The Masterpiece

"Hi, my name is Emma. May I sit down?" The young woman sat nervously on the wooden stool and glanced around herself.

She was seated in the basement of a theatre, and the view was numbing her senses. It was a riot of colours under the yellow light of the bulb. Masks, coats, scarves, wigs, and so many other types of costumes she never knew existed. The man who stood in the middle of this scene looked a part of it, like one of those hyper realistic paintings created with minute precision. Her research indicated his age should be around seventy, but he looked no more than fifty. Some people just had blessed genes.

"I was expecting you yesterday," he said in a stern tone. "I generally avoid journalists, but your friend convinced me well. Before I start my story, tell me, young lady, how did you find out about David?"

The woman, Emma, fished out a photograph from her notepad. It was a sepia image of two very handsome men laughing together over a couple of drinks.

"I hope you remember my condition."

'I will write about only the parts you would allow me to." She showed a small device in her hand which was apparently used for recording. The old man was not well versed with the latest technology. As an act of trust she switched it off and kept inside her bag. "I will not write about it altogether if you say so, but please tell me the story behind the photograph."

"Let us go upstairs," the man said. He directed the young woman towards the empty theatre, and there they sat on the chairs reserved for the audiences.

"When I met David, he was looking for a job. He had striking features; it looked like he was straight out of an artist's studio. A couple of weeks back I had lost my lead actors, so obvious I asked him whether he could act. He arrogantly responded that he had never had the opportunity to act before, but he could try. After all, it was just feigning some emotions. How hard could it be?

I had to audition the man, partly to break his arrogance. There he stood, on that same stage, and recited Hamlet as if it was his life story. He recited every word with such passion, such extraordinary intonation that he broke my heart. I hadn't realized when I had started shedding my tears from a hero who was written centuries ago, and acted almost thousand times around the globe. Such was his power, and his stunning presence onstage.

When he descended from that stage he asked me, "Am I hired now?" he looked too confident while doing so. At that time I had no options left but to hire him. Now when I look back, I realise that I, in fact, wanted to have him in my troop. I wanted that person, that masterpiece with me. So I said, "You are, but stay away from the heroine. I would hate to fire another good actor because he could not control himself around women."

"Do not worry about that, I am not up for melodramas." His eyes bore into mine and I knew my life was going to change forever.

Have you ever met somebody, a professional, and wondered whether this person was born to do this job? He was such a man. He was absolutely raw, who knew nothing about theatre or acting. He might have seen plays before, but it did not help him.

However, he was an extraordinary actor. His features were quite different from others. Initially I gave him a role of a side character in my play, but his incredible chemistry and physique made his way towards the top. Soon he was the protagonist of my next play, a beast who fell in love with an angel.

It was a massive success. He would often say, "I feel like this is my life story," which I thought was a hint of how attached he felt towards the play or this life.

He never gave me anything to complain about. He worked diligently, stayed away from the heroine and the other pretty things who looked for excitement in handsome men like him. One day, he came to me and said, "Do you want to write something new and different?"

"What kind of new?"

"Imagine, a creator one day fell in love with his own creation. What do you thing would happen next?"

I couldn't respond immediately, but the idea stayed with me. After a couple of days I started writing a new play. During those days he started showing interest in the backstage. How the lightings worked, what should be the make-up or costumes should be like, even direction and screenplay. He continued asking me about the new play, about the characters, the setting, how was I planning the events and the climax; finally, I had to ask him to contribute one day.

It was during those days I first saw him. Saw him properly, I mean. His beauty, his charm, his skill and his kindness; until then I would utilise him as an asset. It was then I fell for these qualities. One night while discussing the plot, I looked into his eyes. My eyes slowly fell on the rest of his face, his lips, and before I knew anything I started kissing him. He stilled for a moment, and then reciprocated. With that one kiss, he consumed me."

The old man stopped speaking and frowned at the young lady's face. She wore an unrecognizable expression. "Are you disappointed? Did you expect a romance? A soft and sweet story would have been perfect, wouldn't it?"

"It's just—"

"It is difficult to understand something that doesn't follow any pattern. I was not a romantic person to begin with. I sold romance, and I was great at it, but never felt those emotions myself. What I understood was lust, and that was how he took over me. Before I knew anything else, I was addicted to him. His smell, his voice, his touch, everything pushed me to the edge of oblivion. I couldn't recognise myself without him anymore.

My days started with his taste and alcohol. I worked like a beast. My energy came from a place I couldn't comprehend. My evening started with the shows, the standing ovations of the mesmerized audience, and when the echoes of the applause started to fade away, he came to me. He told me stories of love, sacrifice, betrayal, heartbreak and lust. Some stories were so vivid that some days I asked him where he found these stories. Did he experience them? In response, he would dive into my body. He would bite me, hit me, tie me up, and I would let him do whatever he pleased. Some nights he even drew blood. And I would just smile.

Two years passed like that. He gave me what I craved for, and I gave him a complete screenplay in return. That was the beginning of our ending."

"There, have some coffee," the man suddenly broke the story and offered the young lady.

"Please, you didn't have to bother," the woman said. However, she extended her hands eagerly. The old man smiled to himself. He knew how young minds worked. She had needed this cup of coffee since a while.

"What happened next? How did it end?" she said.

"I was living in this same building. Behind the theatre, there was my resident, a two storied building. The ground floor was given to the regular members of my troupe. Men, women, families, and one room was given to David.

He would use a staircase behind the house to enter my bedroom. We would spend long, sleepless nights on the balcony overlooking the main street. The famous prostitute district was visible from that balcony. There, darkness never descended. We would watch the lights—red, yellow, orange, green, blue, gold. When we had no rush of work, we would stay up whole night and watch the sky changing.

It was a similar night. Dawn, to be exact. I had fallen asleep on his arms. Suddenly I felt someone shaking me by my shoulders, and a faint noise. I opened my eyes to find two of my extra dancers below my balcony. They stared at me wide eyed, as though they had seen a ghost. Looking down I found the reason of their shock. I was lying naked with David, he too was gloriously naked, and the story of our night was written on the bruises in my body. First time in my life, I was scared.

I managed to shut their mouths with money and a promotion. I thought the matter was closed there, but it I didn't know how it had hurt David. "Are you ashamed of what we have?" he asked me.

"No, but I am not very keen on advertising my night to the public. Does that bother you?"

He winced at my stone cold tone. "Nobody cares if we sleep together. This place is crawling with criminals, perverts, and prostitutes. Even the elites who spend their money in the evening know very well nobody noble or honourable lives here. Why are you so bothered then?" His question was not invalid.

"As I said, I am not keen on sharing my private life with anyone else, especially the people who work for me." I dismissed him, promised him that I would make it up to him.

He said, "Just finish the play."