— painting, writing, playing music. His potential was obvious to anyone with any resemblance of taste. Unfortunately, there was one issue: he couldn’t force himself doing anything of use. It wasn’t for his shyness, principle or high-brow arrogance, only that he just couldn’t. While playing for others, he would run away after one half of a concert in an attack of extreme anxiety. Writing something to sell or even simply painting a portrait for a family friend hurt so much he wanted to quit art all together multiple times. And he definitely would have, if only it hadn’t hurt even more.
So he locked himself up, stopped checking the mail and cut off all relationships. He went out only in the latest and darkest hours to avoid any human contact. Unfortunately, it didn’t help, as the public watched him even more attentively. Everyone knew he had talent and money, so the explainable reason he kept it all to himself intrigued people. Some went out of their way to catch Orpheus on his rare outings, hear a glimpse of his music or steal a piece of paper, covered in sketches. And, of course, everybody asked him the same question: “Why?” And, of course, his every next answer sounded madder and madder, until he stopped speaking entirely.
One night he left his home to live in a cave outside the town. Only, again, in the latest and darkest hours, he was coming back to take things he needed and weep over his misfortune. Well, in the very end, it was said so in the stories Ovid heard in his childhood.
Ovid always thought it was quite hard to believe all of it, even though he walked pass the ruins of Orpheus’s home every day and once he even saw the cave and felt the eyes of a madman on his back.
As time passed, Orpheus went forgotten, as an old urban legend, until one day the smell started bothering people. Some were saying he was long dead; others swore they saw him near the cave just a week before. All in all, Ovid with some others went to the cave to investigate.
They couldn’t get inside, at first, as the entrance was blocked by tons and tons of junk. They were forced to tear their way through the labyrinth of old scrubbed papers, broken instruments, faded clothes and molded food waste. It seemed Orpheus hadn’t through anything out, including everything he retrieved from his old house. It took hours of digging, trying to ignore muggy smell, before Ovid could finally reach the back wall. There was something truly magnificent — a piece of grand poem, illustrated with purple and gold. And Orpheus’s body was lying just beneath it, crashed by walls of trash.
***
First time Ovid left the cave with workers, carrying Orpheus’s decaying body, he wasn’t feeling much but a little pity. As the days were passing, though, he found himself thinking more and more about the cave and all the pictures on the walls and all the songs written. So he returned and freed the rest of it from all the clutter. He read it, and while he was reading, something clicked. Ovid left the heart pumping and blood running though his veins. At the calm moments light shined though his soul, and when stakes raised high, he saw himself on the battlefield, as the surrounding chaos grew louder and grander, like symphony. Ovid realized he couldn’t leave it here, dying.
He spent next six months in this cave, copying the poem and illustrations with all the careful precision he was capable of. Some parts were already damaged by water and mold, so he copied them first. Some parts were too unclear, so he restored them, using Orpheus’s old scraps and drafts. Now Ovid saw why he never threw anything out: it was all foreseen by his genius and Ovid was sincerely disgusted by the barbaric way he treated this place when he first came here. When he wasn’t working, he was discussing it with his friends to the point they were scared off by his obsession. Finally, Ovid invited famous historians, art and literary critics to see Orpheus’s work. But their comments ended up frustrating him even more: most of them called it interesting but nobody could fully understand his passion. So he got back to work, rewrote every sentence from every wall and every notebook and every scrap of paper, and copied all the illustrations. Even than he felt he was missing something.
Ovid came to the cave once more and walked all the way to the back wall. Only then he realized: it was unfinished.
No comments:
Post a Comment