That was an encounter
with a strange boy.
It
was a narrow, nasty side street in one amusement town around midnight.
The town, with badly drunk office workers, women with unsteady steps,
and shady men soliciting their business, disagreed with this small child
who appeared from nowhere.
The dusty, khaki, cloak-like loose long clothes nearly reaching to his
toes, covered him, wearing his dull beige broad-brimmed hat low over
his eyes. A worn-out briefcase, large for his height, was in his hand.
Under
the suspicious eyes of passing adults, he indifferently stopped on the
paved walkway and opened the case, and began to pull out some things
one after another.
Art utensils.
He started an open-air shop in this back road.
And then, finished pictures surrounded his collapsible chair.
Portraits.
'Boy,
did you do this by hand?'
'Yup,
I shall draw a picture of your face if you please, Sir.'
'Specialising
in portraits, are you?'
'Anything
you like, Sir.'
'Which
paint? Water colours?'
'I
can do either way, Sir.'
Indeed
there was a variety of pictures, not only water colours, but also some
rough sketches brushed with pencil, felt-tip pen and some oil colours.
'Well,
time is running out, could you do it with pen, please?'
'Thank
you very much.'
He
offered a chair across his one.
For the first time his sharp eyes met the man's.
It was the first time he glanced at this side.
He had crystal-clear eyes.
They were pure, nonetheless somewhat unreasonably mature.
A further observation unveiled his well-refined face.
It was delicate, and beautiful like a girl.
The imbalance was made up with the face, his hair carelessly grown long
and sombre clothing, resulting in an odd harmony.
He
was calm and collected moving his left hand smoothly across a piece of
white paper.
'Do
you mind if I pop a couple of questions?'
'No,
Sir.'
'How
old are you?'
'Sixteen,
Sir.'
'Oh,
are you?'
'A
frequently asked question, actually.'
'Don't
your parents worry that you are in such a place in such time?'
The
bright lights revealed his variable face as if it was a shadow picture
which has no real image.
'I've
got no parents.'
'Oh,
okay.'
'I've
got no idea how I came into the world.'
'Then
where did the number sixteen come from?'
'It
happened to strike me there were my name, my age, sixteen, and my ability
to draw a picture, that's all in my brain. No other memory left.'
Receiving
the price of completed picture, he handed the frame.
'By
the way, I'm just wondering what is your name, let me hear it if you don't
mind.'
'Jeanne
d'Arc'.
'Huh,
are you willing to start a revolution?'
'A
sort of.'
He
laughed a little. It was the first laughter he showed, producing an attractive
smile.
'What
do you do with that money?'
'Tonight's
booze.' So said he and pushed his hand grabbing the bill into his pocket.
A
woman back from her office stopped at his shop. He was drawing something
on his own.
'E-excuse
me...'
The
voice raised his face. She stood stunned there as if struck by the thunder.
(to
be continued...)