The Artist

The rhinoceros gaped at me with its large, bottomless eyes. The hollowness of the eye captured its age and helplessness, but still the majestic stance of the beast shook me and made me cringe. But next to me a Spanish man in his thirties, neatly dressed in a gray tweed jacket and a vivid red beret, stood up abruptly and approached the rhinoceros. “Be careful” said the guide accompanying us. “Remember, he is the last living rhinoceros in the world. You have to be careful.” The guide warned him, but kept at bay. “I know, my dear, I do know very well.” He kneeled down in front of the rhino, bringing his eyes upon the rhino’s and locking it. He stared for a long time; in fact, I lost track of time as the scene absorbed me completely.

Then, to my surprise, he delved into his knapsack and pulled out a sketchbook. He started sketching the animal. The guide and I stood in the background, while the rhino took the spotlight. The sickly, feeble rhino was the primo uomo of the moment, gently singing a glorious solo that only the man could hear. The man listened to the song and he sketched the tunes blissfully onto a piece of paper.

When the opera ended, the man stroked the rhino’s head and walked towards us. “Did you see?” He panted. “It sang to me. I heard it. This moribund rhino of yours used to be the maestro of his land. He stood aloft in his world, roaming the bushland with authority. But now his horns are weary and weak. He is the setting sun in the horizon.” He said in a hurry. “I believe it is my duty that I reignite the flame of the setting sun.”

I watched in awe. I asked for his name.

“Salvador.” He said. “Salvador Dali.”

“And I suppose you are a painter?” I asked.

“No, I’m an artist.”

#huddlestone #fiction