BELLINO, THE COLLECTOR

Ah, Venice, how I do miss you. Bellino laid his palette on the small table beside the canvas. His trusted twelve colors, waiting on the palette. Four brushes rested in a tin can. How many years has it been? How many decades? No gondolas here, I’m afraid.

Bellino turned and looked around his studio apartment. The walls peaked out in small slivers of beige between the many canvases which covered them. One portrait after another, the eyes of so many maidens looked back at him. Many more canvases lay in tall piles, one upon another, on the floor.

Soon, my old friends. He looked down at his weathered hands. He folded his fingers into his palms, then stretched them out as far as he could. So eager you are to hold the baton once again in a symphony of color.

Bellino smiled at the prospect of the coming joy, the movement of brush upon canvas.

He picked up his smock and slid his arms into the sleeves. Once a pristine white, the smock now exuded color. Every color from his palette presented, some many years old and faded, some less than a month old. The white barely shown through the colors anymore. He lifted his long gray beard and looped the strings of his smock over its top buttons.

Grasping his cane, he slowly walked across the room and flipped the switch which ignited his lamps. Filtered light shown from all three of them and rested softly on the pile in the corner. He walked over to the pile and gently removed the sheet which covered the large red pillows stacked there. The black curtain draped the walls behind them made the red seem deeper, stronger. Bellino trusted his eyes to see the strength in colors.

He crossed the small space to his counter and poured a glass of Malbec. As needed as the brush and color. He smiled. Bellino took in the aroma of the wine then filled his mouth. The most prominent flavors, blackberry, plum, and chocolate pleased his tongue.

Hearing a light knock at his door, he sat the glass on the counter.

#

Erin waited at the door. Grand Boulevard isn’t the worse street in the South Bronx, but being here after dark isn’t great. She looked up at the dim, bare light bulb hanging from the rusty fixture on the wall. I’m glad tonight’s the last night. No one would believe I’ve been spending my Friday nights here.

She smiled and pulled her coat tighter. The frigid air blew her long, golden brown hair in all directions.

Nearly a month had gone by since she met Bellino, when he came into the deli. She remembered him saying, “You are such a lovely waif.” No one had ever called her that, she didn’t know what the word meant. He smiled a warm smile, when he said it.

While the old man ate his pastrami sandwich, he made the offer. $5,000 to sit still. She laughed at first, but when it became clear that he was serious, she jumped on the deal. Two month’s pay for four night’s work. A no-brainer.

She knocked on the door again.

The door opened, and there stood Bellino. His long gray hair, and beard, falling over his colorful smock. He had a large glass of red wine in his hand which he handed to her as she entered. He closed the door, and followed her into his studio.

“Well, my dear, we are nearly done. Tonight, I will complete the painting.”

Erin looked around the studio. Paintings on every wall. Eyes on every canvas, they all looked at her. That spooked her right from the start, and still did. She turned to face him.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“Oh, your make up is wonderful, but we must get a brush for your hair.”

While he shuffled off to the counter, Erin took off her coat. Why is it so heavy? Why am I so weak? She had been feeling odd for some time; not sick, just weak, sort of disconnected.

A small table with two chairs sat in front of the only window. She laid her coat on the table and took a long drink of her wine. Thick with tannins, it rested heavily on her tongue. She allowed the flavors of black cherry, vanilla, and plum to linger a moment in her mouth.

By the time she finished the glass of wine, Bellino had returned with a large brush in his hand. He softly touched her shoulder to turn her, and began to brush her hair.

“Yes, you are a lovely little waif. Somewhat like an elf.”

Erin blushed. Of course, she had heard many comments about her size, being just under five feet tall and weighing eighty pounds. No one had spoken to her quite like Bellino.

“There, my dear, you are perfect.”

Bellino laid the brush on the table. “Shall we get started?”

“May I have another glass of wine? It warms me, takes the edge off.”

“Of course, my dear.”

As he went to the counter with her glass in hand, she slowly walked around the studio. She was careful not to bump the stacks of canvases. So many paintings. Some were close ups, some were full body, all were nudes. All young women, but each one different; a heavy girl here, a voluptuous woman there. All of them looked back at her. Goosebumps rose on her arms. She was sure they were really looking at her. Some looked sad, others looked envious, and there were those who looked angry.

When Bellino handed her the wine, she tilted it back, allowing multiple swallows to go down her throat.

“There, my dear, now let’s get to work.”

Erin tilted the glass again and finished off her wine. She sat the glass on the little table, then took off her clothes.

She walked toward the corner. There, as it had been each session, was the big pile of red pillows. One stood upright in the corner, where she knew she was to rest her back.

She nearly fell when she leaned over the pile. That had been happening a lot lately. Weakness, dizziness, had grown in her steadily. She had no idea why.

Once she had crawled upon the pillows, and assumed her pose, she looked up at Bellino. He stood at his large canvas. She watched as he pulled the cover off of it. He smiled. He admired his work for a moment. She was sure he was pleased with how the painting was coming along. She hadn’t seen it.

Each time she had asked, he had said, “Oh no, dear, you must wait until it is fully done.”

Bellino picked up his palette and hunted through his little can of brushes. When he found just the right one, he dabbed it into the paint, and went to work.

They never talked while he painted. Erin had to be completely still. Her arm, which was placed upon her knee in her pose, felt heavy. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders, covering her small breasts. Her pose was perfect. She wanted to smile, but she knew she must hold the pout of her lips still. Her breathing was very shallow. For the pose, her eyes must be half closed. They were. But, for this last night’s pose, they were half closed from being very weak, tired.

She watched as Bellino became more and more animated. He swung his brush in broad strokes, sometimes far beyond the canvas, sending spatters of paint sailing into the air. He was joyous. There was no doubt in her mind that painting was Bellino’s favorite thing in life.

Erin got that strange vertigo feeling again. She felt so weak. She felt disconnected from the world. Afraid she may tip over, she wanted to move her arm to adjust her balance. But, Bellino had warned her before that she must remain entirely still. She couldn’t stop her eyes from blinking, and they did, again and again. Then they closed. She whirled in that dizzy feeling, so weak.

She felt as if she were floating like smoke from the tip of a cigar, wafting into the air of the studio.

Then, all at once, she felt very solid. She couldn’t move. Fear instantly welled up in her and she wanted to scream. She couldn’t.

#

“Ah, my beauty. We are done.” Bellino smiled.

He gently laid his brush on the little table, and placed his palette next to it. He put his fists on his hips and admired his work.

“Beautiful!” He exclaimed.

The black in the background brought out all the other colors. The deep reds of the pillows, now shaped into waves, flowed wonderfully across the canvas. The strokes of the brush, clear, strong, vibrantly depicting movement where there was none. The little waif riding on waves of blood, looking out through half-closed eyes.

“So delicate. Surely, if one blew on the canvas, she would be scattered to the wind.” He whispered.

Bellino walked over to the counter and filled his glass with wine. His body was weary, but he had never felt so exhilarated. He felt he could dance, a bold waltz. He would sway and twirl with joy. He ignored the body which slumped on the red pillows. This was a time for celebration.

If his legs were a bit younger, he would have skipped back to his canvas. He slowly shuffled back to it. He took a long drink of his Malbec, and gleamed at the painting.

“What is this? There is something there that I did not paint.”

He sat down his glass and leaned in close to the painting. Tears. Little tears from the half-shut eyes, rolled slowly down the cheeks of the face in the painting.

“Why does this happen? Stop that! At least wait for the paint to dry.”

He grasped a cloth and very softly dabbed at the tears, being careful not to smudge the paint. He gulped the last of his wine.

“What do you cry for, little waif? You are beautiful, and now you will be forever. You will never age. Your skin will never blemish or wrinkle. Your eyes will never dull with age. You are immortal my dear.”

He walked across the room and removed a portrait which was on a canvas of like size.

“Don’t fret, Matilda, you will always have a place in my heart.”

He softly laid the portrait on one of the piles on the floor. Walking slowly, he came back to the painting, and lifted it from the easel. He took it to the wall and hung it where Matilda had been.

“There, my lovely waif, rest, find peace, find joy, my immortal love.”

#

Erin looked out around the studio. She watched Bellino go to his bed and lie down. She looked across the room and stared into the eyes of the girl in the painting directly across from her. She asked the question in her thoughts, but she was sure the other girl could hear her.

“Are you like me?”

(End)