Chapter 8
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Translator: Silver Dragon
Chapter: 8
Chapter Title: God is Dead
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Hangovers are like a kind of tax for artists. The price for borrowing alcohol to fuel inspiration is the inevitable headache that comes due every morning, interest included.
Egon Schiele, that mad bundle of talent, and the all-night binge we went on were the culprits. The cheap absinthe had a flavor that melted brain cells. A bitter aftertaste and anisette scent rose nauseatingly to the tip of my tongue.
"Ugh..."
I clutched my head and sat up. Empty bottles rolled across the attic floor. Fragments of the conversations I'd shared with Schiele amid yesterday's chaos floated back to me.
'You're insane. A clown on the cross? Want to get burned at the stake in Vienna?'
Schiele had cackled as he said it, his tone ambiguous—whether warning me or egging me on, I couldn't tell. Kokoschka had grumbled from the side, 'Too political.'
But their eyes didn't lie. They wanted to see it. How I'd bring that crazy vision to life on canvas.
I dragged my staggering body to the easel.
A pristine white canvas awaited me. On a whim yesterday, I'd splurged on another massive 100-ho size. Morgenstern would faint if he knew, but since the paint money came from my own envelope of earnings, he had no room to complain.
"Teacher, you alive?"
Franz peeked up from the bottom of the stairs. In his hand was a clear soup, probably bought as a hangover remedy.
"Can't die, so I live. Come here."
Gulping down the hot soup eased my stomach a bit. The bread he'd bought was stale, but soaked in the soup, it was edible.
"Those guys from yesterday looked scary. Their eyes were all sunken."
"That's how artists are. If they were sane, they couldn't do this."
"You too, teacher?"
"I'm the worst of the lot."
I set down the spoon and picked up the palette knife. Today, I planned to use the knife more than the brush. Nothing beat it for creating a rough, crude texture—like flesh torn away.
I grabbed the black paint tube. 'Ivory Black.'
The background for this painting had to be perfect darkness. An abyss devoid of even a shred of light, forsaken by God himself.
Squeezing the tube, a thick glob of black oozed onto the palette. I scooped it up with the knife and smeared it across the canvas.
Scrape, scrape.
The knife's sharp rasp against the canvas was different from a brush stroke. This wasn't painting pigment—it was piling darkness onto the canvas.
Franz watched breathlessly from the side. He'd become a decent assistant now. Without a word, when I finished a tube of black, he'd open a fresh one and have it ready.
After blacking out the background, the air in the room felt heavier. In the center of that darkness, I had to erect the cross.
A wooden cross. Not a smoothly polished holy relic, but a crude instrument of execution, riddled with knots and soaked in blood and sweat.
I mixed burnt umber and yellow ochre to raise the cross's pillar. With the knife's tip, I scraped in the wood's rough grain.
And upon it, the being that would hang.
The clown.
Red nose, white-painted face, torn grin. Gaudy motley clothes, filthy as if rolled in mud.
The heart of this painting was 'contradiction.'
The most sacred place held the most ridiculous being. People laugh at clowns, but could they laugh at a clown on the cross?
I focused on the clown's expression.
Pain? No. Sorrow? Too obvious.
This clown had to be laughing.
Mouth torn to the ears in laughter, while blood tears streamed from the eyes—a grotesque expression. Mocking, as if to say, 'This is the show you wanted, right? Go on, enjoy.'
A chill ran down my spine the whole time I painted. It felt like someone was watching from behind. God? Or the devil?
Didn't matter either way. I was preparing a show to shock even them.
"Teacher... who's that clown?"
Franz's question made my hand pause.
"Who knows. Could be me, could be you. Or maybe those priests in the cathedral preaching holiness."
"Priests as clowns? You'll go to hell saying that."
"If hell exists, it'd be more fun there. All us types would be hanging out."
I cackled as I added color to the clown's collar. The vibrant hues stood out starkly against the black background, like neon signs glowing in the dark.
The painting's lower section. The crowd gathered beneath the cross.
After some thought, I decided against drawing masked priests. Too on-the-nose. I needed to preserve that metaphor Schiele called 'sexy.'
Instead, I'd paint the 'masks' themselves.
Piles of ownerless masks stacked beneath the cross. Smiling masks, crying masks, angry masks... the thousands of personas humans wear to show the world.
Like a mound of skulls, with the clown's blood dripping down—drip, drip.
The blood wasn't red. It was gold.
Holy golden blood.
A hint that this clown's blood might be the true sacred blood. A twist suggesting the being the world mocks could actually be the savior.
"Whoa... the blood's gold?"
"Yeah. Priceless stuff."
I dipped the knife tip in gold paint and carefully dabbed it on. Black background, garish clown, golden blood. The color contrasts were so intense they hurt the eyes.
The work continued through the night. I begrudged even the time to eat. I mechanically chewed the sandwiches Franz fed me.
My stamina was hitting bottom. Hands shaking, vision blurring. But I couldn't stop. If I did now, the madness would fade.
Around 4 a.m., maybe.
I staggered back.
Complete.
Show of the Unsaved.
The clown in the canvas leered down at me. 'See? You're putting on a show too. Wearing the mask of an artist.'
I didn't hate that sneer.
"Franz... you asleep?"
No answer. He was curled up in the corner, dead to the world.
I lay flat on the floor. The ceiling spun.
When this painting goes public, it'll make waves. Professor Berger might really foam at the mouth and collapse this time. Could even get charged with blasphemy.
I wasn't afraid. I was excited.
Vienna in 1908 pretended piety on the surface but was rotting inside. The emperor was old, the empire crumbling, people drowning anxieties in pleasure.
Piercing that anxiety's core. That was my role.
I closed my eyes. Must've dozed off briefly.
"Wake up! Hey, Hitler!"
Someone slapped my cheeks. Opening my eyes, there was Morgenstern. His face was pale, expression dire.
"What... happened? Painting didn't sell?"
"That's not the issue! Have you seen the papers?"
He flung a stack of newspapers onto my chest.
Vienna's Shame or a New Genius?
Shock! 'Empire's Stomach' Hung in Gallery Window
Professor Berger: "This is Terrorism Against Art" – Fierce Condemnation
Front page, all about me. Huge photo splashed across it. Not my face, of course, but a shot of Empire's Stomach.
"Looks good? Free publicity."
"Hear me out. Do you know how many people are crowding the gallery? Police have to control the mob. And..."
Morgenstern swallowed dryly.
"Someone just came from the court."
"Court? The imperial court?"
"Yes. Archduke Ferdinand... his secretary says he wants to see your painting."
I snapped awake.
Archduke Franz Ferdinand. Heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne. Assassinated in Sarajevo in 1914, sparking World War I.
And he wanted to see my painting?
"Here to curse me out, or buy it?"
"Who knows! But the court showing interest has already skyrocketed your value. Berger can bark all he wants; it won't matter."
Morgenstern's hands trembled with excitement. He's a businessman. He knew better than anyone that controversy meant cash.
My mind raced.
A meeting with the crown prince. A variable not in any history book.
What if I met him and influenced him somehow? Kept him from Sarajevo? Could I stop the war?
No, not the time for that. My neck was on the line right now. I'd heard he was a devout Catholic. Conservative of conservatives.
No way he'd like my painting. Probably curiosity, or making an example to enforce imperial discipline.
And of all timings, with this new one just finished.
I glanced at Show of the Unsaved on the easel. The clown on the cross.
If the archduke saw this?
Instant beheading.
"Uh, Morgenstern. About this painting..."
As I pointed to the canvas, his eyes followed.
"......Gah."
He gasped and froze. His eyes looked ready to pop out.
"Y-you... are you in your right mind? The archduke's coming, and you paint this? This is treason! Blasphemy!"
"We haven't shown it yet. Just hide it."
"Hide it? Where do you stash something this rank? The paint's not even dry!"
He clutched his head and paced the room.
"We're done for. Total ruin. Straight to the dungeons now."
"Calm down. You said crisis is opportunity."
I fetched a cloth and covered the canvas.
"When's the archduke coming?"
"This afternoon! Two hours from now!"
Two hours.
Time to choose.
Hide it and play nice? Or shove this mad painting in the archduke's face and roll the dice?
Past-life me would've tucked tail. But now, Hitler’s madness and brazenness coursed through my veins.
Archduke? Just a man. He shits and eats too, right?
Conservatives especially harbor deep cravings for rebellion. The more repressed, the more spectacular the explosion.
"Morgenstern. Let's raise the stakes."
"What? What stunt now?!"
"Put this painting front and center in the gallery. Blast it with the brightest lights."
"Have you lost it? Suicidal?"
"When the archduke arrives, I'll brief him personally. If he gets mad, I'll take all the blame—bite my tongue or whatever. Don't worry."
I was certain.
This painting wasn't mere blasphemy. It was pity for humanity suffering God's silence. If the archduke was human, he'd understand that agony. No—he had to.
That was the artist's duty.
"Franz! Up! Wash up and change into your cleanest clothes."
I kicked the sleeping Franz's butt.
"Ow, why... going somewhere again?"
"No. A guest is coming. A very important one."
"Important? Will he give lots of bread?"
"Could give you a whole bread factory."
I stood before the mirror. Days without shaving; I looked a mess. Splashed cold water on my face, slicked back my wet hair.
The man in the mirror glared back.
Blue eyes. Mad, yet brimming with conviction.
Yes. Adolf Hitler.
Instead of you becoming a politician and dyeing the world in blood, I'll be the painter stripping away the world's hypocrisy.
"Ready."
I shook off my wet hands and turned.
"Let's go. Time to make the archduke laugh his guts out."
Morgenstern looked like he might cry, but I whistled a tune.
The greatest show of my life was about to begin. Audience: the empire's next emperor. Prop: blasphemous painting. Cast: mad painter and kid assistant.
What lineup could be more perfect?