(A short that I wrote before entering college, 2020. Croire means faith; if you believed that something was true, hence it must be true.)
Lilies — Of purity, of purpose.
You see, Peter Blakesley never considered falling in love.
Yet again, he finds himself scratching through the canvas, His fingers butchered through the handiwork he has done on this one piece. Every time, he’d paint about his grief, his agony, or even a reflection of Montmartre, in which has become the home he never asked anyone. But not for now.
Clack.
Another pencil had broken.
Peter sighed, swelling his wilton collar, drowned within the tangerine-painted skies as the sun set for the seventh time in a row. The streets of Montmartre are yet to be awakened by the poetry between the lines — an architectural masterpiece, basically a series of buildings that lecture its pedestrians to relax and intoxicate themselves within the convex asphalts that waltzes into their ever-ending formalities.
“Ça te changera les idées,” He scoffs, not minding the cold. Not minding the women that flock around him — not minding the smiles they’d given him at some point. Well, you see, it’s beneficial for Peter to receive such compliments from the streets. He was indeed good-looking, after all, even if he didn’t think so. But well, he was referring to the differing colors of the sky when it changes odour.
The Blakesleys are well-respected among the nobles, not to mention the royal affiliations they’ve been involved with. People would actually give their soul as an exchange to be a Blakesley. Yet, only few are able. They’ve grown accustomed of every random praises they get, how every single one born under the very name would grow to be someone magnificent. Something extravagant, someone great, inspirational, and worth mentioning in history books. Or manuscripts, or any other literary work.
He peered on the paintings he had done that day.
Portraits. Only portraits.
They were commissions, after all.
His family would like to have a first-born grow up to be a scholar, or of a medical degree, or even an engineer. No one asked him to be a mere painter dancing as a Parisian, hidden within the glimmering city lights.
Then, a black cat.
A symbol of grim luck?
What a joke, he can’t believe those made-up stories and traditions about malevolent, witchery works behind an innocent cat. It’s only out for a stroll, after all.
Not to mention the very strangers of Montmartre.
An old man in a cap, a lady taking her retriever on a walk, a man minding his own business by the coffee shop.
Okay, maybe being a painter wasn’t that bad of a job, after all. Isn’t this what he wanted?
Ever since he was little, he’d been engrossed in a world of varying colours. He has been eager to learn any ways to paint on his canvas — through graphite, gouache, acrylic, or even mere handprints. The world was of the creation of an artist, a work yet to be done, an unfinished song written by a series of Parisian painters. He’d be so interested in sketching the things he set his eyes on, every single day. He’d be so invested in anything related to Rembrandt, Pollock, or even Nighthawks.
He looks up to them.
In the mornings, he’d already been there for a cup of coffee — or probably a simple tea, at times. Something to start the day off, before living his dream as a simple man. Just someone sitting by the symphonies of Montmartre. Not as someone born under the worshipped name of Blakesley. He’s the Icarus hidden under the faint clouds, in search of his sun.
Finally, the girl down the street.
Dipped within carnations, dandelions, and snow-tinted daisies, smiling at every patronage that set their foot into her sweet, little flower shop.
What has he gotten himself into?
Daffodils — Of beginnings, of adventures.
She was mute, as she always has.
People would say that she was born into another respectable family, respected for their wealth and kindness. Yet there are countless esteemed names in France, he couldn’t afford to guessone. She could be a Larousse, or a Pichard, probably even a Dumont. The florist would show up in her usual, caramel-dipped low bun, and her half-smiles have spent an unhealthy amount of finished artworks. Men would flirt and be left heartbroken like it was bastille, as if she was the only lady in town unattainable. Well, she could be a spouse, who knows? If she really was, the man in question was damn lucky. One wouldn’t ask for more.
Not to mention she only speaks in flowers.
But no, he shouldn’t be like this, painting a stranger down the street, over and over again. He’s shrouded in graphite, while she’s surrounded by lilies and roses.
There are some paintings he wouldn’t ever sell to anyone, nor he was going to glimpse over it. That’s so wrong, even for a gentleman. No, he wouldn’t ever step into that flower shop. First, there was no use in buying bouquets, after all. Secondly, the women would suspect if he was dating anyone. And thirdly, that is entirely wrong.
But on the bright side, he wasn’t entirely observing the girl, after all. At first, he’d be so induced in painting various kinds of plants. He’d be interestedly sketching the complex outlines of a chrysanthemum, of a stargazer, hell — no one casually sketches a bougainvillea like it was a single sphere. Yes — he would draw an oval, before sketching out its petals one by one. Then, he’d carefully stain the blueprint in bright shades of violet, or even hazel, or even somber, sometimes. It all depends on his mood, on the state of his mind.
His favourite of all is daffodils.
Brilliantly dazed under sunrise as the spring thaws the snow-covered proletarian quarter. His mother would be so interested in flower language, as well. And that is coming from a family who would never consider themselves as florists. She’d explain how daffodils are often used to symbolize beginnings. How they were often used in poetry, in lyrics, in beats without melodies. Or perhaps, daffodils are his mother’s favourite, too.
Probably that makes him any less, well, horrible.
But slowly, unfortunately, he was suddenly inquisitive of the lady responsible for the presentable storefront of the flower shop. A being he could only witness through a bleak window, though large.
Peter Blakesley never considered falling in love, he always has.
And he can’t be sketching the same girl over and over again. That’s not how it works.
Camellias — Of affection, of admiration.
It was another wednesday, and the streets smelled like mud and orchid and graphite. This time, his brush would remain motionless, as he glances upon the barricades at the end of the hallway.
Like he ever wondered what was beyond them, though. Probably some upper-class citizen business.
“Naturally talented, aren’t you, young lad?” A man — no, his former superior when he worked as a journalist. An old friend checking out his former so-called brother. And he thought the seasons had brought away the warmth. “I respect your decision not to stay as a Viscount Peter Blakesley. But seriously, what brings you into Montmartre? A certain someone, I suppose?”
Okay, the very name shouldn’t hurt him that much
“Debatable, Monsieur.”
Not at all, he was attracted to the simplicity of the pavement. The windowless restaurants, the fat politicians, the mingling constellations above his very being. One doesn’t stroll into the hidden streets of Paris for nothing. Or even for a certain someone. It doesn’t work that way.
He longs for a purpose.
“Then explain yourself! Rotting in the streets, ignoring all the ladies? Unrespectable, no?”
No. Not at all.
“The fact that you requested paintings of illusionary ladies says a lot about you more than about me, so don’t bother.”
Peter wonders about life among the butcher stalls, or the hotel signs that run alongside their lives. About the beggars that would sometimes pick up an instrument, or the orphans begging for a single pence. He wonders about the silver-stained puddles between the cobblestones, the desperate artists in need of pennies. The starving, out-of-the-ordinary suburban theatres. All covered in a mahogany shade of a canvas. It’s like an entire life condensed onto a single page.
Years of school never taught him about life beyond the barricades, after all.
As long as he paints, he’ll be fine.
Bluebells — Of respect, of devotion.
Perhaps he only liked autumns.
Or perhaps he missed the girl that stood behind the garden, oh, he can’t be.
Sunflowers — Of loyalty, of longevity.
Okay, probably he has missed her a little bit.
Carnations — Of simplicity, of remembrance.
You see, Peter Blakesley never considered falling in love.
Yet again, he finds himself crawling through the graphite, mixing brilliant colours with ashen-grey charcoal. This time, his works were of jubilant mood. A purpose, not just any somber feather, or a paper plane made to fly off to a bleak future. An actual treasure map, almost. Decipherable, at least. He has painted an enormous garden of an uncountable variety of flowers.
Perhaps he only liked flowers, after all.
“Et après?”
No one knows. Are there any scriptures available, telling a smuggler the path to the treasure? Peter believed that he was never aimless, this is, indeed, the life he had chosen over an actual scholarship, or any overseas program. Or anything academic at all. This is the streets of Montmartre, where everyone would pull a box waltz by the melodic terrains of a random piano player. Of a stranger showing off his left-hand pizzicatos on a violin, of a cat just casually witnessing the children’s laughters as they play with the rain puddles.
His fingers would soon tremble into an intoxicating exhaustion, as the moon says so. The street lights shine once more, as he finally stands from the stool. It felt like years, centuries. It didn’t feel right, yet it felt so veracious.
Probably, Peter would name this very piece ‘Secret Garden’. That’s coming from someone not interested in literature.
Okay, fine, probably he did like to read.
Or does ‘Melodies of Montmartre’ sound about right?
No, not really.
Upon the memoir, he really thought he’d given her a daffodil, or even a proper white carnation. The yard was located far away from the bustling streets of Paris, as if it was hidden. But really, he should’ve given her a proper goodbye, after all. A single painting wasn’t enough.
Or probably, hopefully, it is enough.
For it is a painting of an angel, smiling through the brimstones, sunflowers, and every other unnamed flower, covered in turquoise and coral and lemon.
And the angel would be her, smiling in her usual low-bun from the constellations above. But stars are no for her, for she speaks in flowers.
Love doesn’t need a name, after all.
