him Mr. Fancy Man—on my way home from school. He was standing on a small platform in Corner Park, addressing a small but curious crowd of passersby. As a child, I didn’t take it all in, but the gist was that our town had good people, and we had to get rid of the undesirables. I noticed most people were just walking past, but there was a small group that was listening intently and seemed to agree with him.

I went by the studio every day to see the progress of the painting. It didn’t get any better. The focal point was a woman in a long, flowing dress with a bronze breastplate, and the woman was surrounded by flames. This was not the type of art that Marta normally produced. The painting scared me, but it didn’t stop me from going back to see it.

I saw Mr. Fancy Man every day that week. I liked him less each time. Once, I saw him harassing Mr. Fineman outside his shoemaker’s shop. I liked Mr. Fineman. My family always went to him when we needed shoes fixed because he always did a “fine job," as my dad would say. And he was nice. Another time, I saw him bothering a family at the Sunrise Diner. Then I saw him putting up a sign on the side of the butcher shop. I didn’t know what it said because it was in another language.

By the end of the week, I noticed a change in the atmosphere in our small town. I couldn’t put my finger on it. People didn’t seem as friendly anymore. They would walk by without acknowledging anyone or even cross the street when people approached. People seemed to be more wary of others, and maybe even hostile. I also noticed that I didn’t see Marta about  town like I usually did. Maybe she was just busy with her painting; she had said it was for a special client.

Then, I went by the studio. I was shocked—broken pots were strewn about, curtains torn, paint everywhere. It looked as if it had been ransacked. Had Mr. Fancy Man been there and done this? Then I saw the painting—in the centre of the room, on full display. The woman in full battle dress wielding a fiery sword with flames all around her. Her face was full of hatred and vengeance and violence. I wanted to turn away in revulsion, but I couldn't look away. I could feel the flames burning in righteous indignation. I sensed the power of the sword. And worst of all, the eyes, looking deep into my soul searching for the truth and laying it bare. I still remember the feeling, even now. I felt that I had to escape or I would die. I tore myself away, and I ran all the way home.

Mr. Fancy Man was never seen again. The town was back to normal, as if nothing had happened. I felt that a dark cloud had been lifted and the oppressive air had dissipated with it. I learned to keep that feeling to myself because nobody had noticed that anything had been different. Maybe I’m just more sensitive to those kinds of things. Marta says it’s a gift.