Ivan Dobnik - Vilenica

272 · Ognjen Spahić
Cut, Copy, Paste
Got to hurry on back to my hotel room,
Where I’ve got me a date with Botticelli’s niece .
She promised that she ‘d be right there with me
When I paint my masterpiece .
(Bob Dylan, 1971)
He appeared at the door and said: I came for the pictures . In fact he said:
They sent me for the pictures . And when Andrej asked: What pictures? he
stuck his hand through the crack in the door and said: Those over there, the
red ones . He said red though that color actually only appeared in one of
them. Strong male hands in the foreground and two fingers pressing on
veins that had just been cut. Dots of oil paint, some fine and indifferent;
some larger, shiny and foreboding. The right hand bare, smeared up to
the elbow. Blood being squeezed from the canvas. The sleeve of the white
shirt neatly turned up to the middle of the forearm. Andrej waited for
several seconds, glanced back at the wall once more, and then opened the
door wide and gave a sour grin to the man who had come that morning
for his paintings. The man said his name was Tod and at that same instant
a white envelope appeared, going through the door of the apartment led
by someone’s right hand. On a small piece of awkwardly folded paper, it
said in thick letters: I need the pictures . Exhibition . In the lower left-hand
corner, next to the signature, the pen had punched a hole in the paper, and
this led Andrej to think that his ex-wife had composed the ultimatum on
her knees. He sniffed the envelope and the piece of paper but he did not
find a trace of anything except the stench of the cellulose and paper industry.
It occurred to him that the tone of the text was also in accord with that
smell and for one instant he had the desire to smell the being waiting on the
other side of the threshold just so he could complete the picture. Your wife
sent me, you know . . . It’s probably all explained in the letter . I didn’t read it . . .
believe me . I just want to pick them up and go . A picture is just a picture, he
said and took an uncertain step, placing his heavy black shoe on the doorstep.
Andrej stepped back from his body and caught a whiff of the metallic
smell of sweat mixed with that of cotton and shaving lotion. So, tell me what
does my wife look like? he asked as if he were demanding a confirmation of
her identity, though he really said it just to have fun. He had never heard a
description of his wife in the words of another man. He hoped that this guy
would start to analyze her body, he hoped that he would be vulgar. If you
don’t believe me you can call her, was all he said as he took a telephone from
his pocket. He was trying to leave the impression of being a professional.
He took another step forward and was standing with both feet on the dirty
tiles, nervously looking at the paintings through the French doors of the living
room. Andrej stepped aside and gestured that the guy could go in and