The Final Portrait
By Joe Greco
Marisol peeks out the cabin’s wooden shutters. The dying light of a blood orange sun is veiled by late afternoon haze but there is no mistaking what she sees: A convoy of camouflaged jeeps is winding up the narrow mountain road like a green anaconda slithering toward its prey. Ten minutes, she thinks; she has no more than ten minutes before the junta’s soldiers arrive to seize her. She turns, walks back to an almost-finished painting of a man, and picks up a brush. Her brow knits and her eyes narrow as she contemplates the final strokes needed to complete the eyes. “They must be perfect,” she whispers. “For I must see your soul.”
II.
The junta came to power three years ago when Marisol was fifteen. She already was an accomplished painter, having been tutored by her father, a well-known artist and professor at the local university. But as time passed, she noticed that he was becoming less interested, not only in his artistic pursuits, but also in hers.
One night at the dinner table, she turned toward him. “Papi, I don’t think you’ve completed a painting in over a year. Are you not feeling well?”
He shrugged. “I haven’t really thought about it. I’ve been very busy with teaching.” He looked down, his broad shoulders slumping. His salt-and-pepper moustache twitched as he stabbed his fork into the slab of pale white fish on his plate.
“But you were always busy with teaching and still created so many beautiful paintings in different styles. And people loved your portraits.”
He shrugged again as he finished chewing a mouthful. “I just painted people for the money. I don’t consider portraiture to be the highest form of art.”
Marisol shook her head. “But Papi, what can be more beautiful than your painting of her?” she said, nodding toward a painting that hung on an adjacent wall. It was a portrait of raven-haired woman in her late thirties, whose face was gaunt, but whose almond-brown eyes were radiant.
Her father turned toward the portrait and sighed. “You know, I tried to paint your mother on several occasions after we married but I wasn’t happy with my work, so I destroyed the canvases. But when she became ill with the cancer and we both knew she had little time left to live, I resolved to try one final portrait.”
“I remember, Papi. I remember her sitting for you.”
“Even though she was in pain, she sat patiently, and I painted intensely until I was satisfied that the painting was perfect.” He looked down. Marisol saw that tears were welling in his eyes. “You know, sweetheart,” he said slowly, “your hair, your skin, the shape of your face at least before she became sick—they’re all very much like hers.” He swallowed, smiled slightly. “And your eyes are very close, very close in color.”
Marisol forced a wan smile. “Then why don’t you paint me? Almost like painting a copy, no?”
He shook his head. “No, no. I could never paint anyone that well again. And besides, you wouldn’t be a copy. Especially not the eyes. Even if the color is the same, the eyes of every subject are different. The eyes are what make the person. They truly are the windows to the soul. Perhaps it’s mastering the light in the iris; perhaps it’s simply ineffable. But if a painter can’t capture the eyes perfectly—perfectly—the painting fails.” He looked away, then continued. “The warm, golden undertones of her eyes. The beauty and tranquility in the face of tragedy, in the face of suffering and death. That was her. Oh, that was her.” He looked back at Marisol, then abruptly slammed his hand on the table, startling her. “And yet,” he hissed. “And yet those bastards want me to paint them.”
“Papi, please, please,” Marisol stammered. “What’s wrong? Who wants you to paint them?”
Her father clenched his jaw. “I don’t want to involve you in this. You shouldn’t have to worry about these things. You’re still a young girl.”
“I’m not a girl; I’m a young woman. Now tell me who’s bothering you.”
“You must keep this secret, Marisol. You can’t tell anyone, and I mean anyone. It’s the General’s local minions. The bastards who are riding around in their trucks and threatening anyone who opposes them or disagrees with them. Three of them have demanded that I paint their portraits to be hung in the rotunda at the university.”
“Oh, I see.” Marisol paused, took a deep breath. “I understand how you feel about them, Papi. But can’t you say ‘no’?”
“People who say ‘no’ to the junta aren’t faring too well nowadays, my dear.”
Marisol lightly touched both her hands on the table and leaned forward. “Okay, I get it. But you could paint them. It’s still art—”
“No,” he shouted, slamming his hand on the table again. “Art isn’t a tool to be used like a goddamned hammer or screwdriver. An artist should only paint what he or she finds beautiful, even if the beauty reveals sadness or tragedy. What they want is nothing more than a political poster, Marisol.” He buried his face in his hands. “And if I painted them the way I know they should be painted, well…”
“What?”
“I’m afraid, Marisol. I’m afraid that it will be no less a political act, no more the work of an artist than an assassin.”
“What are you talking about? You’re making no sense.”
“I haven’t wanted to talk about it with you, sweetheart. I haven’t wanted to burden you.” He paused. “But, you’re right—you’re a young woman now. So, I’ll try. I’ll try my best to explain.”
III.
Marisol listened as her father told her about her great-grandmother, who died before Marisol was born. The old woman had cared for Marisol’s father when he was a child, sparked his interest in art, and taught him to draw and to paint. She’d been very poor, but from a very young age she’d exhibited an exceptional talent for drawing and painting people, a talent that was even more remarkable because she’d never had any formal training.
Marisol held out her hands, palms up. “Why haven’t you told me this before, Papi? This is a wonderful story. She must’ve been quite a talented woman.”
Her father remained silent, as if he hadn’t heard what Marisol said. He gazed at the painting of her mother on the wall. “Yes, Grandma was quite talented. She made a little money, first selling her pencil and ink portraits to people in town, then using the money to buy some oil paint and canvases, and making more money. But that didn’t sit well with some people. They became jealous. How could this poor, peasant girl have learned to paint so well? Without anyone even teaching her? Rumors began to circulate in the town.”
Marisol’s eyes narrowed. “Because she was a natural talent? So what?”
Her father shook his head. “Oh, leave it the envious to denigrate, to find malfeasance. To them, the answer was easy: She’d made a deal with the devil; she was a witch, a bruja. And if she could capture her subjects’ physical images so well, there’s no telling what she might do with their souls.”
Marisol scoffed. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding. What nonsense.”
“It wasn’t a laughing matter, Marisol. She had to be careful of what she said, of what she did. And all the notoriety attracted the attention of Señor Lopez Garcia, a rich landowner who requested that she come to his hacienda on the outskirts of the town and paint his portrait. I say ‘requested,’ but it was a demand. He was powerful and influential with politicians, police, judges. You didn’t say ‘no’ to Señor Lopez Garcia.”
Marisol frowned. “But it was her talent that interested him, right? If he was so rich and powerful, I’m sure he would’ve wanted the highest quality portrait of himself.”
Her father looked down. “The great man asked many young women to visit his hacienda. Some to work as servants. Some because they were talented singers or dancers or musicians. But,” his voice faltered, “that is not all he wanted from them.”
Marisol gasped. “Oh, Papi. That’s terrible. But your grandma, my God, what happened?”
“She told me about it, that she knew it was trouble. He’d done his best to buy silence, to cover up his crimes. But word got out. She knew what she faced. But what real choice did she have? Flee? Leave town? She went.”
Marisol’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. But she remained silent, fearing an answer to the question that had formed in her mind.
Her father continued. “She went to his hacienda, and he sat for her in his parlor. She spent several days with him. On the last day she worked diligently as dusk approached, and he began telling her how beautiful she was. She told him she was almost done but to remain very still as she finished his eyes.”
“Did he let her finish?”
“Oh, yes. And then he stood and approached her and put his hand on her shoulder, as he admired the painting, grinning at her. She told him that she needed to use the restroom and excused herself. She went into the restroom and listened. She heard a loud crash and the scream of a woman servant. She slowly walked back toward the parlor where she saw him sprawled on the floor, his mouth open, his vacant eyes staring at the ceiling.”
“Dead? But why? How?”
“Wait here,” her father said.
He returned with a rolled-up canvas. “Doctors, police, relatives soon arrived at the hacienda. They were disorganized, milling around in the parlor. A policeman questioned Grandma but didn’t arrest her. She waited until they finally had removed his body from the house and placed the corpse in an ambulance. The painting had been moved into a corner of the parlor. She covered it the best she could and placed it in her art portfolio bag. Night had fallen and a male servant offered to drive her back into town.”
Marisol stared at the rolled-up canvas. “And she ended up giving it to you?”
“Yes. You see, it was her final portrait.”
“But, why?”
Her father snickered. “Use your imagination, sweetheart. The suspected bruja paints the portrait of a man, a powerful man, and he drops dead. Just drops dead. She stopped painting. Married my grandfather, who had a little grocery store. Time passed. She became a wife, a mother, a grandmother. People forgot her great artistic talent. But she took me under her wing, to pass it on to me the best she could.”
Marisol stood, folded her arms across her chest, and began to pace next to the table. “It’s so damned unfair. That ridiculous superstition. To bury her talent. How silly.”
Her father remained silent. Then he took the ribbon tie off the canvas and began to unroll it. The painting was smudged and cracked in parts. When it was unrolled, Marisol sat down. Her eyes widened and she shivered. “Oh, my God,” she whispered.
Her father kept both hands on the painting to keep it from curling up. “Yes, Grandma kept it hidden in a back room where she hoped it would dry sufficiently, but her parents told her to get rid of it. So, she rolled it up and hid it under her bed. It’s not in the best shape, but yes,” he said softly. “Yes, the eyes survived intact, just as she painted them.”
Marisol squinted as she looked into the eyes of Señor Lopez Garcia, the brown irises so dark that they were barely distinguishable from the pupils. “Oh, my God,” she said again. “The darkness, the near blackness of those eyes.”
“The windows to the soul.”
“It is amazing, Papi. She captured him.”
“Yes, she did. She captured him. And now, sweetheart, I must tell you the rest of the story.”
IV.
As her father finished the narrative, Marisol felt rocketed back in time, as if she were sitting with him when his grandmother was telling him about her final portrait, telling him that as she had finished painting the evil eyes of Señor Lopez Garcia, she had wished, hoped, prayed that she would capture his soul and that he would die for the crimes and sins he had committed against others before he could commit them against her.
Marisol paused, pondering. Then she slowly began to shake her head. “That’s why, isn’t it, Papi? That’s why you’ve stopped painting. Why you won’t paint the bad men. You think you’re a brujo. My God, Papi. You won’t even make the sign of the cross or murmur a prayer at a funeral. And yet, you think that you’re a brujo and that you’re going to kill the people you hate with your art.”
Her father folded his hands and looked down. “We can’t understand everything in the universe, my dear.”
“Maybe we can’t, Papi. But the man’s death almost certainly was a coincidence, no matter what your grandma may’ve thought. Probably a heart attack or a stroke.”
He continued looking down, saying nothing.
Marisol took a deep breath. “Well, okay, did you ever think of it this way: So what if it’s true? So what if you have these magical powers? Is what your grandma did bad? Can’t magic be used for good? Can’t art be used for righteous causes? Can’t it be beautiful in its righteousness? These guys are trying to force you to create art. Don’t they deserve whatever they end up getting, just like black-eyed Señor Lopez Garcia?” She shrugged, then folded her hands in front of her, as if praying that her words might bring her father some comfort.
He sighed. “You know, Marisol, I may be no match for you or Grandma when it comes to common sense.” Then he grimaced. “But I just can’t do it; I can’t take the risk. I can’t become an assassin. Not with a gun; not with a paintbrush.”
Marisol paused again, studying the pained look on his face. “Okay, Papi. I understand.”
V.
Weeks passed, then months, then a year. Marisol entered the university and took an art class that her father taught. But he grew more silent, more distant, not only from his students but also from her. She heard the whispers of other students and teachers that her father was in trouble with the junta officials, who took his excuses for not painting them to be an indication of his disloyalty. The gossip alarmed Marisol so much that she approached him with an idea: Since she herself was now earning money by painting portraits of locals, why not let her do the painting? Why not let her take the junta’s orders for whomever they wanted painted, and she’d get it done and they could all move on?
Her father’s brown eyes flashed at her. He clenched his jaw and told her that he absolutely forbade it. She was not to pursue any such plan or to speak further about it with anyone.
Marisol respected her father’s wishes. His angry eyes had said it all: There was to be no bargaining, no debate. But as she lay in bed one night, staring into the darkness, she wondered whether he was worried that she had the magical power to kill with art, that she was a bruja who might not be able to resist wishing for the death of those she painted. She laughed aloud. “The things people believe,” she whispered as she rolled over and went to sleep.
VI.
Not long into the new year, the university fired Marisol’s father. While the termination letter alleged an increasingly poor job performance as justification, everyone knew that the University Council had bent a knee to the junta’s wrath caused by her father’s perceived insubordination.
People soon began coming to the house late at night—friends, fellow professors still teaching at the university, others whom Marisol didn’t recognize. Her father would gently tell Marisol to stay in her bedroom, and she would obey, but she’d always listen intently to the hushed whispers that sometimes became animated. One night she heard the voice of a young man passionately proclaim, “We must aim for the top. We must cut off the head of the snake.” Her father immediately shushed him. But Marisol heard the young man’s more quietly pronounced words: “The General. We can’t succeed unless we get the General.”
On other nights Marisol’s father left the house and didn’t return until after Marisol was asleep. She worried about him. She still attended classes at the university, and she heard other students whispering about a cell of a nationwide “resistance” forming in the town. She soon realized that the politics her father so hoped to avoid had forced its way into his life like a battering ram breaching a castle door. But despite the trouble, she perceived a renewed energy in him that manifested itself in his art—new paintings with abstract forms of obsidian black and leaden gray pierced by bold brushstrokes of bright yellow, orange, and red, invading and battling the darkness.
One night when her father was gone, Marisol lay in bed, hoping that he’d soon return. She heard a loud knock on the door. Startled, she drew her blanket up around her neck, wondering who it was. Again, she heard the knock, even louder and more persistent, then a voice call, “Marisol, please open up.”
The voice sounded familiar, but she could not place it. She tumbled out of bed and donned her robe. She slowly walked to the front door, clutching the robe tightly around her chest. “Who is it? What do you want?”
“Marisol, please, it’s Diego.” Marisol recognized the young man’s voice she’d heard imploring others to “cut off the head of the snake.” She opened the door.
Diego’s face exhibited terror. “There’s been a terrible tragedy. The junta’s soldiers ambushed a group of our people. Some, including your father, escaped. But he’s badly wounded, Marisol. Quickly, get dressed and pack some clothes. I’ll take you to him at the safe house.”
Marisol’s eyes blinked rapidly, and she felt a lump in her throat.
“Quickly, Marisol, we must go. Oh, and your father said you must bring your paints, the acrylics.”
VII.
Marisol held her father’s hand as he lay on a bed, bloody bandages wrapped around his midsection where he’d been shot. His breathing was labored. He motioned her closer and whispered in her ear.
Upon hearing his words, Marisol recoiled. “But, Papi, why? I don’t understand. And for heaven’s sake, I certainly wouldn’t want to—”
“Listen to me, sweetheart,” he interrupted hoarsely. “I’m not going to make it, one way or another. If they catch up with me, they’ll torture me.”
“But Papi—”
“Listen. Desperate times call for desperate measures. What other choice do we have? When you’re done, Diego will drive you to a cabin in the mountains. In a couple days he and a few others will rescue you, get you out of the country.”
Marisol began to sob.
“There’s no time for crying, my dear. You must begin now.”
VIII.
Marisol sits in a wooden chair, gazing intently at the portrait in front of her. She hears the ominous rumble of the soldiers’ jeeps approaching the cabin. She takes a last look at the magazine photo she holds in her left hand, then sets it down. She applies the final strokes to the canvas until she’s content that she has captured the cruel and cold indifference in the subject’s gray eyes. No one is coming in time to save me, she thinks, and there’s enough time to also finish the other painting if I move quickly.
She picks up her brushes and palette of paint, walks quickly to a small door at the rear of the cabin, and ducks into the cramped interior space. She pulls a thin cord that turns on a single overhead light bulb. She stares at the other almost-finished portrait she’d been working on, dips a brush in the paint, and takes a deep breath.
IX.
Two soldiers jump out of a jeep and stride to the cabin. They pound on the door, screaming for Marisol to open it. After a moment they look back at their unit commander who’s walking toward them. He nods at the larger of the two, who kicks the door open and the three of them enter. Four other soldiers circle back around the cabin, while a few others remain near the camouflaged jeeps.
The commander looks around the cabin and notices the painting propped up on a table next to the side wall. “What is the meaning of this?” he growls, as he realizes that the portrait is a vivid likeness of General Gutierrez, the junta’s leader. “When we found her father dead, there was a painting of him, the traitor, next to his body. What the hell is the meaning of this?”
The jaws of the two soldiers slacken as they gaze at the painting of the General, wondering. “Goddamnit, where is she?” the commander screams. “There isn’t any back door to this place, is there?”
“I-I don’t believe so,” the smaller soldier says, his voice trembling. “And I had binoculars on this place while we were driving up the road. I saw someone peeking out the shutters no more than ten minutes ago.”
“But look,” the larger soldier blurts, pointing to the small door at the rear of the cabin.
The commander grits his teeth and clenches his fists. “Goddamnit, she better not have escaped. Go,” he shouts, directing the two soldiers toward the door. But before they get to it, another soldier runs through the open front door, breathing heavily. “Sir,” he says waving at the commander. “Sir, we just received word over the radio from headquarters. The General, sir. General Gutierrez. He appears to be dead, sir.”
“What?” the commander says, his eyes narrowing. “Dead? Are you sure you heard right? Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir. It was one of the General’s lieutenants on the radio. I asked him to repeat it twice. General Gutierrez appears to be dead, sir.”
The commander shakes his head. “But how is that possible? I just spoke with him this morning. How was he killed? Was he shot? Was there a bomb?”
“No, sir. The lieutenant said that the General suddenly took ill for no apparent reason. He just passed out. The doctors have been trying to revive him. But, well, there isn’t even the hint of a pulse. It doesn’t look good, sir.”
“I can’t believe it,” the commander says. “I don’t believe it.” Then his eyes widen, and he turns toward the General’s portrait. “Wait, wait a minute. What is going on here? Is this woman some kind of a—oh, never mind.” He looks back toward the first two soldiers who were frozen in place. “Find her,” the commander shouts, pointing towards the small door.
The two scurry toward the door. The smaller soldier tries the knob. It isn’t locked; it turns with no resistance. He slowly opens the door, bends down and looks inside. Then he gasps and backs away. The larger soldier pushes past him, bending down and peering inside. He turns back toward the commander and swallows hard. “Sir,” he says, his voice cracking. “You’d better come see.”
The commander strides toward the door, bends down, and looks inside. He sees a mirror propped up on one side of the cramped space. Next to it, he sees a portrait of a beautiful young woman. He slowly turns his head toward the far corner of the enclosed space. There lies a motionless body. He quickly looks back at the painting and stares into the subject’s penetrating almond-brown eyes, their golden undertones expressing sadness and tragedy galvanized by a defiant and determined righteousness. He reaches down, feeling that even the fast-drying acrylic paint is still wet, and a shiver runs down his spine.
END
Joe Greco is a lawyer and writer who lives on California’s Central Coast. His short stories and creative nonfiction have appeared in 34th Parallel, Flash Fiction Magazine, Smoky Blue Literary and Arts Magazine, Literary Heist, 101 Words, Right Hand Pointing, Fairfield Scribes, Emprise Review, Lowestoft Chronicle, and other publications. Joe’s writing recently has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and his debut novel, The Ghost Case Posse, is available on Amazon and other outlets. His website, https://jgreco.com/ has links to his recently published short stories and more information on the novel. Joe has an undergraduate degree from Dartmouth College and a law degree from Stanford Law School.
