The Drawing

When you first saw the drawing, it resonated with your spirit. It spoke of your life as if the artist drew it for you and for all other people who live as you do. It hung on the wall in a gallery.

The drawing -- some people would call it a painting -- was done on flat paper, as if with colored pencils. The artist's name was signed at the bottom. That name echoed from a previous life.

The price of the work was beyond your ability to pay.

All winter, you saw the drawing whenever you passed by the gallery. Across the street, there was a cafe that sold French bread and cheese and espresso and frozen yogurt and hot dogs.

The scene in the drawing was simple, but each time you passed, you saw something new. It was a bedroom. There was a bed with a spread, and there was a window. There were no curtains or blinds on the window. There was nothing on the walls. A shutter was visible through the window. Some tree branches were out there. The room was on the second floor. There was an outer wall, another part of the same building, a former mansion now inhabited by people with means for food and shelter and nothing else.

Rays of sunshine splashed down at the foot of the bed, partly missing the spread and landing on the floor. Walls longed to crumble down to sleep. The bed was made. Its occupant of the past night was taking a last look at the room before going out to perform whatever daily ritual he, the renter-for-life, was bound to drag himself through. He? Of course the roomer was a man. How could there be any mistake?

You went to the pharmacy to buy some shave cream and razors.

One day the price of the drawing was reduced. You walked into the store and approached the drawing and gazed at it. It was placed above head level. The bed looked comfortable.

"You like?" came a female voice.

"The bed is soft," you replied.

"It's reduced."

You turned around to face the woman.

"Is the frame included in the price?" you asked.

"No," said the woman.

"Do you sell frames?"

"Yes."

"Can I buy this drawing with this frame on it?"

"Let me check the price of that frame."

She walked away. "Ma'am?" you raised your voice. She did not respond.

You returned your gaze to the drawing and thought aloud, "I wonder who painted those walls?"

Another man had entered the store. "The guy who made the bed," he said.

"The scene looks European."

"I had a room in Barcelona that looked like it."

"It is warm and sunny."

"Like the south of Spain."

"Never been there."

"They live spare lives."

"No waste in that room."

"We can't see what's behind us."

"What is behind us?"

"The door and a dresser."

"All the drawers closed."

"No underwear or socks hanging out."

"Not like most single men."

"Not an ordinary man. But he works --"

"-- at a dangerous job --"

"-- where he doesn't know if he'll come home tonight --"

"-- or any night."

"So he wouldn't care what is or is not on the walls."

"Exactly."

"And he wouldn't want to stumble on anything on the floor."

"No."

"But he'd shut the dresser drawers."

"They're empty."

"I'll take it," said the man.

"Enjoy," you replied.

The man bought the drawing, but not the frame.

"I want that frame," you said to the proprietoress.

"It's eleven dollars," she said.

You left the store with the frame and the glass. You strode down the street in the sunshine of spring. You arrived at your room and hung the framed glass over your bed.

This took place years ago, but you still live in the same room. You still have the same bed and the same dresser. The frame is still where you first hung it, and it is still empty.  It is priced beyond your ability to sell.

Copyright 1998, 1999, 2000 by Francisco Carrera.