Gift for Whom Santiago's Story

With Hooked1957's permission and encouragement, I have written a companion story to one he recently published,

Gift for Whom,

from the point of view of Santiago, the artist.

*****

Foreword;

Santiago's art teacher, Ms. Ana Taylor, entered one of his oil paintings in a contest hosted by a prestigious art academy, located outside the city ten miles away. Along with his painting, she attached his transcripts, picture, and a copy of his birth certificate, which Santiago's mother gave her. Ana told no one else until she pulled a letter out of her mailbox in the office, congratulating Santiago Lopes on his painting's two first-place finishes; one for the Thirteen and Under age group and the other for Best Painting Overall. As the overall winner, Santiago was offered a full scholarship to attend school in the city at the art academy, beginning immediately after his sixth-grade graduation.

Considering almost six hundred pieces of art were submitted, this was a great honor for a twelve-year-old child to receive.

***

Santiago was walking home from school with his sister Maria on a sunny Friday afternoon in early May, and couldn't wait to get home and show his parents the letter his teacher gave him.

His happy thoughts were interrupted by angry voices echoing from the alley to his left, and he stopped to listen.

"Santiago, why are we stopping? I'm scared; please, keep on walking. This doesn't concern us." His little sister was always nervous walking down the streets in this area of town.

"Quiet, Maria. I think that's Eduardo talking to that bully in our class, Jimmy."

The voices became clearer as Santiago stepped closer to the alley, dragging his sister behind him.

"Jaime, didn't I warn you last week to leave the little kids alone. I was very polite when I asked you to stop stealing their lunch money, wasn't I?"

"My name is Jimmy, owwww."

"Answer my question. I was very polite and even smiled, didn't I?"

"Yessss, owwww, but my name isss Jimmy."

"Your name is shit if that's what I call you. Please don't interrupt me again, or I'll have to teach you a lesson in common courtesy. Understand, little piggy?"

"Please don't hurt me."

"Then shut up and listen. You're a pretty good football player on that select team of yours, aren't you."

"I'm all right, yeah, I'm pretty good."

"Well, it would be a shame if I had to, um, teach you a lesson by shattering an ankle with a pipe."

"Don't, no, you can't, please, I'm sorry. I promise on everything I hold holy, I'll leave them alone and, um, if anyone else bothers them, I'll tell you."

"Why not be friendly and look out for them yourself? Buy them ice cream after lunch the rest of the school year, and I'll keep an eye on you. Sound good, Jaime, my friend?"

I didn't hear Jimmy's answer, but Eduardo came out of the alley, saw me, and smiled, "Hey Sandy, Mary. How are my two best friends today."

"Hi, Eduardo. Did you beat Jimmy up?" Right to the point, that's my sister.

"Ha, ha, ha. Maria, Maria, you are as cute as a bug and my best friend's sister. I must walk you home so you will be safe; this side of town can be a little rough."

***

Eduardo and I met in kindergarten and became best friends the first day after we swapped lunches. We were complete opposites; I was taller than him but didn't speak much, but it wouldn't have mattered because the way he talked, nonstop, I couldn't get a word in unless he asked me a question. Our birthdays were both in June, and my mother practically adopted him the first time I took him home with me. I never visited his house or met his mother, and he never spoke about her.

At school, no one messed with Eduardo or his friends. It didn't take long to figure out why. No matter how big or tough the other guy was, he didn't take shit from anyone, and if he got punched by a fist, he'd come back with a brick in his hand.

***

Until I received my driver's license, I stayed in the city, living in a dormitory except on weekends, when my father brought me home. Once I could drive and indicated I wanted to live at home, a car appeared in our driveway, a used Ford in good condition, and I assumed it was a gift from my father.

Eduardo and I had become distant over the last four years, but we reconnected after I got the car. We became thick as thieves again.

One warm March evening, I was standing outside his father's restaurant, 'Costa's Castle,' waiting for Eduardo to finish his chores, and I observed a steady stream of people walk up to Mr. Costa's table. I watched, confused, as money, pieces of paper, or both, passed back and forth between Mr. Costa and the people in line, and some even spoke to him or shook his hand. Then my eyes were opened when the light bulb in my head turned on, and I realized he was a bookmaker.

I noticed two rough-looking men sitting behind him, watching everything that went on. Eduardo came out and went to his dad, waving at me to follow him.

"How are you, Santiago? I hear you're doing very well at that art school in the city, and Eddie tells me you're living at home again because someone bought you a car. Children should live with their parents. Keep both feet on the ground, my young friend, and give my best to your parents and sister. My son is fortunate to have such a stable friend in his life."

As we walked away, I asked him, "Who are those men sitting behind your father?"

"His bodyguards."

***

A frightening incident occurred a month later. Eduardo and I were going through a rebellious phase in our lives, shoplifting bottles of wine and wandering around town drinking. We weren't looking for trouble, just two teenagers hanging out, looking for mischief to get into. That night we broke into a condemned building and smoked marijuana for the first time. After each of us took a drag, I coughed so hard, tears gushed out of my eyes, and to my surprise, Eduardo was experiencing the same feelings.

"Wow, that shit's horrible, Sandy. Let's get out of here."

"Wait, Eduardo. I think I'm going to," and I hurled against a wall of burnt timbers until my stomach was empty. Turning my head, I saw Eduardo puking on the ground, and the splatter was hitting my pants legs.

We looked at each other when our guts were emptied, standing bent over with our hands on our knees and laughed. I spoke first, "Let's stick with wine or beer."

My best friend nodded.

As we walked down the street through the middle of town, an alarm went off in the pawn shop we'd just walked past. As we watched, the door flew open, and two men ran out but skidded to a stop when they saw us staring at them. I gasped because they were the two men Eduardo described as his father's bodyguards.

They only hesitated for a moment, then ran away from us, down a dark street.

Eduardo recovered first and yelled, "Shit. My father warned me to stay away from midtown tonight, and I forgot. Let's get out of here," and he took off running toward my house. He was almost hit by a police car that skidded around a corner but managed to escape down a dark street. Two cops jumped out of the black and white and chased after him. I froze, petrified by what was taking place, and after another police car narrowly missed me while stopping, I was grabbed by more cops and taken down.

Handcuffed, I was thrown into the backseat of a black and white, driven to the police station, and left alone in a tiny, brightly lit room. Sitting on a hard metal chair with one short leg behind a rough-looking WWII surplus desk, I was scared shitless. The stains on top of the desk looked like blood, and I wondered if some of mine would be added to this faded mosaic.

When two detectives started interrogating me, I was ready to confess to anything. 'Yes, detective, I committed those bank robberies in the city even though I was actually in New York at an art exposition.'

But they weren't the sharpest blades in the kitchen and didn't give me a chance to answer their questions coming at me nonstop.

"Why did you break into the pawn shop."

"Do you know what a felony conviction will do to the rest of your life?"

"You're a good kid, Santiago. Don't screw up your life defending the Costa mob."

"If your sainted mother saw you now, she'd die of embarrassment. Make her proud and tell me what I want to know."

"Did your friend Eduardo put you up to it?"

"I hear your sister has been dating your friend. Do you really want her hanging around your scum friend?"

"Your friend's father is a criminal. Surely, you don't want to protect his son, who has a record as long as my arm?"

*

The mention of Eduardo's father erased my fears and startled me into calmly assessing my situation. I recalled a conversation we had a week ago, when I was waiting for my friend at the restaurant, and Mr. Costa invited me to sit beside him. We made idle conversation for a moment; then, he got to the advice. He always gave me advice like I was his son, and today a story came first.

"Santiago, did you hear about Eddie being questioned by the men in blue last month?"

"Yes, Mr. Costa, a terrible thing they did to a kid."

"My boy followed my advice and kept quiet until my lawyer arrived and took him out of that place."

I nodded because it seemed like something I should do.

"Santiago, my boy, if you should find yourself in a similar situation, how would you escape their grasp?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Do you know what the police hate more than anything?"

"Automatic weapons," and I made machine gun noises to back up my answer.

"No, my young friend. They all want to get shot in the leg by guns so they can retire with a disability and come work for me."

I think he was joking.

"No, what the police hate the most is silence. They can't contradict silence with their lies, they can't turn your silence into lies, and they can't say you confessed because there's nothing on their recording but your silence. It makes them pissed off, and some of the worst cops might take a swing at you, resulting in lawsuits and six-figure judgments."

I was bewildered, but he simplified it by finishing, "If the police ever detain you, stay calm, don't speak, and my lawyer will come and save you."

But how would he know? Oh, yeah, I forgot about Mr. Costa; he knows everything that happens in this town.

*

An hour passed, and they quit asking questions I wouldn't answer and came at me from a different direction.

An old, fat cop, well past his prime leaned over until his face was inches from mine, the stump of an unlit cigar clamped between his teeth, and he snarled, "It's all over, kid. We caught your friend, and he gave you up. He sang like a canary and said you were the one that broke into the pawn shop, so he's going home, and you're going to jail."

I started laughing because that was the most ridiculous statement I'd ever heard, and I laughed harder and louder until the fat cop backhanded me and knocked me out of my chair. I was so pissed off that I dragged myself up from the floor and sat back in my chair. Leaning forward, I said three words, "Fuck you, pig."

He drew his hand back and was ready to hit me again when the door flew open, and three men, two in suits and one in blue, joined us.

I thought I was in for a beating, but I was wrong.

"Lieutenant, do you hire psychopaths to be detectives these days? Look what he's done to my client, an innocent teenage boy with no record. The side of his face has been smashed in, and he's bleeding from his mouth and nose. I want to file charges against Detective child beater, hiding in the corner. and I want my client released immediately so I can get him some medical attention."

As he led me out of the room, he asked, "Did you make any statements, Santiago?"

"Just one, sir," and I told him what I said as loud as possible.

You could've heard a mouse fart ten feet away as we left the building.

Days later, when my mother finally let me out of the house, I met Eduardo at the restaurant, and everyone wanted to shake my hand as I walked past them toward Mr. Costa. Looking angry at first, he laughed, kissed me on my bruised cheek, and made a statement directed at everyone in the room.

"He took my advice and stayed silent," and he searched the eyes of every man in the room before finishing, "well, almost silent," and the room exploded in laughter.

***

I received a scholarship to a prestigious university that accepted only the best prospective painters in the world. After two years, I left when there was nothing else they could teach me. I wanted to move to Italy and become an understudy to a modern artist who was well admired for his paintings yet rarely seen in public. He left a phone number for me to return his call with Mr. Costa, and after speaking to him in Milan, I told him I was very interested and thanked him. As I walked home to my parent's house, I wondered why he hadn't called me there. Many people knew my parent's number, and it was included on most of my university paperwork.

My parents were furious with my decision to leave and felt I was being selfish. They wanted me to stay and open up an art gallery in town with my sister, Maria, who worked with clay and had made quite a name for herself. Two of her sculptures were currently on exhibit in a prestigious art gallery in Los Angeles.

I went round and round with my parents, and I should have thanked them for their love and support and flown to Italy. Had I done that, the end of the story would be quite different. They wore me down, and I gave in, put my best face on for my sister, and we opened Galeria Lopes six months later. It was a great success for its size and location, but this wasn't how I envisioned my life moving forward.

My life slowly drifted away from the path I wanted to follow.

My paintings sold well, although not for what I believed they were worth, and I began doing portraits for wealthy people so I could pretend I was well rewarded for my talent. The first time I was asked to do a nude portrait, I dropped a paint tube I was holding and stammered severely, struggling to speak my one-word answer, "Wwwhatttt?"

The question was repeated, "I would like to commission a portrait of my wife, nude."

After recovering from my embarrassment, we bartered and negotiated and arrived at a price many times more than any of my other sold paintings.

Nine weeks later, after I signed my name in the corner of my first nude and was handed a cashier's check, I felt the most incredible rush surging through my body. Unfortunately, I looked at the amount written on the check, and greed replaced the euphoria I felt a moment ago.

A year later, when I was putting the final touches onto my nude portrait of a well-built and handsome Afro-American man, I allowed myself to be sucked further into the dark world of entitlement and narcissism. The gentleman I was painting, Antoine, was very well endowed; hell, his dick was huge when he had an erection, which was the pose his wife wanted in the portrait. Compared to him, she was tiny, even though she was my height wearing heels. She was present at every sitting, and quite frankly, more than once, I caught myself appraising her beauty with my artist's vision.

As I was signing my name in the corner, Jayda, Antoine's wife, placed her hand on my shoulder and addressed her husband, "You can go now, dear, and give my sweet regards to Caroline. Thank you for this gift, and I'll meet you in Jamaica one week from today."

Just like that, I was alone in my studio with a painting and a beautiful woman. For the first time, I allowed myself to examine all of Jayda up close, not just her face. She was exotic, with her dark, curly hair draped over her shoulders, creamy brown complexion, sparkling hazel eyes, golden hoops through soft ear lobes, and mauve lipstick covering a pair of luscious lips. Panning down, I stared at two perfect breasts, not enhanced, barely covered by a thin silk wrap dress that ended mid-thigh, and a pair of open-toed stiletto heels caressing her feet and displaying her red toenails.

The tip of her tongue slipped between her lips, and she smiled, stating, "I've seen you checking me out when you should have been focusing on my husband. Did you like staring at what you thought you couldn't have?"

What a strange question to ask, but that thought disappeared as I blurted out, "Oh, yesss, very much, but...."

Jayda pressed a finger against my lips, shutting me up.

"Shush, my little painter man. Where is your bedroom, and I'll let you have what is forbidden, once and only once."

Much later, after she'd dressed and left my gallery, I replayed her last words in my head.

"My husband and I have an agreement; he keeps a woman on the side who can accommodate his size, and I'm free to indulge myself with any man I find desirable, but only once. Poor Antoine loves me but is afraid if I become attached to another, I might leave him because I control the wealth in our family. He does not realize I love him even more. Do you know how I feel about what we did for the last two hours?"

I was barely able to shake my head.

"What we had together today was just sex; great sex, and by the way, you have great stamina, but I felt no love, and when I walk through that door, I will remember the sex but forget your face and name. When I see my husband in a week, I will rip his pants off and suck the head of his cock until he washes my face with his cum, and he will sleep soundly, knowing I am still his."

If I had only remembered one important word she shared with me, my path in life would probably still be reasonably safe. The word I forgot was 'Once.'

***

My life continued descending into the darkness as I filled my head with visions of myself as a great Renaissance artist. I began using my charm to try and seduce the women who flocked to my studio, each of them anxious to get naked in front of me, hoping I would choose them for an original Santiago Lopes nude portrait. If I felt no attraction to the woman requesting my talents, I made excuses such as having a long waiting list.

The women I did choose weren't all Miss America's; in fact, most of them weren't, but they had something inside that I detected, a vulnerability or perhaps the desire to be the star in my play.

The next two women I picked shut me down, forcefully and very quickly, and I quit looking at them sexually and painted. The third woman was the charm; her name was Sally, and she was pretty plain-looking. I was ready to send her packing when she smiled, my knees buckled, and I immediately agreed to paint her.

Her smile melted when I ordered her to strip.

"What, you want me to strip?"

"Yes, I need to see what I'm working with to decide on the most flattering pose. You'll have to disrobe when I paint you, so let's get the embarrassment out of the way."

She stood, and I patiently waited while she slowly disrobed in front of me. After her panties hit the floor, she attempted to cover herself with her hands.

"No, not like that; right hand on your hip and hold your left hand up; no lower until the upper arm is parallel to the floor and hold your forearm up, spreading your fingers. Relax, loosen up. That's better, now, don't move while I examine you."

I circled her like a shark circling a wounded seal, rubbing my chin while going through different poses in my mind to find the perfect one for her. After circling her several times, I barked out to her, "Put that robe on," and I waved my finger toward my antique 19

th

-century privacy screen.

She returned to my side as I was sketching with a pencil and a rough drawing quickly emerged.

"What do you think, Sally?"

"Oh, my."

"This portrait is for your husband's eyes only, or did I misunderstand you."

"No, it's for him; he sent me here because someone he knows has a painting of his wife done by you in their bedroom."