#48 The Portrait That Eluded Death

Publication 48! This week, we travel back in time to Brazil in 1932, and then 1927, following the journey of a portrait of a woman, our narrator, and the horrors it witnesses.

For more stories by other writers, click here.

For more by me, run your eyeballs over the archives.

---

#48 The Portrait That Eluded Death

4 February, 1931

There’s a portrait our friend Lasar painted which I keep above the mantelpiece in the living room. It’s got this rainbow of vertical panels in the background, made up of reds, blues and purples, overlapping one another. In the foreground, a patchwork armchair, the one we used to keep in the bedroom but which perished in the accident. And seated in the armchair, is me. He’s captured my small, round lip style, my haircut that, at the time, was so short it stopped before the bottom of my ears, my flat chest and my slightly crooked shoulder. He’s made my eyes big, round and dark, and my cheeks flushed. My expression is stern, perhaps a little as though I don’t want to be there. 

I’m not so vain as to be one to keep portraits of myself around my home. But this portrait I cannot get rid of, not because of what is in it, but because of what it’s been through, what it’s seen. 

When friends come to visit, I make tea and bring it through to the living room where we sit and gossip, discuss the latest books, discuss politics, which in Brazil is always interesting. All the while, I feel the heat of her gaze over me, the presence of the painting, watching and judging with its deep and personal knowledge of my history. It asks questions like: How can you smile? How can you let this slip your memory, even for a moment? What would you feel if you were in his position, rather than this way around?

And when they leave, I sit and watch the painting and sometimes I cry, sometimes I apologise for what I have done, for the mistakes I have made. I ask myself if I am going crazy, and as much as I know the answer might be yes, and I know I’m behaving absurdly, and that I should just get rid of the painting, I can’t. I get a perverted joy out of being subject to its torture, being directed by it, steered by it, told what to think and feel. 

The painting, in that sense, is like a god to me. I know, until the day I die, I’ll always look up to that painting for answers.

17 March, 1927

A nurse sits beside me, replacing the bandages around my legs, arms and across my face. 

‘It’s healing well,’ she says. ‘We’ll have you out of here in a couple of days.’

‘It hurts like hell.’

‘Yes, it will hurt for another six to eight weeks. When you’re out of here, back at home, you’ll have to do this yourself.’ She nods to the bandage on my arms. ‘Every day.’

‘Every day?’ I can’t think of anything more boring.

‘Every day. Otherwise it’ll get infected and who knows, maybe worsen.’

She pats me on the part of my arm that’s not covered in bandages, and we sit in silence for a moment. My mind starts to drift and I think dark thoughts.

‘What am I going to do?’ I ask.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I have no one to go home to. I don’t even have a home. He was my home. So what am I going to do? Where will I go?’

‘You can start again. Take what is left of him and treasure it. You have some money to start again?’

‘I do. My family can send me some money.’

‘Will you stay in Sao Paulo?’

I shrug my shoulders. ‘I have nowhere else to go.’

A few days later, I am discharged from the hospital. I visit Pedro’s market where he is surrounded by the pinks and whites of the flesh of fish and cows and pigs. He sees me at the back and hangs up his apron, and asks his brother, Joao, to take over. 

‘We did as you asked. All your things that survived, we have at our home.’

‘Thank you.’

‘It’s not much, though. Some jewellery, some books from the library, a few clothes that were left outside overnight, and that painting of you that Guilherme loved so much.’

‘The painting survived?’

‘Yes. Amongst the ash and blackened walls, your painting was just there unscathed.’

‘Unscathed?’

‘Mmm, a few bits of ash and char around the frame, but we managed to clean it up.’ He drags on his long cigarette.

‘How is that possible?’

‘Call it providence.’

‘Pedro, can I stay with you until I figure out where I will live?’

‘Of course. You can go there now. Here.’ He hands me his keys. ‘Go get some rest. Fernanda will be there, she will take good care of you. I’ll be home later.’

‘See you.’

When I get to Pedro’s home, Fernanda shows me to the room I’ll stay in. In the corner sits what remains of my belongings. The portrait, as Pedro promised, sits untouched on top of it all, its subject’s gaze bearing down on me, judging me for what happened. Blaming me.

11 March, 1927

The last of our guests have gone home, only after Guilherme finally stops talking politics in the doorway. He shuts the door and turns around to me, a drunken grin on his face. He lifts his big arms and puts them around my shoulders and embraces me.

‘A success?’ he asks.

I nod. ‘Yep.’

Drunk and tired we stand in the middle of our foyer, resting on one another, taking long deep breaths and thinking of nothing at all. Guilherme’s curly beard tickles my ear and cheek, his warmth emanates through our clothes. ‘Another drink?’ he asks.

‘Yes.’

‘To celebrate.’

‘Yes.’

He finds a bottle of rum and we pour a strong concoction and sit on the sofa. 

‘She enjoyed it. I can tell.’ He raises his glass towards the portrait on the wall. ‘Watching over us all...’

‘I can’t decide if I like her.’

‘I love her. She’s beautiful. I never want to take her down.’

‘As you wish.’

‘Give me a moment.’ Guilherme stands and disappears for a few minutes. I can hear the clinking and rattling of glasses and crockery from the kitchen. He returns with two great candle sticks, with tall wax candles alight in each hand. He places them on the table in the middle of the room, and takes a seat next to me. Putting his arm over my shoulder, he takes my drink with the other hand and puts it on the table before kissing me. His big body bears down and we bury ourselves in the sofa. 

Before my eyes open, reality attacks both my senses of smell and touch first. The smell of burning wood tickles my nose and, half asleep, I realise what is happening but haven’t yet discerned whether it is real or whether it is in my dreams. Then there’s the touch of heat around my feet and hands, extreme heat, so I can feel the sweat dripping off me. This is enough to wake me up. And, when I open my eyes, I see the blinding light of fire everywhere. 

‘Guilherme! Guilherme! Wake up!’

His cumbersome body is protecting me from the worst of the heat, but he’s still asleep. I shove him and he wakes. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Fire, fire!’

Merda!’ He rolls off the sofa onto the floor, but the flames surround us. 

‘What shall we do?’ I beg.

The light is so blinding I have to cover my eyes. I cling to Guilherme’s hand as he scours through the flames for an answer.

He grabs the glass of water from the table which is warm from the heat but not boiling. ‘Follow me,’ he says. He throws the glass of water over my head. ‘There’s a window over there. You run through it - maybe the fire won’t hurt as much because you’re wet - and smash it with this glass. Then climb out and see if you can get down to the ground.’

‘Guilherme…’ I say, trying to find another solution.

‘Go!’ He pushes me and I do as I’m told. The fire scolds my feet and arms and my face. I lift an arm up to protect myself. When I get there, the window smashes easily and I climb out. I get my feet on the window frame and jump. There’s a crack and an excruciating pain rides up my leg, but I pull myself away from the house, across the grass. I roll over and stare at the window.

Guilherme doesn’t appear at the window. Why isn’t he there? Where is he? What is he doing? I run to the Oliveira’s and bang on the door and tell them to get help. When I return, Guilherme still isn’t there.

All I can think is the hellish flames swallowing him up, and that portrait of me melting into nothingness beside him. I collapse on the grass and watch my whole world burn to the ground.