Anastasia Milko
A little Turkish boy with a wooden stick
Chapter 2
It will never be the same boy or a Bulgarian artist in a straw boater
A tall artist from Şişli happened to meet Can a few days before his brother Kerem would leave the house and disappear as disappears an early morning fog with the first rays of waking Sun, under a very peculiar circumstances. Can was strolling around alone, kicking a little stone, a little mad with his so called friends who wouldn’t play with him anymore. If it hadn’t been for a strong kick of the stone that made the latter strike a skinny beard man with a canvas on his knee, Can’s life would have never changed so drastically. For worse or for better but it did.
“Jesus my Lord!” cried the artist out with pain, leaning to rub his pulsing knee.
Can was about to approach the man to apologize before the curses would break free and to plea this tree-of-a-man not to report parents on him. One second later, when standing just in front of the artist, the boy finally managed to digest the exclamation heard by the stranger. Being under genuine surprise, he forgot the reason he initially came to the man and with a false irritation asked:
“What did you say, Mister?”
The man seemed to notice the boy for the first time. He smiled broadly, gaining back his posture, and examining closely a gloomed grimace of skinny, yet strong kid with a wooden stick in his left hand.
“I said,” narrowing eyes appeared to be the color of the Bosporus. “Why not to be a bit more careful, friend, right?”
The man was grinning like a Cheshire cat, thought there was nothing scary or fishy in his sincere broad and quite appealing smile, though his teeth were uneven and might have been judged as too long for the mouth of their owner.
“No Mister,” Can was not satisfied with this lame attempt to change the torrent of the conversation.
“No?” laughed the artist, shaking his head in utter disbelief of the boy’s insolence, yet absolutely in love with it.
“I mean yes” the boy rolled his eyes “but I was trying to tell that you didn’t answer my question, Mister!”
“I did not? I think so, young boy, you are right!” The artist steered away from Can and took one of the brushes lying on the palette, planning to concentrate on his work once again.
Can had already heard once that people of art are the most peculiar characters, who never seem to act according to the rules of common sense. However, it became a matter of great interest to involve the man in a conversation, hoping it would help him to kill some time before returning home for lunch. Mother promised to bake potato Borek, a mere thought of which made Can fly over the moon with craving for its perfectly crunchy pastry, a perfect Turkish salty cake he adored to be served with sweet Yougurt or Ayran.
“What are you painting?” Can looked behind the canvas, pushing the amazed artist away, “why did you called Jesus to be your Lord?” asked the boy with no anger, not even taking his eyes off the landscape on the greyish surface of the canvas. The artist stepped away to let the boy get the whole view of the painting, feeling upcoming wave of affection to a brave witty kid. He used to be exactly like this, he reflected on some flashes from his own poor but happy childhood back in Bulgarian village. He was a real pain in the neck for all his family, full of beans, always ready to contradict and pursue his own truth, seeking the sense, feeling deep and powerful longing for answers no one seemed to be able to satisfy. The torture he suffered at a young age before the truth itself found him, was very possible prospect for this naturally open-minded and curious boy.
“What do you see on the canvas?”
“Well, some buildings from the street, and there are white walls of the old abandoned Greek church from the hill, standing out from the rest of the huts on your painting. Oh, and there is a fig tree next to the bench, where a real cat is sleeping, but you forgot to put the cat there, instead you lied and put the non-existent tree.”
Can sighed gloomily and turned his chin toward the artist.
“You are a liar, Mister, aren’t you?”
“All men are liars, I suppose, kid. Though, I will not call myself a regular liar.”
The sun was still shining bright, playing with sparkles on a sweaty face of the man. “I mean, boy, there is no possibility for a person to be always honest even with himself, let alone with other people. However, I pray to have enough courage and be honest at least about my own life. You seem to be puzzled with my answer, I can totally understand”. The artist didn’t give an impression of having a heavy burden on his shoulders, he spoke calmly and sincerely. Then paused for a split second and went on.
“Considering the non-existent tree, I would say that it is not a lie but a rebirth of a real tree that used to be growing here many years ago. And when it comes to the cat, well if you think it’s an important element of the scene I would definitely put it there too.” He cut the last sentence shortly with no hint of going further into the explanations, in fact the artist decided to check the boy’s intentions and see whether he would try to fish out the answer he had tried to get for two times already.