Broken Hearts On Boulevard Unirii novel Chapter 86

"At the end of this year I will be 90 years old. I was born on December 31, 1912. When my father did not return from the war, World War I, that is, my mother was forced to raise me and my four siblings by herself. I miraculously survived the famine after the war, although two of my siblings did not. I fought in World War II, during which I lost a leg. I survived Communism and the dictatorship of the madman Ceausescu, whose security police arrested me and threw me in jail for a year and a half because they claimed my paintings were anti-communist propaganda. Now, that I am near the end of my days, I can enjoy a bit of rest and relaxation. But as nobody likes my paintings, I can hardly pay my rent."

I am not a much of an expert on art, but I liked his large oil paintings, especially the ones with endless fields of sunflowers that reminded me of the valleys in Tuscany and the ones with gypsies and their rows of caravans.

"How much do you want for this painting?" I asked, pointing to a large painting that was hanging on the side.

"One hundred and fifty lei," he answered. "Is that okay with you?"

"If I were to buy all your paintings, how much would you want for them?" I asked the artist.

He laughed, thinking that I was joking with him.

"Come, let me invite you for a good cup of coffee," he said as he stood up and walked to the corner of his gallery where there was a burner and a small pot. I noticed that he had a prosthetic leg, although he walked quite easily.

He handed me a small cup of hot coffee and I sat on a low stool next to him. It was strong, made from coffee essence, yet very delicious. I had to drink it in small sips.

"Where are you from, Mister?" he asked.

"I'm from Italy. From Tuscany," I replied.

"Are you an art dealer?" he asked curiously.

"As of this moment, I am. An hour ago, I wasn't," I answered him matter-of-factly.

"And you are interested in buying some of my paintings?" he asked, surprised.

"No," I responded. I am interested in buying all of your paintings."

The artist laughed once again, and said, "I see you don't understand art. You don't know me nor do you know my name."

"I know your name. It's Popescu," I said.

He suddenly became serious and said, "So you do know my name."

I burst out laughing and said, "Everyone in Romania is Popescu."

He remained serious and said, "You mean you just guessed?"

"Yes" I responded, and kept on laughing.

"Well, you were wrong," he replied. "My name is actually Mihail Unescu, but you were close."

This time he laughed because he had mocked me. We both laughed together and had another round of coffee.

"I am very serious," I told him. "I want to open a gallery in Arezzo, and for that I need material; in other words paintings. Since your paintings are very attractive and prices are reasonable, I would like to acquire all of them."

"Start with a few. Why everything?" he asked.

"Why, don't you want to sell them to me?" I asked, surprised.

"I want to, believe me, I really want to. It's just that I am in shock. You appeared like the angel Gabriel," he said as he crossed himself.

I instructed him to make a detailed list of all the paintings he had in the studio.

"I will buy everything. Have the list ready in a few days and I will send the money with somebody who will also collect all the paintings. You keep on painting and I assure you that I will buy them too," I told him.

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify