FIERCE, NOT FAITHFUL

Chapter 5-Storm Between Us

Chapter 5

The sunbeams were creeping softly through the gauzy curtains, yet they did not carry warmth into the villa. Amara was sitting huddled up in the reading-nook of the studio room which she had gradually made her own, with a paint-brush lying idle in her hand and a half-complete canvas on the easel. Far enough, however, was her mind from the colour on the palette. The encounter of the previous night was still echoing in her ears like a bell that could not be made to stop tolling.

Julian had stood upright in the hall, his arms folded, his jaw set so hard the cords stood out on his neck.

“Why is that hard to comprehend?"She asked.

Amara had done her best to make her voice calm. It is not about disobedience. “It is all about doing something that makes me come alive at last.”She restated.

He laughed." You would mean those daffy little pictures? That you paint with strangers, and drink cheap wine in some foul corner of the city?"

“Not strangers" she mumbled , rather to herself. “They’re artists. Individuals that look at me.”She barked softly.

And now here she was, hours later, riveted between the security of silence and the thunder of her ambition. The brush was dipped slowly into a cobalt shade, and as she raised it to the canvas it trembled a little, in her attempt to paint over these emotions which were so deep in her breast.

Julian knocked and came in. He had that affected composure which he wore like a suit, pressed and polished. “Thou did not sleep." he said saint fully.

Amara shook her head, without looking at him.

His voice had softened now, almost to coaxing. “It is not that am attempting to control you. I...”

“It is not what you want me out there. Not that you worry. Because you can not bear the thought of me being illuminated by someone other than yourself.” She uttered sternly.

He winced, and made no denial. That was enough of silence she required.

She went away later in the day. Not the house, she was not ready yet to play that last act. But to the city,yes. She stole away with the help of Hera. Nyanza was standing outside the little coffee shop in City Galore, propped up casually against the brick wall as though she was not a day older.

Amara acoined Nyanza, and rushed to hug her old friend.

“Still a lot of beige" Nyanza joked with a smile.

They sat, conversant with snatches of years. The laugh of Nyanza, unabashed and brilliant, stripped off the layers that Amara had not known she had on. The question of the hour was soon on the art classes Amara had started to secretly attend.

Amara made an incredulous face. “I don t know how to describe it.” “When I am painting there I feel that my voice is finally heard without being shut up.”

"Then you know already," said Nyanza, sipping her coffee. The most difficult thing is not to begin. It is persevering when all other things are saying that you should give up.”

Amara went home without waiting till sunset. Julian was not in the hallway this time, but the tension was hanging upon the walls like dust. She moved around him in the kitchen, his eyes roaming over her costume, her finger-nails smudged, the outside air still on her.

Art, again? He said not concealing the bitterness.

She replied, putting her bag down, “Yes.”

"Did I not make myself clear?" He said his voice breaking.

She stopped a moment, and turned. “You did.but I did not listen anymore."

Julian flushed. Just for a second she caught a glimpse of something snapping the decent copy of him fraying at the ends. “You believe you’ve got something better out there, Amara? Is that what this is all about?" He asked authoritatively.

She answered, “I think I found myself. You would not know that, would you?

He bang a glass on the table, not breaking it, but snapping the rim. The keen note pierced the air.

“I have heard your work has been up at the gallery in East Row. You never really lost it, did you?" He uttered in a bruised voice.

Caius could always say the right thing to help her feel understood. Dangerous words. Because he did not tell her to decide. He simply reminded her of what she can become. Yet Amara was not blind. She had heard Nyanza whisper, and had overheard things in the gallery Caius was not only the delightful poet and Trafficker in smiles. He had some dirty deals that provided him with the liberty that most people could only imagine. But that freedom was not free.

“Leave me be! "Amara piercely said as she stormed out of the leaving room to her room.

" This is not over woman"

Later on in the week Hera took her to a place where upcoming artists would display their work. Julian did not go. He said he had a late meeting, Amara did not inquire. Her art, unrefined, marked with broad brushstroke of color and rude line, was like a confession among the other finished works.

She found, as she went about, a tall man standing in a corner, dark coat, hands in his pockets. Caius. He was somehow always in the right place.

Hhe had not said he was coming, half-smiled, half-warned.

"What a surprise!" She said sheepishly

"I wanted to know what freedom would be on you." He directed.

She made a eye-roll. “Perhaps it's in me."

" Perhaps we possess it in us all"he retorted

Amara didn't think about his remarks, except that her heart fluttered in that old familiar way before things had become complicated. she moved aside, however, before he could manage to put a card into her hand.

Julian discovered the card in her jacket pocket later that night as she was showering. Little more than a name, a time, a place. He never mentioned it. But something became hard in him. The following day he locked the studio. The locks were altered. without her knowledge her paintings moved.

When she questioned him he answered coldly,--”It was a distraction.”

“No", she said sharply, “You are the distraction."

Julian lowered his voice to a danger level." Are you single wanting to run around the city? As though I am not the man that made this life of yours?”

“I did not choose this life, you did . I basically went through it."She said sternly

This argument went off. Stones thrown were words, irrevoably said things. At midnight she found herself once more sitting in the car driven by Hera, holding her canvas and a little bag.

“Where to?" he said softly.

“Anywhere but here, " she whispered.

She was adopted by the city. Nyanza presented a couch. The gallery provided her with a corner to paint. She was liberated, yet the pain did not go away. With the freedom, there was, apparently, loneliness as well.

She was ignorant of what to expect. Whether Julian would struggle to retain her or release her. Who knows whether Caius was a calamity in-waiting or the sole person with clear eyesight. Whether art would liberate her or uncover her.