Free The Brodsky Affair: Murder is a Dying Art by Ken Fry Page B

time enough.
    He reached behind a large pile of books and magazines. From beneath a paint-splattered sheet, he pulled three canvasses joined together… his reason for not leaving with his brother and sister.
    He positioned them on a specially made easel, and placed them end to end, each side touching the side of the canvass next to it. He stood back, scrutinizing the unfinished work that he resolved to finish before it became too late.
    He picked up a flat-bristled brush. He turned the canvases over, dipping the bristles into a Tyrian purple, and etched the number ‘Triptych part32a’ on the centre work, then‘Triptych part32b’ on the left and finally on the right ‘Triptych part32c’.In thick black ink, he added on the back of the central canvas, in Russian Cyrillic, the title, 1941 Golovchino.
    He’d painted it more recognisably figurative than his customary abstractions, and he stood back to absorb what he had done so far. He wasn’t displeased. It was the most ambitious and disturbing workhe’d ever attempted. There had been times when he’d wanted to abandon it, but the whole concept of what he’d seen and been told of war scoured his emotions. Even now, he could feel a tremor in his hands, not made easier by his encroaching predicament. When it was finished, he would show it to the world.
    This needs my best possible inspiration. The balance is not quite there yet. He turned to a brown leather portfolio, held together with a broad black ribbon. It contained his pencil sketches and written notes.
    Mikhail sat back, folded his arms, and scratched his head with the end of a worn-down pencil. Thirty minutes later, he turned to a blank page and began to sketch figures and ideas. Once he had finished with his pencil sketches, he closed the portfolio and picking up a pen, settled down to write some neglected letters.
    Outside and across low hills, a flickering sun struggled upward on its circuit, throwing streaks across the Vorskla. Penetrating streams of light broke without favour, on mists and the distant battle clamours.
    ~ * ~
    Another day had passed and Mikhail’s stomach fluttered as, using a thick, broad brush together with a flat palette knife, he raised the level of the paint on the canvass, giving its texture a living, breathing quality. The war was forgotten as glancing from time to time at his preliminary sketches, he wove a contemporary touch across the entire canvas. Stopping to sip tea from the copper samovar standing on the fire, a chill passed through him. He looked at the fire but it was a long way from dying out. It was then he realised there was a commotion coming from outside. Women and children were screaming and he could hear gunfire. The war he’d forgotten in his work efforts had moved closer, and he knew with sickening horror that it had entered the village. A loud explosion sent billows of dirt into the air that rained down and shook the cabin.
    Mortars. Oh my God. I’ve got to get out of here and fast!
    “Sweet Jesus!” he shouted into the empty studio.
    He hurried across to the three canvasses, grabbed at them and rapidly placed the two end sections together, and sat them on top of the larger. How did I not realise?
    Outside, he heard louder commotions from the women and children. From the window, he could see buildings in flames and smell the stench of smoke rising. More shells began exploding and the village was turning into a ballooning murky hell. People were running in all directions. A slow mechanical rumble and squealing got closer, and he knew a tank must be rolling in his direction.
    Positioning the work onto a large bolt of thick cloth, he hurriedly rolled them up into a tube shape, tying them as tightly as he dared, and flung them into a bag that he slung around his shoulders. He then raced to the door and towards his motorbike. Jumping on it in one leg-wide leap, he booted down hard on the kick-start.
    Nothing.
    He kicked down again.
    Nothing.
    Again and again, nothing.