Chapter 16
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Translator: Silver Dragon
Chapter: 16
Chapter Title: The Crumbling Tower of Babel
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The No. 200 canvas wasn't a tool for painting. It was a fortress wall that needed to be conquered.
Climbing up the ladder and stretching out my arm pulled at my shoulder joints like they were about to tear. The turpentine stench had pickled my brain cells, to the point where I sometimes confused whether I was holding the brush or the brush was wielding me.
"Teacher, aren't you coming down? The food's getting cold."
Franz shouted from below. His voice echoed from what felt like a dizzying height.
"Wait. Just gotta finish this part."
I was depicting the tower's pinnacle, that invisible celestial realm.
This was the realm of gold.
The gold Klimt used to express holiness and eternity. I was using it in the filthiest way possible.
I scooped up a thick glob of gold paint with the palette knife. Sticky, heavy texture. I smeared it onto the canvas, letting it drip downward. Golden streaks flowing naturally with gravity.
This wasn't light.
It was excrement.
The leftovers from the nobles at the tower's top after they'd eaten, drunk, and reveled. Champagne, greasy meat broth, byproducts of desire. All mixed together and pouring down below.
There's this thing people call the "trickle-down effect." The idea that when the rich thrive, their scraps fall to the poor—a sweet capitalist lie.
I was painting the truth behind that lie.
What fell from above wasn't scraps. It was filth. But packaged in gold, the people below opened their mouths wide to lap it up. Mistaking it for a blessing.
"Ugh... Teacher, that's so realistic it's making me nauseous."
As I climbed down the ladder, Franz grimaced and handed me a wet cloth.
"Nauseous? Then it's a success."
"That gold paint is super expensive. Using it to paint shit."
"Shit from guys who eat expensive stuff is always the harshest."
I slumped to the floor and grabbed some bread. Gold paint smeared from my hand onto it. I just chewed and swallowed. Bread made of gold. Feels like being rich.
The painting was nearly complete.
A massive Tower of Babel. Brighter toward the top, but that brightness was artificial, deceptive. In contrast, the bottom was shadowed, damp, dark. Amid that darkness, human figures bloomed like mold.
The tower's base. Covered in shadow.
I mixed black and deep green to paint the mold.
Children huddled in the shadows. Mold sprouting over their skin. Poverty spreads like a plague, hope rots away.
One final element remained.
At the tower's peak, hidden in the clouds: the "mirror."
A mirror reflecting nothing.
I climbed the ladder again. This time mixing black, gray, and silver. I needed to capture a cold, smooth surface.
I minimized brushstrokes. A mirror has no emotion.
Faintly reflected on the mirror's surface: only clouds. No faces of the suffering below, nor those reveling in pleasure above.
Utter detachment.
If God exists, this is what He'd look like. A massive lump of indifference, blankly staring down no matter how we suffer or toil.
"Done."
I finished the final brush touch and descended the ladder. My legs trembled.
I stepped back to take in the whole painting.
It was overwhelming.
[Shadow of the Tower of Babel].
This was my masterpiece. Far and away the best thing I'd painted so far.
But it terrified me too.
What would happen if this got out into the world? It wouldn't end with mere criticism. This was a challenge to the system itself. An insult lumping together the emperor, nobles, and church.
Maybe I'd really get assassinated.
So why was I grinning like this?
"Heh... Hahaha!"
Laughter burst out like a madman.
Yeah, come and kill me. If I leave something like this behind before I die, no regrets as a painter.
"Teacher... why are you crying?"
Franz, admiring the painting, looked at me with wide eyes.
"Crying? Me?"
I wiped my face with the back of my hand. It was damp. Tears? Sweat? Splattered paint? Who knows.
"Not crying. Just yawned or something."
The canvas, over two meters tall, loomed down at me. The tower in the painting seemed ready to collapse and crush me any second. I could almost hear the golden filth dripping—hallucination or not.
I painted it, but it scared me.
This wasn't just Vienna. It was the ugly truth of civilization built by humanity.
"Franz."
"Yes?"
"Should we change the title?"
"To what?"
"[Golden Rain]?"
Franz tilted his head.
"Too pretty. Doesn't match the painting."
"It's irony, kid. Plus, 'golden rain' has another slang meaning."
"What's that?"
"Nothing a brat needs to know."
"Aw..."
I chuckled. Dropping 21st-century dirty jokes in 1908. Guess my inner delinquent's still alive.
But we stuck with the original: [Shadow of the Tower of Babel]. It had more weight.
Now to unleash this monster on the world.
How to reveal it?
Just hanging it in the gallery was boring. This painting demanded a grander stage.
I called Morgenstern.
"Hitler, what madness are you planning now..."
Morgenstern climbed to the attic and gaped at the sight of the painting.
"Gasp..."
He staggered back.
"Th-this... it's too..."
"Too what?"
"Too... cruel. And blasphemous. That gold dripping from the top... that's excrement, right? And the mirror... absence of God?"
Sharp as ever.
"Spot on."
"Hang this, and you might actually get arrested. The Catholic Church won't stand for it."
"Austria's got religious freedom, doesn't it?"
"Sure. But not freedom to blaspheme."
Morgenstern wiped sweat from his brow. But his eyes stayed glued to the painting. A gaze mesmerized despite the horror.
"But... can't deny it. That tower oddly resembles Vienna City Hall. And those faces in the shadows... look like people I know."
"It's all our faces."
I said while cleaning my brushes.
"Don't hang this in the gallery."
"Then where? Stuff it in storage?"
"No. Take it to the square."
"Square?"
"Heroes' Square. Outdoor exhibition there."
Morgenstern's eyes nearly popped out.
"You're insane! That's right in front of the palace! Cops'll swarm in five minutes flat!"
"That's why. The cops confiscating it—that's the completion of the piece."
I grinned.
"Title becomes [Arrested Tower of Babel]. Front-page news, right?"
Morgenstern collapsed into a chair.
"Working with you means I won't die in my bed. Heart attack or rotting in jail—one or the other."
"Nah, you'll go down in history. The even crazier gallerist who backed the mad genius."
Persuasion done. He's a gambler at heart anyway.
We set D-Day: next Sunday. Right after mass, when crowds pour into the square.
Most pious hour for the most blasphemous painting.
That week, I refined the painting. Tweaked details, adjusted shading. Had Franz print flyers.
[The Tower of Babel Crumbles. Right Over Your Head.]
Simple text. Just place and time.
Rumors spread like wildfire. Hitler plotting another stunt.
Sunday morning.
Sky was clear. Classic Vienna autumn sky. High, blue, annoyingly peaceful.
We loaded the canvas onto a cart. So big we had to cover it and tie it down tight.
"Let's go, Franz. Might get arrested today—lace your sneakers tight."
"Ugh, always running because of you, Teacher. My fate."
He grumbled, but his eyes sparkled. He's hooked on the thrill now.
We arrived at Heroes' Square.
Crowds already gathering. Students who'd heard rumors, reporters, casual strollers.
We set up the easel in the center, under Eugen’s statue. The shrouded massive canvas alone exuded menace.
"What's that? Hitler's new piece?"
"Look at the size. House-sized."
Murmurs grew.
I checked my watch. 11:55.
Noon sharp, with the cathedral bells, we'd unveil it.
Far off, mounted police prowled. They smelled trouble.
Tension thick. My heart beat like a metronome. Fear? No. Thrill—like an actor pre-stage.
Dong—
First bell.
Dong—
Second.
I gripped one cover rope. Franz the other.
"Ready?"
"Yes!"
Dong—
Third bell. We yanked the ropes.
Whoosh.
The massive cloth pooled on the ground.
[Shadow of the Tower of Babel] revealed under Vienna's sunlight.
"......"
Silence.
Hundreds in the square held their breath as one.
Sunlit gold filth gleamed. Stark contrast with the pitch shadows below.
Beautiful yet horrific. Sublime yet repulsive.
Overwhelmed, some backed away, imagining the tower glaring down.
"My God..."
Someone sighed.
"That's... us."
A worker muttered. Distorted faces in the shadows—self-portraits of ordinary folk there.
Nobles flushed red. Recognizing themselves dumping filth from the top.
"Blasphemy! Remove it now!"
Someone yelled. Signal flare.
"It's art! Leave it!"
"Hanging trash in the square!"
"That's the truth!"
Protests clashed, shouts rising. Square turned chaos in seconds.
Then, piercing through: whistles.
"Outta the way! Move!"
Mounted police charged the crowd.
"Adolf Hitler! You're under arrest for public disorder and obscenity!"
A police officer pointed his riding crop at me.
Here they come.
I raised my hands. But smiled.
"Appreciate the art first. It's free."
"Shut it! Confiscate the painting!"
Cops rushed the canvas.
"No! Don't touch it!"
Students formed a scrum to block. Fists flew. Screams, whinnies, whistles.
Hellscape.
This too felt part of the painting. Live [Vienna Rhapsody] unfolding before me.
I stood at chaos's heart, gazing at the peak's mirror.
Reflecting nothing.
Even in this riot, the sky stayed clear blue. God truly doesn't care.
"Teacher! Run!"
Franz yanked my arm.
"Where? Gotta see the finale."
I didn't flee. Stayed put as cops twisted my arm and cuffed me.
Cold metal bite. Handcuffs.
Perfection.
Dragged away, I twisted to see the painting. Tower toppling under cops. Golden filth smashing ground.
That instant, I saw her.
In the crowd: Alma Mahler. Black veil, red lips smiling. Clapping silently at the fallen work.
And beside her...
Klimt with his cane. Watching me with an enigmatic expression. Disappointment? Admiration? Unclear.
'Well done, barbarian.'
His voice echoed like hallucination.
I was loaded into the police wagon. Square receding beyond iron bars.
Jail, huh.
Another line on Hitler's resume. Not Landsberg Fortress, just Vienna holding cell.
Doesn't matter.
The brush is in my head anyway.
Sunlight piercing bars dazzled. I closed my eyes, envisioning the next painting.
Jail. Cramped cell. Freedom blooming within.
Title: [Canvas Behind Bars].
Cell food'll suck. Wonder if Franz'll sneak in treats.