Chapter 13
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Translator: Silver Dragon
Chapter: 13
Chapter Title: The Other Side of Love
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It felt like my throat was being strangled.
The stiff collar of the borrowed tuxedo scratched at my neck. The bow tie squeezed my breath like a noose on the gallows. The man in the mirror looked quite respectable, but inside, he was still that paint-smeared kid rolling around in the attic a few days ago.
"Teacher, breathe. Your face is turning blue."
Franz giggled as he tugged at my necktie. He seemed thrilled with his first-ever child-sized suit, striking poses in front of the mirror nonstop.
"To think this is civilized attire. Civilians must all be masochists."
I grumbled while fastening my jacket buttons.
Today was the opening day of Kunstschau 1908.
The day when all eyes in Vienna were focused here. Emperor Franz Joseph I had sent a speech, and the city's nobility and artists were out in full force. And a hustler from the back alleys had been invited. Under Gustav Klimt's name, no less.
"Let's go. To the battlefield."
We stepped out of the gallery. Morgenstern had arranged a carriage waiting outside—not our usual rickety shared ride, but a glossy black two-seater.
"Looking sharp today, huh?"
"It's a debt party, kid. All this is probably on Morgenstern's tab."
The exhibition was in a temporary building near the Vienna Konzerthaus. The entrance was dazzling from the start. Gas lamps blazed like daylight, and jewel-bedecked ladies sipped champagne with elegant smiles. The air reeked of perfume. Rose, musk... and money.
As we stepped down from the carriage, countless eyes turned our way.
"Is that him? The 'Hitler'?"
"Younger than I thought. Looks decent enough."
"They say his paintings are mad."
The whispers crashed like waves. I gripped Franz's hand tight—to keep him from getting intimidated, but really to hide my own trembling.
Even counting my past life's memories, this was my first time on such a glamorous stage. Nothing like art school critiques or college grad shows. This was the major leagues.
Morgenstern greeted us at the entrance, his face flushed beet red.
"You're here! Look at me, losing my mind. Your spot's booth 16. Right next to Klimt's room! Incredible placement!"
Right next to Klimt. Perfect for comparisons.
"Seen the exhibition yet?"
"No, just arrived."
"Go check Klimt's room first. It's chaos in there."
I pushed through the crowd toward the central hall, where the throng was thickest. A golden aura poured from that spot.
My breath caught.
One painting dominated the space.
The Kiss.
Gold leaf filled the canvas. A man and woman embraced atop it, locked in a kiss on a flower-strewn meadow, as if at the world's edge.
Seeing The Kiss in person was overwhelming. The texture you couldn't grasp from books or screens. The gold shimmered under the lights, making the painting seem alive, breathing.
Beautiful.
I had to admit it. That was perfect beauty. A sanctuary untouchable by the world's pains. I finally understood what Klimt meant by 'love.' He had elevated it to a religious worship.
The crowd stared, entranced. Some gasped in awe, others wept.
"Wow... it's sparkling."
Franz muttered, mouth agape.
"Yeah. They slathered it with expensive gold."
I replied cynically on purpose, but inside, defeat washed over me. Would anyone even notice my work against that radiant beauty?
My paintings were filthy. Dank, noisy, painful. Not a flowerbed—a mud pit.
Would anyone stomach my mud pit?
"Hitler."
A familiar voice came from behind. Egon Schiele. He was decked out in a fancy suit too, but his hollow gaze was unchanged.
"Seen it? The boss's handiwork."
"A monster. Not of this world."
"But your stuff's no slouch. Had a hell of a time hanging it. That frame."
Schiele smirked oddly and pulled my arm.
"Come on. To your execution."
We headed to booth 16. The mood shifted the moment we left Klimt's room. The golden glow vanished, replaced by a dimmer, somber corridor lighting.
There hung my painting.
Vienna Rhapsody - Lovers in the Noise.
On the white wall, it looked like a massive wound ripped open.
The frame I'd ordered helped. The rusted, dented steel one Morgenstern scavenged from a junk dealer. The red rust bleeding from it meshed grotesquely with the canvas's chaotic colors.
Inside, multicolored noise raged like a storm. Jagged lines clawed the surface, black-red stains splattered everywhere. At the storm's eye, in muddy darkness, two figures clutched each other desperately.
Their faces were smeared beyond recognition. Man or woman? Unclear. Just two red lumps thrashing to fuse into one.
If Klimt's The Kiss was heavenly love, this was hellish love.
People gathered at my booth one by one. Viewers entranced by The Kiss now grimaced before mine.
"What is this? Filthy."
"Look at that frame. Rusted. Tetanus waiting to happen."
"But... what are those people doing? Fighting?"
They squirmed uncomfortably. But they didn't leave. Frowning, they couldn't tear their eyes from the pair in the painting.
"Noisy."
Someone muttered.
"It's like sounds are coming from the painting. Metal scraping."
Success. My intended synesthetic imagery was taking hold.
Then the crowd parted again. Klimt approached in his golden kaftan, trailed by reporters and critics.
He stopped before my painting, hands behind his back, face expressionless as he stared.
The silence stretched. Ambient noise vanished like sucked into a vacuum. Only my heartbeat thundered in my ears.
Pass? Fail?
Klimt finally spoke.
"It hurts."
His first words.
"Looking at it makes my flesh ache. Like those noises stabbing my eardrums."
He stepped closer.
"No flowers?"
"None."
I answered.
"No gold leaf?"
"Just rusted scrap."
"And yet it's love?"
Klimt turned to me. His eyes were deeper, more serious than at the gallery days ago.
"Yes. Love."
I lifted my chin.
"Your love was too noble to touch. So I painted love crawling in the dirt. The kind that gets trampled, torn, dirtied, but never lets go. Clinging to survive. That's love too."
Murmurs rippled around us. Daring to call Klimt's love 'untouchable'?
But Klimt didn't rage. A faint smile curved his lips.
"Clinging to survive..."
He looked back at the painting.
"Yes. You're right. Not all love can be golden. Most is... caked in mud like that."
He reached out, tracing the rust with a finger. Red powder stained his pale fingertip.
"Even this rust is part of the painting. It'll turn redder with time. Like a festering wound."
Klimt nodded.
"You pass, Hitler."
Relief exploded from me. My legs nearly buckled.
"You solved my assignment brilliantly—and infuriatingly well. Vienna needs this kind of love too. Too much sweetness rots the teeth."
Klimt pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the rust from his hand.
"But remember this. People hate seeing the truth. The love you've shown will cause them real pain. Can you handle the backlash?"
"I've got calluses. I'm good."
"Excellent. Welcome to Kunstschau, 'barbarian' artist."
Klimt clapped my shoulder and moved to the next booth. Reporters swarmed me instantly, notebooks and flashes exploding.
"What did you just discuss with Klimt?"
"Who are the models in this painting?"
"Why use such trash for a frame?"
Questions poured. The flashes blinded me, making me squint.
Was this the taste of success? Blinding, chaotic, a touch dizzying.
"Teacher! Look at this!"
Franz yanked my pants. His eyes weren't on the cameras but the buffet table in the corner.
"Cakes piled like mountains! Can I eat?"
Cakes, in this moment. Classic Franz.
"Yeah. Go devour them. Don't choke."
I sent Franz off and returned to my painting.
Reactions split sharply. The young crowd raved, reading rebellion against the old guard's oppression and raw energy in my work. Older nobles frowned and clucked their tongues.
"Hanging that in a gallery. The end times."
"Love can't be that ugly."
Ugly? Don't make me laugh. Your mistresses and back-alley hotel romps are uglier. I just stripped away the hypocrisy.
Then someone stood beside me.
Heavy perfume. A woman in red, wide-brimmed hat with black lace veil obscuring her face. But her aura was extraordinary.
She stared at the painting for a long time.
"I can hear it."
She whispered huskily, voice low.
"Hear what?"
"Screams. Those two aren't saying they love each other—they're screaming for help."
Spot on.
First to nail my intent so precisely. Even Klimt called it 'pain'; she said 'screams.'
"Who are you?"
"Just one soul living in the noise."
She turned to me. Her veiled eyes felt oddly familiar. Seen her before? No, but why so...
"Your painting is dangerous. It touches people's weakest spots."
"Weak spots?"
"Loneliness."
She adjusted her gloved grip on her handbag.
"Can I buy this?"
"The price isn't..."
"Double what the crown prince paid."
Double?
I stared, stunned. The prince's sum was astronomical; double that? Who was she?
"Money's no issue, but..."
"Not money? Then what? Trouble if it sells?"
"No. Just curious. Why buy something so grotesque?"
She chuckled softly. Red lips curved under the veil.
"I want it over my bed. To gaze at it every night, find comfort knowing I'm not alone in the mud."
Comfort.
My painting comforting someone? An upper-class lady, no less?
"Understood. Talk to Morgenstern."
"No. Direct with you. I'm Alma. Alma Mahler."
Alma Mahler.
Breath caught again.
Gustav Mahler's wife. Vienna's muse, later scandalizing with Walter Gropius, Franz Werfel—the femme fatale incarnate.
She stood before me.
No connection to history's Hitler. But here she was in my painter's life.
"Shocked face? Am I that famous?"
"You are. Vienna's most captivating woman."
"Charming tongue. All painters like that?"
She handed me a card.
[Alma Maria Schindler Mahler]
"Come to my salon tomorrow. We'll sign there. And... I'd like a portrait too."
"Portrait?"
"Yes. Klimt's of me is no good. Too pretty. You could paint my real face."
She vanished with a knowing smile. Red dress slithered like a snake across the floor.
I stared blankly at her back.
Klimt, the crown prince, Alma Mahler.
Giants weaving into my life. Opportunity or doom?
"Teacher! This cake's amazing! Melts in your mouth!"
Franz rushed back, cream smeared on his lips.
"Uh, yeah. Eat up."
I ruffled his hair with a sigh.
In this glittering party's heart, I realized again: this golden exterior hid a rotting mud pit.
And I'd dance in it. This time with a dangerous partner, Alma Mahler.
"Franz, pack up."
"Huh? Heading home?"
"No. Tomorrow, somewhere scarier."
"Where?"
"Witch's castle."
I crumpled Alma's card into my pocket. The paper felt hot against my fingers.
The exhibition buzzed on. Laughter, music, clinking glasses.
Like the noise from my Vienna Rhapsody spilling into reality.
I glanced at my painting again. The lovers seemed to stare back.
'Ready? The real show's starting.'
I loosened my tie. Breathing eased a bit.
"Yeah. Bring it, Vienna."
I toasted the air with champagne. Bitter, but sweet aftertaste.