Renaissance Man (part 1)

  A devil crackled to life on Diego’s shoulder, a little red devil with horns, hooves, a tail and a pitchfork. It winked at him.
  “Nice looking weasel,” it said with a jagged smile.
  Diego had to agree, it was indeed a fine weasel.
  “You know what this means?”
  Diego knew exactly what it meant; brand new brushes for Faustino’s painters.
  “Brand new brushes for those untalented hacks, is what it means.” Spat the devil, wisps of fire on his tongue.
  Nailed to the wall was a small grey weasel - at least the fur coat of a small grey weasel. The rest probably was brewing in a stewpot over a fireplace somewhere. It was the fur that interested Diego, interested him very much.
  “Interesting isn’t it?” The devil leered at the fur. “Just hanging there for the taking.”
  Weasel pelt made the finest brushes. It was soft and delicate, perfect for details. The longer hairs on the tail were best. Trimmed, strung together, squeezed into a finely sliced duck quill, then affixed to a slender spindle of maple branch -The perfect paintbrush.
  Diego ran his fingertips through the fur, imagining all the artworks he could create with just a tiny bundle.
  “That’s right,” the devil coaxed. “Take it.”
  It was tempting. Who would know who took it? Would anyone even care? People who leave perfectly good weasels hanging about deserve to have them go missing. It was exactly what he needed.
  His painting suffered immensely from the inferior brush he used. A brush made from weasel fur? Perfect.
  There was a cool breeze, a flutter of wings and the faint echo of church bells as an angel materialized on Diego’s shoulder.
  The devil, on the other shoulder, spat out a vile curse.
  “Diego,” the angel said calmly, voice like a cool glass of water. “That weasel doesn’t belong to you.”
  “But it could,” countered the devil. “It could belong to you.”
  The angel’s cloak was so white it practically glowed, its wings were spread, and its small golden halo hovered above golden locks.
  “Taking this would not help you Diego, it would bring misfortune, nothing but misfortune.”
  “You need it,” the devil insisted. “A good artist needs quality tools.”
  “You’ll catch your own weasel,” said the angel. “No need to steal someone else’s.”
  “You’ll never catch a weasel, they’re too damn cunning. This one however… he’s more your speed.”
  The angel arranged a forlorn expression across its angelic features. Diego almost wept when he saw it.
  The devil jumped up and down. “Do you think weasels go frolicking about in the sunshine asking to be skinned? Take it! You’ll never get another opportunity like this.”
  “This weasel belongs to Faustino Diego, don’t risk your job for a vermin.”
  “Codswallop! He pays you pittance. You know he’s making a killing on this commission. What was your cut again?”
  A conflict waged across Diego’s mind like a turbulent ocean. His forehead wrinkled up, down and sideways in thought.
  He stood in the small room, silhouetted by a speckled rainbow of blue, green, red, black, white and yellow. Small round jars filled with finely ground paint pigments lined the shelves, from floor to ceiling, surrounding him with color.
  “You deserve it.”
  “You’ll regret it.”
  “You should take it.”
  “You don’t need it.”
  “Who will know?”
  “It’s not yours.”
  “Who will care?”
  “Faustino will care.”
  “Bullmanure! People who leave perfectly good weasels hanging about deserve to have them go missing!”
  “The choice is yours Diego. You know what to do.”
  The small room was filled with silence for a time, silence and a rainbow of colors. Diego shrugged. He needed a new brush. Something more than the hog bristles he’d strung to a chunky piece of pine. But the angel was right. He couldn’t steal this. He just couldn’t. He took a last look at the delicate fur nailed to the wall then turned to leave.
  The devil disappeared. Cursing strongly and crackling with anger as he went.
  “Wise choice Diego,” whispered the angel before fading away.
  Diego gathered a dozen jars of pigment from the shelves, he bundled them together in a precarious armful then gently kicked the door open with his foot. A burst of sunshine filled the little room.
  The door swung shut and the room returned to its gentle dimness, enveloping the weasel fur, the shelves, and the jars of paint pigments. A single shard of sunlight pierced the middle from a small crack in the door. Drifting in and out of this sliver of light was a single white feather - a miniature feather, no larger than a grain of rice. It hovered for a moment then floated gracefully to the floor.

~

  Valencia in the summertime is bright. Not just from the sun beaming off orange roof tiles, but the people, the streets, the whole atmosphere is speckled with vibrant colors. Blues, reds and yellows wrap casually around women’s shoulders and tint the stitches of their skirts as they bustle around the marketplace. They aggressively bargain for green apples, red capsicums and purple eggplants, barking occasionally at their children playing in the dust. The children leave the house dressed in vibrant white, and return smeared in dusty brown.
  Scattered throughout the city are the greys and blacks, in the form of carpenters, fishermen, builders, grocers and merchantmen. But even these macabre tones are tempered by a hint of a yellow handkerchief, a green cap or a red vest peeking out the top of a coat.
  A fisherman lands a silver carp, flapping and glimmering on the shore. At the blacksmiths a shower of golden sparks erupts at every pound of the hammer. And the banker as he crosses the street tucks a small blue flower into his top pocket.
  The warm weather coaxes the inhabitants of Valencia into the streets, to shop, work, talk and play, or for no other reason than to be outside in the sunshine.
  Diego navigated the bustle with an armful of jars balanced in a bundle. He crossed the street and arrived at the footsteps of the church of San Pedro de la Nave.
  There was a scrap of shade near the doorway that would shrink over the next few hours. Diego headed for it, set the jars down and got to work.
  First he prepared the plaster. His tools leaned against the wall and materials lay on the ground. Normally a clutter like that outside a church would be frowned upon. But a great work was being undertaken inside, and God himself would ignore this temporary disarray.
  He scooped a measure of lime and a measure of sand into a bucket, pored in a precise amount of water and began mixing. The dull grey mixture was insolent, melding only with persistent and vicious punishment from Diego. Once it was ready, he laid a damp cloth over the plaster to keep it from setting.
  Then there was color matching. The colors for today’s session were six different shades of blue. He had a piece of wood with the six requested shades brushed roughly in a row. It was tricky business matching colors. The paint dried dark, so he needed to mix it a few shades lighter. It had to be perfect. There was no room for error in fresco painting, the moment the paint brushed across the damp plaster it was quite literally set in stone.
  Diego carefully measured a spoonful of blue pigment into a jar. They must be working on sky today, he thought, dribbling in water. The pigment melted quickly into a small blue ocean. Or perhaps it was ocean?
  Diego wasn’t told what was being painted, nor had he set foot inside the church. No one knew what it looked like. No one but Bishop Mustacio, who commissioned the work, the three artists who painted the work, and of course the great master himself, Faustino.
  A grand fresco mural, spanning the walls and ceiling of San Pedro de la Nave. It will bring great glory to God, thought the Bishop. It will bring great glory to Spain, thought the politicians. It will bring great glory to Valencia, thought the citizens. No one knew what Faustino thought, but Diego surmised it would bring him immense glory.
  It would soon be finished. When will it be finished? Asked the Bishop. It will be finished when it’s finished, answered Faustino. What does it look like? Asked the Venicians. You will find out when it's done. When will it be done? At this point Faustino would walk away.
  The ocean in the bucket had gotten dark and turbulent as Diego sprinkled black pigment and stirred vigorously. He put aside the spinning ocean when it reached the correct shade and started work on a liquid blue sky.
  When satisfied with all six shades, he approached the large wooden door of the church, and knocked.
  It was a large building, requiring a hearty pounding to have any chance of being heard. Even the strongest hammering sounded like the scratch of a mouse from inside.
  Diego knocked again, feeling slightly ashamed for belting so violently on the house of God. He was about to knock a third time when the door squeaked open, to reveal a tall, angular man.
  Charo was smug. He had a smug nose, a smug mouth and a smug attitude. His age was similar to Diego’s, but he had arrogance beyond his years.
  “Have you finished yet Diego? We have a lot of work to do this afternoon.”
  He stepped outside, careful to close the door behind him. The sunlight revealed a smock splattered with a spectrum of bright colors. His expression though, was mostly dark.
  He lifted a corner of the damp cloth and examined the plaster, poked it with the stick and swirled it round a few times.
  “It’s too thick, and what did I tell you about using sand from the riverbank, get it from the beach Diego, get it from the beach.”
  “The beach,” Diego nodded weakly. The beach was seven miles away, and lined with pebbles and stones, not sand.
  “Are you painting a beach today? Perhaps an ocean?” He said.
  Charo smiled, which did nothing to lighten his expression, it somehow managed to darken it further. “That, Diego, is not for you to know. Only Faustino, the bishop and the artists have the privilege of knowing that. You’ll see it like everyone else – when it’s finished.”
  “Of course,” muttered Diego, “Sorry for asking. Would you like to see the paint?”
  Charo produced a brush, small and delicate. It looked like it could maneuver curves as tight as a vice and slice through colors like a razor. He brandished it like a sword ready for a deathblow.
  The brush dipped into the first jar and swished around experimentally. The paint swirled, tearing the thin film that had formed under the heat.
  Diego had been through this many times. Three drops. If three drops of paint fell from the saturated brush the consistency was perfect, not too thick and not too watery.
  Charo held the brush, soaked in paint, above the jar and scrutinized it. A drip gathered on the tip, detached, then with a small plop splashed into the jar.
  One.
  A second drip gathered on the bristles. Gravity nudged it, tugged it, and suddenly tore it loose. It sailed into the jar and a set off a ripple in blue.
  Two.
  The paint for a third time gathered at the tip of the brush. This time it moved sluggishly, taking time to form a tiny globe of paint. It hung for a time, and then fell to the jar.
  Three.
  Charo held the brush there for a long stretch, watching. His wrist tremored slightly. He waved the brush side to side almost inconceivably, his fingers giving quick little jerks, urging the paint along. He frowned when it remained stubbornly stuck to the brush.
  He coughed, and violently gave the brush a sudden flick whilst doing so. A tiny droplet of paint flung through the air. In a wild arc it flew, then splattered on the edge of the jar.
  “A little watery.” He said, straitening up.
  There was a crackle, a burst of miniature flames and the strong smell of sulfur.
  “Punch him!” The devil shouted, shaking his little red fist. “Sock him in the nose!”
  It was tempting. Charo went through this routine almost every day.
  “This one’s too light,” Charo turned his attention to the other jars of paint. “And that one’s too dark. And these two barely resemble the color Faustino requested.”
  “Batter his kidneys! Smack that smug smile off his face.”
  The devil hurled shovelfuls of insults at Charo, who continued plowing merrily through Diego’s work.
  “Ah Diego,” Charo said, shaking his head and smiling. “The problem with you is you have no finesse, no feeling for art.”
  Diego could punch him. Right there on that eagle beak nose of his. Knock the arrogance right out of him.
  “The thing about art,” Charo baited. “Is it’s a feeling. It's a passion.”
  He waved his brush in the air, painting an invisible portrait.
  “What do you know about feelings? What do you know about emotion? Love? Anger? Hate? What could a simple man like you feel but the callouses on your thumbs?”
  “He wants emotion?” The devil said, a little steam blowing from his pointed ears. “Show him some good old fashioned wrath. I suggest an uppercut to the jaw followed by a roundhouse to the ear.”
  A cool breeze tingled Diego’s neck, and the distant sounds of church bells tolled quietly. The angel appeared, white as a cloud.
  “Diego,” it said, “Cool your anger. Don’t do something foolish.”
  “Alright,” compromised the devil, “Don’t hit him. Just insult him, call him a skinny, weasel faced donkeys ass.”
  Diego sizzled inside, a combination of searing flames and icy water. He watched Charo through a red tint.
  “If you want my advice,” said Charo, knowing he didn’t. “You’ll give up this dream of yours, to become a painter like me.”
  “Don’t give up,” whispered the angel.
  “Do you want to mix paint for the rest of your life? Because that’s as far as you’ll get in this trade Diego.” Charo stacked the jars and turned to leave. He paused at the door. “You’ll never make it beyond this step.”
  The devil tried to speak, but the hordes of expletives fighting to employ his tongue resulted in nothing more than a wet spluttering noise.
  “Oh Diego, don’t look so sad. Hands like yours, big and chunky, you’d make a brilliant blacksmith you know.”
  Diego’s vision cleared of red. The fire in his belly extinguished with a burst of steam evaporating into the air. “Thanks for the advice Charo.” He said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
  The devil disappeared with a tirade of curses. Leaving nothing but a whiff of sulfur in his wake.
  The angel allowed a small smile over the victory, and then faded away, whispering as he went, “Wise choice Diego.”
  “One more thing,” Charo said, “Wash this out before you leave.”
  He bent his knees whilst balancing the jars precariously in one hand. On the footsteps of the church he placed his brush, it’s bristles stained with blue paint.
  “I don’t want to find a single speck of paint on it.”
  The sun shifted, and the slice of shade angled away. Diego sat down on the step and began washing out Charo’s brush.
 
~

  It was nearly dark by the time Diego got home. He lived on the outskirts of town, on the top of a mountain, although it was more of an exaggerated hill than a mountain.
  From up there Valencia was at its most beautiful, a huge ocean of orange villas skirted by a shimmering blue sea. In a few hours, darkness would envelope the town, igniting a thousand fires across the city.
  Diego lit his own fire. It smoked for a time then sparked to life with a jolt, devouring the twigs and bracken, and then settling into the main course – a large log of birch.
  He scooped a handful of dusty soil into an old bucket by the fire and mixed in some clay, cracked and brittle from the sun. He pored in a measure of water and stirred. It was a crude plaster, lumpy and coarse, it would take a long time to set and would probably crack in several places in a year or two.
  He whipped it into a mix, then spread it evenly across the stone wall beside him. It oozed into the crevices.
  Diego took his brush. A worn old brush that looked as agile as a tortoise and as delicate as an elephant. Its bristles were short and coarse, dull grey hog bristles.
  He took a jar of pigment. Not the stuff Faustino imported from Cyprus - ground from the finest vein of ocher, refined in searing hot furnaces. This was just dust scraped from a red river rock and crushed coarsely. Mixed with a tinge of white ash to make a soft, pink paint. He added water and stirred.
  Fresco painting requires confidence. Once the paint touches the plaster it reacts instantly and melds into the wall. The only way to correct a mistake was with a hammer, a chisel, and a great deal of patience.
  He dabbed short brushstrokes across the plaster, forming a nose, cheekbones, a face. The brush dipped into the jar again and returned to paint a slender neck, shoulders and waist.
  It chinked as Diego rattled it free from pink in a clear glass of water. He dipped it into black and began the curve of long flowing hair.
  He painted into the night, ate, then drifted off to sleep as the fire began to die. The ocean of lights from Valencia burned on for a time then like a receding tide, one by one began to fade.

~

  The sun rose. It climbed the walls of an ancient Vistagoth church. Shadows crept all over the crumbling walls, slipping in and out of cracks and crevices.
  The walls were tired, dead tired. They’d stood for over thirteen centuries now, holding up the roof. The tiles were faded, cracked and broken. Many were missing. The windows were bare, as was the doorway, the wood long ago crumbled into dust.
  Inside, a soft breeze had entered. It swirled around the walls like a bird trapped in a cage. It whistled as it squeezed through narrow cracks. The interior walls were covered in murals. Huge murals. Some crept onto the ceiling, others crept onto the floor. There was but a small space that was bare.
  Next to this space was a fire, burnt out and smoking lazily. Next to the fire was an old bucket with scrapings of hardened plaster, a few jars of half full paint and an old brush bobbing in a glass of murky water.
  Next to all this was a cot, small and narrow, in which slept Diego. The murals all around the ancient church were not as ancient as the church itself, they were fairly recent. Painted at night by a crude old brush and simple paints gathered from nature. They were not done by a master painter, or commissioned by a bishop. They were painted by a lowly paint mixer, with aspirations beyond his circumstances.
  “Diego,” a gentle voice whispered in his ear. “Time to rise.”
  There was a crackle and hint of flames. Another voice said, “You need your rest Diego.”
  “Wake Diego,” the gentle voice said again. “You’ll be late for work.”
  There was a muffled cursing then, “Sleep some more. Work can go hang.”
  The breeze that had been circling the church gave a final whistle then escaped out the front door.
  “You must get up Diego. You have a job."
  "You have a soft bed, that’s worth more than money.”
  Diego stirred a little, and then rolled over and began snoring quietly. The devil smiled.
  “Wake up!” The angel shouted, surprisingly loud.
  “Shhhhhh!”
  Diego jolted, and blinked his eyes open. Dreams melted from his vision. He faintly heard some curses and crackles as he climbed out of bed.
  He washed, ate and began the long trek down the mountain to Valencia.
  The breeze drifted down also, carrying with it three soft words. “Wise choice Diego.”
  The mountaintop was left alone. Just the gentle chirp of crickets nestled in the grass, and the quiet choir of birds perched atop the church.
  A low creak emitted from the walls. The birds and the crickets ceased their noise to let it pass. It stopped, returning the mountain to serenity.
  The birds continued singing, and the crickets continued chirping. Then with much soring, flapping, snapping, hopping and crunching, the birds ate the crickets, then flew off to find more elsewhere. All was silent. All was peaceful. Then with a large amount of noise, the church collapsed.