Living Statue (The Gentleman - complete)

    My father was one of the best artists in the world. His works were featured all around the globe, and his expertise was sought after. The day he died was a sad day for art. Although for me, I never thought about art that day. All I thought about was how I was going to miss my father. Even when collectors and museums called wanting to buy his artwork from me, I didn’t know about it. I just hung up the phone. I wanted to remember my father, all they wanted was to cash in on his legacy.

    It wasn’t until months later that I went back to his studio. Everything was there, just the way he left it before he died. All the canvases and all the projects, a lifetime of work all in this one little place. His final work was still standing in the center of the room, surrounded by tarps and sheets there were smeared with blue paint. He had been countless hours into this work, and there he stood, unfinished. I called him the Gentleman since my father had yet to name him. He stood dapper in his spot, high top hat on his head, cane in his hand. His body was all white save for the blue details all over him that made him look like Delftware. He was a tribute to my grandmother who collected Delftware. Now, it was an unfinished mark to my father’s name. 

The Gentleman had no face, it had been what my father was working on and was never satisfied with. He wanted to make a face that was wholly original, but he could never create one that appeased this. So for now, where the Gentleman’s face was supposed to be it was smooth where the eyes would be, just rough clay there, and then a gaping hole for the rest of the face. It was sad to see him this way, I know my father would want him finished. I just don’t know I have the skill to do such a thing. So, for the time being, I drape a sheet over the Gentleman until I know what to do with him.

I clean up the studio, sorting the paintings and his sketches. I neatly put away the sculptures and figures, tucking them into foam and sealing them into boxes. I’ll decide what to do with it all later. The collectors and museums are like vultures, they call constantly, and even some of the more daring have shown up to the front door of my mother’s house. Needless to say, they make that mistake once. She has shot out several tires these last few weeks. 

There is so much here, so many things that the public hasn’t seen. I have enough to build my own museum for my father. But what would he say? What would he want me to do? I look around at the studio, seeing there is so much more I need to put away.

“Annemieke,” my father would say. “Take care of yourself and your mother first. I love my artwork, but I adore you more.”

How could I bear to part with something he put so much of himself into? I go upstairs to the loft and find even more canvases. He really never stopped. I then notice some of the canvases are mine. They are the work I did as a child when he was teaching me his craft. I thought for sure he had gotten rid of them, but every poor scrawling, every well-meaning attempt was there. I could see the progress of my painting to what it has become now. I am not the talent my father is, but I am better than most. I sit there smiling at my first canvas. My father wrote on the back “Annemieke’s first painting” along with the date. He was so proud of me! Yet I don’t understand why. All I can hope to be is a girl standing in his shadow, and that is all the world will see.

I come down from the loft with the stacks of canvases and see that the sheet has fallen from the Gentleman. I go to cover him back up, but I notice something strange. His hand looks different. Before his hands were clasped over his hand, and I thought for sure, it was the left hand on top of the right. But as I look at him now, the right hand is on top of the left. I reach out, touching the cool figure and then frown. I take the sheet and drape it back over him.

“Better not change again,” I grumble under my breath as I walk away.

In the back of the studio, there is a small bedroom. My father would stay there when he worked late, and he didn’t want to come home to wake mom and me. I’m staying there now until I can get everything sorted. Luckily, no one but my mother and I know about this place. Everyone just assumed my father worked at home, so he never corrected them. I would be unbothered here.

I lay in the bed and stare up at the ceiling where there are still glow in the dark stickers from when I was little. I used to be inseparable from my father, so when I stayed in the studio with him, I was afraid of the dark. My father put those stickers on the ceiling, assuring me that even in the darkest of place, there was always a little bit of light there. Sometimes, it was just hiding.

I sigh and close my eyes, hoping to find a peaceful night. I worked hard all day cleaning up, I thought for sure that sleep would come easy. To my dismay, it did not. I tossed and turned for hours. I punched the pillow and flopped around again. Finally, I could take it no more. I decided to get up and go to the kitchen for some food. 

The floor is cold as I make way to the kitchen. I walk by the main art floor and stop. I walk back and stare inside. The Gentleman has become uncovered again. The sheet lays at the doorway as if it had been tossed there. I pick it up and walk back up to the Gentleman. I gaze up at him and then notice his hands are back to the left on top. I frown and go to toss the sheet at him again. His cane rises up, whipping through the sheet and twirling it, so the sheet wrapped around the cane. He then flicks the cane so the balled up sheet goes flying into the loft.

The cane cracks down on the ground and echoes. He leans towards me, his hollow face extremely close to mine.

“Holy shit,” I whisper. 

The Gentleman’s hand cups over my mouth, and he shakes his head. He then stands erect again, and my mouth hangs open.

“How can this be?” I follow him as he walks around. He stumbles and trips before he realizes he can use to cane to feel out things in front of him. “Is this real? Am I dreaming?”

He turns around and lifts his cane, he pokes my stomach with it.

“Ow!” I growl and glare at him. “That hurt!”

He taps his finger where his nose should be.

“Oh,” I gasp. “So...you’re actually doing this?”

He nods. He then places his hands behind his ears and nods. He waves his palm where his mouth should be and shakes his head. He then pokes two fingers where his eyes should be, and he shrugs.

“So...you can hear, but you can’t speak, and your vision is...crappy?” I ask him.

He nods again. He then holds his hand out flat and waves his other hand over it like he’s holding something.

I look up towards his face. “Paper and pen?” 

    He claps his hands and nods excitedly.

    I grab an art pad and a pen for him. I quickly rush back, handing them up to him. The Gentleman eagerly takes them and starts writing, holding the pad extremely close to his face. He bears down hard into the pad and then hands it to me. His handwriting is childlike but legible. 

    “I am sorry for scaring you, but that sheet smelled like shit.”

    I stare blankly at the page, not sure what to make of it. “I uh…”

    He yanks the pad back, flips to another sheet and starts scribbling again. He hands it back to me. “Also, hello. You should be in bed, it is very late.”

    I smile at the pad then up at him. “I can’t sleep, that’s why I’m awake.”

    He shakes his head.

    “How am I supposed to sleep now?” You ask him. “This is too amazing for words! How is this even possible?”

    He takes the paper back and inches his face close to it while he writes. He then turns it towards me. “That’s rather personal.”

    I smirk, he has a sense of humor. “Was my father magic? Did he do this?”

    He writes again. “Your father did a great many things. He did make me after all.”

    “But...how are you like this?”

    The Gentleman simply shrugs at me.

    “He’s been working on you for over eighteen years,” I whisper in awe. “Did he know you could do this?”

    He writes again. “I’m not sure when this happened myself.”

    “I see,” I whisper. I look at him from toe to top hat. “Forgive me for staring, I just can’t believe it. This must be what Clara felt like when the Nutcracker came alive?”

    He scrawls hurriedly on the paper. “The WHAT now?”

    I chuckle. “It’s a story, it’s a famous ballet too though. It’s about a girl and the nutcracker she is given at Christmas.”

    “Please, dear, I do not know what a nutcracker is but it sounds terrifying!” He writes on the paper.

    I smirk and chuckle. “It’s a type of toy. You use it to crack nuts.”

    “Disgusting.”

    I snort and start to laugh. “No! No! Nuts, like in food?”

    “I don’t care for cracking of any sort.” He then shows me his hand where it looks like his two middle fingers have been glued back on. “Your father’s ass had a way of knocking things over.” He writes to me.

    I touch his hand and smooth my fingers along the ridges. “He did that at home too,” I tell him. “Mom had to buy plastic cups.”

    He lifts the pad up again. “I will miss him. I am sorry for your loss.” He then squeezes my hand. 

    I smile at him. “It will be ok. I have a feeling he meant for me to find you like this.”

    He swishes his finger in front of his face, making the shape of a smile. He then writes again. “I do think you should get some sleep.”

    I shake my head. “I can try, but I do not think I will be able to.”

    He takes me by the hand again and leads me back to the small bedroom. He tucks me into bed and pats my head. He then writes, “I will be here when you wake up if that is what you are worried about.”

    I smile and sigh. “Maybe a little.”

    “Good night, now,” he writes.

    “Good night,” I murmur as he turns out the light. 

I lay there, staring up at the glow in the dark stars on the ceiling. “Thank you, papa,” I whisper, falling asleep shortly after.

I wake up to feeling something patting my cheek over and over. I grumble and stretch, looking up into the Gentleman’s hollow face.

He taps his wrist and then wags his finger at me.

“Did I oversleep?” I rub my eyes as I sit up.

He nods and hands me a cup of coffee.

“How did you…” I stare at it before I take a sip. It’s actually really good.

He lifts up the paper, and I see a long note written on it. “Good morning! Or at least it would be a good morning had you wake up when you were supposed to. It is now rather late in the day, and I know you have work to do. If it is not a bother to you, I would like to try and help you clean up the studio. I know your father wanted you to continue on and become your own rising star in the art world. I know you are talented and I am very eager to see what you can accomplish. But for that to happen, you need to wake up!”

I smile at his note before he takes it away. “Good morning to you too. This coffee is wonderful, thank you.” I stand up off the bed and stretch. My back pops, and he jumps back. “What?” I ask him.

He makes a quick dash at the paper then shows it to me.

“I can’t read that,” I say as I squint at the paper.

He shakes it then turns it back around to scribble again. Once he’s done, he shows it to me. “What was that noise?”

“Oh!” I laugh. “My back just popped, that’s all.”

He scrawls again. “What?”

I laugh. “My back popped,” I point at my back. “My bones had air between them, so it popped.”

He turns the page over then turns it around again and thrusts it into my face. “What?”

I chuckle, pushing the sketchbook down. “It’s something weird humans do.”

He shakes his head at me and then walks out of the room. I change clothes and follow him into the studio. I’m shocked to see he has it mostly cleaned out. The floor has been mopped, and it smells like lemon.

“Wow, you did all this?” I ask.

He holds up the sketchbook. “I can’t see very well, I’m not sure if I used lemon juice or lemon cleaner.” he then hands me the bottle.

“Oh,” I snort. “Dear, this is lemon soda.”

He tosses his hand into the air in exasperation. 

“It’s ok!” I chuckle. “I’ll go get some clean water and the right product, and I’ll mop.”

“I wanted to be helpful. But it seems I only make more work.” He then drops the pad down.

“No! You cleaned out this whole space. You have the canvases organized. That’s a huge help! And sure, it’s soda, but that’ll help get some of the stains out.”

He wags his head back and forth.

I smirk at him. “Thank you,” I take his hand and squeeze it. “I’m glad you want to help.” I then laugh. “Papa never wanted to mop or clean this place. That’s a step up for me.”

He touches my cheek and nods. Suddenly, my heart starts racing, and I can feel my face grow hot. His palm moves from my cheek to my forehead. He tilts his head and shakes it.

“Sorry,” I chuckle. “I'm fine really! It’s just hot in here, don’t you think?”

He shrugs, and I make my escape to the kitchen. I go to find the cleaning supplies, if any, to finish mopping the floor that was surely going to be sticky. I do find a few things for cleaning, and I go back to help mop the floor again. 

He helps me get the studio clean and proper. He helps me with the heavy canvases and some of the other statues. Soon, I have everything neatly put away in one room of the studio. I sit down with my back against the wall, and he brings me one of the lemon sodas he originally used to clean with.

“Thank you,” I sigh and take a sip.

“What do you plan on doing with it all?” He asks on the paper.

I look into the room where everything is kept. “I’ll let mom come and pick out what she wants,” I reply. “After that, I’ll have friends and family come to pick out something to remember him by.”

“You aren’t going to sell anything?” He then sits down beside me, his long legs stretch a mile passed mine.

I shake my head. “I don’t think I could. I think it would be too hard.”

He touches my hand, and I turn my palm to his and lace our fingers together.

“My father already has a lot of his work in galleries and museums and the like. He preferred being a teacher anyways. He never expected to go to the heights he did?”

He takes the pad and writes with one hand. “What about you?”

I shake my head. “What about me?”

“You’re just as talented as your father.”

I stare at the words on the page, and I hang my head. Tears start to fall, and he touches my cheek. He shakes his head over and over as he turns me to face him. His glossy fingertips only smear the tears around, they don’t catch them like he wants.

“How can I ever be half the artist my father was?” I whimper. “Who am I to even try?”

He cups my face in his palms, and he gives me a soft shake. I look up at him, his hollow face and his clenched hands. I sniffle, wanting to see what he saw. He releases me then starts scribbling away, hard and fast, onto the sketchbook. He then hands it to me.

“Artists are not comparisons. Artists are their own unique interpretations. You are not your father, you are your own talented and gifted individual. You are not in his shadow, only in the eyes of others. Of course, you will be compared to your father’s works, but that is how the fool sees. The wise will see you for your own name and talented. You are your own invention. You do not use someone else's hands to create, you use your own. Do not put yourself down when that is not an option.”

I look at him and sniffle as I smile. “Thank you.”

He touches my cheek again and nods. He then stands up and sets up the easel and slams a canvas down upon it. I haven’t painted anything since dad got sick. It feels strange to want to do it now without him. I gather some supplies, and I sit down. 

“It all starts with a single brush stroke, Annemieke. Once you do that, you cannot stop.” My father’s words ring in my head as I tap the brush into the paint. I don’t know how long I’ve been working until the Gentleman grabs my shoulders and pulls me back into reality.

I look up at him, and he tilts his head. “What time is it?” I ask.

He takes the brush and paint from me and sets it aside. He grabs me by the hand and takes me out of the studio. Out the window, I see it is storming outside. I never even noticed. He leads me into the kitchen where he has a cup of soup ready for me.

“Thank you!” I never realized how hungry I was while I was working.

He holds up his sketch pad. “I tried to get your attention earlier but nothing I did worked. You had gone into another world.”

I read his words and smile. “I’m sorry. I forgot that I do that.”

He wags his finger at me.

“I know, I know. I need to take care of myself.” He nods and pats the top of my head.

“I’ll stop for today,” I tell him. “It must be late anyways.”

The next few days are like this. I spend time with the Gentleman, and he supports me in my talents. He makes me work and encourages me as well as keeping me from overworking. He writes me such sweet notes, and he’s never too far away. One day, I decide to work on something in private. I work on it before I go to bed every night. I have started sculpting him a face. I have no clue if it will work or not, but at least I can try.

I wake up early one morning, having fallen asleep over the face I was making. I get up and go to the kitchen to make myself a coffee. I notice that the trash can is full. Overflowing with crumpled up balls of paper from the Gentleman’s sketchbook. I take one out and unfold it.

“My darling Annemeike, how I wish I could speak to you. I feel it would be easier to get my words-” it is all then scribbled out and scratched out. I take another crumbled ball. “I have so much I want to tell you. I only want you to know-” another scribbled out mess. I take another one, seeing that the letter is scratched out, but one thing remains.

“Annemeike, I love you.”

I am speechless. I was unprepared to see those words written in his messy calligraphy. I rush to my room, taking the face I have sculpted for him. I worked late on it last night, having finished all the final details.

I find him hunched over his sketchbook in the studio. I’m breathless, and my heart is racing. “I have something for you?”

He turns to me and tilts his head.

I clutch the face to my chest then hold it out to him. He holds it in his hands, and he looks to me then back at the face.

“It’s for you, it is you!” I grin at him. “You’ll be complete.”

His hands tremble as he takes it in his hands. He slowly lifts it and places it over the hollow. The seams glow, and there’s a cracking sound. The blue markings appear on his face, and he gasps. He looks at me, his eyes wide open and his lips are parted. He grabs me, squeezing my arms in his hands.

“Is it…” I whisper to him. “Did it work?”

He grins at me. “I can only try.” His voice is high pitched and grating. I force a smile, but my insides are reeling.

He then lets out a long laugh. “Now, that’s an expression,” his voice is smooth and deep, and thankfully normal.

I sigh with relief then slap his arm. “That was a mean trick!”

He cackles loudly and grins at me. “This is amazing,” he says. “I want to see what I look like!”

I show him to the mirror in the bathroom. I gave him a masculine face since he had such a dapper figure. His jawline is sharp, and he has a defined chin. I gave him a distinctive nose and almond-shaped eyes. His brows are thick, to match his hair. He then turns and looks at me.

“I am so grateful,” he whispers to me. “Annemeike,” he whispers, and his eyes go soft. “Annemeike, Annemeike,” he murmurs over and over.

“I wanted to.” I then hold up the letter I found. 

He looks shocked until he sees what I have written at the bottom. “I love you too.”

His eyes go wide, and he wraps me up in his arms. “How can you make me so happy all at once?” He whispers.

I cling to him, and I look up at him. “Imagine my surprise finding my confession in the garbage.”

He turns and smirks. “Sorry. I was so nervous. I was afraid.”

I shake my head. “You didn’t need to be.”

He takes my hand and kisses my knuckles. I grab him and pull him down, kissing his new lips as much as I can.

He pulls back to catch his breath, and he stares at me with wide eyes. “Annemeike,” he murmurs.

“What?” I grin at him.

“I wanted to be a gentleman,” he smirks. “I didn’t want you thinking I was anything but charming.” He kisses my cheek.

“I know what you are and I love you for it. I have wanted a kiss from you for a long time. I didn’t want to wait.” I kiss him softly and touch his cheek.

“Perhaps you should name me as well,” he replies. “Something to match my charm.”

“Oh,” I hadn’t considered a name! I had made him a face, but I hadn’t given him a name! I think for a moment then look up at his expectant face. “Linnaeus,” I murmur. 

His eyes widen. “Linnaeus,” he murmurs to himself.

“It means blue flower,” I tell him. I then grin. “What do you think?”

He smiles back and me and takes my hands. “Annemieke and Linnaeus,” he murmurs. “It sounds like a match made in heaven to me.”

I take him into my arms again and kiss him deeply. I have never loved someone so much before.

“Before we continue,” he murmurs, placing his finger over my lips. “I want this to be on the up and up. Your father’s acceptance means a lot to me.”

“Oh,” I gasp. I nod and him. “I understand. But...I’m not so sure what will happen when you ask.”

He smirks. “He will give us a sign. I think we both know him well enough to not leave us hanging.”

We go to the graveyard together and find my father’s grave. Since the storm, it has been gray and cloudy out. It is cold and wet, and being in a graveyard only makes it feel ten times worse. I kneel down before it, placing flowers there along with the lover note Linnaeus had written for me.

“Hi,” I whisper and my voice cracks. “This seems so strange,” I tell him. “I feel like you should be here but-” my voice fades, and I smile. “Thank you for leaving Linnaeus behind. Thank you for giving him to me.”

Linnaeus kneels beside me. “I know I don’t have room to ask for anything,” he says. “You created me and gave me everything. And now, I’ve come asking for your daughter. I love her, and I want you to know that. I want your blessing sir if you give it.”

I take hold of Linnaeus’ hand and look up. The gray clouds part and sunshine starts shining through. A warm breeze flows by us, and I look to Linnaeus with awe. He stares at me at sunlight dapples over his face. He breaks into a massive grin and picks me up. He spins me around as we laugh and he kisses me.

“Is that a sign?” He asks me.

“I think it is.” I kiss him again.

He sets me down on my feet, and he bows to my father’s grave. “Thank you, sir. From the bottom of my heart. Annemeike is in the best of hands. Well, you know, you made them.”

I take hold of his hand, lacing my fingers with his. I then kiss his knuckles, and he kisses mine. “So, where do we start?” He asks me as we walk back towards the path.

“I suppose here is as good a place as any,” I murmur. 

He chuckles and squeezes my hand. “You know, I’ve never tried it, but I suspect I would be an excellent lover.”

I roll my eyes at him. “Really?”

“Hey, I seem to be a good kisser. At least you haven’t told me anything different,” he winks at me. “I just assume I would be good in bed as well.”

“That is not a good starting point,” I laugh.

He kisses my cheek. “It’s ‘A’ starting point, once we come to it.” He looks behind us to the hill we just came off of. “We have a long time together. Let’s not worry about the roads.” He then looks back at me. “I love you, Annemieke.”

My heart skips and beat, and I beam at him. “I love you too, Linnaeus.”