Excerpt
Later that day Ken talked with Francisco about the deteriorating political
situation. Ken admitted that he had plotted a fishing trip – in his mind
– where he would take one of the local informers out on the boat, get him
thoroughly drunk and toss him overboard to feed the sharks.
“I admit that the idea does have some appeal,” Francisco said. “But we
won’t talk much more about that, will we?”
“Well, not for a while,” Kens said grudgingly. “Do you think there are
other people who have the same thoughts?”
“Yes,” the old man chuckled. “Probably two-thirds of my countrymen
have the same thoughts.”
“Do you think that things are explosive enough that it could boil up
at any minute?”
“There is a fever building,” Francisco said. “Whether it’s now or a year
from now or ten years from now, we can’t predict. But there is no question
– there is a great wave of dissent showing its head here and there.
That’s why the government is behaving the way it is. It’s hoping to quell
the situation.”
In all this turmoil, Rui had begun planning Ken’s first exhibition. Ken
was completely disinterested, but Rui attached great importance to the
event. He rented a small museum in Lisbon and had the drawings framed,
hanging only one or two in each of the empty, echoing chambers. None
of the pictures were to be for sale. Rui sent invitations to the intelligentsia
and the elite of Lisbon society. Ken brought only one guest – Miloo – and
he was bursting with pride that this peasant girl he loved moved through
the crowd with all the grace and charm of one who had been born to
mingle with people like this.
On that day Ken was transformed from an urchin demon to a divine
being. He was publicly lauded as “a great artist”.
Ken listened to the overwhelming praise and thought, “What a bunch
of hypocrites! I’ve been doing this all along. It’s known that I make these
drawings, but now that they are placed in a certain setting and they’re
shown by a certain man in the presence of all these people, they have
taken on value.”
Rather than being elated, he was saddened and angered. These people
had no idea whether these drawings had any real beauty or value – they
praised them because others did. He had not created them for anyone
else’s approval; he had drawn them because drawing was something he
had to do – like breathing.
Ken’s three best friends, Francisco, Rui, and his father, were perplexed
by his attitude. Miloo did not understand his feelings, either. “At the age
of sixteen you have achieved what most artists work for their whole lives,”
she said. “And yet it doesn’t seem to mean anything to you.”
Libros Libertad 