Fiction: The Man Who Paints

By Don Herald

Strolling the Saturday morning market, I come across a man who doesn’t belong. He doesn’t have a vendor stall like everyone else.

His eyes are clear, the bright blue colour oddly unsettling. He’s carefully watching the passing shoppers. He does not speak but occasionally nods and smiles. His teeth have seen much better days, mostly a light brown except for the gold one, front centre.

His gray-speckled beard is straggly. Food-stained yellow around the lips. Or perhaps from far too many unfiltered cigarettes. The thin, wispy hair is in desperate need of a good washing. Several different coloured shirts are layered beneath a well-worn canvas outdoor coat. The pants appear to be a nylon wind proofer. The cuffs are frayed and dirty. His boots appear newish with thick rubber soles but seem too big for his feet. An Army Surplus backpack that looks like it has recently been to Afghanistan or maybe Ukraine lies beside him. A couple of hours ago, he was probably at one of the stoplights downtown, asking motorists for loose change.

But now the man is here. At the market. And he shouldn’t be.

But no one seems to mind.

The man has set up at the end of the first row of stalls closest to the main street. An upturned yellow Lumber Mart pail for a seat, a small easel beside, with a lightly soiled canvas that looked like it had been rescued from a waste bin that had refused to give it up easily. 

Spread out on his knees is a battered tin tray with watercolour paints and two brushes alongside – one fine, the other a bit thicker. They look expensive, which doesn’t fit with the rest of him. On the ground, between his legs, is a paper coffee cup cut down to one-third size. It’s empty.

A rough-cut cardboard sign leans precariously against the easel. Surprising me, the printing is done in careful, wide letters.

I will paint you.

Free.

Not everyone accepted.

Ask me.

I pause in front of him. I’d intended to continue on by looking for Dailey’s Apples.

But I stop.

He nods. Smiles.

I return his gaze.

‘You interested, sir?’

My mouth answers before it consults with my brain.

‘Yeah, I might be. What’s the deal?’

I flutter my fingers at everything, then point at his sign.

‘Not everyone accepted?’ I ask.

He smiles. The blue eyes quickly take me in. Top to bottom. Then return to my gaze.

‘Not everyone, sir. It’s all about the energy. If I feel it coming off you, I’ll do your painting. If I don’t, well then, I’ll tell you where you can find the apple guy.’

How in hell did he know I was looking for Dailey’s? That’s just too weird.

I stare back at him. He’s waiting for me to ask.

‘Well? Do I?’ I pause. ‘Have the energy, I mean.’

‘Yep. I’ll paint you, sir. But first, there’s something you must do.’

He leans over between his legs, picks up the coffee cup and gently offers it to me.

‘Put out your hand, sir. The left one, please.’

I have a sudden feeling that, for him, the cup is the most precious possession he has.

I take the cup and nod.

‘Thanks. Now, what do I do with it?’

‘Ah,’ he says. ‘That’s the tough part. I need you to put some of your tears in it. Not a lot. But some. Enough to at least totally wet the bottom of the cup.’

He pauses, as if carefully gauging my reaction to his request.

My tears? Into a cup? But in that weird moment, it feels like a totally reasonable request.

‘You want them now? Right here in the aisle?’

‘Whatever works for you, sir.’

That smile again.

‘If I can offer you a suggestion, sir? It helps to think about one of the saddest times of your life. Get into it. Let yourself go. When the tears come and start down your cheeks, collect them into the cup. Won’t take long before you have enough.’ 

He pauses. ‘Trust me, sir.’

People are rushing by. It’s noisy as Farmer’s Markets always are. The guy wants me to cry. On the spot. Out in public. No walking away and doing it in private.

‘OK, give me a couple of minutes.’

‘Take your time, sir. Such things, I know, they’re never easy.’

All at once my world collapses inward. There’s only this guy and me. Nothing else matters right now. The saddest time in my life ? That’s easy. It’s my wife. She died a couple months ago. My entire world emptied when she passed. I miss her terribly. I miss our intimacy. I miss her laugh. I miss the way she played with our dogs. I miss her touch. I miss her smell. I miss the way she sorted and folded the laundry. For her it had to freshly warm right out of the dryer. I miss –

The man interrupts my thoughts.

‘Yes, sir. She was truly a special woman. To be married for fifty-four years – well, these days, it’s a very long time.’

My god, how does he know about her? Know what I was thinking and feeling? Know about how long we were married? He’s a stranger to me. And yet, at this moment, he isn’t.

My cheeks are wet, and slick with tears. I place the cup on the left, then the right, Back and forth until I have the bottom of the cup and then some. Probably much more than he wants.

Silently, I hand his cup back. He glances inside. Gives a soft grunt.

‘Thank you, sir. Now it begins.’

He smiles.

He gets up from the pail, re-positioning it a couple of feet to the left. He picks up the easel and turns it slightly away from me. Just enough that I can’t see the full canvas.

He dips the thin-tipped brush into the cup. Swirls it a bit in my tears. Removes the brush and places the wet tip onto a small pad of black powder in his tray. A line. Then another. Then many. A change of brushes and colours. More dips into my tears, swirl, remove then mix into the paint powders. I imagine sharp lines and colourful swaths are being placed onto the canvas.

I watch him intently working on the painting.

I’m standing a few feet away, in the aisle of the Market. Minutes pass. I’ve no idea of time. The Saturday Market no longer exists for me.

He looks up.

‘I’m done.’ A pause. ‘Come close.’

He stands and steps aside to make way.

His painting takes my breath away.

This man, a stranger, has painted my wife perfectly. She’s smiling the way she always did – the slight promise of mischief about to happen. She’s wearing her favourite blue sweatshirt with the Orca on it. On the left hand is her sapphire wedding ring.

His skill with watercolours is remarkable. It’s as if I’m staring at a photograph of my wife.

‘I think my work here is done.’ He starts gathering up his things.

I’m looking at him, but words cannot come.

‘You’re wondering how,’ he smiles. ‘Well, sir, I’ll tell you a secret.’

Picking up the coffee cup, he examines it carefully, slowly turning it in his fingers. Satisfied, he places it gently inside a glass jar wrapped in gray duct tape, screws down the metal lid and slides it deep into the centre fold of his backpack.

‘It’s the tears, sir. It’s all in your tears.’

Don Herald writes stories about interesting or inspiring everyday situations and characters that tweak his curiosity or bump wildly around in his imagination. His stories have been published online in the UK, the US and Canada. He is a co-founder of the Writers’ Group of Peterborough. Now retired, Don has enjoyed careers as a social worker, organizational consultant, and educator. He is an active volunteer with Hospice Peterborough and currently contributes behind-the-scenes in training curriculum design and development.