Renaissance Man (part 2)

  After a long day Diego headed home.
  The path wound gently up a mountainside. The ground was too rocky to plant seed and too barren to farm even goats. So the Vistagoths of long ago farmed the only thing they could with it – souls. They built a church looking down on the small settlement that would one day become the glorious city of Valencia.
  Diego’s feet were familiar with every little bump and curve along the way. He skirted around a boulder up a gradual incline. He wondered idly to himself what it would feel like to
  There was a crackle on his shoulder, and a gentle breeze on his other. The devil and the angel appeared.
  Diego looked at the devil, sitting slouched on his jutting shoulder blade. It leaned slovenly against his pitchfork and smirked a crooked grin at Diego.
  He looked at the angel, who sat cross-legged on his other shoulder. It hummed a soothing chant, stopping briefly to smile kindly at him.
  What could this be? There was no choice of conscience to be made, what were they doing here? Diego shrugged, which made the devil fall off his shoulder blade and land flat on his face on Diego’s deltoid.
  He continued walking, slightly unnerved by the presence of the miniature dietys, but not worried. The only sounds were his quiet footfalls, the angel’s gentle chants and the devils occasional cursing.
  The path bent gradually for the most part, but just before reaching the church took a sudden bank to the left, around a bristly hedge of thorns. The angel and devil silenced at this point and stood - waiting, anticipating.
  Diego looked at the angel, whose face held a look of concern. He looked at the devil who was practically beside himself with .
  He turned the last bend.
  The church was in ruins. More so than when he left it. It was a jumble of walls juxpositioned into roof and floors. A maze of destruction. A conglomerate of chaos.
  Diego froze. Stunned. He felt a tiny hand gently pat him on the neck, comfortingly. He felt the
  “Quite a dilemma hey?” said the devil.
  Diego stepped into the ruins, murals at every angle, on every surface, some were smashed in two, some were cleanly framed by cracks. He looked at the soft skin of the woman he had painted the previous night. She was untouched, just laying at an odd angle and covered in small chips of stone and plaster.
  His cot was crushed beneath a large section of wall with a colorful mural of a peacock on it. Beside the fire were four jars of paint that had somehow escaped.
  Diego looked around desperately in the wreckage.
  “That what you looking for?” asked the devil, pointing casually to a large boulder.
  Diego knelt down and clasped the pine handle of his brush. It came free with a splintering tug, bristles scattering through the air.
  Diego stood in a shower of hog bristles and a mess of shattered art and felt a horrible feeling in the center of his heart.
  “What have I been telling you all these years? Steal. Lie. Cheat. No ones going to look after you except me! I have your best interest at heart”
  The angel interjected, “Diego, don’t listen to him.”
  “You never listen to me. You listen to that holy duck and this is where you find yourself. I could get you a whole lot more. You know what to do Diego. You know what to do.”
  With a crackle, a burst of flames and not the hint of a curse, the devil disappeared.
  “You’ll be fine,” said the angel. “Sleep here tonight, under the stars. Things will be clearer in the morning.”
  The sun began to set. For the first time in centuries it didn't cast a long angular shadow from the base of the church. The shadow it cast was short, jagged and chaotic. Diego watched it stretch for a while. Then he turned to the east, and headed for Valencia.

~

  On an empty shelf, lay four slender brushes arranged neatly in a row. Smoothly tapered handles carved from maple. Impossibly thin duck quill attached to the hilts, and bunches of delicate bristles made from the finest grey fur.
  The devil crackled to life on Diego’s shoulder. “Nice looking weasel,” it grinned savagely.
  They were beautiful. Brand new, and yet to dip their pinpoint tips into a jar of paint. Sacred really.
  The angel materialized on his other shoulder. “I know what you’re thinking Diego,” it said. “And you’re right. You shouldn’t touch these brushes.”
  “Are you kidding?” scoffed the devil. “Four brand new weasel pelt brushes here for the taking and you’re thinking you shouldn’t touch them? What are you waiting for - Faustino to wrap one in a bow and give it to you for Christmas?”
  Diego glanced at the devil’s fiery expression, then at the angel’s wings twitching nervously. He looked at the four brushes lying innocently on the shelf, completely unaware of the six pairs of eyes watching them.
  “You know you could get away with it scot free don’t you?” reasoned the devil. “There are three other people that come into this storeroom - you, Charo, and the two other painters. If you took one of these brushes, who would know it was you?”
  The angel fluttered on Diego’s shoulder. “Why would they want to steal a brush they’re going to get anyway Diego? Leave.”
  “Oh you’re so naive. They’ll steal an extra brush, they may even steal all of them. Who do you think they’ll blame it on? The lowly paint mixer is who. That’s why you have to act first, and blame it on the others.
  There’s no lock on the door. That opens the odds up immensely. Hundreds of people pass here every day. Anyone could have done it. You won’t get caught Diego.”
  “It’s not about getting caught.”
  “Sure it is. And don’t even look on it as stealing. Faustino owes you this. All those long hours mixing paint. Consider it a bonus.”
  Diego’s feet were agitated, wanting to move his body out of there. Diego’s hand wrapped itself around one of the brushes. He didn’t feel the smoothness of the handle, or admire the lightness of it. He just felt a panic in his heart, a deep fear.
  There were four brushes, then suddenly there were three. Diego opened the door and left clutching to something in his pocket.
  The devil smiled. The angel disappeared.

~

  For the first time in a long while Diego found himself in Valencia at night. He thought it far less beautiful up close than from atop the mountain. The ocean of lights were more a drizzle of .
  Some of the warm glowing firelights , were manned by . Lights from bars noise It had lost was its , it was and menacing.
  An inn stood on the corner discretely soliciting passerby’s to sleep in its beds. The wooden placard above the door read ‘The Eagles Nest’. It was old, slightly dumpy, but quiet. The interior was slightly dumpy, much like the innkeeper.
  “How can I help you Senor?” he said.
  Diego inched his way to the counter, all too conscious of the lack of currency in his pockets, “Do you have a room for tonight?”
  The innkeeper looked Diego up and down, his gaze lingering on worn pants, scuffed shoes and an impoverished countenance. “I do,” he measured his words by the ounce. “Can you afford to pay?”
  There was a silence, maintained solemnly by Diego. It broke, after much effort. “I… maybe… how much for a cot and a wash basin?”
  The innkeeper normally took any business that came his way. His dilapidated premises demanded it. But things had picked up recently. Perhaps it was the new sign on the counter, ‘Roach free guaranteed’.
  “Seven pesos for the night.” He said, “That affords you a cot, a basin, use of the amenities and a small window with a beautiful view of the city.”
  This last bit was an exaggeration, on the ‘beautiful’, ‘view of the city’, and ‘window’ aspect. Air vent just didn’t have the same ring to it.
  “How much for a room without a view?”
  “Excuse me?”
  “The view, is it extra?”
  Considering the view was a shaky premise to begin with, the innkeeper adjusted his pricing.
  “Fine,” he said. “Six pesos without the view.”
  Diego scratched around his pocket knowing he’d fall short. He lay three and a half pesos on the counter, shrugging.
  The innkeeper sized it up. Then there was wear and tear to account for, he couldn’t to house this, and said so in . “No credit. Payment in full.”
  The devil crackled into existence on Diego’s shoulder. Something in the conversation must have caught his interest.
  Diego lingered, looking at his meager collection of coins on the desk. His fingers invaded his pockets, searching within for anything he may have missed on his first ransack.
  “Do you have a job?” asked the innkeeper, indicating there was still hope.
  “Yes. Yes I do.” Diego’s fingers wrapped around something interesting. “I work for Faustino. The famous muralist.”
  “Faustino? He’s the one that’s been tinkering around in the San Pedro de la Nave these last few months?”
  The devil opened his mouth, seeing some kind of opportunity. Then closed it, biding his time.
  “Yes. I’m his paint mi…” Diego scrounged nervously in his pocket. “I mix… That is I…”
  He pulled his hand from his pocket. Charo’s paintbrush came along with it. Its slender maple handle and fine weasel hair bristles.
  “You’re an artist!” Exclaimed the Innkeeper, eyes locking on the brush.
  Diego looked at the paintbrush himself. He felt the weight of the miniature diety on his shoulder, and heard the expectant silence from the innkeeper.
  “Yes.” Diego answered. “I’m an artist.”
  The devil raised his eyebrows. The innkeeper furrowed his.
  “Then tell me,” he glared at Diego “What is it you’re working on? What is this mural so shrouded in secrecy?”
  Diego juggled the guesses he had constructed during his hours of mixing paint. It had to be biblical, that was definite. It could be the account of Noah. The Michalangelo had covered so much in the Sistene chapel. Faustino was original, And it spoke to ,. Faustino was a complex man, gluttony? The account . Lust? The account

  “That’s a closely guarded secret,” Diego said at last,
  “And your defense is as strong as Faustino’s himself.” The Innkeeper smiled. He pushed the three coins away from him. “I’ll tell you what… er…”
  “Diego.”
  “Diego. I’ll tell you what Diego. I have a wife. Beautiful woman. French. Quite stunning. My little flower.” He smiled, and looked quite sweet doing so. Then frowned, and looked suddenly dejected. “But oh how she tires me.”
  Diego wondered where this was going, but vaguely hoped it ended with him getting a room.
  “She’s an extravagant woman. Follows the trends. Her friend buys a new dress, she wants one, but made of silk. If she spies a ruby around the neck of woman passing by, she wants one, but twice as big. I struggle to keep up with her.”
  He leaned towards Diego as if imparting a secret with him. “Between you and me, despite appearances,” He said in a hushed tone. “I’m not earning that much from this place.”
  He straightened, breaking the conspiring.
  “The latest thing, as an artist you would know, is portraits. All the women of Valencia are talking about the artists in town. T
  Diego nodded
  “What I’m proposing Diego, is you paint my lovely wife a portrait. Something she can hang in our living room, show off to her friends.”
  The devil nudged Diego, only gently.
  “I can do that,” Diego said.
  “Good, good. In exchange I would give you a room for a fortnight.”
  “I… I would have to work at night. My work with Faustino takes my days. You will pay for the materials; paint, canvas?”
  “Your talent is sufficient as payment. That’s the expensive part I’m led to believe.”
  “I’ll make a start tomorrow.”
  “Good.” He produced a key, large and rusty. “Up the stairs, third door on the left.”
  Diego made a start on the spiral staircase. The innkeeper called after him. “And Diego,” he said. “If you see a roach
  The devil leaned slovenly against his pitchfork, striking a carefree pose. He smiled an evil little smirk. His forked tail wagged happily. “Good work Diego,” he said sarcastically.

~

  Today the plaster was stubborn. The sand and lime refused to meld in an acceptable fashion. Diego beat the hell out of them, but they still separated in a murky sludge. It must be the heat, he thought.
  Only three color requests today - green, brown, and grey. He matched the shades, beat the insolent plaster some more then approached the church door.   
  His fist squeezed tight, ready to give the door some punishment. But before he could pound, it opened inwards with a creak. It opened inwards, to reveal Faustino.
  Sometimes Faustino looked positively biblical. Long white beard and flowing robe, like Moses of old. At other times when his clothes were splattered with reds and blues, his face ravaged from working all night, and his eyes red and bloodshot, he looked simply demonic.
  Diego took a moment then said, “Master Faustino. You look… well.”
  Faustino spoke, in that rambling fashion of his. “I’d be well if people didn’t take advantage of me.”
  A sudden pang of panic sounded in Diego’s heart, the same wild panic he felt in the storeroom yesterday.
  “T…take… take advantage?” he sputtered. “What…? Who…? How…?”
  Faustino seemed not to notice Diego’s heavily punctuated response. “Charo!” He spat the name out like it tasted of lemons. “I’m sure it was him. It’s all this work he’s been doing on the side - private portrait commissions, popular these days. He stole a paintbrush, a brand new one.”
  Diego felt something like a tiny hand on his lips, keeping them closed, with the truth firmly behind them.
  “Thievery. It’s a shame, he was a damn good painter.”
  Diego swallowed hard, the hardest he’d ever swallowed. The truth jammed tightly in his throat, a large lump.
  “The Bishop was upset, given the nature of the mural. I had to let him go of course. Such a shame, such a shame.”
  Diego felt a weight in his back pocket. A heavy, heavy weight.
  “Well boy? Aren’t you going to show me the plaster?”
  Diego snapped back into the roll of life. “Of course, of course.” He pulled the damp cloth from a corner of the bucket.
  Faustino glanced at it. “Fine. And the paints?”
  The paints were lined in a row, ready to be put through their paces.
  “Fine, fine. Where’s the yellow?”
  “We’ve run out of yellow master. We’re running out of lots of colors. You said there would be a new shipment-”
  “That shipment won’t be here till next month. Cyprus makes good pigment, but terrible ships. There’s a sunken ship off the coast of Spain with a rainbow of waves crashing above it.” Faustino scratched his expanse of beard for a time. “Have you had experience with making paint boy? Making it from scratch?”
  “I… not a lot,” Diego said. “Some… That is… I can. I have.”
  “Good, I’ll need you to gather some yellow from , some red from and green from  you often find .”
  “But the Bishop, wouldn’t he demand the finest paint?”
  “It’s all the same boy, it’s all the same. It’s the work that counts. And now that I’ve lost Charo…” Faustino mused for a while. “Now that I’ve lost Charo… I’m afraid I’m going to be well behind schedule.”
  Diego helped the old man gather the paints up to take into the church. Once inside, the door began slowly creaking shut.
  “Master?”
  The door halted, inches from closing.
  “I can paint master.”
  “What’s that boy?”
  “I can paint.”
  “Mmm…” Faustino consulted his beard, stroking it thoughtfully. “Well you mix well, the colors, the shades. Who have you painted for?”
  “Commissions. Mainly portraits,” Diego said, sweating gently. “But not too many.” He added, remembering Charo’s recent undoing.
  “Bring me in one of your paintings tomorrow. We’re working on a section, A figure. Female. A nude. I trust you have , the most basic.”
  “I have. Yes master. Tomorrow.”
  The door creaked shut, and Diego’s mind raced.

~

  “Je vous ai dit que, je ne veux pas votre gros ventre dans ma peinture.!” (I told you, I don’t want your fat belly in my painting!)
  “Je ne suis pas gros. Je suis bien construit.” (I’m not fat! I’m well built.)
  “Vous êtes gros, juste comme votre mère.” (You’re fat, just like your mother.)
  “I’m sorry Diego, my wife can be difficult sometimes.” The Innkeeper said, blushing slightly. He turned to his wife, a slender woman, seated on a couch wearing a bright red dress. “Je lui demanderai d'être aimable avec mon secteur moyen.” (I’ll ask him to be… kind… with my middle area.)
  “There’s poetic license and there’s some weight lkjdalskj!”
  “Ta Gueule!” (Shut your trap!) He turned back to Diego. “She insists on it being of only her. She says… She says I’m too masculine.”
  He fussed and preened his wife as she cast her eyes down at him.
  “I like her in red, brings out the fire in her. My delicate little rose.”
  “ADSdad” ( )
  “Femme de diable!” (Devil woman!)
  Diego idly mixed some paints while the couple arranged themselves. She lay on the couch, adjusting her red dress.
  “I was thinking of something a little more classical,” Diego said “A little more… Greek.”
  “Greek…” repeated the innkeeper, the wheels of his mind visibly slowing down. “Greek as in…?”
  “I was thinking… nude.”
  The innkeepers face lit up. “Yes, yes, nude. She would look good nude. But tasteful of course. Let me ask… er… tell her.”
  The couple squabbled quietly while Diego produced the brush from his pocket. He ran his fingers through the bristles, which jumped back to position promptly. Perfect.
  “Excuse me Diego, I have things to attend to. Proceed with the painting.” He turned to his wife. “Goodbye precious flower.”
  “Sortez-vous gros porc.” (Get out you fat pig!)
  “Salope!” (Bitch!)
  Diego busied himself with the jars of paints while the lady undressed. He arranged them in order, then rearranged them out of order, then rearranged them in order again. It was impolite to watch a lady undressing. He counted to fifty whilst looking intently at a piece of lint sitting nonchalantly on the floor. Arriving at twenty seven for good measure he held a small piece of charcoal poised and looked at the settee across the room.
  I’ll need more pink, he thought as he started sketching the pose. He arranged some simple curves on the canvas then picked up the brush.
  The brush dabbed in a jar of pink. A curve, long and precise swept across the center of the canvas. The brush dabbed again. A second curve brushed beneath the other and tapered together. The brush dabbed a third time.
  He filled in some shading between soft white breasts. It tinkered nervously in a glass of water, then dabbed into some red paint. Soft pouting lips appeared on the canvas.
  Candles gently illuminated the room. Wisps of waxy smoke wafted through the air. There was a gentle crackle, and a hint of sulfur.
  “Mmm,” said a droll voice from Diego’s shoulder, “What a fine piece of fruit. Better than still life eh?”
  Diego concentrated on his canvas, working on some heavy breast shading.
  “And just the two of you, all alone.”
  With only the quiet crackle of candles and the occasional lude comment from the devil Diego worked in silence, forming the woman on the settee across the tightly stretched canvas.
  “Zenor?” Said a quiet voice after time had passed.
  Diego froze, almost forgetting that his model was more than 
  “Mine muscles, zay are,” she paused, grasping for the words. “How you zay… tight?”
  The devil pricked up his already pointed ears and grinned audibly.
  “Vould you… mazzage zem?”
  The candlelight threw flickering shadows across the gentle curves of her back. Small soft valleys coursed between her shoulder blades. It couldn’t hurt to take a break, thought Diego, the time had flown past as the canvas filled out with color.
  He approached the settee, and the naked woman laying on it. His fingers ran gently down her soft smooth skin.
  “Mmmm… zo good.” She said seductively.
  The devil glared at a row of candles on the mantle. They extinguished with a fizz. “Allow me.”
  She smelled like a rose. Her skin felt like the soft petals of a rose. Diego wondered where the thorns would lie.
  She turned
  Kissed.
  “I… I can’t.” Diego stumbled back, and sought refuge behind the canvas. “Your husband. Well… You’re married. I can’t.”
  The devil grinned: utterly content. “Well, Sodom wasn’t built in a day. It’s a start at least. I’m proud of you boy.”
 
~

  Diego rushed through the marketplace, a large wrapped canvas under his arm.
He knocked on the church door, pounded on it. It opened inwards with a creak.
  “Master,” Diego panted. “I brought the work for you to see.”
  Faustino examined the painting. His eyes flitted over it. Then focused for a short time in its center. “It’s disappointing.” He said briefly, handing it back to Diego.
  Diego took it, and stared at
  “What do you call it?”
  “Er…” His mind tried to think of something clever, something catchy, but pressed for time it decided on something practical. “‘Attractive woman on settee.’”
  “I’m afraid you missed the point then. I don’t find her attractive.”
  “She’s better in real life.”
  “That’s just it boy, art should be better than real life. You can do anything with that brush, create anything you want to. You should not be aiming for likeness Diego, you should be aiming for something much more.”
  Diego looked at the painting, a perfect likeness.
  “The first painting I ever sold was of a bowl of fruit. Classical nonsense. I would probably laugh if I ever saw that painting again. But I was young, inexperienced. It took me a month to paint it. The fruit was luscious, juicy and succulent. It made you want to reach in and take a bite. It was delicious Diego, do you understand? Not the rotting, brown, shriveled bowl of decaying food it had become when I was putting the final touches on the painting.
  This is ordinary. She is pretty. I’m sure she will be happy with it, but this cannot go on a stone wall for the next thousand years. It simply wouldn’t last.”
  Faustino disappeared behind the receding crack of the doorway, leaving Diego outside on the step.

~

  Diego lay against a large stone pillar. Valencia lay below. Spread out to the brim of the horizon, a mosaic of colors. The devil appeared in the usual way, the crackle, the sulfur, the fire and brimstone.
  “Ah Valencia,” it said, reclining in a similar pose to Diego’s. “It’s had a rich history. The Romans – love those Romans – they started it all off with a bang, a retirement village for elderly soldiers. But a Romans a Roman, no matter what age. You can bet there were plenty of geriatric orgies going on down there.”
  Diego shifted uncomfortably.
  “And the Vistagoths. Such lovable rogues! Such a healthy appetite for destruction. They made a few mistakes…” He glanced at the part of the fallen church Diego rested against.
  “The Moors. Ripping down churchs was the best thing they ever did. Shame they had to build their own.”
  Diego
  “Valencia. A little dull these days, far too Catholic for my liking. Though not without its perks.
  You should travel you know, the painting thing didn’t work out. But with your skill, you could make a killing with counterfeit. Rome this time of year. The girls wear practically nothing. The food is to die for. Nothing but fat wealthy, I’d guess with a hand like yours. We could make quite a living you and I. We could have a lot of fun.”
  Diego watched the city, the tiny colorful ants going about their business in the distance. All part of the bigger picture, the bigger picture. He could paint this scene. In fact he already had, it was somewhere on the wall of the church, crumbled and broken up by now, but he could find it if he dug through the rubble.
  The bigger picture. Diego wondered where he fitted in all this. Was there someone else on a mountain higher up looking down at him? Perhaps even painting the view. Was he just a small blotch of paint in the corner? He wondered these things. He wondered what color would he be?
  The devil had been talking whilst Diego’s thoughts had travelled. He’d talked of the variety of women in the world, the vast stores of other people’s wealth just lying about waiting to be stolen, the convenience of lies, the advantages of anger. And he was currently trying hard to explain the health benefits of sodomy.
  Diego rose and brushed the dust off his shoulders. Valencia laid out like a , looked beautiful to him. He faced the thorn bushes beyond which lay the path to Valencia.
  He started walking. Walking down the path. He could have walked that path blindfolded. “You’re heading for town. Good. No use hanging about on mountain tops near old churchs.”
  Diego’s pace picked up, the devil had to grab hold of his shirt to avoid falling off. “Keen for some sinning are you? That’s what I like to hear.”
  The bustle of Valencia soon surrounded him. The buzz of people, the smells of the marketplace, the flashes of vibrant colors all around. He headed for the inn.
  “Boy did I have you wrong! That’s the spirit. Finish what you started.”
  The door swung open with a wimper. The innkeeper looked up from a pie he was heartily consuming.
  “Whoa there sailor.” The devil said. “Now’s not a good time. Something tells me he’s no cuckold.”
  “Senor,” Diego said to the innkeeper, dividing his attention from the pie. “Last night while I was painting your wife’s painting… I must tell you something...”
  The innkeeper lost interest in the pie suddenly. But still held his knife and fork firmly in one hand.
  Diego emerged with a black eye and a red cheek. The shouts coming from the inn as he walked away:
  “Entrez ici maintenant!” (Get in here now!)
  “Que vous voulez-vous taureau paresseux?” (What do you want you lazy bull?)
  “Je dois discuter quelque chose avec vous.” (I need to discuss something with you.)
  “Pas, je ne vous ferai pas cuire au four un gâteau.” (No, I will not bake you a cake.)
  “Entrez ici!” (Get in here!)
  The devil looked shell shocked. “What are you thinking?”
  Diego wandered down a few crisscrossing streets. Arrived at a yellow door and knocked politely. After a few moments a tall, angular man opened the door.
  “Charo,” Diego reached into his pocket, “I have some explaining to do.”
  Diego left a few moments later with a second throbbing eye and a jaw that clicked slightly.
  “Are you crazy?” The devil looked more shaken than Diego. In fact Diego despite swelling in the general face area and blackness around the eyes looked rather bright. He moved on, swiftly passing through the marketplace.
  “You fool! You moron! Nothing good will come of this, nothing good at all. Redemption? No such thing.”
  Diego arrived at San Pedro de le Nave. He spared a glance at his right shoulder. It was bare. To his left stood the devil, distraught, worried, and trembling slightly.
  Diego knocked, hard and strong. The sound echoed through the church like a church bell on Sunday.
  The door opened, to reveal Faustino in his smock. It was splattered lightly with paint.
  “Boy?”
  “Diego,” said Diego.
  “Yes, yes, what do you want Diego?”
  “It’s just,” Diego went suddenly quiet, searching desperately inside for a scrap of courage.
  “That’s right, step away from the old fart.”
  “The brush. The missing brush. Charo didn’t steal it. I did.”
  “No!!!” the devil bellowed. “You stupid Ox!”
  The devil crackled and fizzed.
  “What’s that?” Faustino said.
  “You’re drunk,” the devil stammered. “Tell him you’re drunk. Tell him you don’t know what you’re saying. He’ll believe that.”
  Diego smiled. His swollen eye closed shut and his jaw protested. He erased the smile instantly, remembering the solemn truth he just told. “I took it.” Diego said, “I stole it.”
  A strong smell of sulfur wafted past Diego’s nose, a wisp of fire stroked his cheek. “Fool! You could have had everything. You could have-”
  The devil crackled wildly, fizzed and sparked. With a long uninterrupted string of curses, he disappeared.
  Faustino’s demeanor was mixed. He looked to his left shoulder furrowed his brow, then looked to his right.
  “Well I’m glad that’s cleared up. I need Charo, despite his smugness he’s a damned good painter. You could learn a thing or two from him.”
  The door began creaking closed.
  A bell tolled, somewhere in the distance, then another. A choir of them set off. A gentle breeze stroked Diego’s shoulder before the angel appeared, wisps of cloud still to its wings. “Wise choice Diego,” it said.
  “Er, Faustino,” Diego said to the tiny receding crack of open door. “What about me?”
  “What about you?”
  “I… I won’t be mixing paint for you anymore?”
  “You mix paint well, I’d have to go all the way to Cyprus to find a paint mixer as good as you.”
  “Thank you, Faustino. But, I stole from you. Can you still trust me any more?”
  “
  “Thank you Faustino.”
  “Fine, fine. Now whip up some blue, I want to finish this ocean before sunset.”
  “Of course.” The door rapidly started closing again. “Faustino?”
  “Yes?”
  “I wonder if, seeing as I’m in your employ, if I could. If I could see the work.”
  Faustino looked at Diego, his demeanor shifting. “You know the rule Diego; me the bishop and the painters see the work until its done.”
  “What if I showed you something of equal value, of equal effort?”
  The crack in the door was quite small, but Diego could imagine Faustino stroking his lengthy beard.”
  “Curiosity always was a weakness of mine.” Faustino said. “You may enter.”
  The door creaked inward. Diego crept inside.
  Scaffolding lined the walls. Rickety wooden scaffold that looked like it might collapse at any moment.
  “It’s not my usual style.” Faustino said. “The Bishop wanted something . Something .this.”
  He paused, to collect his thoughts, quite a collection. “Inspired you might call it.”
  The four walls were divided into six different sections, each displaying a different scene. The seventh section spread across the ceiling.
  “They’re sins you see, the seven deadly sins.”
  Faustino began to walk along the wall, Diego in tow. “The first,” he said pointing to a completed section, “Lust. King David looking longingly at Bathsheeba bathing on the roof top.
  The second, wrath. Cain striking Abel in a field.”
 

Jesus parables / temptations

Gluttony- Esau selling birthright for beans
Greed- Saul
Lust- King David – Joseph 0
Pride- Nebedcadnezzor / Pharoah / Babel
Sloth- Jesus parable – lazy talent slave
Jealousy- Cain Abel -
Wrath- Cain
  “Ah, and the one I struggle with most,” He patted his stomach fondly. “Gluttony.”
  Diego took in the scene.
  “It’s beautiful, outstanding. And fitting.”
  “And now it’s your turn I believe.”
  “My turn?”
  “Your turn to show me something of equal value.”

~

  The sun was setting fast. Light trickled away like the last remnants o. From the far side of a large hedge of thorns emerged two figures. One old and looking slightly worse for wear and one young and looking slightly worse for wear.
  “Dragging me out here,” said the old one.
  “Almost there master, just one more bend,” said the other.
  They reached the top of the mountain. To the left was Valencia, shimmering in the dusk, a few fires igniting prematurely as the light faded. To the right was a crumbled old church, covered in murals. A maze of fresco.
  Diego smiled, happy to be back. “Here it is Master,” He gave a broad gesture, indicating one of the two sights.
  Faustino took it in. With a long pause preluding it, he said, “I’m impressed.”