The Lost Symphony by Gabriel Farago

Author:Gabriel Farago [Farago, Gabriel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Gabriel Farago

41

Montmartre: 19 February 2017

‘My little flat’s just over there,’ said Anielka, and pointed across the deserted square, the cobblestones glistening in the rain. ‘That’s home for now. It’s tiny, but I love it. Come, let me show you.’

Jack parked the BMW in front of Quasimodo’s house, unaware he was being watched from inside. Malenkova and Zuzanna had left two hours earlier, satisfied that everything was exactly as it should be. Jack turned up his collar, took Anielka’s bag and easel out of the boot and followed Anielka up the stairs, oblivious of the rain hitting his face.

‘Let me get you a towel,’ said Anielka as soon as Jack stepped inside. Jack put the bag and the easel down by the door and looked around. His eyes went straight to the paintings covering the walls. Extraordinary, he thought as he remembered what Anielka had told him about her paintings the night before: ‘I draw what I see, but I paint what I feel.’ Anna and Alina have a lot in common; no wonder they got on so well.

‘What do you see, Jack?’ asked Anielka and handed Jack a towel.

Taking his time, Jack wiped his face and then dried his hair. What I see and what I feel here, are two different things, he thought. Jack realised he had to choose his words carefully because these paintings were very personal.

‘On the way here you told me that your paintings were a window into your soul. A few years ago, Anna told me something similar,’ began Jack, and handed the towel back to Anielka.

‘What do you see, Jack?’ asked Anielka again, urgency in her voice. ‘Tell me!’

‘Anna was close to death when I found her in the remote Australian outback, not expected to live, and she had a small baby with her. It is almost impossible to imagine what she’s been through during the years she was missing, yet she survived. She never talked about it, not even to her mother. She put it all into her paintings. That’s how she communicated; still does. That’s why her work is so remarkable.’

Jack pointed to the large painting on the wall in front of him. ‘I can see the same thing is happening here,’ he said quietly, but didn’t explain how he felt. The painting shocked him with its expression of extreme violence, anger and raw pain.

For a while there was silence in the room, the rain drumming against the windowpanes the only sound. Then slowly, Jack turned around and looked at Anielka standing behind him, afraid that he may have offended her. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked. ‘Come here.’

Anielka was crying, her beautiful face reflecting pain. Jack put his arms around her and began to gently stroke her wet hair. ‘What’s wrong?’ he repeated quietly, the warmth of her body pressing against his, sending a ripple of excitement to a long-forgotten corner of his private memory castle.

‘You’ve seen it straight away,’ whispered Anielka and looked at Jack, her cornflower-blue eyes now tinged with sadness.

‘Seen what?’

‘The dark side.

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