It Happened in Boston? by Russell H. Greenan

Author:Russell H. Greenan [Greenan, Russell H.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, mobi, epub
Published: 2014-12-15T16:00:00+00:00

Oh cursed be thou, devouring grave,

Whose jaws eternal victims crave.

From a branch above a lemur, its stomach agape, dripped blood upon the words.

And over everything, the lurid, fluctuating light prevailed.

“What’s the source of that unearthly glow?” I asked.

“Ha! It’s God,” Benjamin said, surprised by the question. “He’s returning to heaven after hatching the egg. You’ll notice He leaves his offspring behind.”

“But how have you created it? There are no colors like that on my palette, Benjamin.”

He laughed and clapped me on the back. “Trade secret. And I don’t grind my own paints, bear in mind.”

Leo, his wide eyes still fastened on the wild tableau, remarked softly, “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Of course, you haven’t. Why? Because in this world there isn’t anything like it,” I said vehemently. “Signorelli, Pollaiuolo — perhaps it bears a resemblance to their works or to the Last Judgment, but The Birth of Death stands above and apart from everything that’s gone before. It’s unique, a towering achievement, Benjamin, far better than your previous best. The drawing is as near perfection as human skill can get. I find it overwhelming — the atmosphere, the design, the lineaments, the fall of the garments. How envious I am! The figure of Death, alone, would testify to your genius. And his eyes! I’m sure they can see us, even as we see them. Really, it’s a tour de force in the highest sense — a masterwork. All those woebegone faces and dynamic poses, all that movement — why, you have left nothing for the rest of us to invent.”

“It’s true,” Leo said. “Your painting is totally new — new and flawless and …powerful. The color is brilliant and the graphics so smooth and precise. If you continue like this, we’ll all look like bumbling amateurs.”

“Come on,” said Benjamin, laughing. “Go easy. You guys will make me vain.”

“Where your chef d’oeuvre differs from nature, nature is at fault,” I said, slapping him on the back.

Littleboy’s eyes had grown moist and bright. Had we continued with our praise, he might well have wept. To prevent that from happening he hustled us back to the other room, where, with refilled glasses, we carried on a long and lively conversation.

Later our hostess summoned us to an elaborate banquet in the dining room, the main course being a French dish composed of grains of pasta embellished with lamb and chicken and a delicious sauce. Side dishes of red cabbage, cauliflower and spinach added to the meal, and at the end we were given apricot tarts and ice cream. It was a gala occasion, like a birthday party. We joked, laughed, sang. I remember it well, because it was the last happy evening the four of us ever spent together.

Afterwards we returned to the studio to have another look at The Birth of Death and to discuss the many technical and inspirational problems Benjamin had solved so expertly. By then the sun was setting and the studio had darkened. Death’s fat, freckled visage had become still more compelling and the anguished figures yet more frightful.

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