They drank, they got drunk. Arefiev sat opposite his painting as he always did, having decided at some point that was the chair for visitors. He always found himself looking at it, but said nothing.
Suddenly, Arefiev asked him why he had done that. He repeated the question back to him, hurting himself. “What? Killed my last painting?” Arefiev squirmed. He muttered, “No, no, you must not do that.” He said it again, more firmly, not wanting to drop the matter, “No, no,” and again repeated, “Why?”
They sat in silence, until Arefiev muttered, “But you believed in what you were doing, you really believed in it.”
He replied, “You know, it doesn’t matter if it was all just a joke. You see ... That was the end ... Then, all of them ...”
“You just mustn’t. No, no.”
Something happened to Arefie
