Forever will end one day

Half imagination, half lies. What's the truth? (part II)

Henry sat quietly onto the big chunk of wood beside Arthit. He didn't talk. Arthit wondered if he guessed what he was thinking, what he thought he knew. He seemed to be old enough to guess which possible course did Arthit's day took. Why he was here, not able to come back at the hotel to face him. Arthit stayed quiet for some time still. Henry also didn't say anything.

"Do you know my granddad?"
"I know of him." This was called avoidance, or maneuvering.

"Do you still remember him?"
"I'm not sure, what are you talking about." Another one.

Arthit saw, that he wasn't going to get answers like this. Henry wasn't interested in spilling the beans easily. But Arthit wasn't interested in not knowing anything. He needed something. So he took the seven pictures from the box and handed them to Henry. If he wasn't mistaken, Henry's hands trembled a bit, when he took them from him, and went through them, very slowly. It took him some time. When he got to the last three pictures, he watched the one with the two of them for a long time. Arthit didn't dare to look straight into his eyes, so he turned his gaze back to the sea.

"I've been having sleeping troubles for almost a year now. I sleep mostly 2 hours per night, without waking up at that time. If I do sleep at longer periods, I just feel so restless, that any noise can wake me up. Or I see these dreams. The dream is always about a mansion. That mansion, from these pictures. You are in the mansion. At every doorway, serious and forlorn. And there is a room with a painting." At that last sentence Henry shuddered visibly. Before that he didn't make any movements, and seemed almost frozen. But there had to be something with the painting, which Arthit had already understood. He thought that this painting was the explanation to everything.

"But I've never seen it. What's on the painting? I saw only blackness inside it. Henry what is on this painting? What's painted on that canvas?"

Henry didn't react and Arthit thought that he wouldn't be answering.

"You shouldn't know everything about one person, you know.. There are so many thing's I don't even know how to answer." He was silent again. "I knew your grandfather. He was a man with golden hands. I called him that. He could turn anything he touched into an artform, in itself."

Arthit was a bit melancholy as he looked at the water. He remembered so little of his granddad. Mostly his big warm eyes. The deep lines on his face. His kind voice. He almost asked about his granddad instead of questions he was interested first. He hoped he could talk about him later in the future.

"Henry, how old are you?"
"Uhh. Let's say. I'm somewhat older than you." Arthit snorted loudly at this.

"Well this is an under statement. Thanks for clarifying this."

"Arthit. Let's go back to the hotel. Let's have a drink and talk there. Not sure, how your feeling, but I want a drink right now." Arthit nodded and they walked into the car in silence and rode the short distance back to the hotel. When they got back to Henry's suite Arthit thought something silly and somehow said exactly what he was thinking. "You are probably too rich to imagine, right? Like more than any man should ever need, rich, right?" He was amazed at the outburst of Henry. The laughing was loud and free. How could a man look so happy all of a sudden. How could a man's face look so beautiful. It's as if happiness fitted him. But he had never felt it. Smiling and laughing seemed to be new for Henry. Did he really stay alone and sad for years? When had he last laughed, before he met Arthit?

They sat together at the small lounge. Arthit had a beer, he wanted to keep his head clear and concentration on the max. Henry was looking long at something in his own memories. Could it be really so hard? Was it a illness you get to read from a very imaginative author? What kind of fiction was this. It couldn't be extraterrestrial.. Could it? No. Arthit didn't want to believe this. But what then. Why was it this difficult of a story? "Henry.. Can't you trust me?"