The Plague of Blood

Ch 3 - The Painter

Chapter 3

The Painter

     The front room of the little cottage stank of turpentine and paint thinner, sharp and acidic. The smell was strong enough to make the eyes water, but Roger was quite used to it. In fact he hardly noticed the scent at all - he'd been working with oil paints and the attending chemicals for so many years that his sweat smelled of them.

     Roger Alleyne was forty-six and liked to think of himself as a very uncomplicated man. He liked whisky, painting, and the occasional smoke, and had few friends to speak of, not counting his agent. He was well regarded in the world of modern art for the dark, intense portraits that he painted on wall-sized canvases. His paint strokes were wild and slashing, alternating between palette knife and brush, and the finished paintings were haunting. He had an uncanny knack for capturing the pain and torment in a subject's soul.

     At the moment Roger was not in the front room of his cottage, which doubled as his studio. He was outside in the pasture behind his home, listening to opera on his iPod and setting fire to one of his paintings.

     Like most of his canvases, this one was enormous, measuring six feet tall and four wide. The predominant color in the painting was a glossy black. It was a self-portrait, which was why Roger was burning it. He had painted several self-portraits over the past five years, but all of them had gone into the fire. Sometimes he felt the overwhelming need to paint a portrait of himself, but when it was finished the likeness was too complete, the darkness too evident. It was, perhaps, a statement to how he viewed himself.

     The music swelled in his ears as he watched the frame of the canvas buckle and burn. He was listening to one of his favorite operas, La Traviata. The incomparable Anna Moffo was singing "Sempre Libera" and her pure, clear notes rose fiercely, defiantly almost, as she sang of love and freedom.

     The paint on the canvas was curling and bubbling in the heat. The smoke rising from it was black, and the chemical smell was very strong. It wouldn't be long before the whole thing was consumed in the flame. Roger went inside. He'd check on it later to make sure it wasn't in danger of burning down the cottage, although really, would he care?

     Probably. If it didn't kill him, he'd have to buy new brushes and canvases and paints. And he had one or two old paintings inside the house that he really loved. Everything else could burn and he wouldn't care less.

     He walked through the house, looking at the dust on the furniture. The cleaning lady hadn't been by in three weeks, probably because of the hysteria over that bird flu or whatever it was. Roger didn't pay attention to the news these days. He lived alone, painted, drank and slept. Sometimes he went to the library for books, but he was practically a shut-in. When his agents came by to look at his latest paintings they tried to get him interested in this or that party, or the new exhibition in London, but he just didn't have the interest anymore.

     If he was honest with himself, which he rarely was, he hadn't been himself for five years.

     Five years ago he'd been married, living in Wellesley with his wife Amy and eight-year-old son, Will. He'd been less successful as an artist then but much happier.

     And then there was the accident, as the neighbors referred to it afterward. Will had gone with some of his school friends to 'the Wash,' a broad stream where the local children skipped rocks and fished for tadpoles. On that particular day some of the boys decided to go swimming. Will had never been taught, but, not wanting to be left out of the fun, went in with them. He drowned in the Wash and was pulled out by one of the other boys' fathers. That was the day Roger was supposed to be watching Will.

     After Will's death, Amy and Roger could not stand to be near each other. They divorced a few months later, and both moved away. Amy still sent him Christmas cards. Roger never felt any anger toward her, only a weary sadness.

     Roger sat down on the couch that faced the back window. From here he could watch the painting burn. Although there was now a pane of glass between him and the fire, he thought he could still feel the heat. His face felt flushed and hot. Maybe he had caught whatever virus was going around?

     A headache was starting to pound at the back of his head. It probably wasn't a good idea to get so close to a burning heap of chemicals. Maybe he had finally given himself turpentine poisoning or something.

     He rolled over on the couch and closed his eyes, hoping he'd be able to sleep whatever it was off.

    When he woke in the darkness of late evening, his headache was worse, and he had a dizzy, swaying sensation like being onboard a ship. At first he thought he'd been drooling, because the pillow beneath his cheek was wet, but he wiped his hand over his face and found that the moisture was coming from his nostrils. He brought his fingertips up to his face so he could see in the low light. It was blood.