The Alchemist's Pride

She stands on the bank of the Vltava River, caught up in the world she is busy creating on the canvas, completely unaware of her surroundings. Two pairs of eyes are fixed on the enchanting picture she is creating: one pair amused, the other dark, brooding. The picture she is forming, with the Vltava River behind her, Prague’s bridges etched against the sunset, is itself worthy of being painted. Perhaps the fact that she is entirely unaware of the captivating scene she forms makes it all the more perfect. It is late October. The trees’ leaves have started to change color, and some have already begun to fall. The changing leaves, along with the orange sunset, create a breathtaking scene with the deep blue river in the foreground. It is one of the reasons Leyla chose this particular park in Prague to come and paint. The scenery is beautiful, even in the dying throes of autumn. The calm and tranquility along the river create the ideal atmosphere for many Prague residents who just want to relax a little in nature – whether to lie and read under the trees, have a picnic, or simply sit and watch the river with its many boats passing by periodically. “Hey there, Petal! How are you?” Leyla Brummer quickly turns around when she hears the voice behind her. Her face relaxes into a broad smile as she recognizes him. “Hello there! Haven’t you learned yet that it’s dangerous to sneak up on me?” Both burst out laughing spontaneously as they recall the incident Leyla is referring to. It was a lovely day, much like today: a calm, peaceful late afternoon in the park on the riverbank. Leyla’s Park of Inspiration, as she jokingly refers to the patch of land. Every afternoon after class, she brings her easel, a few brushes and tubes of paint, and a canvas, painting away her homesickness for her homeland and family, as she often jokes. That particular afternoon, she was capturing an abstract mess on the canvas when Juan Marc suddenly spoke behind her. She was new to Prague and skittish about everything and everyone around her (thanks to her father’s warnings about everything and everyone in Prague – from the romantic gypsies to the mysterious alchemists and ordinary street snatchers). So, when Juan Marc suddenly spoke behind her, Leyla spun around with a paintbrush in hand, holding it defensively like a sword between them. The blob of red paint on the brush landed on Juan Marc's crisp white shirt. His only white church shirt, as he later jokingly referred to it. He started apologizing with honest concern. “Oh goodness, I’m terribly sorry, Miss! I actually wanted to give you a compliment on your artwork. I’m no art critic, but whatever you were trying to achieve with those strokes, you’ve achieved it. I’m Juan Marc Du Pont, and I’m impressed. It’s definitely artwork I would hang in my house.” His friendly gray eyes laughed kindly at her, while she stared in genuine horror at the red blotch on his shirt. “Leyla, nice to meet you. I’m so sorry about your shirt. I’ll buy you a new one.” She spoke to him with typical South African comfortability, while her eyes looked up at him apologetically, and for the first time in his life, Juan Marc felt a strange tingling inside his chest. What an unpretentious girl she was! And beautiful! “Leyla? How do I pronounce that? Like Lay-lah? Not Lee-lah like the Americans say?” Leyla couldn’t help but start laughing spontaneously. There was an immediate ease between them, and she couldn’t help but start chatting back just as naturally. “Yup, you’ve got it. Lay-lah, just not Lee-lah, please! My parents swore revenge on me and my sister for our mischief at birth. Her name is Evah. Like Eva, but with an ‘h’ at the end.” Just like now, they burst out laughing spontaneously, and they have been best friends ever since that day. *** A short distance away, under the shade of a tree, the dark stranger stood motionless. The aristocratic face was attractive, but a cynical expression appeared as he watched the comfortability between Leyla and Juan Marc. However, only a keen observer would notice the sudden tension in him. Though he was an imposing figure, it was as if no one noticed him. He was dressed inconspicuously: black, tight-fitting denim and a t-shirt that emphasized a lean yet muscular upper body. His skin was olive-toned, like a gypsy, like a typical Bohemian. He was in his mid-thirties, yet he looked younger. He was an attractive man, the kind that made women of all ages look twice. The kind of man who could make even a woman with iron willpower crumble into a bundle of primitive passion. His jet-black eyes darted back and forth, alert, but kept returning to the slender, dark-haired girl in front of the canvas. His expressionless face betrayed no emotion as Leyla and Juan Marc walked toward him. Juan Marc was carrying her easel, and she had slung her bag of painting supplies casually over her shoulder. The stranger’s gaze slid expressionlessly over her. Leyla is of medium height, slender but without being bony. Upon closer inspection, her body appears slightly fuller, but her height gives her a slim appearance. Her skin is light and flawless, emphasizing her large eyes framed by thick lashes. There is a faint flicker in the dark eyes resting on her. His gaze roams further over her. She is wearing soft white trousers that gently hug her hips. The red three-quarter sleeve blouse she is wearing exposes one milky-white shoulder each time she gestures with her arms and hands. Her fingers are long and slender, artist’s fingers. Tools of a master in the making, thinks the stranger, with his eyes on the half-finished painting that she carries a short distance away from her white trousers. The stranger’s eyes narrowed further as she came closer to him. Her long, slightly wavy, raven-black hair sways in the light late-afternoon breeze, creating a perfect frame for her heart-shaped face. There is a light scent of orange blossoms that lingers around her, swirling in the gentle breeze. The words that come to his mind to describe the seductive little creature vanish suddenly when, from where he stands, he sees her large eyes directed at her companion. A surprised look crossed the stranger’s face. Innocence? The large, brown eyes, surrounded by thick lashes, convey an innocence that doesn’t quite match the rest of her somewhat seductive nonchalance. As she excitedly recounts something to the long-haired guy beside her, there is no world-weariness about her. Innocence, childlike excitement, even a touch of vulnerability. Indeed, surprising. The stranger cast one last pensive glance at the two young people approaching, then disappeared silently into the trees behind him, while Leyla’s cheerful laughter floated after him like Christmas bells. Unaware of the dark stranger's interlude in the background, Leyla and Juan Marc strolled calmly in the last rays of the setting sun.