"Multiply Untitled Story by multiple writers" Part 5

This entry was written by Owen. The original can be found here.

 

As Pablo sat in the train that was vibrating to the uneven metal tracks of the Paris Metro, he thought of two things - how amazed he was that he was now travelling through the hellish darkness of the Paris underground (surely, he thought, hell doesn't come much closer than this!) , and how long he would take to reach the Arc de Triomphe.

Pablo heard the wheels screech for the third time, as the train pulled to a stop and the driver yelled "Étoile!", and stepped out of the carriage to heave a rusty lever, about the length of his arm that was beside every carriage door, to let its passengers out.

At last. Pablo stepped out of the carriage and huffed and puffed as he walked up the stairs where he could see daylight again. God, he thought to himself, and then scoffed at his invocation of the supernatural. Well, God or not, at least I'm finally out of that bloody hellhole. The only place where he wanted to find himself claustrophobic, he decided, was with Lea in a broom closet. He made a mental note to suggest that to her later in the day.

As he stepped out of the station he made out the Arc de Triomphe. Such an irony of a name, Pablo thought to himself. Napoleon had commissioned the building of the Arc to celebrate his triumphs - but was defeated more than two decades before the Arc was completed. Stepping ever closer to the Arc, he found himself drawn by his occupational hazard. The intricacy of the carvings, the sheer grandeur that the architect Chalgrin was trying to express - he hated grandeur, but he loved the intention of Chalgrin (or Napoleon?) and how wonderfully it was carried out.

He was supposed to do something here - he remembered, clutching that flat, squarish object he removed from the hotel room - but he was dazzled by the architecture.

He was standing underneath the Arc when he heard a familiar rasp from behind.

"Enjoying triumph, Pablo?"

Pablo knew who it was before he turned his head. The silhouette had betrayed what the owner of the voice had certainly wanted to achieve - a surprise. The man was dressed in a well-cut dark suit with a matching bowler hat, covering his rotund figure and framing his rather round but unpleasant face. All dressed to match the times, thought Pablo to himself. Prim, proper, and boring. But this was no way to talk to a potential buyer.

"Monsieur Montmartre," Pablo took off his grey flat cap and made a little bow, half in feigned respect and half in annoyance. "How nice to see that you are also here to take a little bit more glory away from Bonaparte's legacy."

"I am not," growled Montmartre, adjusting his bowler hat with one hand that was attached to a very short arm and with his other arm fishing rather uncomfortably into the inside pocket of his jacket and eventually brandishing a cigar, "A man who basks in glory of any sort."

"No, I presume not," chuckled Pablo. "But you would allow your son on frivolous adventures with me so that he will be preserved in my painting and for you to show off to your friends and family?"

The hand on the cigar clenched a little too tightly and still-smouldering ash started spilling out. Picasso was not at all a humble man, despite his destitute beginnings, burning his own failed artwork to keep himself warm in a room without heating. Now, however, with Gertrude Stein as his ardent fan, Montmartre was facing stiff competition in buying the art that he loved. Pablo now had a newfound desire to speak to people willing to pay an exorbitant fee for his few strokes of a paintbrush.

Pablo was about to give what he thought would have been some choice words when something collided on his stomach and made him fall to the ground, knocking the wind out of him. After he finally caught his breath he stared at the cause of his falling down - a boy no older than twelve, wearing the same type of cap that Picasso loved so much.

And he realised something.

"They sent you?" Pablo whispered in disbelief.

The boy nodded. "They want it back," he said, adjusting his cap and dusting himself as he stood up. "And I have a message for you. From him."

"I was talking to him, boy," Montmartre's rasp sounded almost comical when he raised his volume, hardly what he intended to do. "Wait for your turn."

"Count Montmartre," Pablo said, "There is something important going on here, and if you are looking to buy my painting for what I believe is a pittance of what you can actually offer..."

"We're running out of time," said the boy nervously.

Pablo handed him the object, and bowed. "Thank him for my enlightenment," he said, and smiled. The boy smiled back, and handed him the package.

Then, a gunshot.

The boy's smiling lips were broken, in a sudden, ugly manner, by a trail of fresh red blood that spewed out from his mouth. As he collapsed onto the ground he saw an unmistakeable shape of a person's body with one hand on a smoking barrel just outside a cafe across the road. He could make out that body from a mile away, and he still thought it a compliment.

Lea.

A second collapse; this time, Montmartre had fell, most likely faint from the entire experience. His lips were quivering in fear.

He was certain it was Lea, as certain as he had been inside her at 1.30 that morning.

Had she found out his secret? Did she now realise that genius could not possibly be created, that he had sought a shortcut out of his desperation to become famous?

Pablo Ruiz Picasso stepped away from the Arc, and bolted southwards, towards the River Seine. As he felt the whiffs of air that accompanied every bullet that was fired he knew he just had a very close shave. When can I ever trust a woman? He thought absent-mindedly to himself, as he tried to run faster than the bullets that tried to catch his heart.

Was it Lea? As he panted and thought about it, he started doubting his initial certainty. She's got a figure, but I might have been mistaken... could have been a fucking whore from Pigalle. He did not have time to think. Pablo knew he wouldn't die - not yet anyway - but he thought that there was no purpose in letting the world know yet.

The bullets stopped, and Pablo felt thoroughly relieved to see the faint traces of dawn spring out from the east end of the sky. She decided not to trail me. For now. Pablo allowed himself two deep breaths and slowed himself to a more comfortable jog, but stopped and clutched his sweaty head in horror when he realised that he had left something terribly important at the lion's mouth.

The idol, he thought miserably. It's in the hotel.