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“This is amazing!” Antonio exclaims, getting close to the painting. “This is bigger than the other pieces, and it’s also the prettiest!”
“You flatter me too much, kid,” I say. “Although it isn’t finished yet. I still need to refine the details, so I’ll be finished by tomorrow.”
“Do you have a name for it? You do, don’t you?” he insists, looking at me with wide eyes.
It’s refreshing to see this kind of excitement from a child. It’s much different from the judging eyes of art critics. After all, I only want my art to be enjoyed by those who see it, yet so many ‘art enthusiasts’ ruin the experience for me.
“I do have a name, but I don’t think you’d understand it,” I joke.
Antonio crosses his arms over his chest. “Come on! I want to know, Ren!”
“Well, it’s calledThe Ephemerality of Seasons,” I tell him, and as expected, he merely tilts his head in confusion. I laugh at his efforts to take that information in.
“What does e-ephem—What does that word mean?” he manages to say, dumbfounded.
“Well, to compare it to a word, it means short-lived,” I explain, ruffling his curly hair. “A moment.”
Antonio hums. “I think I get it,” he tells me. “If it’s for your father, I think I understand.”
He doesn’t say anything after that. Instead, he walks up to my balcony and leans on the railing, resting his chin on his hand, looking out the night sky with an unreadable expression on his youthful face.
I stay silent as I look at the piece. Whatever the child was thinking, it was probably because of the silence he can feel from the piece. But this isn’t entirely about sadness.
My fingers itch with the need to finish the painting as my memories resurface.
Not for the first time, I think to myself,I wish Dad was here to see this.
49
JENNIFER
“Papa! Surely you’re not being serious?” I protest, my mind abuzz with thoughts of countless deals and deadlines I’d be missing. “I have work piled up. I can’t justleavefor Italy.”
“Of course you can! This is work, too. And you’ll be generously compensated, Jenny. Don’t worry about that!”
I pull back, still doubtful about my father’s plan. “But why do I need to convince Ren? Can’t he just fly over and talk?”
He laughs before saying, “For an artist who’s never shown himself in public, I doubt he’ll simply ‘fly over and talk.’”
“We don’t even know what he looks like?” I exclaim. “Papa, are you sure he’s worth the trouble?”
He nods. “He is, Jenny. Ren’s piece is the equivalent of Johannes Vermeer’sThe Concert.”
My mouth hangs open at the mention of a highly prized piece.
“And you’re my best bet for this. I trust no one butyou to make this deal for me, sweetie. None of my other subordinates are as assertive and determined as you. On top of that, you’re not easily emotionally swayed. You can take whatever excuse Ren throws at you.”
I sigh, still dumbfounded he compared this mysterious artist to someone as highly acclaimed as Vermeer. Now I’m curious as towhothis Ren person is.
“Before I agree, I’d like to know more about the specifics of the project, Papa,” I argue, not letting him get to me easily. “What am I getting into? How will I find, let alone, talk to this artist? What are the terms for our negotiations?”
“Relax, Jenny, you already sound more excited than I am,” Papa jokes, taking out a file case and sliding it over to me.
“Everything you’ll need to know and more is there. You can read them on the plane. As for other matters, shall we discuss them at our scheduled dinner time?”
I shake my head, knowing I wouldn’t be able to focus on my dinner anymore.
“No, Papa. We should cancel dinner.” I take a quick look at the report, and the sales projections make my eyebrows shoot up in question.
