DreamPlantations-wordclone

He was looking for a meaning in his life, something that would somehow make his life worthwhile.
He felt empty inside, since his last wife had left him. She had just left without a note or a word, cleaning out his saving account and everything else.

He had nowhere to go and was living with his mother. His mother was a pious person and did not appreciate that he had relented and granted a divorce on mutual grounds to his wife, it was a sin, and so she was going to Church everyday, praying for the salvation of his son's soul.

Indeed, he had looked in his soul to see if a prayer would make the emptiness he felt go away, but it increased his depressive moods. He went into therapy and Prozac did not seem to help but rather worsen his state.

And so on Sunday, to escape from the oppressive atmosphere of his mother's house and sermons, he would go to the Art Museum, trying to see if he could find any meaning in Art.

He went regularly there, and toured the galleries, but he did not find what he was looking for, the emptiness was so heavy inside of him. He found himself following the tourist groups and the museum guide and absorbing the explanations. They did not seem to make much sense, and the guide was very cold towards him. He was not exactly the museum type; his outfit seemed so out of place.

And so slowly he decided that the Art Museum was not a place for him and started frequenting the sub-art markets, the places where people make things with their hands and sell to the public. There were lots of Native American arts there, and South American, African.

And soon he found himself returning to one of those tiny markets. There were no guides there but rather lots of lonely people who were happy to talk to him and for once he felt as if he was above them all. He was seen as a potential buyer. A middle-aged lady who was selling art made of beads fascinated him. Her art did not really appeal to him, but he was amazed at the tiny bundle of money she could make in one afternoon.

The next Sunday he went there and brought his guitar, she let him sit besides him and sing a song, and to his amazement, people started to drop coins in his guitar case. Barbara, the bead lady was happy, she was all smiles. That afternoon he too made a neat bundle of money over a few songs.

They decided to leave the place and go for a cup of coffee at her place. She owned her own house, and that evening he did not go to his mother home to sleep.

The next day, he took Barbara to the Art Museum and repeated to her what the guide had told the tourists, Barbara was so impressed. He told her that he knew that she had that much knowledge too in her heart. He asked her to put her heart against his and look at an artwork, he would know. She was conquered.

That evening, he called his mother to say he won't be in for a week, as he had to fix Barbara's house. His mother cried on the phone, but Barbara was calling him and so he just dropped the phone.

He hardly went back to his mother's place any longer, he would help Barbara fix her house, and there was so much to do, and hours went fast when they went so slowly at his mother's.

And every Sunday, they both went to the market, she sold her beads, he sang away, and both marveled at how easy the tiny bundles of money were made.

Soon he called his mother informing her that he had married Barbara in a civil registry. His mother cried,
Barbara called; he dropped the phone on his mother.

Life was smooth; he was looking towards Sundays.
Barbara has gone obese, she was gluing beads on famous artists posters, calling herself the new Dali.
Her fingers felt so rough when she touched him, but he remembered the neat bundles of money they would both make on Sunday. It was all right.

Soon the business went down, it was harder to get a neat bundle of money at the market since a young lady had set her stall next to Barbara's.

She was a sweet thing of 19 with a porcelain face and big blue eyes, She was doing ladybugs in papier-mache and she was selling them like hot potatoes. She had a wonderful smile and the customer would buy whatever she would put forward.

And so he left Barbara's stall and went over to sit close to the papier-mache girl, she would blush so easily when he talked to her. He sang a song too at her stall and he made a neat bundle while at her place.

That evening Barbara was mad. She shut the bedroom door on him and told him cruel words.
He felt so cold, he realized that he had not been careful, that all of his tiny bundles of money he had given her because she had so many bills to pay for the upkeep of the house. He had nothing.

In the morning she came out of the bedroom he noticed how unattractive she was, how gross, obese and vulgar she looked, she did not say a word.

And so he made her breakfast and explained as to why he had sat with the papier-mache girl. He explained that it was all for Barbara, as one can only vanquish competition by understanding it. That is what he had been doing.

Barbara smiled, and the door of the bedroom was kept open.

On next Sunday, he helped Barbara put up her stall as usual, and then he made a wink at her and went over to the papier-mache girl. She giggled, and blushed as he sang a song he wrote for her. Customers bought everything she had brought, and they also dropped many coins in the guitar's case.

Barbara's stall was desert, she did not even manage to sell one piece.

And before the evening was over, he took the papier-mache girl outside and did not return to Barbara's for two days. Then he came and smiled shyly telling Barbara: "do not worry my darling, everything will be all right. It is done."

Barbara smiled; she had bought him a new shirt too.

That Sunday, they both went to the market, and the stall of the papier-mache girl was vacant. Barbara sold very very well. Many asked about the papier-mache girl.

One customer bought a few pieces for Barbara, a tourist. He explained that he had hoped to buy papier-mache art but he was informed that the girl had seemingly committed suicide. So he had to leave and he would require buying 5 items from Barbara. He was in a hurry and did not bargain.

They made a record bundle of money that Sunday and they were both beaming.

Life had taken a routine course, and whenever there were competition, a plan was set up between us so that the neat bundles of money would still be made in good and bad days that was the meaning of the civil marriage of theirs.

Emptiness had crept in his heart again; Barbara would shut the door so often on him on a whim. And he felt so depressed and unloved, he could not say why. And so he sneaked back to his mother and to the Art Museum.

There one day, he met a beautiful young French actress, Anataalie, and she was kind, he told her of the emptiness he felt within him. She smiled softly. He was so taken by her.

She spent hours at the museum, as the Curator had brought in a great Monet collection, and she wanted to feel the French Blue as much as she could, before the collection was taken to another capital of the world.
And so he sneaked often to the Art Museum and he would always find her in the same meditative pause, she was so utterly beautiful, he was smitten.

Barbara had noticed his unexplained absences, and one day she followed him. She saw her and she knew that she was no match to that woman. She was something else.

But she knew exactly what to do.

And so on that day, he got locked in, he was not allowed out even for a walk. He was to glue the beads on the art posters and clean the house, take care of paper work.

Barbara on the other hand would go out for longer periods; she would stay out overnight. There was nothing he could do; he had no money, no friend.

Strangely enough, the emptiness had left him, his fate was sealed, he had become a kept, a hostage American way. He felt happy in his new condition.

At last he had found his spiritual path, the materialist nirvana of America.

.......... until the time when Anataalie will whisper the unlocking code of his life......

Copyrighted by Rahman,Brigitte arlette-2000

Excerpts from TORTURED WINDS