The Final Touch

1

Anthony turned the lights on in the corridor. Although he has been working in the gallery for the last ten years, today he felt like an intruder. It was 6pm so he had about three hours before Sullivan comes in with the guests. This was the big day they were waiting for; biggest ever. John promised him that he will not let anyone into the sculpture room until all of the guests arrive. It was supposed to be his biggest exhibition and he wanted everything to be perfect. He told John that he will come a bit earlier to prepare his final and major exhibit.

  He went to the office first. It was placed on the left side of the corridor, guarded by a heavy mahogany door. Sullivan was a ‘pretentious prick’ as he used to call him, nevertheless he still liked him. He grabbed the keys to the storage room from John’s desk (also mahogany) and looked at the 19^th century clock standing in the far-left corner, next to the Edwardian Burr Walnut Bombe Wardrobe. Anthony chuckled silently. He got out of the office and directed his steps to the storage room. It was a warm area filled with paintings pilled up against the far wall and several sculptures never used before. The gallery was a bit unusual. Sullivan was insisting on focusing on simply one kind of art: either paintings or sculptures; Anthony had a different opinion. Nearly sixty percent of all pieces of art were his, mostly sculptures.

 There was one painting that he was particularly proud of. The idea was very simple: white background, a bit shaky red letters framed by a black rectangle. The letters formed a phrase: ‘Mind your fucking step’. Anthony moved a few old rugs (Sullivan changed all of the carpets in his house just recently and was hoping to clean up and eventually sell the old ones). The logs were still there. He tied the string round both of them and headed towards the back wall of the gallery.

  Another mahogany door (yet somehow less ostentatious than the office ones – thank God for that) were leading to the SOR (Sculptures Only Room). John loved his acronyms.

Anthony often wondered over a thought: How the hell could they worked together for so long? The sculptures room was his idea. He wanted the sculptures to be in a separate room so that the ‘audience’ would not get confused. ‘Either fish or the aquarium’ as he used to say. One thing or another, he did not want to mix paintings with figures.

He carried the logs inside the room. He turned left to have a quick glance at the figure of a man. It resembled the famous ‘David’ of Michelangelo, but this one was masturbating. One could see a spasm of ecstasy on his face. His right palm was tightly wrapped around his penis. It was a very precisely crafted sculpture (of course it was, that is how Anthony worked). The figure had perfect features, ‘Wanking David’ (John named the sculpture, lately he just called him WD) was very well build, with a face of a cherub. You could nearly see the gold color shining in his locks.

  Anthony went back to the storage room. He glanced at his Cartier, it showed 6:27. Plenty of time left. He picked a can of red floor paint and a four-inch paint brush. Does every artist have to be lonely? This thought haunted him ever since Gina left. It was five years ago, yet still he could not erase her from his thoughts. Does every artist have to go through some love disappointment? This ‘Laura’ of Petrarch, or ‘Frankenstein’ by Marry Shelley…

 Anthony walked through the main room. There were paintings on both walls and on the centre pillar. There were four paintings on this column. Each pointed in different direction, like faces of the Hindu god. What was his name? Bharama, that’s it. Four Faced Buddha. Anthony walked around the pillar to the far side. There was a painting of a young emerging artist. It looked like a twisted kaleidoscope. Multiplicity of colors made him dizzy. He never liked this painting anyway. Brush went in and out the tin, marking the floor with a trace of red dots. Anthony pressed the brush hard against the surface of the painting. He marked two lines: one vertical through the middle and the second horizontal in about two thirds from the bottom. He was not very religious, yet he liked the idea of God; highest entity, looking down at the miserable creations of his.

Blake had something there. Angels in the trees he had seen. Why didn’t I ever see a single angel? In the tree, or on the wall, or in the mirror? Anthony threw his head back and laughed out loud for few seconds. In the mirror, that is one place I definitely won’t find an angel. He wiped the paint from the floor with a serviette he had tucked in the upper pocket of his jacket. He might have been going mad, but he definitely wasn’t messy. Oh, no. Once again, he made his little trip back to the storage room. He opened a heavy chest by the right wall. He held the only key. Anthony looked at the watch again, it was 7:20; time to start the last phase of the operation. He wanted to take everything this time, every single tool, didn’t want to risk. Time ran much quicker when he was deep in his thoughts. He planned the whole thing carefully; he actually nearly did it two years ago. There was another exhibition, but it wasn’t as fancy as this one. He even grew himself a beard and hasn’t visited the hairdresser in five months. All those details seemed somehow important. Sullivan was having a good laugh over his little makeover. ‘You look like one of those tramps on the street, the only thing that makes you different is the watch I gave you.’ His exact words. Anthony did not even like the watch, but he liked John and that was why he wore it. He opened the lock and let the Cartier slide down his wrist straight into the chest. He couldn’t wear it today. It would have ruined the overall effect. It needed to be perfect. He knew that he wasn’t going to do it ever again.

He bought the material in one of the Jewish shops. It was pure white, a whole bundle. It was a bit much; he picked the scissors and cut a two-meter length. There was a hammer in the chest as well, next to the Stanley knife and a box of long nails. He wrapped the tools in the fabric; there were two red scarfs which he used to tighten up the package. He glanced at the Cartier for the last time 7:33. He picked the watch and turned it over. There was an engraving on the case:

To my best friend ever.

John Francis Sullivan

It made him think of all the good times that they have had. He loved the Sunday dinners at John’s place. His wife Brenda was a superb cook. Even Gina with her Italian roots couldn’t match her. The best Sunday roast he ever happened to taste. The kids running around; ah, good times indeed. A glass of Scotch by the massive fireplace… John has always had the best Scotch. That was of the few fancy things that actually didn’t mind about John.  He dropped the watch back into the chest. He did not bother closing it. Enough if he closes the storage room door. His phone suddenly rang. He looked at the screen: John Sullivan. Anthony pressed the green button.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, Tony!’

‘Hello John, how’s things?’

‘Real good, real good. I am all dressed up, just need to powder my face if you know what I mean.’ The phrase was followed by a maniacal laughter so common with people overusing cocaine.

‘Perfectly well. So, what time are you gonna’ get here?’

‘Well that’s the thing; I might be a little bit late. Brenda is still occupying the bathroom. How long hun? Ten minutes? Ok. You heard. Probably another half hour, forty-five minutes maybe before we leave. It is quarter to eight now. Shouldn’t be more that fifteen minutes late. Listen Tony, couldn’t you start letting people in about five past? I know the agreement was different, but you can do it as well as I can.’ Anthony kept quiet. ‘They should be all there by then, what do you say?’

‘No problem John, anything for you.’

‘Good man, that the sort of attitude I was expecting from you, you know I love you?’

‘Yeah.’ Anthony smiled. ‘I love you too.’

John hanged up. Anthony placed the phone in the chest; he looked at it for a while and turned it off. He took off the jacked and the shirt. There was a huge mirror on one of the walls, another antic from Johns place. He looked at himself. Well into his forties he kept a good figure. He had a set of weights at his place; didn’t like the gym very much. Too many people, looking at you, judging your every breath…

Trousers went down, so did the boxer shorts. He stood there in his socks and leather shoes for a little while looking at the reflection in the mirror. Lastly, he got rid of the final pieces of his uniform. He picked the linen with all the tools secured inside and walked out of the storage. He closed the door and dropped the key into one of the flowerpots in the corner of the gallery. The main room seemed somehow bigger. He felt even more like an intruder now. His nakedness ashamed him, yet he also felt aroused which ashamed him even more.

‘Vicious circle.’ He murmured under his breath. Final stage of his task was ahead. He looked at the ‘Mind your fucking step’ painting. Suddenly he decided to move it, just a little touch. He picked the picture with his left hand, tightly holding the wrap in the other.

Anthony approached the door to the SOR. He entered the room with sculptures, dropped the package and hanged the picture on the outside doorknob. He laughed imagining people’s faces looking at it before entering.

  Both logs were there waiting for him to try some carpentry. One of them had a little step near the bottom. He needed good timing. There was one last thing he wanted to do before he could start working on his biggest ever piece of art. He picked the hammer and approached the figure of WD. First blow went down on the right wrist; the palm fell of still holding the penis. ‘Well now you are an eunuch, David.’ He said that aloud which gave him a bit more confidence. He thought about John, he never liked the figure anyway. It was too exhibitionistic as for his liking. He used to repeat that he liked the original and this one was damaging the image of the real David that he had in his head. Few more blows and the figure lost both hands. A single tear dropped down Anthony’s cheek. He threw the hammer away; it caught a bit of ‘Father and Son’ double sculpture. They were holding hands. Dad lost his left ear. Anthony unpacked the rest of the tools. He pulled the blade out of the Stanley knife. It smelled of oil. First things first. It should have been about eight by now. Not much time left, Anthony raised the hammer and started nailing the logs together.

2

John was sitting in the back of a white limousine; Brenda was next to him looking through the right window. He loved Soho, with those little streets and the never-ending flow of people. What could be better than owning a gallery in Soho, which brings you a profit of nearly two million a year? He glanced at his Tissot, it was his latest purchase, and he still wasn’t sure if it was fancy enough for him. He shook his wrist.

‘Brenda hun, what do you think?’

‘I am actually quite excited about the whole thing honey.’

‘I meant the watch! You think it is good enough for me?’

Brenda sighed silently.

‘Yes darling, it is perfect.’

‘No, but… what the hell!’

They have arrived. It was 9:20 and a group of people was waiting outside. Most of them were throwing impatient looks at the closed door.

‘Where the hell is Tony, I told him to let them all in!’

‘Calm down honey, he probably got out to grab a bite and forgot…’

‘He wouldn’t forget, not today darling, not today.’

They got out of the car. John greeted few people and apologized for the delay.

He opened the door and invited everybody in. They walked through the corridor.

‘At least he left the lights on.’ Sullivan whispered to Brenda.

They entered the main room. Everything seemed normal, yet John was really anxious now. He noticed that Tony’s favorite painting was missing. People started walking around looking at the paintings. John left Brenda with a very posh looking couple which was enquiring about one of the paintings. He walked back to the office. Sullivan looked around trying to locate the key to the storage room.

  Suddenly he heard a terrible scream. John ran out of the office and kept running until he got to the far wall of the gallery. The door of the SOR was slightly open and there was group of people gathered next to the entrance. One woman was sobbing. He approached the door. The missing painting was hanging down from the knob. He opened the door and stood still for a minute trying to understand what he was actually looking at.

It was Anthony.

He attached himself to a big wooden cross in front of the entrance. He had a red scarf on his neck, folded around the vertical log. His legs were resting on a small piece of wood attached to the log; hands were lying on the top of the horizontal log. His palms were hanging down on either side. Tony’s wrists were cut open. He wore nothing but a piece of white linen wrapped around the waist. The blood was dripping down into two empty flowerpots.

Sullivan fainted.

The End