Chiaroscuro

A man commits a crime; and so he becomes a criminal. His death will mean little to the man who executes him, nor will it mean anything to the man who confirms he is dead, and nothing to man who laid the verdict that his crime was worthy of death. His family may mourn or may rejoice, or may never come to see or to confirm or to care. The death will be sound. It will be quick. The body will join the trees as a strange fruit. It will be assured to remain intact, and excepting but the scuffed and reddened mark along the length of the throat, the penurious expression, and that dark shadow of death, the surgeons and the students and the professor will be happy to take him in. He will be studied. He will be anatomized. It will join the grave in time. A man commits a crime and is sentenced to death by hanging; so will he become a cadaver and like so will his soul will drift away with time and rot.

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Peering scribes and crooked, bent noses positioned themselves in order. In black robes and white skin, by a blue and green body, the students prepared for the first stroke of knives and for the fashionable words of their professor. They look at each other, some appearing very old in the dimmed light others fraught with a same green as the cadaver, questioning their desires, all of them together wondering what the man's final words may have been. The professor was gone; he would arrive a few minutes. They dared not speak to one another and as they adjusted their dark black suits and white gloves, they peered into the soul of the lifeless man, some with crooked noses others with little nose at all, positioning themselves to see if blood truly ran black in the bodies of the damned.

Others from the university were allowed entrance. It was a macabre spectacle, and often the times when people went it was out some wish to see a dead body or out of a dare. But, in the room where sat the shadow and the shades, the other spectators not bound by erudition and scholarship all arrived to see the criminal. It was seldom that a human was brought in, in whatever form. But, the nature of criminal was a titillating subject to all. The artists came to see if Rembrandt's shadow of death truly existed perhaps darker for darker men, while writers came to imagine the plotting minds of criminals, and some even came simply for the novelty. Each had dressed in black, no matter the creed. They stretched their reverence and so the crooked noses of scholars were bedecked with vivacious flesh of people and people. The black morning rising up.

Notes and notes, scrawling pens and minds intertwined like bled squids profuse with ink and danger. An organ sounding in the deep with the church bells tolling against the bursting movement of Strauss' Thus Sprach Zarathustra being practiced in the orchestra hall. The bell tolled loud, bringing an even deeper disquiet. The bells tolled, 9 in all, and for whom the bells tolled but to sign the coming professor, who like some shade of the past came in resembling some greatly old and cherished figure who had stepped from the mayflower upon Plymouth rock.

The professor had a conservative about him. He looked like a great mountain shaved with deepened grooves and meaning, crested by a nightly hat. A light black took shape under each eye, but he seemed well rested; he seemed to shine like a soft white colour silenced only by a scene of dark. He did not speak but gave an empty look at the suits and dresses that now flew in from the morning. One could see the pride he took in his own suit and the pride he took when the room which at first provided a holy veil of light in the room now phrased but a tiny flare upon his cadaver. A room of two shades, a breast of black and tenebrism while a singly placed feather of white, like a cowards shade sat in the center.

The professor greeted the students of the class, but gave no heed to the others. The room itself was large, though the people could be seen as resting statues, one upon another in states of contemplation, giving the air that shaped the portrait of darkness which I saw a tightness, and which seemed to lay each one of the people upon the brink of the lighted dead. Though, there was a space which like a vacuum seemed to be filled with darkness and did not ask to be filled by anything but it by in such nuances that the scene was so set. The delicate faces all propped in the crested vale of blackened robes, each visitor inspired by the professor who played with the mirror-like knives and scalpels. It was a scene of nothing but black and white, black and white, light and dark, a sumptuous revolution by hardy minds and fragile scholars.

Like the ships of Spanish empire approaching the Dutch mainland with the midnight and solemnity. The stained wood bracing the shapeless water; all raging against the purple and blue sky that lit by but a northern star set the faces of the crew towards the slumbering island of their dreams. The by-day green and mucky island, now forced by night into the cold embrace of shade and shadow. A portrait framed within the a limitless sky.

The Professor picked up the knife.

The captain set the compass upon a floorboard of the boat to the teeter hither and thither as the accuracy of practice seemed to blind the eyes further than the darkness.

The Professor laid the first incision, but soon passed it on to his understudy.

The sun approached upon the backs the crew. The faceless morning that pressed against the silent walls of the anatomy hall became ever more hung by a golden slumber.

The rocks like gutted skulls and spines spilled like a garbled shout a sire of waves upon the maiden boat. The Spaniards laid their boats and greeted their friends whom had already awoken the island. The crew of ship felt a relief akin to intoxication; they had seen the shadows in the mist and had wondered from whence they had come, friend or foe, and it was a new welcome that the land had been met by their own friends. The empire of the sun spread far north, painters and serfs ignited like flames in the desert.

A dripping of blood stained the skin of the criminal.

A Man in yellow entered the anatomy hall.

I felt the portrait come into focus. I saw the colours renewed. I saw the painting in my mind appearing like shades of summer brought home from a cool and chilled bring, clinging only to palates of cold and draught now awoken by the first drops of rain, the fathers of the sea, the rain of a new world. I was afraid. I had entered late and saw my brother staring at the dead criminal. I saw holiness fly into the dust-filled skeleton.

The Spanish had arrived.

He had the maddest hair. He wore a great suit of lithe fashion and of yellow shades, sharpened by a white and blue sash that swung about his belly. His hair swung down about his cheeks and skull. His plumpness and his fine quality of state and air were victorious. Within the hall one stood at odds at whom to look; The professor or the Spaniard. It was as if a man did flee from a lion and was met by a bear.*

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"His name is Belshazzar and he was the one in yellow. The young Spaniard raving as he did at the professor after the class with words and petty class. The men have often called him The Butcher. He wears silk suits always with a flare of yellow, and I can only imagine that his life is so devoid of melancholia he simply had to see the criminal. Within his roman flares, however, when the knife drove deepest, it seemed that the eyes turned to him while his own wavered not from the cadaver. I mean, he's not that interesting. I could jester myself and wear yellow suits." David said.

"That has a colourful sound to it, David." I said," for something so distraught."

The two young men had left the anatomy of class and had proceeded down the many streets that lined the outskirts of the University. A third man had shadowed them from when they had left and proceeded to speak to them. His name was Frans.

"He reminded me of some dark Spanish conquistador." said Frans. I said nothing to Frans.

"Did you not see it. I'm surprised the professor didn't throw him out. I mean, sure, the anatomy students paid close attention, but he attracted the rest of them." David said.

"It was an interesting scene, but it was damned and unholy." I said wondering about the colour. Yellow was after all the colour of victory.

"Or like some son of King Phillip the second." said Frans, speaking almost in tongues as facts came ready to his mind.

"Quite colourful as you often say. But, one can be easily worried and wondered by his coming, late and unwonted." David said.

"Oh, David, how are you feeling?" Frans said with earnest.

"Fine Frans, though I am not in the mood." David said.

"The eighty years war; the Dutch Independence. If it be your wish to speak of uninvited Spanish." Frans said.

I remembered the history of the Dutch Independence.

"I think most people are interested in the dead man." I said.

David placed in his hands in his black coat and found a scalpel in it. Frans had his books with him and pulled one in particular out and began reading in verse.

"In October 1555 Charles the V of the Holy Roman Empire..."

"I wonder what he thought he was doing. A dead man. And the whole spectacle of the clothes. The blackness and the roguishness of the professor. It was an unholy funeral." I said.

"It makes me uneasy, too." David said," I know Pa would look down on hosting a criminal in such a way.

"Yet you went along with it all the same."

"The Dutch are very religious people." Frans said.

"I know I did. You came along, too." David said, now looking at Frans with an anger.

"Many did come to crucifixions if not speak to show their hatred for it."

David looked at me," And do you hate that. I know you found it a wild spectacle. Interesting nevertheless."

"And what is that like? To do that" I asked.

"It is sad. I didn't enjoy it"

"But, they didn't make you, surely?" I asked.

"It was an opportunity." David said looking ahead.

" The great ships and the long arquebusiers of the Dutch defenders against the vast power of the Spanish Empire. And, William the Orange, the great defender. "

I looked at David wondering why we had ever come to this place. David was losing his ethics. I could see them leaving. He wore suits he could not afford. He took himself to lavish parties. He wrote hastily his exams and made way unknowingly to spectacles of dissecting criminals. When I had gone, I had gone for the art and, of course, out of shear hatred.

They turned the corner to a steep road going down. A few men walked by who had a box of books and a lamp, while one women chased after them slowly and without haste just snarls and shouts.

"They say he was murderer, though." David said to spite me.

I said nothing.

"I imagine you two are going to Belshazzar's feast. The Spaniard's feast. Whether you like him or not?"

David said yes and I turned quicker down the street remembering the face of the cadaver.

There was a man in front of us who had come of block our way, and he said," Stand at attention!"

David shrugged him off and made an attempt to walk around him.

"Stand at attention!" the man said again.

The road was small and cobbled, with tall apartments hanging low above the street. The man was in the centre dressed in a series of robes of white and with a golden helmet upon his head. David became angry and looked toward me baffled by the man.

"He who wars will war against no one but himself."

David called the man cheap.

"David, don't say that." I said.

Frans and I approached to hold David in peace.

"What do you have to say." David asked the Man in the Golden Helmet. I told him to stop, but I held myself at a distance from either of them. My hands had begun to tremble as they began circling each other as the Man called David a fool. Myself and Frans once again approached and found the street closing deeply in.

I apologized to David. I knew I had made him angry.

"I have a wicked prophecy to say of you, foul hedonist." the Man said.

David tore his pant leg of the curb.

"Say it!" David spoke.

I began to think of the Psalms for comfort.

"Why are they fighting," Frans said to me.

" He has done nothing wrong!" Frans cried to the Man.

"I believe I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Wait on the Lord; be strong, and may your heart be stout; wait on the Lord." I said

Frans asked if I was well.

I repeated the Psalm to him.

"You long-beated, nihilist. A shaken fool of money. Take that distended face and soul and make it a mockery of some other hopes. "

I could not understand what the Man was meaning. David did not respond.

Wait on the Lord, I thought.

" You have nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

I wondered why the man had chosen David.

"You have not dreams but the dreams of the many and they shread the world." The Man said.

Frans left in a hurry.

I wait on the Lord.

David took his fist and felt his heart pump blood to block his senses from objecting. I waited on the Lord. The Man in the Golden Helmet laughed at David. David looked at me and could not bring his fist upon the man. As he walked, I thanked the lord. I thanked the lord for the world of colours which I could see and I could paint. I told David that I loved him. I told him Father would understand. He quoted my psalms in mocking memory and I forgave him.

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He was as red as he was old. Shadow strained deep and darkly against his wizened face and the red clothes he wore brought him down to a near gloomy appearance. His hands stood stiffly in his pockets. I asked him to take his hands out. They were wrinkled like his face. They bore thin white hairs, matching his beard. In truth, he was more a burgundy. He had a brown cap in the Moroccan style on his head which he positioned often. A few brown laces traced their way down to his feet and he had no shoes on. I had the palette and I did not want red. The man was Dutch, with a great and stately face, thin and old with black eyes quite small now in their grasp of the apartment.

There was an easel in the front room. It had my colours and the palette I had been setting for many weeks before.

"Hallo, pa." I said to him and David made hi s greetings too.

"Hear my prayer, O Lord, and with Thine ears consider my calling: hold not Thy peace at my tears. For I am a stranger with Thee: and a sojourner, as all my fathers were. O spare me a little that I may recover my strength: before I go hence and be no more seen." My father said.

"Are you well, gezond, pa?" I said.

"Leave him alone." David said.

"He was mad, you said yourself. I need quiet." I said.

I began to paint father and David prepared himself for the night time. It was beautiful morning though my father's face still spoke of the night.

"I will show him, William."

I did not respond.

" I waited patiently for the Lord: and He inclined unto me, and heard my calling. He brought me also out of the horrible pit, out of the mire and clay:. and set my feet upon the rock, and ordered my goings. And He hath put a new song in my mouth: even a thanksgiving unto our God. Many shall see it and fear: and shall put their trust in the Lord." My father said.

I put on Stravinsky's Symphony of Palms to calm him down. I had begun to paint his face.

"I have truths. I know little more about money than you do. Our apartment does not sing of lustre and pride." David said.

I could not see the colours very well. I moved the curtain to let the light shine and I closed David's door. The orange wall in the back made my father look younger and so I opened the kitchen window. Clarity, I need. My father had fallen asleep. I would not turn off the Stravinsky.

"David!" I called.

He entered.

"I should say that Papa's words last night should bring some light to your dilemma."

"What words?" he asked.

"Of the stigmata. And here now he talks of Psalm and god, again. I don't want to go to that party without some respite from this. Take a verse from the bible. The same verse Pa spoke of last night. The last words of Saint Francis of Assissi."

"I don't believe this." David said.

I began to paint. I had become angry.

My father had been awakened when the voices began on the record:

Expectans expectavi Dominum, et intendit mihi. Et exaudivit preces meas; et exudit me da lacu miseriae, et de lato faecis. Et statuit super petram pedes meos: et direxis gressus meos. Et immisit in os meum canticum novrum, carmen Deo nostro.Videbunt multi, videbunt et timabunt: et aperabunt in Domino.

They were chilled voices. My father began to stir and I closed the window. The portrait softened in its hardship upon my mind and I began to feel time moving slower. I drew the corners of the mouth and the shaded lips that closed off his teeth and throat. He had versed many words last night. I believed it. I believed the souls came down to speak to us. I believe that Saint Francis was given the scars of Jesus.

"Take this away. I need to speak to pa."

Calmnes, calmness and soft tides against the garden. I could not hear. I only felt the paint upon the cloth and the paint within the histories that had painted men before.

It was night time.

"It's been two hours. I'm going to go, William."

I could not understand why. I had not listened beyond the movement of the colours on the street, on the cadaver, and on my father's face. My father had moved and the Stravinsky had stopped.

My father was not breathing.

"David. David, I think he's..."

"There's nothing I can do. You stay, William. I know it is not fair to ask of me. But, I cannot stay while the lion chants."

"I don't know what that means." I said.

Our father was dead and as David left I sang to him the final verse in Stravinsky's Psalms:

Alleluia.

O praise God in His holiness:

praise Him in the firmament of His power.

Praise Him in His noble acts:

praise Him according to His excellent greatness.

Praise Him in the sound of the trumpet:

praise Him upon the lute and harp.

Praise Him upon the strings and pipe.

Praise Him upon the well-tuned cymbals.

Let everything that hath breath praise the Lord.

Alleluia.

It was the first time I had thought God since the man with the Golden leaf. I wondered if Belshezzar was a man of God. His party was to be the talk of the town. I was not so taken to the event. The hounding noise and craven moans of the many people who take way through the party and the smells which would take a great stench as the walls became ever more bound with smoke and shaken hands. I could imagine the colours and the conversations. The talks that people would have as they came nearer and nearer to making all their friends their personal psychologists and the colours. The colours that would light lime dresses and would make the Spaniard's home light like inside the sun. The broken chatter would be lifted by moonlight and dark blues mixing with the night.

I began to paint. We could not afford a telephone and I knew if I walked beyond my room I would find myself by David for God was in the skies and I felt very weak to temptation. I remembered that I do not like to talk like prophets, but my father has died and I know I must be like them all the same. Calm. Ordered. Sacrificing wholly myself to the idea.

I left when I thought I heard my dad awake when all it had been the rustle of the wind and I knew God was not in this place.

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I was in the Palace of Babylon. I saw the wasted men and carrion fiends who preyed upon the newly weary. I too saw Belshezzar upon the table with the chair to his right taken by his friend and the chair to his left taken by David. I could not think of the colours. I saw only the faces and the walls. The long and brisk movement which was cloudy and did not take the calmness of my portraiture. I took a drink from a man who had offered and placed on the table as I took by seat of Belshazzar's feast, near David, among 40 men who had taken a seat and a plate.

"Is this not of heaven?" the Spaniard cried.

The many men agreed and nodded.

"Am I not supreme in my makings?" the Spaniard said

The room agreed and applauded. David did not, though I could barely see anyone. I could not see the walls. I took what little vision I could muster to stare at my Brother and the Spaniard.

"What's your problem?" a man asked David. He said he was tired.

"Bring my gun?" said the Spaniard.

I saw a letter upon the wall shine as bright and crisp as the last star on earth. I could see only its colour. A woman had gone to fetch for Belshazzar his gun. Frans had taken a seat beside me and began telling me about the true King of Babylon who was named also Belshazzar and who had once seen a magical sight within his home while he entertained many guest.

"Belshazzar saw the writing on the wall. He had raided the Temple in Jerusalem and now brought many lords to his feast. As the hours passed, writing scrawled itself magically upon the wall."

The Spaniard gave David a gun and kept one for himself. Frans had stopped and spoke to me, asking, asking me if I was going to stop him. I could not see the colours and I saw my father scrawling the letters on the wall. I begged Frans to continue; he did.

"When Belshazzar saw the writing he immediately order the guards to allow no man into his palace no matter whom he claimed to be-"

"Let no man in. Not while we duel, nor after for that matter. No matter who they are." said the Spaniard.

"Belshazzar called upon an old wizened man who had served as the leader of the Astrologers whose name was David. He asked David to interpret it, the letters, offering him the third highest position of power in the Kingdom."

David and the Spaniard placed themselves on top of the table, each armed with an old pistol and each ready to duel. A few men smirked, others kept stern but curious faces. The women asked Belshazzar to stop his frivolities.

"David accepted, but refused to accept the prize, and he explained to Belshazzar the writing on the wall."

It will tell of you doom. I will tell of your doom. You have disobeyed people and men. You have listed and destroyed all the good and happiness that was once known. You brings gods of money and wealth, saints who champion greed and suffer no pain but the joy of their massacres which they have become one with. You know not evil, yet you have become evil all the same. Suffer the plight of the faceless. Suffer the envy of envious. Endure you will the challenge of this duel and all men shall find themselves rewarded. You Belshazzar shall lose tonight.

David, the scholar in the story, had said something like that and so had my Brother. I knew my Father was sitting, dead at home in the chair. I knew I had not seem him, yet I followed him all the same. When I had left, I heard the gun shots, the screaming, the roaring, the sirens, and by the end of the night I felt the words of God again and I saw the colours. I knew someone had died. I did not know if it was my brother or Belshazzar the Spaniard. I had resigned myself from the night.

I cried at my father's feet.

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David was in an alleyway. He was with a few men whom he had met after he fled. He had told them about the criminal cadaver. They did not believe him. David wondered if his father was in heaven and remembered the words of the Psalms which he chose to ignore. He did not believe it. He remembered his father's sternness .

"A criminal. You dissected a criminal." they said over and over again

David knew they thought he was lying and he did not care. He had won the night and he felt the agony of victory all the same. He saw the light and the dark. He remembered a word his Brother had told him. A technique in art used heavily by many Dutch Painters in 18th century. The use of strong contrasts between light and dark, usually bold contrasts affecting a whole composition. Let everything that hath breath praise the lord, his father used to say.

The Spaniard is dead.