Chapter 3
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Silver Dragon
Chapter: 3
Chapter Title: Truth is Always Unpleasant
-----------------------------------------------------------------
The moment the pencil touched the napkin, the surrounding noise dulled as if everything had been submerged underwater. A transparent barrier formed between the world and me, isolating just the subject and me. Artists often call it the immersion state, but for me, it was simply the instant my survival instincts switched on.
The cheap napkin was utter garbage. Apply a little pressure, and it tore; the graphite smeared wherever it pleased. No complaints here. If anything, the rough texture from the pulp scraps rising up matched the kid in front of me perfectly.
The soot smeared on the kid's face, the hair matted from days without washing, and above all, cheeks flushed red from cold and hunger. Smooth cartridge paper couldn't have captured that raw grit.
"Mister, are we done yet? My nose itches."
The kid whined, sniffling.
"Hold still. If you wipe your nose, I'll have to start over."
At my words, he pouted. That caught expression was perfect. It had way more life than some forced, fake smile. Those sullen lips looked far more vital. I quickly sketched them in.
Murmurs tickled my ears from the gathering crowd.
"What's that guy doing? Drawing a beggar?"
"Tsk tsk, can't even afford a proper model, huh."
"No, but... isn't it kinda off? That drawing gives me the creeps."
Gives me the creeps. Highest praise possible.
People want pretty things. Flowers, beautiful women, serene landscapes. But the back alleys of 1908 Vienna aren't pretty. They stink, they're cold, and they're brutal. Turning a blind eye and painting roses instead? That's dereliction of duty.
I put extra effort into the boy's eyes. Sunken sockets, black pupils fixed within. Those eyes weren't just screaming hunger. There was venom in them—the grit of "I'll survive another day." A sneer at this sewer of a world adults had made.
My fingers rubbing the graphite turned black.
Finally, I roughed in the texture of the bread-loaf hat he wore with jagged lines. Only after detailing the frayed edges where the weave had unraveled did I set the pencil down.
"Done."
I exhaled, white breath scattering in the air.
"All finished?"
The kid scampered over and peered at the napkin on my knee. His eyes went wide.
"This is... me?"
"Yeah. You."
"I look ugly."
"Look in a mirror. It's spot on."
He giggled at my retort. Calling himself ugly but unable to tear his eyes away—he clearly didn't hate it. When was the last time he'd examined his own face this closely?
That's when it happened. From the onlookers peeking over my shoulder, one stepped forward.
A middle-aged gentleman in a black bowler hat and fine cashmere coat. The silver handle on his cane gleamed, marking him as someone with money. He adjusted his glasses and studied the napkin intently.
"Fascinating."
His first words. A slight nasal twang laced his German accent.
"Street artists usually flatter tourists to pry open their wallets, but you deliberately paint the unpleasant truth."
Unpleasant truth. Spot-on critique. I looked up and met his gaze squarely.
"Truth isn't pretty by nature. Only lies caked in makeup are."
His eyebrows twitched at my reply. A strange smile played on his lips.
"What's your name?"
"Adolf Hitler."
The name felt alien coming out of my mouth for a moment. To him, it was just some unknown painter's.
"Hitler, eh. Care to sell this piece?"
The crowd buzzed. Buy that ragtag sketch? From a filthy kid? And from a rich gent like him? The kid looked shocked too.
"Not for sale."
I stated firmly. The gentleman's expression shifted to one of surprise.
"You look like you could use the money. Haven't eaten in days, judging by your state."
"I need money. Desperately. But this is a commissioned piece."
I nodded toward the kid.
"He gets bread as model fee. Haven't paid him yet, so the ownership's his, right? Want to buy it? Haggle with the kid."
The gentleman burst out laughing.
"Hahaha! What a bold one. Ownership to the model, you say."
He looked down at the kid with amusement.
"Kid, sell me this picture? I'll give you enough for ten loaves of bread."
The kid's eyes bulged. Ten loaves? Probably an unimaginable sum in his life. He glanced at me, eyes asking permission.
I shrugged.
"Your call. It's yours."
The kid nodded without hesitation. The gentleman pulled a bill from his wallet, handed it to the kid, and carefully took the napkin—like handling treasure.
"A soul trapped in those rough lines. Reminds me of young guns like Egon Schiele or Oskar Kokoschka. I like it very much."
He handed me a business card.
Samuel Morgenstern - Gallery Owner
Morgenstern? I remembered the name from history books. The Jewish art dealer who bought paintings from Hitler during his Vienna days. The one who purchased his postcard art in bulk, later persecuted by the Nazis.
Meeting this guy here.
"Come by my gallery sometime. Your style will sell. Plenty of collectors in Vienna bored of tiresome beauty these days."
Morgenstern tapped his cane and strolled off. The crowd whispered like they'd witnessed a miracle.
"See that? A ten-kroner bill, right?"
"That napkin scrap fetched ten kroner?"
I patted the dazed kid's shoulder.
"Snap out of it, kid. Hide that money before it gets snatched."
Only then did he jolt, stuffing the bill deep into his pocket. He looked up at me, expression a mix of gratitude, awe, and suspicion.
"Mister... are you a wizard?"
"Wizard? Nah. Just a con artist."
"Wait! Hold on! I'll buy bread—we can share!"
The kid vanished into the crowd like a squirrel. With money for ten loaves, sharing one shouldn't be a big deal. But would he really come back? If he bolted with the cash, no complaints here.
I sat back on the cold stone steps. My butt ached, but my mood was strangely warm.
My painting had sold. For a decent price, no less.
In my past life, I always agonized between 'popularity' and 'artistry.' Paint what people like, get called a soulless commercial hack. Paint what I want, get ignored as obtuse.
But this era was different. Or maybe I'd changed.
Unpleasant truth.
Morgenstern's words stuck in my head. Yeah, I couldn't paint pretty pictures anymore. This melancholic, twisted body of Hitler's forced me to see the world that way. Fine then. Let's go all the way.
The underbelly of society, suffering, warped desires. I'd slather it all over the canvas.
Moments later, the kid came panting back, clutching a fresh baguette and a bottle of warm milk.
"Here! Got the best stuff!"
He proudly offered the bread. The fresh-baked aroma hit my nose, unleashing a tsunami of forgotten hunger.
We sat side by side on the cathedral steps, tearing into the bread. Crispy crust, chewy inside—real European bread. Worlds apart from convenience store junk. A swig of milk thawed my frozen body.
"What's your name?"
The kid asked, milk mustache on his lip.
"Franz."
"Alright, Franz. Figure you had bad luck today. Once I'm famous, that sketch'll be worth a house. You sold it for peanuts."
Franz snorted.
"When you get famous, I'll rub it in everyone's faces. Wash your clothes first, though."
Cheeky brat. I chuckled and popped the last of the bread in my mouth.
With my belly full, reason returned. I fiddled with Morgenstern's card. Jewish dealer. And Adolf Hitler.
In original history, I'd scrape by selling to him, enlist in World War I, form the Nazis, and slaughter Jews.
But now, a Jew had recognized my art. Coolly, at that.
What if I partnered with him and succeeded as a painter? Became some eccentric genius who never cared for politics and died old?
Would the Holocaust happen? World War II?
My head hurt. I knew how terrifying the butterfly effect was. Me eating one extra bread here could alter the future. But I couldn't starve to death either.
Survive first. Paint second.
"Mister, what're you drawing next?"
Franz eyed my empty hands.
"Gotta draw. Belly's not full enough yet."
I stood. The half-bread from Franz was filling, but my pockets were still empty. Needed more cash for tomorrow's meals—and paints.
I felt the beret-wearing painter glaring from across the way. Figured I'd stolen his customer. His eyes were murderous.
Oh ho, turf war, huh.
Amusing. In my past life, academy instructor cliques intimidated me. Not now. A man with nothing to lose is the scariest. Plus, my head was packed with 21st-century entrance exam techniques and modern art theory.
I flashed a grin at the beret painter. Pure provocation.
"Franz, you got a lot of friends?"
"Tons. All the newsboys are my underlings."
"Good. Round 'em up. We're holding an exhibition right here today."
"Exhibition? You don't even have napkins, mister."
"Forget napkins. The whole square's my canvas."
I picked up a chunk of red brick rolling in the stair corner. Looked usable instead of chalk.
The gray pavement blocks of the cathedral square. Spacious and flat—perfect for drawing. Until the cops chased me off, anyway.
I crouched and scraped the brick across the ground.
Scraaape, scraaape.
Rough friction sounds birthed red lines. This time, no people.
A massive eye.
I'd draw a bloodshot, gigantic pupil glaring down at every hypocrite passing through this square. God's eye watching Vienna. The devil's eye.
Onlookers stopped one by one. Even the beret painter paused his brush, mouth agape.
Yeah, take a good look, all of you.
This is avant-garde.