The Golden Dream of Carlo Chuchio by Lloyd Alexander

Author:Lloyd Alexander
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Publisher: Henry Holt and Co. (BYR)
Published: 2007-09-04T16:00:00+00:00

“Peace be upon you, friends.”

A bandy-legged little man stood holding a torch in one hand. His beard was so spattered and stained I could not guess its original color. Knotted around his waist, a length of rope secured his trousers. Splotches of dried paint seemed the only things keeping his clothing from parting company.

“I thought I heard voices. I’m delighted that you came to visit.”

“Not on purpose,” grumbled Baksheesh.

“Even so,” the man said, “I hope you have found something of interest.”

“Remarkable,” put in Salamon. “Absolutely fascinating.”

“This is your work?” Shira said.

The little man bobbed his head. “Such as it is.”

“Oh no,” Baksheesh said aside to me. “A dauber! A paintsplasher! How did we come to fall in with one of them? Here, of all places? Rascals! Bad as public storytellers. Worse! They fling colors every which way and fool us into thinking they mean something. That’s an honest living?”

“Honest as anything else in the world, and a living like another,” said our host, whose ears must have been as sharp as his eyes.

“I am called Cheshim,” he went on, taking no offense at Baksheesh’s mumblings, smiling agreeably as I named each of us to him.

“And you,” he said, turning his glance back to me—very cordially, as much at ease as if we had been old acquaintances. And for an instant I had half a notion we had met somewhere before. “This seems to have caught your attention. I take that as a compliment.”

“The town, the harbor—” I said. “You’ve been to Magenta.”

“Been to where?” Cheshim raised a paint-crusted eyebrow. “No, my young friend, I’ve not set foot beyond this place for—how many years? So many I hardly remember where I was before I came here.”

“He’s beginning to natter like old Salonica,” Baksheesh said under his breath. “Two of a kind, if you ask me. One worse than the other. But which?”

“Mirza Cheshim, you may have forgotten,” I said, “but surely you were there. You had to be. You saw the port. You painted it.”

“I did?” Cheshim blinked. “Yes, yes, indeed so. If you believe you recognize it, I couldn’t be better pleased. But, you see, I only paint whatever fancies float into my head. I haven’t the least idea what’s coming along, or when. How could I know what I’m doing until I’ve done it? In a manner of speaking, then, I really have nothing to do with them. They more or less decide for themselves, and always surprise me.”

“But, mirza,” Shira put in, “why do your work where no one sees it?”

“On the contrary,” said Cheshim, “they are here for all who are meant to see them. And those who are meant to see them will unmistakably find them.

“I have others,” he added. “You are welcome to look.”

“Marvelous,” said Salamon. “It would be a pleasure.”

“I can hardly wait,” said Baksheesh. “But, before I’m able to devote my full attention and admiration for—for whatever it is you do, I have to build up my strength. I suppose you must eat like everyone else—except for old Salami here,” Baksheesh added.

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