David Pendery
The old artist sat in a low chair facing the beds of roses. He was painting a group of different roses in an arrangement, as a study of their shapes and colors, on his pad. His watercolor was skillful, as yet unfinished, and passersby stopped to admire his work, and then walked on.
The old artist wore a straw hat with a weathered band and his face was sunburned and covered with gray stubble. Youth, though, lit his transparent blue eyes. He commented to me about the different techniques he was using and the various difficulties in painting the petals and the different colors. The petals in his painting were lifelike and beautifully rendered.
The old artist happily explained how he would fill the background with the vivid green of each rose's leaves. Each leaf, he explained, had its own characteristics, just as the different petals did. There would also be blue in the background, he said, and I thought that he must mean the sky. More people stopped and watched him work, but strangely, he did not speak to them, only to me, and I think that they may have though that I was his apprentice. Then a little girl stopped to watch, and as the old artist, she too had a handful of petals. She walked between the rose bushes picking up loose petals, and her hand, stuffed with the petals, resembled a small rose itself. Perhaps later she would fling the petals into the air, the breeze lifting and scattering them, then raining them down around her.
"So pretty," she shyly said to the artist, pointing to his painting. Then she walked away, her attention once again on the many loose petals under the roses. The old artist said after her, "You can do it. You can do it too. Just practice. Practice very hard..." The little girl turned and seemed to ponder his words. Then she turned again and strolled away.
"She doesn't know it now," said the old artist. "She doesn't know she can do it yet, but she will. She will."
The old artist sat in a low chair facing the beds of roses. He was painting a group of different roses in an arrangement, as a study of their shapes and colors, on his pad. His watercolor was skillful, as yet unfinished, and passersby stopped to admire his work, and then walked on.
The old artist wore a straw hat with a weathered band and his face was sunburned and covered with gray stubble. Youth, though, lit his transparent blue eyes. He commented to me about the different techniques he was using and the various difficulties in painting the petals and the different colors. The petals in his painting were lifelike and beautifully rendered.
The old artist happily explained how he would fill the background with the vivid green of each rose's leaves. Each leaf, he explained, had its own characteristics, just as the different petals did. There would also be blue in the background, he said, and I thought that he must mean the sky. More people stopped and watched him work, but strangely, he did not speak to them, only to me, and I think that they may have though that I was his apprentice. Then a little girl stopped to watch, and as the old artist, she too had a handful of petals. She walked between the rose bushes picking up loose petals, and her hand, stuffed with the petals, resembled a small rose itself. Perhaps later she would fling the petals into the air, the breeze lifting and scattering them, then raining them down around her.
"So pretty," she shyly said to the artist, pointing to his painting. Then she walked away, her attention once again on the many loose petals under the roses. The old artist said after her, "You can do it. You can do it too. Just practice. Practice very hard..." The little girl turned and seemed to ponder his words. Then she turned again and strolled away.
"She doesn't know it now," said the old artist. "She doesn't know she can do it yet, but she will. She will."
***
Say What You Said Before
"The hell I am."
"You are, you're trying to win her."
"Joe, you don't understand. She's a married woman."
"You're telling me!"
"So, we had dinner. We're just friends. That's all I want from her, Joe."
"You're lying."
Joe lifted his cup to his lips and sipped his coffee. His friend looked away.
"You're going to get yourself killed."
"Oh please, Joe."
A few moments passed. Joe leaned back in his chair and looked at his friend.
"Well, she is beautiful, isn't she, Dan?"
"You're telling me!"
And for the first time since they had sat down for coffee after their workday, the two friends smiled. They were talking about an associate of theirs.
"Why do you pursue her, Dan?"
"I'm not pursuing her. I know her situation. We're just friends."
"You're in love with her."
"Not at all!"
"You said you were."
"That was before."
"You said it more than once, Dan."
"Is there something wrong with loving someone?"
"There can be. You're going to get hurt."
"Joe, it's not like that."
"The hell it's not. You're trying to win her."
Dan looked away.
"How does she feel about this?"
"She sees me, doesn't she'"
"How often?"
"Once or twice a week."
"Every week?"
"Almost."
"Christ! You're trying to win a married woman."
"It's not like that."
"It is."
"Alright it is."
The two friends were sitting outdoors, on an oak deck that extended out of the coffee house and over the water of the bay. The weather was sharply cool, and the breeze was fresh and the water before them was choppy with whitecaps. The wind foamed the whitecaps and jets and sprays of water peeled off of the crests.
"Why do I want a woman I cannot have, Joe?"
But of course there is no good answer to such a question.
"Weren't you interested in another woman?what was her name?"
"I'm not in love with her."
"So you are in love with !" and Joe spoke their associate's name.
"That's not what I mean."
"It is Dan, but either you don't know it, or you won't say it.? He paused."Or you can't say it."
"Is this some kind of analysis?"
"Go to hell."
They sipped their coffee and people dressed in warm, fall clothing came and sat at the outdoor tables or sat inside and talked together. Around them were the sounds of the wharf, and gulls fluttered nearby, perched on the deck railing, or marched under the tables looking for scraps.
"Back off, Dan. She won't allow herself to fall for you. There are other women for you."
"I suppose you're right."
"It wasn't meant to be."
"Yes."
"Inevitably, you will be hurt."
"Yes."
"But you don't care."
"No."
"Then say what you said before, Dan. Say what you said at the beginning."
Dusk was near. The light was fading and both men declined more coffee when the waitress offered it to them. A few chill drops of rain fell in the evening air. The two men were good friends and Joe felt they would not talk about this subject again until the thing he felt would happen had happened. Joe looked down at his cup and saucer and Dan looked away, to the empty beaches across the steely water. As he looked down, Joe said,"Go ahead and say it, Dan. Say what you said before." And he looked up and their eyes met and Dan hesitated momentarily and then said,
"I really do love her Joe. I love her so much!"
***
David Pendery is doctoral student in the English literature program at National Chengchi University in Taipei, Taiwan. He has lived in Taiwan for five years, working as a teacher, English consultant, and editor. In the United States, he worked in journalism and technical writing. He is married with no children.
