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Veronika decides to die :: Coelho Paulo
Страница: 103 из 115There was, however, something he could do: he could learn to paint and try to show the world the visions those men and women had experienced.
When they removed the casts and he went back to the embassy, surrounded by all the care, kindness, and attention that the son of an ambassador could hope for from other diplomats, he asked his mother if he could enroll in a painting course.
His mother said that he had already missed a lot of classes at the American school and that he would have to make up for lost time. Eduard refused. He did not have the slightest desire to go on learning about geography and sciences; he wanted to be a painter. In an unguarded moment, he explained why:
“I want to paint visions of paradise.”
His mother said nothing but promised to talk to her women friends and ascertain which was the best painting course available in the city.
When the ambassador came back from work that evening, he found her crying in her bedroom.
“Our son is insane,” she said, her face streaming with tears. “The accident has affected his brain.”
“Impossible!” the ambassador replied, indignant. “He was examined by doctors especially selected by the Americans.”
His wife told him what her son had said.
“It’s just youthful rebelliousness. Just you wait; everything will go back to normal, you’ll see.”
But this time waiting did no good at all, because Eduard was in a hurry to start living. Two days later, tired of marking time while his mother’s friends deliberated, he decided to enroll himself in an art course. He started learning about color and perspective, but he also got to know people who never talked about sneakers or makes of car.
“He’s living with artists!” said his mother tearfully to the ambassador.
“Oh, leave the boy alone,” said the ambassador. “He’ll soon get sick of it, like he did of his girlfriend, like he did of crystals, pyramids, incense, and marijuana.”
But time passed, and Eduard’s room became an improvised studio, full of paintings that made no sense at all to his parents: circles, exotic color combinations and primitive symbols all mixed up with people in attitudes of prayer.
Eduard, the solitary boy, who in his two years in Brazil had never once brought friends home, was now filling the house with strange people, all of them badly dressed and with untidy hair, who listened to horrible music at full blast—endlessly drinking and smoking and showing a complete disregard for basic good manners. One day the director of the American school called his mother.
“I think your son must be involved in drugs,” she said.
When they removed the casts and he went back to the embassy, surrounded by all the care, kindness, and attention that the son of an ambassador could hope for from other diplomats, he asked his mother if he could enroll in a painting course.
His mother said that he had already missed a lot of classes at the American school and that he would have to make up for lost time. Eduard refused. He did not have the slightest desire to go on learning about geography and sciences; he wanted to be a painter. In an unguarded moment, he explained why:
“I want to paint visions of paradise.”
His mother said nothing but promised to talk to her women friends and ascertain which was the best painting course available in the city.
When the ambassador came back from work that evening, he found her crying in her bedroom.
“Our son is insane,” she said, her face streaming with tears. “The accident has affected his brain.”
“Impossible!” the ambassador replied, indignant. “He was examined by doctors especially selected by the Americans.”
His wife told him what her son had said.
“It’s just youthful rebelliousness. Just you wait; everything will go back to normal, you’ll see.”
But this time waiting did no good at all, because Eduard was in a hurry to start living. Two days later, tired of marking time while his mother’s friends deliberated, he decided to enroll himself in an art course. He started learning about color and perspective, but he also got to know people who never talked about sneakers or makes of car.
“He’s living with artists!” said his mother tearfully to the ambassador.
“Oh, leave the boy alone,” said the ambassador. “He’ll soon get sick of it, like he did of his girlfriend, like he did of crystals, pyramids, incense, and marijuana.”
But time passed, and Eduard’s room became an improvised studio, full of paintings that made no sense at all to his parents: circles, exotic color combinations and primitive symbols all mixed up with people in attitudes of prayer.
Eduard, the solitary boy, who in his two years in Brazil had never once brought friends home, was now filling the house with strange people, all of them badly dressed and with untidy hair, who listened to horrible music at full blast—endlessly drinking and smoking and showing a complete disregard for basic good manners. One day the director of the American school called his mother.
“I think your son must be involved in drugs,” she said.