Tag: The Scream

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Editorial

‘Footfalls Echo in the Memory’

Painting by Claud Monet (1840-1926). From Public Domain

Acknowledging our past achievements sends a message of hope and responsibility, encouraging us to make even greater efforts in the future. Given our twentieth-century accomplishments, if people continue to suffer from famine, plague and war, we cannot blame it on nature or on God.

–Homo Deus (2015), Yuval Noah Harari

Another year drumrolls its way to a war-torn end. Yes, we have found a way to deal with Covid by the looks of it, but famine, hunger… have these drawn to a close? In another world, in 2019, Abhijit Banerjee had won a Nobel Prize for “a new approach to obtaining reliable answers about the best ways to fight global poverty”. Even before that in 2015, Yuval Noah Harari had discussed a world beyond conflicts where Homo Sapien would evolve to become Homo Deus, that is man would evolve to deus or god. As Harari contends at the start of Homo Deus, some of the world at least hoped to move towards immortality and eternal happiness. But, given the current events, is that even a remote possibility for the common man?

Harari points out in the sentence quoted above, acknowledging our past achievements gives hope… a hope born of the long journey humankind has made from caves to skyscrapers. If wars destroy those skyscrapers, what happens then? Our December issue highlights not only the world as we knew it but also the world as we know it.

In our essay section, Farouk Gulsara contextualises and discusses William Dalrymple’s latest book, The Golden Road with a focus on past glories while Professor Fakrul Alam dwells on a road in Dhaka , a road rife with history of the past and of toppling the hegemony and pointless atrocities against citizens. Yet, common people continue to weep for the citizens who have lost their homes, happiness and lives in Gaza and Ukraine, innocent victims of political machinations leading to war.

Just as politics divides and destroys, arts build bridges across the world. Ratnottama Sengupta has written of how artists over time have tried their hands at different mediums to bring to us vignettes of common people’s lives, like legendary artist M F Husain went on to make films, with his first black and white film screened in Berlin Film Festival in 1967 winning the coveted Golden Bear, he captured vignettes of Rajasthan and the local people through images and music. And there are many more instances like his…

Mohul Bhowmick browses on the past and the present of Hyderabad in a nostalgic tone capturing images with words. From the distant shores of New Zealand, Keith Lyons takes on a more individualistic note to muse on the year as it affected him. Meredith Stephens has written of her sailing adventure and life in South Australia. Devraj Singh Kalsi describes a writerly journey in a wry tone. Rhys Hughes also takes a tone of dry humour as he continues with his poems musing on photographs of strangely worded signboards. Colours are brought into poetry by Michael R Burch, Farah Sheikh, George Freek, Rajiv Borra, Kelsey Walker, John Grey, Stuart McFarlane, Saranyan BV, Ryan Quinn Falangan and many more. Some lines from this issue’s poetry selection by young Aman Alam really resonated well with the tone defined by the contributors of this issue:

It's always the common people who pay first.
They don’t write the speeches or sign the orders.
But when the dust rises, they’re the ones buried under...

— Whose Life? By Aman Alam

Echoing the theme of the state of the common people is a powerful poem by Manish Ghatak translated from Bengali by Indrayudh Sinha, a poem that echoes how some flirt with danger on a daily basis for ‘Fire is their life’. Professor Alam has brought to us a Bengali poem by Jibanananda Das that reflects the issues we are all facing in today’s world, a poem that remains relevant even in the next century, Andhar Dekhecche, Tobu Ache (I have seen the dark and yet there is another). Fazal Baloch has translated contemporary poet Manzur Bismil’s poem from Balochi on the suffering caused by decisions made by those in power. Ihlwha Choi on the other hand has shared his own lines in English from his Korean poem about his journey back from Santiniketan, in which he claims to pack “all my lingering regrets carefully into my backpack”. And yet from the founder of Santiniketan, we have a translated poem that is not only relevant but also disturbing in its description of the current reality: “…Conflicts are born of self-interest./ Wars are fought to satiate greed…”. Tagore’s Shotabdir Surjo (The Century’s Sun, 1901) recounts the horrors of history…The poem brings to mind Edvard Munch’s disturbing painting of “The Scream” (1893).  Does what was true more than hundred years ago, still hold?

Reflecting on eternal human foibles, Naramsetti Umamaheswararao creates a contemporary fable in fiction while Snigdha Agrawal reflects on attitudes towards aging. Paul Mirabile weaves an interesting story around guilt and crime. Sengupta takes us back to her theme of artistes moving away from the genre, when she interviews award winning actress, Divya Dutta, for not her acting but her literary endeavours — two memoirs — Me and Ma and Stars in the Sky. The other interviewee Lara Gelya from Ukraine, also discusses her memoir, Camels from Kyzylkum, a book that traces her journey from the desert of Kyzylkum to USA through various countries. In our book excerpts, we have one that resonates with immigrant lores as writer VS Naipual’s sister, Savi Naipaul Akal, discusses how their family emigrated to Trinidad in The Naipauls of Nepaul Street. The other excerpt from Thomas Bell’s Human Nature: A Walking History of the Himalayan Landscape seeks “to understand the relationship between communities and their environment.” He moves through the landscapes of Nepal to connect readers to people in Himalayan villages.

The reviews in this issue travel through cultures and time with Somdatta Mandal’s discussion of Kusum Khemani’s Lavanyadevi, translated from Hindi by Banibrata Mahanta. Aditi Yadav travels to Japan with Nanako Hanada’s The Bookshop Woman, translated from Japanese by Cat Anderson. Jagari Mukherjee writes on the poems of Kiriti Sengupta in Oneness and Bhaskar Parichha reviews a book steeped in history and the life of a brave and daring woman, a memoir by Noor Jahan Bose, Daughter of The Agunmukha: A Bangla Life, translated from Bengali by Rebecca Whittington.

We have more content than mentioned here. Please do pause by our content’s page to savour our December Issue. We are eternally grateful to you, dear readers, for making our journey worthwhile.

Huge thanks to all our contributors for making this issue come alive with their vibrant work. Huge thanks to the team at Borderless for their unflinching support and to Sohana Manzoor for sharing her iconic paintings that give our journal a distinctive flavour.

With the hope of healing with love and compassion, let us dream of a world in peace.

Best wishes for the start of the next year,

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden.

TS Eliot, ‘Burnt Norton’, Four Quartets (1941)

Click here to access the content’s page for the December 2024 Issue

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Categories
Stories

Hope is the Dream of a Waking Man

By Shevlin Sebastian

The Scream by Edvard Munch (1863-1944)

There is a large grey wave painted in the middle of the canvas. It is falling over a large group of people standing on the edge of a seashore. Many men wear skullcaps. The women have black burkas. The group has widened eyes and open mouths. Some have turned their backs to flee. Others have raised their arms and clenched their fists, as if they are about to break into a run.  

At the bottom of the canvas, on the left, there is another group of people. They are also standing on another seashore, with windswept hair. There is a woman with a large sindoor in the middle parting of her hair. A young man, in jeans, has a necklace with a gold crucifix. A boy stands with a placard showing a dove with a leaf in its beak. The words, ‘Let’s all live in peace,’ are written in bold, red letters. Others raise placards with slogans like ‘Say No to communalism’, ‘Syncretism is in our DNA’, and ‘We are all brothers and sisters in this great nation’.  

Painter Ashraf Mahmood steps back and stares at the image. A slight smile plays on his lips. He had woken up that morning and this image had come floating into his mental screen. Ashraf kept staring at it, eyes closed, lying on his back. His wife had got up and gone to the kitchen. Alia liked to make her tea using Tata Gold. He preferred Brooke Bond Red Label. So they made separate cups. 

When he entered his studio on Mira Road, in Mumbai, at 9 am, he got down to work, using an easel and grey paint. 

He worked steadily. It was silent inside. But Ashraf did register the outside sounds of a typical Mumbai street. The horns blowing. Tendrils of smoke from exhaust pipes floated in through the window. His nose twitched as he noticed a foul smell. It seemed as if somebody had thrown garbage on the street. Ashraf closed his nose with the tip of his fingers for a few seconds. “The crazy smells of Mumbai,” he thought. 

He grew up near Mandvi Beach in Ratnagiri (343 kms from Mumbai). The air was fresh, and the wind blew constantly. The only sound was the roar of the waves and the beautiful sight of seagulls making circles as they flew above the sea. Ashraf’s father, Mohammed, was a government school teacher. His mother was a homemaker. He had two elder brothers and three sisters. Ashraf was the youngest. He displayed artistic talent from his school days.

Unlike most fathers, Mohammed encouraged his son. His father took him to an art teacher, who taught him how to draw and paint. Ashraf’s major breakthrough happened when he got admitted to the JJ School of Art in Mumbai. After that, there was no looking back…  

It was evening when he finished the work. His soles ached. Ashraf had been standing for hours. 

This image reflected all that he felt. The grey resembled the growing intolerance towards Muslims. This seemed to be overwhelming especially in places like Uttar Pradesh and Madhya Pradesh. There was the rise of majoritarianism. And the fracturing of relations between people of different communities. And yet, Ashraf felt that the DNA of the people over centuries was syncretic. A ready acceptance of people of all faiths. 

It was only the hate campaigns, through speeches, social media, and songs, that had swayed the people. He was sure the fever would die one day. Syncretism would rise again. “After all,” he thought, “throughout human history, love always conquered hate. But it took time.” 

Ashraf wanted to tell the viewers of his work not to lose hope. And hence the pigeon and the symbol of peace. For the title, he used a quote by the Greek philosopher, Aristotle, “Hope is the dream of a waking man.”

Ashraf rubbed his chin a few times and walked to a table on one side. A packet of fresh buns lay on the table. Ashraf opened a fridge. He took out a container which contained butter and a bottle of strawberry jam. He sliced the bun into half with a stainless steel knife, placed butter and jam in between, and began eating it. These were fresh buns from a nearby bakery. Ashraf had bought them when he had stepped out for lunch. He made tea on the gas stove. Then he sat on a stool near the table and sipped it. 

This was his 35th year as a painter. Now, at 55, he could look back with reasonable pride. He took part in regular exhibitions and won a few awards and grants. Profiles of him appeared in the newspapers and on social media. His paintings sold, thanks to his realistic and simple style. An art sensibility was only gradually building up among the people. Ashraf knew that images drawn from his unconscious mind had a pulling power. Why this was so, he did not know. He remembered how one art critic described a David Hockney painting as having a ‘psychological charge’. Hockney was a renowned English painter. Ashraf realised that art needed to have a psychological charge if it had to have an impact.  

But Alia had already made an impact on him. He met her when she came to view his exhibition one day at the Jehangir Art Gallery. She was slim and tall, with curves that were accentuated by the chiffon saree she wore. Like Ashraf, she came from a small town. Through grit and perseverance, she passed competitive exams and got a government job. They went for dates. Ashraf was smitten. Within a year, he proposed and they got married. 

Alia was a superintendent in the sales tax department. She would earn a pension once her career got over. She had another ten years to go. Their two daughters had married and settled down in Aligarh and Delhi. Both had two children each, a boy and a girl. 

Alia wanted Ashraf to earn more money. But he was not a hustler or a man who liked to build a network. If a buyer came and offered a decent price, he sold it. Most of the time, he remained isolated. Sometimes, he met other artists at exhibitions and art seminars. He would chat with them. But that was all. 

He was not keen on extramarital flings or experimenting with drugs or drinking too much. Ashraf led a steady life. In many ways, he was happy with the way his life had turned out. 

He washed the cup and the pans. Ashraf placed the cup on a hook which hung on a wall. He had yet to finish the bun. 

He made his way back to the painting. It was 5.30 p.m. In half an hour, he would close his studio and walk back to his house, fifteen minutes away. The couple owned their apartment. Alia, with help from Ashraf, had cleared the bank loan over 15 years. 

At this moment, he heard a murmur of voices from outside the door. Ashraf wondered what it was. The sound arose. “Was there an emergency?” he thought. “Is the building on fire?” 

He came to the door. Ashraf saw that the lock was coming under strain. It seemed to be bulging backwards towards him. Somebody gave a violent kick and the door sprang open. Ashraf moved to one side.  

A group of young men rushed in. Some wore red bandanas. Many were in T-shirts and trousers. Some had thick, muscular arms. They were shouting. It seemed like slogans. In his shocked state, Ashraf could not register the words. They rushed to the canvas on the easel. One man, using a long knife, sliced the canvas into two. He pushed the easel.  It fell with a clattering sound to the floor.

There were a bunch of finished canvases placed on one side. Ashraf had been doing work to showcase in an upcoming solo exhibition. The group spotted it. They rushed there, pushed the canvases to the floor, and began ripping them one by one with their knives. Within a few minutes, the work of several months lay ripped out. Ashraf remained by the side of the door. He had not moved. 

“Hey you Muslim kutta (dog),” one of them said. “We will come again if you carry on working. No art for Muslims. Clean the sewers. That’s the only job you are good at.” 

Ashraf half-expected one of them to stab him. But they didn’t. They left as quickly as they came. 

Ashraf felt as if a large, round ball had settled at the base of his throat. He could not swallow it nor could he spit it out. 

He blinked many times. Ashraf wasn’t sure whether this event had actually happened. It took place so fast. But there was no doubt about the ripped canvases lying all over the floor.

He felt a pain in his heart. Ashraf rubbed the area. “I hope I am not having a heart attack,” he thought to himself, as he took in lungfuls of air to calm himself down. Employees from other offices on the same floor came to the door. They entered. Most had goggle-eyes. 

“Sir, what happened?” one young man said.

Ashraf shook his head. 

“I don’t know,” he said. 

“Who were these people?” a woman said. 

“No idea,” Ashraf said, as he surveyed the damage. 

“Sir, you will have to call the police,” another man said. 

“Yes, I will,” said Ashraf. 

A couple of men shook his hand. 

All of them surveyed the damage silently. Work was calling them. “All chained to their desks,” thought Ashraf. “At least, that way, I am free. No boss on top of me. No attendance marking every day. No targets to meet. No one shouting at me. But then, no steady income. And no camaraderie. Large amounts of time spent alone.”  

Then he returned to the stool, returned to the present, and placed his head in his hands. 

‘What’s happening to this country?’ he thought. ‘‘There seems to be a collective madness. Indians attacking Indians. And these young people were ruining their lives by working for political leaders. They will be used and discarded.”

He had not seen them before in the locality. They might have come from some other area. Was it a deliberate ploy to send a shock wave through him and the community? Who knew how they thought?  

What should he do now? 

Ashraf realised he had to think rationally. He stood up and went to the door. He realised immediately, he could not do anything immediately. A carpenter would have to be called tomorrow. 

He called Alia and informed her about what had happened. She said she would come directly to the studio from the office. Ashraf called up his media contacts, both in the print and visual media. They said they would arrive with their photographers and cameramen. Ashraf took several photos and videos on his mobile phone, documenting the damage. 

He would have to report the attack at the police station and file an FIR.     

Ashraf realised his work had been ruined, but he would recreate it. He had photos of all the canvases. 

To prove to himself, he had returned to normality, he went back to the table and finished the rest of the bun. He put the butter and the jam back into the fridge. He washed the plate and the knife. 

Fifteen minutes later, Alia arrived. 

In silence, she stared at the canvases lying on the floor. Ashraf saw her press her hand against her open mouth. He realised it was a silent scream. 

In the end, she came up to Ashraf and said, “They have tried to violate your dignity as an artist and a person.” 

The couple hugged. 

After a while they broke away. 

“Don’t keep the canvases here anymore,” she said. 

Ashraf rubbed his chin with his fingers. 

Finally, he nodded. 

“There was something strange about the attack,” he said. “They didn’t overturn the table or the fridge. And for some reason, they did not assault me. It seemed to me they had to leave in a hurry. So I got saved.”  

Alia said, “They are keeping a watch on everybody.” 

“Yes, I read online there is a pervasive deep state,” said Ashraf. “In every neighbourhood there are spies who report about all that is happening.” 

“What is the next step?” she said. 

“I am waiting for the media to come. After that, I will file the FIR,” he said. 

At that moment, a few print and TV journalists arrived. 

Ashraf spoke to the reporters. The photographers and cameramen began recording all that had happened. 

They left after half an hour. 

The couple then shut the door, as best as they could. But there was a small gap at one side. They went to the police station. The police allowed an FIR to be filed against ‘unknown persons’. He faced no hindrances because, as Ashraf surmised, the police were aware of his reputation as an artist. 

The couple took an autorickshaw and returned to their apartment.  

Alia changed into a nightgown. She washed her face, and informed their daughters about what had happened on her mobile phone. 

Ashraf changed into a T-shirt and shorts. He made a glass of whisky mixed with water for himself. Every night he had one peg. 

As he sat on the sofa, nursing his drink and staring at the TV screen, he felt the pain arise in him. It was an ache in the middle of the chest. To see his work treated in such a callous manner was a calamity. He wondered whether he would ever overcome this fear that had come into him. Work on a piece the whole day and in the evening, somebody could come in and rip it up. 

Closed doors did not offer any protection. It was a time of lawlessness. People with criminal behaviour could operate with impunity. Leaders wanted to instil fear in people. 

And would he be able to recreate these ripped-up paintings with the same intensity? He was not sure.  

On the screen, some leader was having his say. His eyes enlarged, he made violent movements with his hand, and spoke with a loud voice. “Horrific,” thought Ashraf. “How do you create art in this environment?”

Yes, indeed, how do you? 

But it did not take long for him to tell himself, “But we must, whatever be the cost. Art is the candle that brings light to the darkness.”

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Shevlin Sebastian has worked for magazines like Sportsworld, belonging to the Ananda Bazar Patrika Group in Kolkata,​ The Week, belonging to the Malayala Manorama Group, ​in Kochi, the Hindustan Times ​in Mumbai, and the New Indian Express in Kochi. He has also briefly worked in DC Books at Kottayam. He has published about 4500 articles on subjects as varied as films, crime, humour, art, human interest, psychology, literature, politics, sports and personalities. Shevlin has also published four novels for children.

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Categories
Stories

The Infamous Art Dealer

By Paul Mirabile

The Scream by Edvard Munch(1863-1944). Courtesy: Creative Commons

I met Gustav Beekhof twice whilst travelling in North Africa, once in Tunisia on the island of Djerba, and then in Algeria when I emerged from the desert after spending about seven months living amongst the Touregs.

Gustav was a Dutchman, tall, slender, long blond hair falling to his rounded shoulders. His blue eyes shone like scintillating mountain lakes in the morning sun. He spoke excellent English, French and German, all learned at school but polished and refined ‘on the road’ as he said in his high, nasalised voice.

Over a glass of tea, we spoke about many subjects, he emphasising that the voyager must touch Africa with his or her feet, and not ‘do’ it either in vans or in Land-Rovers as so many ‘doers of Africa do’. Gustav indeed had a whiff of smugness about him.

We split, the cocky Dutchman en route to Morocco, I back into the desert to Tamanarasset. Before leaving, however, he gave me his phone number and insisted that if I ever found myself in Amsterdam I should look him up. He threw back his long blond hair and as he got up to leave, said that he held my friendship in high regard.

Seven years later this was exactly what I did! I had been shuffling between Madrid and Burgundy France as a Flamenco guitarist at Rosario’s dance studios in the mornings and Antonio’s mesón[1] at night, and as a grape-picker at several farms between Dijon and Beaune in Burgundy. Every Autumn I would hitch to Burgundy from Madrid and for a month or so labour in the fields, in the wine-cellars, bottle wine and study oenology with the wine-growers in my spare hours.

The life of a mediocre musician and a seasonal farm labourer made no sense. I needed a change. Was not life a thick forest of possibilities ? One day as I treaded wine in one of the enormous kegs that aligned the cellar of a famous wine-grower, what the Burgundians call ‘piger‘, I suddenly thought of Gustav Beekhof. That night, back in my little room on the farm, I searched through my belongings and found his address. Yes, I would go to Amsterdam for that change.

When my work had finished on the farm I left my guitar with some friends, borrowed a bicycle and cycled up to Holland via Liechtenstein and Belgium, a strenuous journey, given the fact that the bicycle had no gears. I arrived in Amsterdam, thoroughly exhausted, but immediately set out to find my ‘friend’, if I may say so at this point in my narrative.

And indeed I did find him: having telephoned Gustav, that nasalised voice gave me directions to his home. I set off on my bike in search of him. It took me hours as I crossed bridges, turned in and out of little roads and lanes. As I struggled on, I had a strange feeling that Gustav did not know with whom he was speaking over the phone. Be that as it may, I finally found his ‘humble home’ as he merrily said, one of the many barges that float listlessly in the canals that criss-cross Amsterdam. A rather shoddy one at that, but its bohemian appearance did suit the personality of the individual I had met some seven or eight years ago in North Africa, and who was at present standing on the plank that led to the barge from the grassy pavement-bank. He was all smiles. He gestured for me to come ‘aboard’, shook my hand and led me into his ‘humble home’ …

A home that rocked and rolled ever so gently when a barge cruised by. Gustav warned me that to live in a barge one must develop sea-legs. He laughed, and the twinkle in his eye intuited that the Dutchman had no idea with whom he was speaking. I felt rather uncomfortable at first, but this loss of memory seemed not to disturb my host who spread out his long arms as if to engulf all the belongings that swam before my eyes: dozens and dozens of paintings, either framed, rolled up in clusters or on easels covered the uncarpeted ‘bottom deck’ along with hundreds of acrylic paint tubes, whilst more books and documents rose in high stacks against the unpanelled ‘starboard’, barring the grey afternoon light from penetrating two ‘portholes’. Large packages lay on a bunk bed at the ‘stern’. There were no rooms, only a very long and narrow ‘hole’ with a kitchenette at the ‘prow’. Rusting red-painted iron beams horizontally crossed the ‘hull’. Two tables had been placed in middle of this capharnaum[2], one for writing, I presumed, and one for eating ; both had seen better days. The toilet, a cubby hole, was located on ‘portside’ …

I was overwhelmed by the quantity of paintings, some of which I recognised.

“How do you like my prized collection ?” Gustav began. His tone had an undercurrent of secrecy. “I have acquired them at great pains, some are originals, others copies … and a few a result of my own genius.” Modesty was never a quality of Gustav’s personality … not even false modesty !

“But you have a Jasper Johns[3] … a Frans Van Mieris[4] and a Nicolais Astrup[5]!” I rejoined in amazement. They must have cost a fortune. My host shrugged his shoulders.

“Why do you think I live on a rubbishy barge and not in a golden palace, my dear lad ?” He threw back his long blond hair and motioned to the hackney table, where two plates, two forks and two knives had been neatly set. I sat opposite a lovely Laurits Andersen Ring painting: Road in the village of Bunderbrøde. Original or copy ? From the kitchenette Gustav sailed back gingery to the table carrying a large tray of chips ; they were dripping with oil. I put one or two in my mouth and felt sick to my stomach. From a cupboard near the toilet he brought forth a bottle of Jenever which presumedly was to wash down the chips. I looked over to his writing table and observed an open notebook.

“My Waybook,” he laughed. “I’m writing a collection of poems and stories about my voyages in India, Central Asia and Africa. Poems and stories written out ‘on the road’, but here in my barge-solitude, polished to a lacquered lustre.” My host was beaming with self-complacency.

I let Gustav make inroads on that greasy stack of chips whilst I cast cursory glances at those many paintings… “Remember those horrible mosquitoes in Africa ?” he reminisced. “They always bit me … perhaps because my blood is so sweet.” His voice had a fluty tone to it. I nodded perfunctorily.Was his blood sweeter than mine ?

I left about midnight, rather sozzled from all that Jenever.

For the next few days, my Dutch friend took me about Amsterdam, especially to the bars where we would invariably get thoroughly drunk, but also to the countryside on bicycle, gliding by the still standing windmills cranking their sails, the tulip fields in blushing bloom, over a streamlet or two, our bicycles poled over on small barques. One day we stopped near one of those streamlets to indulge in some Gouda and Edam cheese. It was there that Gustav, his mouth full of cheese and bread, made me a proposition which I was to regret for the rest of my living days …

“Listen,” he began, munching merrily, washing down his cheese and bread with a few shots of Jenever. “Since you’re out of work, how about working for me ?” I raised a quizzical eyebrow. He gave me a sly wink. “Don’t worry, it’s not hard labour. I need an itinerant salesman for my paintings. You know, I’m stuck here in Amsterdam and can’t meet the demands of all my clients. I have clients in Italy, Spain, France, England ; all over Eastern Europe, too. You’d be a perfect dealer for me, you know many languages, you have a bit of artistic talent yourself to explain certain niceties, and above all, you’re honest. I know you won’t cheat me.” His grin stretched from ear to ear. A strange grin, plastic-like. “I’ll give you ten percent of the proceeds.” And he had another spot of Jenever.

“Why ten ?”

“Why not ? It’s a number like any other. And don’t forgot, some of those paintings are going for over 8,000 Guilders, even double that in other currencies. What do you think ?” He eyed me fixedly, the deep blue of those two tarns swirling before me like turbulent whirlpools.

It took me three days to think over his proposition, and during those three days, when I visited him, we tramped about Amsterdam’s bars, drinking and conversing. Never once did he enquire about my decision. It was whilst licking off the foam of my Heineken in one of Gustav’s favourite bars, where it was his wont to reach into a drinker’s open poach of tobacco, serve himself a good pinch and roll a cigarette without ever asking permission, a rite that he alone exercised at the counter, that I decided to accept his offer. “Fifteen percent !” I added. He winced at first, but that mask slowly transformed into a broad smile. We shook hands and the deal was sealed. He ordered another round for us whilst pinching a bit more tobacco from the pouch of his displeased but stoic neighbour …

And that is how I became an itinerant dealer for Gustav Beekhof’s paintings. My wanderings took me to the most remotest of European towns, and to the most hideous suburbs of those towns. Instead of dealing with rich bourgeois families, small museum curators or private collectors, Gustav’s mailed instructions directed me to shifty-eyed men, well-dressed and well-spoken indeed, but shifty in our negotiations. Besides, we effected our transactions in the oddest of places: warehouses, depots, repositories, seedy hotel rooms. I would remove the paintings from long, plastic cylinders similar to those that the Chinese use to carry their scrolls, unroll the merchandise they were expecting, and after a thorough inspection, the head of these delegations would produce a wad of bills, and without counting them push them into the pocket of my vest. They would leave me standing there without a word, although now and then, one of them was given orders to drive me to the centre of the town and drop me off at my hotel.

Gustav had advised me to deduct my fifteen percent from the purchases, deposit the maximum amount of cash that was permitted in one of the subsidiaries of a Dutch bank, found in Greece, Norway, Belgium, France, England, Luxembourg and Germany. If a large amount of cash remained, I was to travel to another country, locate another subsidiary and deposit the rest. Gustav had absolute faith in my integrity; at any time, I could have run off with thousands of francs, liras, pounds or any currency and simply disappeared. Of course the thought never occurred to me. As to the paintings themselves, they were sent through a special mail service along with a note at one of my hotels directing to the addresses where I had my the appointments. In this way I had no need to return to Amsterdam.

These proceedings continued without respite for two years as I scurried from country to country and town to town. I must admit that over the course of time I began to question the probity of the individuals I was dealing with, for all these transactions seemed enshrouded in mystery, carried out by dubious characters, each and every one of whom bore a rank odour of unprincipled morals, although their behaviour towards me was always impeccably polite, aloof indeed, but nevertheless perfectly respectful. I, thus, disregarded these apprehensions; after all, I was earning vast amounts of money. And I wasn’t one to, as the French say, cracher dans la soupe[6] !

One fine Spring day, I received six paintings at my hotel in Thessaloniki, Greece, and a note directing me to Istanbul, where an Armenian merchant was waiting impatiently to buy the paintings at a very handsome price. However, the note warned me that the merchant was a bit of a rogue, and a clever one at that. I smiled inwardly; I had been to Istanbul several times and could negotiate quite well in Turkish. I rubbed my hands ready for the joust …

It was on the fourth day of my arrival in Istanbul by bus from Thessaloniki that our appointment had been fixed in the Armenian’s small shop near the Armenian Church of Üç Horan (Trinity) inside the Fish Market. His shop, crowded with every object that one could possibly find on the face of the earth: wooden religious statues, candelabras, thuribles, musical instruments, Ottoman-styled hanging lamps, church paintings, ikons, antique furniture, travelling chests dating from the Ottoman Empire, sabres and shields, made it difficult for me to find the merchant seated behind a long, knotty mahogany table upon which had been stacked books, paper-weights and a scruffle of yellowing documents. He had a sinister look about him, doleful, suspicious, a darkly look that matched his dark frizzy hair, thick eyebrows and beard. When he noted my arrival he sat there in frozen silence which lasted longer than I had expected of a potential buyer of Gustav’s long-sought paintings. I sensed something amiss … something which did not sit well in this Ali Baba’s cave.

The Armenian stood and cleared away the books that encumbered his table. He bade me deposit the paintings in his outstretched arms. I took them out of the cylinder and placed them gently in the crooks of his arms, where like a mother holding her child, he cradled them for a few long seconds before laying them delicately on the knotty mahogany table.

Without a word he unrolled each one, admiring the colours, the textures, the shapes, the lines.

“Very nice … lovely !” he finally said in rough Turkish. “The colour saturation of this one is marvellous. And here, the crackle paste indeed gives the village a mediaeval aura. The application of mica flake certainly highlights the effects of the tempest over the sea, whilst here, the dry brush technique impresses an eerie velatura of the Scandinavian landscape.” He looked up at me. “And what do you think of Jasper Johns’ Between the Clock and the Bed ?” The question snapped me out of my reverie; no client had ever posed a question to me concerning the contents or quality of the paintings ; all my dealings had always been conducted with the utmost taciturnity.

“I don’t know … I’m not an art specialist, only a dealer.”

He chuckled : “Are you now ?” He touched the painting ever so delicately. “Pop art ? Expressionism ? What do you think, dealer ?” I remained silent, fidgeting about, the atmosphere had become unbearably  oppressive. “Look, these fourteen colours set out like a lithograph should have been painted on Japan paper … do you follow me ?” I shook my head, ignorant of all these technical details. “Well, Mr Dealer, this is not Japan paper, consequently, the painting it not an original, which leads me to surmise that it’s a forgery !” The word forgery shot through me like a bullet. “So are those four, all falsified due to over-enthusiastic scrambling[7]. Only one is an original: The Scream, one of the eight versions by Munch, stolen this year from the Munchmusect in Oslo !” He stopped, stealing a glance at me. “How did you steal it?” he asked in a deep-toned voice, authoritative, one that does not brook rebuke. “And all the others stolen from museums, private collectors and galleries ? Just how do you do it ?” I cringed, feeling engulfed in a welter of confusion.

Mouth agape, I stammered : “I’m not a thief … I sell paintings for Gustav Beekhof, that’s all. I know nothing about where the paintings come from, except that …”

“I shall repeat the question once again,” retorted that deep-toned voice: “How do you steal them ?”

I stepped back. The whole affair was becoming a nightmare. “I told you I sell paintings for Gustav …”

My interrogator bent over the table and slapped me twice in the face. The violence sent me reeling backwards into some wooden statues. He circled round the table and stood menacingly over me. “We have been following your doings for months and months Mr Gustav Beekhof. Your repugnant affair has brought death and destruction to many innocent people.”

“Please, I don’t understand …”

“Shut up and listen !” And he punched me in the stomach, doubling me over. “Interpol shall be here in a moment or two to question you. But I would suggest you tell me everything here and now, for their methods are far from savoury.”

“Really … I’m not Gustav Beekhof … my name is Vigilius Notabene …”

“Oh really ?Vigilius Notabene ? Well now, Mr Notabene, let me inform you that you have been selling stolen paintings and forgeries to underworld criminal organisations and terrorist groups. Do you understand what that means Mr Notabene ? That means with the money they earn by selling what you have sold them for double or triple your amount, they buy arms to execute military personal and politicians, bombs to blow up train stations and aeroports. Did you think you could continue your lucrative affair with impunity ?” He grasped my collar, his face screwed up.

Suddenly, the shop door swung open. Three or four burly men dressed in civilian clothes wove their way towards us. They took me by the arms whilst the Armenian slapped me repeatedly across the face. I began to swoon. He turned to the men: “Gustav says his name is Vigilius Notabene.”

“But … I’m not Gustav !” I whimpered.

“Shall I juggle your memory ?” continued the Armenian. And that powerful fist drove into my chest. I cried out, hanging limp in the strong arms of the agents who looked on indifferently. “No, I’ll tell you your real name. Javier Fuentes, born and raised in Madrid, lover of bullfights and flamenco music. You left Spain for Holland where you changed your nationality and became Gustav Beekhof, amateur painter, counterfeiter and arch-cozen. Do you think we would never get on to your little affair ?” Again that hairy fist ploughed into my ribs.

I gasped for air. In low voices, the agents spoke to the Armenian in Dutch and in Turkish. I was amazed that I understood every word that was said. “Yes, yes Mr Beekhof, you understand everything we are saying. Polyglot, dilettante painter and musician, intrepid thief and casual traveller — it has taken us a while to corner you. And here we all are in my little shop. Cozy, eh ?”

A blow to the midriff sent me hurtling against a gaggle of porcelain geese, where I then slid squirming to the floor breaking the necks of two ! The agents violently grabbed my long, blond hair and stood me up.

“I’ll give you Gustav’s address …” I managed to gasp, my mouth filling with blood. Two agents squeezed my rounded shoulders so hard that I buckled over.

“Still on about Gustav, eh ? There is no Gustav Beekhof in Amsterdam on a barge. Gustav is right here in front of me, and there he will remain until he tells us the truth … If not …” I lifted my arms to ward off a blow, albeit none came.

“Come, come Gus, your mind has been unsettled by all these false identities ; all these wanderings in and out of cheap hotels, dealing with a bunch of thugs and killers. Fifteen percent ? Why give yourself fifteen percent when you deposit the rest in your own name in a Dutch bank account ? You must be completely daft!” I stared at my interrogator in disbelief. How did he know such precise details ?

“We know everything about you, Gussy!” as if reading my mind. “Everything except how you managed to steal these paintings from the museums. That remains a mystery to us all.”

“I’m Vigilius Notabene, born in Gotland on a farm. My parents died when I was thirteen so I left for Holland, Spain and France. In France …”

“Enough!” The Armenian began pummelling me. The agents stopped him. Then I heard the door of the shop swing open. I caught a glimpse of four men dressed in white ; tiny, white skull-caps coiffed their bald heads. They forced me into a straitjacket and hurried me into an ambulance. I was given an injection and that is all I remember until now …

I awoke in a small room, an all ghost-white room: white walls, door, window bars, curtains, bed and bedsheets, writing table. The whiteness pricked my eyes. My arms were strapped to my sides ; they had straitjacketed me. I lay helplessly surrounded by all this monochromatic melodrama.

One day a man, dressed in white whisked into the room, threw me a cursory glance, laid a notebook and pen very carefully on the white, metal table then strode to the bedside. He undid the straps of the straitjacket, pointed to the notebook on the table, and left as quickly as he came, wordlessly.

I stretched my stiff limbs and sat at the table. I had no idea where I was, and no one to turn to: no family, no friends, no lawyers … no one. I stared down at the white, lineless, notebook pages. Yes, I knew what they wanted from me. Ah, Gustav, you are a slippery sod. Here you are at last slipping out of that phantasmagoria of so many faces and places. So many existences that never existed! Take note that Vigilius Notabene will expose the truth of the past. As to Javier Fuentes, he had no future. Gustav is the true wayfarer, the ever-questing pilgrim present, here and now.

So in a renewed state of extreme excitement I now record on those very white pages :

“I met Gustav Beekhof whilst travelling in North Africa…”  

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[1]          A small bar or tavern where people eat, drink and listen to flamenco music if there is a guitarist and a singer present.

[2]          ‘Shambles, disorder, mess’.

[3]          American painter ‘1930- ).

[4]          Dutch painter (1635-1681)

[5]          Norwegian painter (1880-1928)

[6]          To spit in the soup’.

[7]          A technique that allows to paint over areas of a painting to enhance the tone of dark-coloured areas.

Paul Mirabile is a retired professor of philology now living in France. He has published mostly academic works centred on philology, history, pedagogy and religion. He has also published stories of his travels throughout Asia, where he spent thirty years.

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Categories
Contents

Borderless, November 2022

Art by Sohana Manzoor

Editorial

We did it! … Announcing our first anthology … Monalisa No Longer Smiles… Click here to read.

Conversations

Suchen Christine Lim, an iconic writer from Singapore in conversation about her latest book, Dearest Intimate. Click here to read.

Blazing trails, as well as retracing the footsteps of great explorers, Christopher Winnan, a travel writer, delves into the past, and gazes into the future while conversing with Keith Lyons. Click here to read.

Translations

Rows of Betelnut Trees by My Window by Nazrul has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.

A Day in the Life of the Pink Man is a story by Shankhadeep Bhattacharya, translated from Bengali by Rituparna Mukherjee. Click here to read.

The Clay Toys and The Two Boys is a story by Haneef Shareef, translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.

Saturday Afternoon is a poem by Ihlwha Choi, translated from Korean by the poet himself. Click here to read.

Tagore’s poem, Tomar Shonkho Dhulay Porey (your conch lies in the dust), has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty as The Conch Calls. Click here to read.

Poetry

Click on the names to read

Jared Carter, Asad Latif, Rhys Hughes, Alpana, Mimi Bordeaux, Saranyan BV, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Quratulain Qureshi, Jim Bellamy, Sourav Sengupta, Ron Pickett, Davis Varghese, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Jonathan Chan, Terry Trowbridge, Amrita Sharma, George Freek, Gayatri Majumdar, Michael R Burch

Poets, Poetry and Rhys Hughes

In Infinite Tiffin, Rhys Hughes gives an unusual short story centring around food and hunger. Click here to read.

Musings/Slices from Life

The Scream & Me

Prithvijeet Sinha writes of how Edvard Munch’s painting, The Scream, impacts him. Click here to read.

A Fine Sunset

Mike Smith travels with a book to a Scottish beach and walks in the footsteps of a well-know novelist. Click here to read.

The Death of a Doctor

Ravi Shankar mourns the loss of a friend and muses on mortality in his experience. Click here to read.

My Contagious Birthday Party

Meredith Stephens writes of her experience of Covid. Click here to read.

Dim Memories of the Festival of Lights

Farouk Gulsara takes a nostalgic trip to Deepavali celebrations in Malaysia. Click here to read.

Musings of a Copywriter

In Strumming Me Softly with His Guitar…, Devraj Singh Kalsi talks of his friends’s adventure with the guitar. Click here to read.

Notes from Japan

In Therese Schumacher and Nagayoshi Nagai: A Love Story, Suzanne Kamata introduces us to one of the first German women married to a Japanese scientist and their love story. Click here to read.

Essays

My Favourite Book by Fakrul Alam

The essay is a journey into Fakrul Alam’s evolution as a translator. Click here to read.

The Ultimate Genius of Kishore Kumar

Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri, an eminent film critic, writes on the legend of Kishore Kumar. Click here to read.

T.S Eliot’s The Waste Land: Finding Hope in Darkness

Dan Meloche muses on the century-old poem and its current relevance. Click here to read.

The Observant Immigrant

In Piano Board Keys, Candice Louisa Daquin talks of biracial issues. Click here to read.

Stories

The Funeral Attendee

Ravi Prakash shares the story of the life of a migrant in rural India. Click here to read.

A Letter I can Never Post

Monisha Raman unravels the past in a short narrative using the epistolary technique. Click here to read.

Red Moss at the Abbey of Saint Pons

Paul Mirabile takes us to St Pons Abbey in France in the fifteenth century. Click here to read.

You have lost your son!

Farhanaz Rabbani gives a light story with a twist that shuttles between Dhaka and Noakhali. Click here to read.

Book Excerpts

An Excerpt from Manoranjan Byapari’s How I Became a Writer: An Autobiography of a Dalit, translated from Bengali by Anurima Chanda. Click here to read.

An excerpt from Evening with a Sufi: Selected Poems by Afsar Mohammad, translated from Telugu by Afsar Mohammad & Shamala Gallagher. Click here to read.

Book Reviews

Reba Som has reviewed Aruna Chakravarti’s Through the Looking Glass: Stories. Click here to read.

Somdatta Mandal has reviewed Shehan Karunatilaka’s The Birth Lottery and Other Surprises. Click here to read.

Basudhara Roy has reviewed Afsar Mohammad’s Evening with a Sufi: Selected Poems, translated from Telugu by Afsar Mohammad and Shamala Gallagher. Click here to read.

Bhaskar Parichha has reviewed Rahul Ramagundam’s The Life and Times of George Fernandes. Click here to read.

Borderless Journal Anthology

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles