MORNING SERIAL
I LOOKED up at him from the low wingback chair that had all the hallmarks of Francis’s favoured spot – his pipe paraphernalia and dirty brandy glass were within arm’s-reach from where he could admire and deconstruct a work in progress.
“There is much I don’t understand,” I said.
“This is natural,” said Illie. “This was a man you held a great fondness for, but he had found another life for himself, and you know nothing of it.” “It’s an odd feeling I have.” “Tell me.”
“I have questions, and I feel I can ask you them, but at the same time I feel like I am not entirely safe here.”
I was being more honest than I would have liked.
“Ask me a question, and we’ll see how safe you are.”
I thought for a second. “How did Francis die?” “How do any of us die who see this thing through to the end? His heart gave out. He had fulfilled his promises to God and his loved ones. He was done.”
“He just died?”
“Right here. At this doorway. I found him early one morning. He had come to the door to maybe catch his breath but sadly it was no good.”
I felt Francis very close at that moment, and I stared at the floor where Illie had found him.
“What is it Francis was doing here?” I said.
“Working,” Illie said nonchalantly.
“But doing what?” “Painting.”
“And?” I said, pushing my luck.
“He painted on demand,” Illie said.
“You could say that I have insatiable visual desires. And Francis satiated those desires.”
It was a difficult answer to hear, but at least it was progress. Francis had made a life for himself creating works of art for an eccentric Russian in the wilds of Cyprus. It was far removed from the urban firebrand that the art world, and I, had known and admired.
“Are you going to be taking his things?” Illie said, breaking the silence between us.
> The Golden Orphans by Gary Raymond is published by Parthian www.parthianbooks.com
CONTINUES TOMORROW