The boulevard of the dead and other stories

The most valuable thing in the world

Mr. Márquez was not sure why he was at this party.

Try as he might, he still could not figure out what had prompted him to attend. Perhaps he had gone because of the insistent invitations from his hosts, the large number of known and unknown guests who would be attending or, probably, because of the need to mitigate the feeling of loneliness he had been experiencing lately. And, thanks to this, he stood in one of the corners of the room analyzing the faces of the people in front of him, while deciding whether or not to extend his visit.

Until his thoughts were interrupted when he noticed a couple approaching him.

"Mr. Marquez, we were looking for you! For some reason we began to think you had already left."

"I hope you are enjoying the party," added Mrs. Miller, the hostess."

"Yes, it's a very nice party, Isabel."

The woman nodded solemnly, analyzing whether the rest of the room held the same thought as her guest, and, when she was finally satisfied, she added:

"I'm glad to hear you say that. You know, at first Fred didn't quite agree, because he thought it was too soon; he thought the children would be bothered by the sight of so many people, or the noise they might cause, but, apparently everything is going wonderfully. I would even go so far as to say that they are having a good time too."

"Well, I can't be singled out for having doubts," excused Mr. Miller, as he held out a glass to his guest, "not only because of the children, but also because of the money issue, Mr. Marquez. The first few months after Annia's birth we couldn't afford to have more than a few small gatherings... But, I'm glad that's changed."

"I am happy for you."

"Yes, I've always thought that there's nothing like a party to bring people together. It's the best way to meet new people and forget about the old ones," Isabel commented absent-mindedly.

Mr. Márquez just nodded, while he examined the inside of his glass, perceiving the citric smell coming from it.

"And Mr. Marquez, when can we see your next work?" Fred asked, shaking what was left of the liquid at the end of the glass, then gulped it down. "I heard you were working on something important."

"I hope you get to see the work soon."

The young man nodded, dissatisfied with the little information he had received.

"I see... And, may I know where your inspiration comes from?"

"You're going to make him go away, Fred," his wife reproached, slapping him gently on the arm.

"Am I making you uncomfortable, Mr. Marquez?"

"No."

"Good. However, forgive me for asking rather... personal questions? I can't help but be very curious about artists."

"May I ask why?"

"Well, I've heard that there are artists who live for their art, and others who live in their art, you know what I mean? I've always been curious to know where they find the inspiration to do something like that. Can that inspiration be imitated? Can it be found by anyone? Those are the questions that many people don't ask themselves when they admire a work."

The painter listened attentively, analyzing with feigned interest the painting next to him.

"That's quite an interesting theory," was the painter's only response."

"Fred is an art critic, Mr. Márquez" interrupted Isabel, before her husband could add anything else, "that's why he tries to analyze the details in everything. Although, you can't generalize the feeling that two people have in the same situation."