Chapter 4
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Translator: Silver Dragon
Chapter: 4
Chapter Title: Looking Down
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Every time the red brick scraped across the sidewalk blocks, a chilling friction sound rang out.
Drrrk, squeak.
The noise, like fingernails raking a chalkboard, made passing ladies grimace and clap their hands over their ears.
To my ears, it sounded like an orchestra tuning up. A dissonance born from the city's clamor clashing with my actions.
My finger joints throbbed with pain. No gloves, just gripping the rough brick and grinding it against the pavement—what else could I expect? Skin peeled away, blood seeped out, but I didn't stop. If anything, the metallic tang of blood mingling with the scent of red brick dust stirred a strange thrill.
I was drawing an "eye" right now.
Not just any eye. A massive pupil piercing through the desires and hypocrisies of the hundreds gathered in this square.
One red brick had clear limits in color, but I could manage shades. Press hard for deep crimson, ease up and scatter it for a faint blush.
"Isn't that guy crazy?"
"Shouldn't we call the police?"
"Wait, look closer. Doesn't that... look like a human eye?"
The murmurs grew louder. I could feel the shift in their gazes on my skin—from contempt to curiosity, then to a bizarre dread.
I glanced up at the beret-wearing painter. He stood there, mouth agape like an idiot, brush dropped forgotten. No one cared about the pretty portrait trapped on his canvas anymore. They were watching the mad young man crawling on the ground, painting with blood and brick dust.
In my past life, I'd envied street graffiti artists. A faceless painter like Banksy leaving a mark on a wall overnight, only for it to sell for billions. But 1908 Vienna wasn't ready for that kind of shock. This was the empire's capital, ruled by order and decorum.
That's what made it so exhilarating.
The thrill of scarring the heart of this prim city with my art.
To depict the pupil, I pulled a lump of charcoal from my pocket—the one I'd pocketed earlier from beside a restaurant alley trash bin. Rubbing the black soot on the ground, a deep abyss formed in the center of the red eye.
That darkness was staring at me. At all of us.
"Scary..."
Someone whispered softly.
As if those words were the signal, the air around us grew heavy. People stopped jeering. They were overwhelmed. By a mere sidewalk scribble, no less.
This was the power of images. Words can be argued away, but images lodge straight into your brain.
"Hey! You there! Stop that right now!"
A sharp shout shattered the silence. Two uniformed policemen were approaching, batons waving. Right on cue.
Franz yanked desperately at my coat hem.
"Mister! Cops are here! Run!"
Sharp kid. I tossed the brick fragment aside without a second thought.
It was finished.
Even if it looked incomplete, the moment public authority intervened and halted it—that was part of the work.
I rose slowly from my spot. My knees ached. The policemen were blowing whistles as they charged.
"You're under arrest!"
Arrest? Give me a break. What I'd drawn was art, and rain would wash it away anyway—how was that vandalism? But preaching modern art theory to these sticklers would just earn me a baton beating.
"Run."
I said curtly, and Franz bolted like a bullet. I followed right after.
"Stop! Grab him!"
"What the—?! Get out of the way!"
Franz's friends were blocking the cops, making it hard for them to chase.
Shouts and whistles blared behind us. The square's pigeons exploded into the sky with frantic flaps.
I ran. My lungs burned to the brink, but I kept going. This malnourished body screamed for mercy, but adrenaline numbed the pain.
The alleys around St. Stephen's Cathedral twisted like a maze. Narrow, winding paths shadowed by towering stone buildings. We plunged into those shadows.
Franz knew the area like the back of his hand. At dead ends, he'd slip through dog-hole gaps or vault fences.
"This way! Hurry!"
He climbed an old wooden crate to the top of a wall and extended a hand. I kicked off the crate with all my might and grabbed it. His skinny but iron-strong grip pulled me up.
The moment I tumbled over the wall, I heard the policemen's footsteps pounding past on the other side.
"Huff... huff..."
We collapsed onto a heap of straw in some building's backyard. My heart hammered like it would shatter my ribs. Blood tasted in my throat.
But I laughed.
"Heh... hahaha!"
My laughter set Franz off too.
"Mister, are you nuts? Drawing that in front of everyone."
"Why? Wasn't it cool?"
"Cool my ass. Scared me so bad I nearly pissed myself."
His words said one thing, but his eyes sparkled. What we'd pulled off today had jolted his boring routine hard.
I leaned back against the straw and gazed at the sky. Gray clouds trapped between square buildings.
I opened my palm. Red brick dust and charcoal smudges mixed in a mess. Like a medal, sort of.
"But mister, that picture earlier. What was it supposed to be?"
Franz asked, catching his breath.
"Told you. An eye."
"Whose eye?"
"The city's eye. Or maybe the eyes of those fat cats up top looking down at punks like you and me like bugs. Could be a god's or a devil's."
I pointed beyond the wall, toward the invisible palace.
"From up there, we must look ridiculous. Risking our lives for a scrap of bread, scurrying like rats from police whistles."
"Don't jinx it."
Franz grumbled.
"Still, your picture had power. Makes me kinda get why that mustached rich guy bought it."
He meant Morgenstern.
I pulled his business card from my pocket. I'd kept it safe from crumpling, but sweat had made it damp.
"Franz. You know where this guy's gallery is?"
"Morgenstern? Yeah. In Alsergrund. Fancy neighborhood, lots of rich folks."
"I'm going there tomorrow."
"For real? What for?"
"To negotiate. Selling one napkin sketch won't last long. I need real patronage."
Franz narrowed his eyes at my words.
"Look at you. Go like that and they'll kick you to the curb."
Spot on. I looked less like an artist and more like a bum. Straw in my coat, pants caked in dirt, hands smeared with blood and soot.
Perfect recipe for getting dragged out by security at a high-end gallery.
But I had a way.
"That's why I need you."
"Me?"
"Yeah. Come with me tomorrow morning. You're my manager."
"Manager? What's that?"
"Like a secretary. Carry my stuff, back me up."
Franz snorted in disbelief.
"Why should I? You ate all the bread."
"Success, and you get 10 percent."
"20 percent."
"15. No more."
He thought for a second, then grinned and stuck out his hand.
"Deal. How many loaves is that?"
We clasped our filthy hands and shook. The most insignificant yet greatest contract in history, sealed in a 1908 Vienna back alley.
The sun was setting. Street gas lamps flickered on one by one. Orange light bathed the foggy streets in a dreamlike glow.
"Where we crashing tonight?"
Franz asked.
"Can't go back to the boardinghouse. Rent's overdue; I'll get booted."
"Then our hideout. It's cold, but blocks the wind."
I followed him up. My body ached like I'd been beaten, but my steps were light.
Our destination was an abandoned warehouse. Newspapers and threadbare blankets piled in the corner, musty mold scent hanging in the air—but cozier than the streets. A few kids were already settled in, orphans or runaways like Franz.
They eyed me warily, but when Franz said, "My business partner," they shrugged it off.
I spread newspaper in a dim corner and lay down. The hard floor's chill stabbed my back.
I closed my eyes, but sleep wouldn't come. The afterimage of that red eye lingered. Police whistles, the crowd's gasps mixed with screams.
This was it. The life I wanted.
In my past life, I'd hunkered in my room, trawling internet forums, critiquing others' art. "The proportions are off...," "Shadows look weird," pounding the keyboard. Never sharing my own work.
Here, it's different. I'm alive. Breathing, running, creating.
I might starve tomorrow, but today, I was an artist.
I fiddled with the pencil in my pocket. What to say to Morgenstern tomorrow? Grovel for help? Act arrogant?
The answer was set.
Hitler's memory held that arrogant, dictatorial rhetoric. I'd use it. But twist the content—no hate or venom, just fervent conviction and madness for art.
"Hey, Franz. You asleep?"
"...No."
His voice came from the dark.
"What's your dream?"
Random question. Silence stretched a moment.
"Eating my fill. And... finding Mom."
Common, sad dream.
"You'll find her. When I get famous, I'll put an ad in the paper."
"Pfft, blow your nose first."
He grumbled, but his voice trembled faintly.
Through a crack in the warehouse ceiling's broken glass, one star shone. Vienna's night sky was clearer than Seoul's.
I raised my right hand, mimicking brushstrokes in the air. Wanted to pluck that star and pin it to a canvas. Was this the sky Van Gogh saw?
A sudden curiosity struck.
What was the real Hitler thinking at this time? Cursing the world, vowing revenge? Grinding his teeth in hatred of Jews?
Sorry, but that history ends here.
With my brush in hand, this world will be painted—not with blood, but pigment.
Though that pigment might be red. At least it won't smell as bad as human blood.
Tomorrow was big. Negotiation with the gallerist. A turning point that could change my life—or this world's history.
I bit my lip. Tension and anticipation made my heart race.
"Watch close, Vienna."
I muttered softly.
"Tomorrow, I'll show you the real deal."
In the darkness, I clenched my fist. The cut on my palm throbbed, but even that pain felt sweet.
Sleep finally came crashing down. A night where I'd probably paint even in my dreams.