Scrapbooking

       It was morning, fresh, misty morning of the day, a young, transparent morning of the year—a nice spring morning, in short. She could not stay home, and even a ride in the cab was inappropriately fast for this wistful hour. So she told the coach to stop and went out to lean against the embankment balustrade, watch tiny buds on lime trees, breathe, and let the cross-talk of horseshoes clanking on cobblestones and automobile horns honking set the rhythm of her heartbeat. And then that man approached her. Shaggy were his clothes, his whole stance, and his mien. He was leaning heavily on a stick. Another war cripple begging alms, she thought, but did not call her couch to clear the nuisance. Something was different in his eyes—begging and hoping, yes, but also something ethereal. And indeed, he asked her for permission to draw her. Without waiting for that permission, he took out a sketchbook and a pencil stub and leaned on the same banisters. He was binge-drawing, sketch after sketch, and promised to present her with a copy once it was ready in watercolour. Then he continued talking, babbling, gushing with words. He was born again, he said, after seeing her today; she became his personal morning; yes, he had been to war, invalided out, but the war wouldn’t let go of his soul, and he believed in beauty again only after seeing her— She was nodding and smiling ever so slightly, like Gioconda. She was not in a hurry, so why not pose for the poor guy? Why not smile at fate's irony? Little did he know of her! Or, rather, of her father, the owner of numerous foundries, chemical factories, and armament enterprises—the man who had lobbied their country to enter into that war. And the profits from mass murders let her live in clover and indolence. She was not naive; she understood where the money for hot chocolate, marble baths, and ostrich feathers in her hat came from, but she lacked the will to refuse her good life. After all, she only knew how to be beautiful and smile. Maybe in some days, weeks, or years, the artist would come to know who his Gioconda really was. His morning would turn into a pitch-black night again. Maybe he’d meet her at the river bank again, and instead of a sketchbook, he’d draw a stolen parabellum from his pocket. A weapon made at her father’s factory. And looking into its dark barrel, she would smile again.