Chapter 2
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Translator: Silver Dragon
Chapter: 2
Chapter Title: Hunger is the Best Palette
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Vienna's winter wind was truly merciless. This bone-chilling cold dug into your marrow in a way that differed from Seoul's knife-like gusts. It felt like a damp towel wrapped around your entire body, slowly draining away your warmth.
No matter how tightly I pulled up my coat collar, it did no good. My threadbare wool coat had long outlived its usefulness and lost any insulating properties.
The street bustled with activity. The scrape of carriage wheels on cobblestones, the stench of horse manure, the acrid smoke from burning coal—all mingled in the air.
People in the 21st century might think of Vienna and picture waltzes, elegant cafés, or Klimt's golden paintings. I used to be the same. But Vienna, seen from the very bottom, was nothing less than a massive gray prison.
The coins in my pocket jingled faintly.
I'd counted them earlier: 5 crowns and 20 hellers in total. I didn't know the exact prices of this era, but judging from the landlady's expression, it was far short of rent money—enough for a few days without starving, though.
First things first, I needed to eat something. My stomach wasn't just empty; it was clinging to my backbone, the two sides hurling insults at each other.
The fancy cafés were out of the question. Glancing through the glass at the well-dressed bourgeoisie delicately scooping cake with silver utensils made my blood boil. Those were the fat pigs I'd despised in my previous life. People who didn't know the first thing about art, buying expensive paintings just to hang them up and show off.
I ducked into an alley and found a dingy tavern frequented by laborers. As I pushed open the door, a rush of sweat and cheap beer hit me. This felt more comfortable, somehow.
I took a seat in the corner and ordered the cheapest sausage, bread, and a beer.
While waiting for my food, I fiddled absentmindedly with the pencil stub in my pocket. The feel of the graphite against my fingertips brought a strange sense of calm.
The table was littered with someone's discarded breadcrumbs and a dried beer stain.
I stared blankly at the stain for a moment, then it hit me.
This stain... it's beautiful.
It might sound insane, but it was true. On the dark brown wooden table, the pumpkin-colored beer stain had spread out, and light slanting in from the window caught it just right, creating a sparkle. The wet wood's texture contrasted roughly with the shriveled breadcrumbs, striking a peculiar balance.
This was a painting.
"Food's here."
A rough hand plunked down the plate. The portly owner with the mustache glanced at me and clicked his tongue.
"Student, you look half-dead. Stop starving yourself over painting and get a factory job. They're desperate for hands these days."
I skewered a sausage with my fork without replying. The moment I bit into it, salty meat and grease flooded my mouth.
Ah, it was like coming alive. The taste was pure bliss, bringing tears to my eyes. Far better than surviving on discarded convenience store lunches in my previous life.
After wolfing it down, I finally took in my surroundings properly.
At the table across from me sat two men who looked like miners, clinking beer mugs with coal dust caked black under their nails. Next to them, an old woman in a frayed shawl slurped her soup.
They all looked exhausted. Faces worn down by life and gnawed by poverty.
But why did they look so appealing to my eyes?
The deep wrinkles etched into the miner's forehead, the grime caught between them, his blunt, callused knuckles. The old woman's scrawny neck and sparse hair. Everything carried a "story"—raw texture you could never find in smooth, pretty models.
I grabbed a napkin. Paper was too precious to waste. This rough pulp would do just fine.
My hand, gripping the pencil, began to dance.
Scratch, scratch.
My gaze locked on the miner across from me. As he lifted his mug, I observed how his forearm muscles contracted, how the folds in his shirt gathered.
My hand moved before my brain could command it.
This body—Hitler's physical abilities were abysmal—but the tactile sense in his hands was incredible. Maybe it was the fusion of my previous life's senses and this body's potential. Each line I drew sent a thrill up my fingers.
The original Hitler had stubbornly drawn buildings with straight lines like he'd used a ruler, right? What an idiot. There are no perfect straight lines in the world. Every line trembles, curves, overlaps. Just like human life.
I didn't draw the miner's face. I drew his hand. That rough hand gripping the mug, as if it had weathered every storm life could throw.
To shade, I wet my finger with spit and smudged the graphite. Carefully, so the napkin wouldn't tear, but boldly.
"Oh... not bad at all?"
The owner had snuck up behind me and was peering over my shoulder.
I startled and stopped drawing.
"That's Hans's hand over there, isn't it? Spot on. You even got the missing joint on his pinky finger."
His voice carried, and the miners drinking nearby turned their heads. The man called Hans approached with a grumpy look.
"What? Who'd you draw?"
I tensed up. What if he complained about portrait rights? This scrawny body of mine would drop from one punch. I tried to hide the napkin, but Hans snatched it first.
My heart raced as his rough hand crumpled the paper. He stared holes through the drawing.
Silence fell. The tavern noise quieted for a moment.
"... Fuck."
A gravelly curse escaped Hans's lips. I flinched instinctively. But his expression was odd. He wasn't angry.
"My hand... looks like this?"
He alternated between his real hand and the one in the drawing. The sketched hand was dirty and rough, but also strong. Like a patriarch's medal for a lifetime of providing for his family—that's how I'd interpreted and drawn it.
"Hey, look at this. He even got the scar."
Hans showed it to his buddies, chuckling. There was a strange pride in his laughter.
"Hey, painter man. Mind if I take this? Show it to the wife. Let her see how I bust my ass to bring home the money."
Painter man.
The title felt awkward but nice to hear. Academy professors would foam at the mouth. Drawing a stinking laborer's hand instead of lofty art.
"Take it. Just buy me a beer in return."
I tossed it out casually, and Hans bellowed a laugh, shouting to the owner.
"Get this guy a beer! On me!"
Free beer—not a bad deal.
As I gulped the cool brew, I reflected. Why had I craved recognition so badly in my past life? Swaying with every critic's word, kowtowing to gallery owners, never painting what I wanted.
That was me. Yet here, in a 1908 Vienna tavern, a mere napkin doodle had moved someone's heart.
Isn't this real art?
"You seem trained. Why the long face in a dump like this?"
The owner called out while wiping the counter.
"Got rejected from the Academy. Twice."
"Tch. Their eyes must be bad. Looks solid to me."
Not bad eyes—just the previous owner's skill was trash. But I didn't correct him.
"Doesn't matter. The school doesn't feed me anyway."
"Still, talent like that's a waste. Why not do portraits on the street? Tourists around St. Stephen's Cathedral. Bet there's space."
Portraits.
Not a bad idea. Money was running low; I needed something to keep food on the table.
Besides, faces were my specialty. In my past life, I'd done caricature gigs in parks when broke.
But I hated prettifying them.
No airbrushed glamour shots for me.
"I'll think about it."
I drained my glass and stood. With a full stomach, I finally felt alive. Outside, the wind was still cold, but it didn't pierce to the bone anymore. The alcohol? The full belly?
Walking the street, I stopped at a stationery shop window. Quality canvases and paints tempted me from the display.
Winsor & Newton oil paints. Just one tube, and I could create something amazing.
I toyed with the coins in my pocket. Not even close.
Then I caught my reflection in the glass. Dingy coat, messy hair, pale face. The picture of a vagrant.
But my eyes were different. Not the dull gaze from the morning mirror. Hungry eyes, gleaming with desire.
Yeah, I'm starving right now. Not just for bread—for painting.
I was dying to see new worlds born from my fingertips.
I wanted to splash my own colors onto this drab gray city. I felt a burning ambition to make the name Hitler mean a genius painter who shook the era, not a bloodstained dictator.
For that, I needed money. For paints, canvases, models.
Maybe portraits, like the owner said.
I turned toward St. Stephen's Cathedral. Where tourists swarmed.
A few painters were already set up in the square with easels, hawking landscapes or grabbing passersby.
I stood behind them, watching for a bit.
"Madame, you're exquisite! Let me capture that beauty on canvas."
A middle-aged painter in a beret fawned over a noblewoman. She sat reluctantly, and he worked his brush with practiced flair.
The finished product was a joke. Wrinkles erased, eyes doubled in size, chin sharpened. Not art—a con.
"Oh, it's just like me! Hee hee hee!"
The lady beamed and opened her purse. A fat wad of bills went to the painter.
I smirked bitterly. So that's what sells. Talk all you want about art's essence—the masses want flattering lies.
I had no intention of painting those lies.
I pulled out a few napkins and my pencil stub from my inner breast pocket. No easel, no chair. I just plopped down on a sunny step of the cathedral and observed passersby.
A man smiling like he was happy, but exhaustion creased his eyes.
A woman in expensive clothes, but her gait unsteady.
I could see it. The true selves hidden beneath the shells.
I laid a napkin on my knee and started drawing. No hawking. Let only those with eyes come to me.
Then, a shadow passing by halted.
Looking up, it was a kid. A newsboy with a sweaty face and battered cap.
He stared at my drawing. I'd been sketching not the cathedral spire, but the pigeon pecking at vomit remnants on the square.
"Mister."
The kid spoke up abruptly.
"That's gross. Why draw it?"
I chuckled and set down my pencil.
"Not gross—real. Kid, does the world look clean to you?"
He sniffed and shook his head.
"Nah. Like a sewer."
"Exactly. Even sewers look good if you look close."
I pulled out another napkin.
"Got time? Be my model. Pay is... a loaf of bread."
The kid's eyes lit up. Hooked on "bread." Truly, nothing greater than food over art.
I sat him on the steps and gripped my pencil. This time, I'd do it right. Capture the stubborn life force in this kid's eyes, from 1908.
Onlookers began gathering, glancing curiously. A beggar painter drawing a grubby kid—novel, I guess.
I ignored their stares. My world held only me, the kid, and the light.
The scratching sound pierced the square's din, ringing in my ears.
Now it begins. The true first act of my painting life.