Chapter 1
The Artist and the Lady in White
I stared at the giant painted canvas in front of me. “The Artist and the Lady in White” was engraved on the board beside it, along with a few other dates and monotonous sentences. I shifted my gaze back to the painting standing in its glory, a perfect blend of colors. The information board had all the basic information about the artist, but not all things are written; some are unspoken and unaccounted for. So, let me tell you a story which has not yet been told, not even in whispers…
Once upon a time, a little clichéd line to start a story, but that’s how a typical story begins, so bear with me. Once upon a time in a faraway land of North Carolina, there resided a town named Mooresville. All its residents were living their happy endings, but one, an aspiring artist named Antonio. He was a young lad who dreamed big. His five older brothers had figured out what they called a stable yet perfect life with everything a man wants, pretty typical. But that’s what success was to the people of Mooresville. Antonio wasn’t like them; he had a different vision when it came to success. If everyone was expected to be the same, then civilizations would have never evolved.
Once, a famous artist named Pablo visited the town in search of inspiration during a time when he was experiencing what he called an artist’s dead-end. Antonio was only six years old, playing alongside the children of his age, when he wandered off to where Pablo was painting. He watched each stroke of the brush going back and forth on the canvas, how the brush dipped in paint and how two colors resulted in a third new color. He was fascinated, as if he had found his dream, and then he couldn’t look beyond it. He rushed home and asked his parents to buy him liquid colors and a giant paperboard. His parents refused, but he was insistent, so on his seventh birthday, he got his first set of paints and a blank paper book. He painted like there was no tomorrow, finishing all the blank pages with colors and more. And with that, he grew, and the paper books were replaced with canvases and good-quality paints, which he bought with his own savings from working different part-time jobs.
At the age of 20, he still painted, but not what he wanted. The town was not the best place for artists, and in these years, he had realized it. He painted murals, posters all day to earn a living and gather some savings for his dream. He knew that if he wanted to live his dream, he would have to move out of Mooresville, and so he did. At the age of 22, having just enough money from working overtime, he set off to Rome, A city rich in culture, literature, and art. He had little to no savings in hand, and he was in a foreign land, finally one step closer to his dream. Now he could be an artist, but only if it were that easy.
Rome was a big city, unlike the small town of Mooresville where everyone knew each other. After nine days and eight nights of hunger, sleeplessness, and no shelter, he found a job at an antique shop, and he worked diligently. During the daytime, he worked at the antique shop, and in the evening, he went near the riverside where all the artists usually worked. After talking to multiple artists and showing them his work, he finally convinced one and became an assistant to an artist named Marcelo. One more step closer to his dream. Marcelo owned a small, creaky studio, but it was more than what Antonio had, so who was he to complain? At first, he worked with Marcelo after his shift in the antique shop, but later he left it when he finally convinced Marcelo to give him a raise. He stood near a canvas, palette in hand, and witnessed each stroke of the brush, only longing for more, to hold the brush in his hand instead of seeing Marcelo murdering his dreams. His raise had been conditional, as long as he pitched ideas to Marcelo. But they were never painted like Antonio would have, if only he could. Marcelo knew Antonio was talented with great ideas, and he was a better artist than he was. Only if given the chance, but he couldn’t let him have it, so he never let him paint. But talent finds its way.
One night after his shift, he went out for a smoke, taking a canvas and a few paints that he had bought with his savings. He set out when Marcelo was not in sight and went to a train station nearby. It had a great view of a bridge and a distant sight of a river. All an artist needs is a good site and a muse, and there she was; The Lady in White. Antonio watched in surprise, his blurred vision getting vivid as she walked closer to where he was sitting. If anything Antonio had expected, this certainly wasn’t in his mind, not even in distant thoughts. She was walking on the platform wearing a white dress, beaded with sequins and stones that sparkled as the light flickered upon them. Lace gloves, and a chiffon veil with the same sequins rolled at the back of her head. Hair up and two strands of her curled auburn hair taken out intentionally to enhance the face. Her heels clicking as she walked closer, lifting her long dress in her hands with elegance. Her face was now in clear view, light makeup on her face with a glittery shadow on her doe eyes and a red lipstick resting on her plumped lips. She was the most beautiful woman Antonio had ever seen. A bride, but certainly not Antonio’s. She stopped just a meter away from him, and their eyes met for a brief moment, so brief that it couldn’t be counted. Antonio was frozen, his gaze piercing through her, and then he heard his voice for the very first time.
“What are you looking at?” For him, it was the most dulcet voice he had ever heard. It took him exactly fifteen seconds and clumsy clanking of brush to compose himself as he spoke, his heart racing so fast that he thought it would rip out of his chest, and yet still sitting and out of breath, he replied, “N-nothing.” A little glare, and then she shifted forty-five degrees from him, facing toward the platform. She had a backpack hanging on her shoulders, and it looked like she was waiting for the rail carriage to arrive. Antonio had to shift his gaze, so he did, he tried to focus on the painting, but his gaze occasionally wandered off to ‘The lady in White’. Her side view was in sight now. He tried to be subtle, but he occasionally glanced at her, and then she turned around, his heart skipped a beat; thump-thump. He swiftly shifted his gaze back to the paper. He could feel her stare, but he dared not lift his head. He would have turned to stone if he had.
“What are you painting?” She asked, staring down at him with curious eyes, glare still intact as if she was irritated by everything. Antonio’s canvas was blank, but his heart was bursting with all shades of red.
“I haven’t decided yet, Mam, I am still looking for inspiration.” Antonio replied in a calm tone without lifting his head.
“Oh, a gentleman, I see…do you know when the rail carriage will arrive?” She asked.
Antonio shook his head in a no. Silence surrounded them, distant sounds of crickets could be heard. It had started to get dark, and the lights by the bridge were illuminated. Silence was broken, yet again by her mellifluous voice.
“You don’t seem like an artist of Rome, where are you from?” This question surprised Antonio and forced him to lift his head. Antonio avoided making eye contact and replied, “Why do you think I am not from Rome?”
“Because Artists of Rome are not like you,” She stated bluntly.
“Then what are the artists of Rome like…?” Antonio replied immediately, he didn’t mean to be offended, but her judgmental tone had made him irritated.
“For one, artists of Rome don’t sit with empty canvases on railway platforms; instead, they are by the river. They wear berets, have the same pointy mustaches, and they wear those bizarre red capes, and they always paint the people by the river, like there is no other sight in Rome.”
Image of Marcelo crossed Antonio’s mind immediately. As much as he hated to admit, she was telling the truth. Artists in Rome had a particular style, he hadn’t seen a single person who was different.
“Yeah, I am not from Rome.” Antonio answered.
“Figured, so why didn’t you go to paint by the river like every other artist?”
“I don’t know, I just wanted to be alone for some while.”
“Ah, a struggling one, I see.”
That woman was blunt and straightforward, she was not afraid to speak her mind out, and Antonio was amused to see the unusual.
“Have you visited all the places in Rome?” Antonio only shook his head; he had neither the time nor the money to stroll around the city.
“So you are looking for inspiration?” She peeped up at him. Antonio nodded his head while looking at his canvas.
“Come on, get up! I know where to find one.” She exclaimed and stretched her hand that was still wrapped in a laced glove. Antonio stared at her in astonishment, clearly swept off by her and as love-struck as he was, grabbed her hand and got up, canvas in hand, and paints in a bag, he followed her, hypnotized by her charm. It had been 5 minutes and 32 seconds when he first held her hand. He could still feel the touch of her gloved hand on his skin. It was eight thirty, there was light breeze, and the sky was lit up with the stars. Antonio was walking beside the Lady in White. People walking by stared at them, but Antonio could only see her, all dressed in white. He followed her, passing by the crowd. She was talking, but his mind was barely registering anything. Rome never felt more beautiful to him than it did that night. They kept walking until they made a stop at a small decorated cart.
“Have you tasted Gelato?”
“No.”
“What? Seriously? Well then let me introduce you to the best thing in Rome.” She smiled, eyes lit up, and if Antonio had thought she couldn’t be more beautiful, then he certainly was wrong because she looked mesmerizing. She handed him his gelato, and he stared at it.
“Go on, taste it.” That night Antonio tasted the first gelato of his life, and he couldn’t agree more; this was the best thing in Rome, well, the second best to be specific, because the Lady in White was still the first.
“You know food is every artist’s love language, and Rome has the best food. That’s why everyone comes here. I am surprised you haven’t tasted Gelato.” She chirped up at him, licking her gelato.
“I guess that’s what I was missing out.” Antonio said while licking his gelato.
“Oh, not exactly. We haven’t reached our destination yet.” And with that, she started walking again, and Antonio followed her like a prayer.
“Don’t you think Rome is beautiful? I don’t think there can be anything more beautiful than Rome.” She stared longingly at the surroundings as she walked and sighed.
“Yeah, it is. It is quite exquisite.” Antonio said while staring at her.
“Come on, hurry, we don’t have much time.”
It had been exactly one hourt, seventeen minutes and eight seconds since they started walking around Rome, strolling in different streets. Four thousand three hundred and thirty-three were the steps they took until they reached ‘it’.
“I present you the Piazza de Spagna.” She smiled brightly at him. Antonio stared at the view in front of him, and he couldn’t tell what was more beautiful, the lady in white or the lady in white standing at that place. It was the most breathtaking view he had ever seen. He stared at the place; it was lovely, and he couldn’t take enough of the sight.
“Speechless, aren’t you?” She said with a hint of mischief laced in her voice.
“Y-yes.” Antonio replied. The place was indeed beautiful, with square buildings surrounding them and golden lights that shined around the square. The fountain made of paved stone in the middle was flowing with clear water. They both sat down at the edge and gazed at the front, and Lady in White unconsciously ran her hand in water.
“Well, you are an artist, and you are not from Rome, so what brings you here?”
“The place I lived, they didn’t accept artists there.”
“Oh, and did they accept you here?”
“Barely. I am working as an assistant for an artist named Marcelo, and I do everything for him instead of painting.”
“He sounds like a douche.” Antonio lightly chuckled.
“Smile looks good on you, Mr. Artist.” Antonio’s heart missed a beat, and blood rushed to his cheeks. Barely composing himself, he cleared his throat and spoke.
“If you love Rome so much, then why are you leaving it?” It was the first time that night when Antonio had initiated a conversation.
“Who told you I was leaving? I could be strolling around.”
“Really? In a wedding dress and wearing a backpack.”
“I could be coming from a fancy dress competition.”
“Aren’t you a little old for that, or is that a thing in Rome?”
“You are right; I am leaving Rome to live my dream,” she spoke ever so lightly, and Antonio gazed at her with affection.
“But can’t you live it here?”
“I want to be a fashion designer; this dress is all I have, my greatest creation, and I am going to Paris to showcase it.”
“By wearing it?”
“Couldn’t carry it, so I thought I should wear it instead.” She laughed, and her laughter sounded like chimes in the wind.
“I was going to take the train to Florence and then fly off to Paris.” She further added.
“Oh.”
“Well, start your painting; we don’t have all night.” Antonio only wished for it to never end.
“Antonio took his canvas, grabbed his paint, and painted. He had everything he needed, and he knew exactly what to paint.” It took 90 minutes, 37 seconds, and 589 strokes of the brush, to be exact, for Antonio to complete the painting. It was the most beautiful painting he had ever seen in his life, and he couldn’t trade it for anything.
“Are you done?” The lady in white asked.
“Yes.”
“Then what are you waiting for? Show me.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t show it now, but I will, I promise. Let’s go back to the station. I think the train to Florence leaves at 3 am, and it is 1:30 already, so if you don’t want to miss it, I think we should hurry.”
“So you did know the train timings.” She gasped.
“I remember seeing the time display, but I didn’t know where you were going then.”
The Artist and the Lady in White walked back to the station, each step felt heavier for Antonio, as he wasn’t ready to part with her. He had just met her, but he wanted to spend eternity with her. If love at first sight was something that existed, then Antonio had experienced it tonight. It was 2:37 when they reached the station, the same place but not as strangers. The rail carriage was boarding passengers.
“You have to show me the painting now,” she begged.
Antonio slowly turned around the canvas, the painting was in sight now, and the Lady in White stared at it; mouth agape, eyes wide. The painting left her speechless, and tears welled up in her eyes as she stared at him.
“From the moment I saw you walking on that platform, I had found my inspiration, my muse, you; and I knew nothing could be better than this. The places you showed me today were beautiful, but they became breathtaking with you there. If loving someone you just met makes you a fool, then I may be the biggest fool. I am head over heels in love with the Lady in White, my muse, my love, my dream.” Antonio spoke with pride, and tears streamed down her eyes. The Lady in White stared at the painting of her and the artist, and nothing more beautiful and pure was witnessed by her eyes.
The rail carriage whistled, last call for its passengers to board.
“Come with me,” She spoke with teary eyes.
“You know I can’t.” He watched the Lady in White walked towards the train, she took a step and boarded the train without glancing back, and with that, she was out of his sight but not out of his mind.
Here I was seeing the painting after thirty years of its existence, and I could still feel the pain of it. These art galleries tell you all the historic dates but never the stories of the heart. I fixed my glasses ready to turn around when I heard her voice.
“Darling, there you are, I thought I would find you here.” She smiled at me the same way she did the first time at Piazza di Spagna. There she was, my muse, my love, and now my life for eternity. I gazed at her fondly.
So you see, after the Lady in White boarded the train, the artist’s heart skipped a beat, and he took a leap of faith. He had his dream right in front of him, and when you get a call from destiny like this, my friend, then you should never ignore it. The train carriage moved, but the artist swiftly moved towards the train, his paints and canvas still in hand as he boarded the train. There he found his Lady in White standing right in front of him.
“Hi, I am Antonio.” He beamed at her.
“Hello, Antonio, I am Iris.” She replied while shaking his hand.
And that was a toast to a new beginning. The Artist and the Lady in White had both found their dream at the same place, on the platform of Rome, but their happy beginning started in Paris together. The Lady in White became the most famous designer in all of Paris, and The Artist made and sold many paintings. But still, his greatest work was known as “The Artist and the Lady in White.”
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