The painters of the sea. ®. (English version)
Chapter 0.
Seeking Inspiration.
Marión, despite being a renowned Parisian painter, was going through a period of little success. She lived in an apartment near the Bastille. Her art dealer, Margaret Garnier, advised her to rent a cabin near the Mediterranean and finish the pictorial collection that would be exhibited in a few days in one of the best galleries in the French capital.
Marión listened to Margaret and put all her painting gear, a suitcase, and a few bottles of wine in the trunk of her car. As she headed towards the French Riviera, she thought about her paintings and what colorful new impression she would capture on her canvas. She smiled. "I'll surely paint a Mediterranean sunset, that would go very well with the other pieces in my collection," she said to herself.
After several hours of an exhausting journey, Tchaikovsky kept her company on her music player. She arrived at dusk, so she wouldn't have time to start painting until the next day. She unloaded her belongings, locked herself in the cabin, and once everything was in place, she opened the door of her charming cottage with exterior walls lined with thick, beautiful clam shells. From the cabin, she could see a dreamy sea cove and, to her left, a very old, almost dilapidated mansion or hotel. A path made of the same shells as the house led directly to that now lifeless concrete monster. Then she saw a burly seaman of about sixty coming out of the sea in a boat.
"Hmm, a local fisherman," she said to herself. "I won't be short on fish."
When the man disappeared, she undressed and went to the shore to say goodbye to the day with a salt-water swim. Then she returned to her cabin and prepared something light for dinner with a little good wine.
Chapter I.
The First Night.
On her first night in the cabin, Marión couldn’t sleep. The gentle murmur of the waves had transformed into a constant whisper that crept through the walls. She got up and went to the window. The full moon illuminated the beach, and right in front of her, the abandoned building loomed like a somber giant, with the silhouettes of cranes drawn against the sky. A glimmer caught her attention in one of the first-floor windows. It wasn’t the moonlight. It was a faint, reddish flicker, like that of an ember. Marión held her breath. She didn’t believe much in ghosts, so she suspected someone lived there, perhaps the seaman.
Feeling compelled by a mixture of curiosity and a fear that quickened her pulse, she grabbed her flashlight. The beam of light cut through the darkness, revealing a path of clam shells, white and glistening, that traced a perfect line from the cabin door to the entrance of the building. She followed the path and, upon reaching it, went up two steps. The interior was dark, silent. The moon’s reflection entered through the large, glassless windows, casting ghostly shadows on the floor. Just as she was about to turn on her flashlight, a deep, energetic voice broke the silence.
“Get out of here!”
Marión gasped, immediately turned around, and, with her heart pounding like a drum, ran out. The clam shells crunched under her feet as she fled along the path that had led her into the mystery. She didn’t stop until she reached the safety of the cabin. Once inside, she slammed the door and all the windows shut, blocking out the outside world. She collapsed onto the sofa, her body trembling. Sleep didn’t return. Every creak of the wind, every whisper of the sea, seemed to be the voice she had heard, echoing in her head.
Only when the first ray of sun slipped through the cracks in the curtains did the panic begin to dissipate. Marión got up, made herself a coffee, and opened the cabin door. The beach was calm at dawn, as if nothing had happened the night before. The path of clam shells was still there, unaltered. The building, in the sunlight, seemed less threatening, just a structure of rusted concrete with some habitable rooms. In the light of day… Marión realized that what had seemed like the skeleton of something that was never completed was actually an old, ruined hotel, a ghost of ambition that stood on the beach.
Chapter II.
Returning to Paris.
Marión felt she had to return to Paris. Before packing, she went to the shore. The water was cold and invigorating. She submerged her whole body in the morning sea, washing away the fear of the night. The sun warmed her skin and the sea breeze dried her hair. As she got out of the water, she felt renewed, cleansed of the shadows. The sea had given her back her courage. Now she was ready. Ready to face the truth, however terrible it might be. She got out of the water and, without a second thought, ran toward the ruined hotel.
As she headed for the shell path, she stopped. On the nearby horizon, a dark spot was moving in the water. Marión squinted. It was a burly man, swimming with strong, determined strokes. He was heading straight for the abandoned hotel. Marión stood still, watching. The man reached the base of the building and disappeared through one of the openings in the foundation, those that led directly into the structure. The scene was so fast it seemed unreal, a ghost entering its house. Marión’s heart started to race again, but this time, the fear was mixed with an insatiable curiosity.
She entered through the same opening where the man had disappeared and climbed the worn concrete steps. The sun, coming through the glassless windows, lit up a space that had seemed dark and gloomy at night, but in the light of day was an immense ballroom. The marble columns stood broken, the remains of a chandelier lay on the floor. But what took her breath away was what covered the walls. Thousands of paintings, all made with squid ink, formed a gigantic mural that covered every corner of the hall.
They were portraits of fishermen, waves crashing against rocks, old boats, and silhouettes of people dancing under the moon. The smell of salt and sea mixed with that of the ink, filling the air with a strange and wonderful atmosphere. Marión’s heart raced. Footsteps. A sound that had caused her paralyzing fear at night, now, in the sunlight, filled her with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity.
Chapter III.
A Bold Stroke.
Marión began to browse the paintings, each of them a sublime work of art. The detail in the brushstrokes, the way the squid ink captured the light and shadow, was simply masterful. She completely forgot the fear of the night, submerged in this world of art. Suddenly, an echo broke the stillness of the room, revealing the presence of footsteps. They were heavy and rhythmic, approaching from the back of the hall. Marión froze, her back against the wall, her breath held. The surprise was joined by a renewed fear, but this time, her curiosity was stronger than her need to flee.
The silhouette of the burly man from the morning appeared from a corridor. He stopped a few feet from her. His face, furrowed with deep wrinkles, lit up with a smile that barely crinkled his eyes. The voice, deep and energetic like the one from the night before, said calmly:
“Don’t be scared. I’m an old fisherman who fishes to make a living and to be able to paint. My name is Mazlot.”
Marión couldn’t help but feel a shiver. The voice was the same as the one from the night before. Although the sunlight made him seem less threatening, the tension had not completely disappeared.
“That’s what you say,” Marión responded in a tone of voice that tried to sound firmer than she felt. “Show me your ID.”
Chapter IV.
The Old Fisherman-Painter.
Mazlot showed Marión his ID. The gesture of his hand, trembling from the years and the work at sea, was slow and deliberate. Marión noticed the photograph on the card: a younger man, with the same face, but with a rebellious look that time had softened. The name, Mazlot, was not a nickname, but a real identity. She returned it with a sigh of relief. The tension left her body, and the smile that the night had stolen from her returned to her face.
“My name is Marión,” she said in a voice that was an invitation. “I’m staying in the cabin. Would you like to have some coffee or tea?”
Mazlot smiled. He was a man of about 60, with skin tanned by the sun and salt. His hands, the same ones that created works of art with squid ink, were covered in dark spots. Despite his appearance, his eyes radiated an unexpected sweetness.
“I accept the invitation, Marión.”
Without saying anything more, he turned and walked into the hotel. Marión followed him, as he took a towel from one of the columns and dried his face. They went out to the beach and walked together along the shell path, a Parisian painter and a solitary fisherman-artist. Once in the cabin, Marión served two cups of hot tea. Mazlot sat on the same sofa where Marión had collapsed the night before. The silence between them was different from that of the darkness; now it was comforting. They both remained for a moment contemplating the sea through the window.
“I know what you’ve come for,” Mazlot said suddenly, breaking the silence.
Marión looked at him, surprised. She had thought her trip was a secret, a flight.
“You’ve come looking for the color of the sunset.”
Mazlot’s statement left her speechless. How did he know?
“So you’re a fortune teller,” Marión said, with a smile that was no longer forced.
Mazlot shook his head and smiled at her. The look in his eyes was so wise and profound that Marión felt she was not talking to a simple fisherman.
“You’ve come because you’re missing some paintings for your next contest and gallery.”
Marión’s heart skipped a beat. Not only did he know she was a painter, but he knew the most intimate details of her professional life. The man in front of her was not a simple fisherman, but someone who seemed to know everything about her.
“Are you a spy or are you following me?” Marión said, her voice trembling with anger and fear. She got up from the sofa, her fists clenched. “Get out of my house right now! Or explain to me what this is all about.”
Mazlot looked at her with an expression of deep sadness. He got up in silence, leaving the cup of tea untouched. He walked to the door, opened it, and without saying a word, left. Marión watched him walk along the shell path, back to the sea. He got into an old boat and disappeared on the horizon, presumably to fish.
After Mazlot left, Marión was left alone, with her heart in her throat. The sun was shining in the sky, but the warmth did not reach her. She looked for her paint box, took out a blank canvas and set up her easel. With a clear mind, and the fresh memory of the encounter, she began to paint. She did not paint the sea, nor the sunset, nor the cabin. She painted the face of Mazlot, that incredible man who had come into her life in the strangest way, and who had left without giving a single explanation.
The First Canvas.
Her brushes moved with a precision she hadn’t felt in years. She captured the wrinkles of the weathered skin, the wisdom in his eyes, and the sweetness of his smile. She worked tirelessly, almost in a trance, until the sun set, bathing the beach in the same shades of orange and purple she had come to seek.
Once the painting of the seaman-painter’s face was finished, Marión stepped away from the easel. The work was sublime. It wasn’t just a portrait; it was a story. She had captured the mystery, the fear, the curiosity, and the connection she had felt with Mazlot. Looking at the painting, she realized that she hadn’t succeeded in capturing the color of the sunset, at least not in the way she had imagined. And in that moment, she knew that her journey was not yet over.
Marión never saw Mazlot again. She stayed in the cabin for three more days, painting tirelessly. Each sunset, the sun painted the sky with a different color, and Marión focused on capturing that essence. The painting of Mazlot’s face was the catalyst she needed. It wasn’t the color itself, but the emotion she had experienced on the beach—the solitude, the mystery, and the discovery—that gave her the inspiration she needed. And on her last sunset on the beach, she painted a picture that was not of a sunset, but of a deep blue that blended with an absolute black.
Chapter VI. (1)
Return to Paris.
Even having found a new inspiration, Marión felt insecure. The absence of Mazlot weighed on her. Without his mysterious presence, the cabin and the beach seemed like lonely places again. She realized that what had attracted her was not the place itself, but the strange connection she had forged. With a deep melancholy, she decided it was time to leave.
She took the canvas with the seaman’s face, made sure it was well protected, and, along with her other paintings, put them in the car. Without looking back, she drove along the clam shell path for the last time, moving away from the cabin, the ruined hotel, the sea, and the colors of the sunset. She was returning to Paris, but this time, she was not doing so with the anxiety of a search, but with the quietness of a painter who had found her most important work in the least expected place.
She arrived in Paris at night. The city, which had always been her refuge, greeted her with a roar of horns and neon lights. The apartment near the Bastille, with its high ceilings and windows overlooking the street, seemed like a safe place, an anchor in reality. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had taken something more than just her paintings from the beach. The portrait of Mazlot remained in her house, carefully wrapped.
The first thing she did was pick up the phone and dial her best friend’s number.
“Margaret, it’s Marión. I’m back.”
Her friend’s voice, Margaret Garnier, an art dealer, resonated from the other side of the line with a mix of relief and exasperation.
“Marión! Where have you been? You said you would be away for two weeks. You have to finish the work, the gallery show is tomorrow!”
Marión didn’t sleep. She spent the night in a state of nervousness and excitement. She had hung up the phone without giving Margaret any more explanations. When morning came, the chaos of Paris invaded her apartment. The time for the exhibition was approaching and she hadn’t even gotten dressed. She was putting on a blouse, her hands trembling, when her phone rang again. It was Margaret.
“Marión, what are you doing? The gallery show is at ten o’clock sharp, and it’s already ten-oh-five! People are here, the press!
Marión felt a knot in her stomach. The pressure overwhelmed her. She still didn’t feel ready to show her work.
“Margaret, I don’t know if I can…”
But Margaret didn’t let her finish. Her voice was filled with an astonishment that Marión had never heard before.
“No, Marión! You have to come, but don’t worry about the artwork! You’re taking too long to get ready, and the gallery is packed with people. You have to come and receive the public’s congratulations. All your paintings are sold.”
“Another thing, my dear, the name you put on the exhibition seems sublime to me… ‘The Painters of the Sea.’”
Marión dropped the phone. Her mind refused to process her friend’s words. Besides, she hadn’t given her exhibition a title. Could it have been Margaret? She put on her coat, grabbed her car keys, and headed to the exhibition as if in a dream. When she arrived at the gallery, the noise of the crowd was deafening. A few people who were outside with glasses of champagne looked at her and started applauding.
Marión made her way through the people, feeling like the air was leaving her. The place was packed; you couldn’t fit a single pin. Everyone was talking about her and her “Painters of the Sea.”
And then she saw it. Her work, the collection of paintings, wasn’t her own work. They were the paintings of squid ink that she had seen in the immense ballroom of the ruined hotel—all the paintings supposedly owned by the mysterious and elusive Mazlot. They were all there: the portraits of fishermen, the waves crashing against the rocks, the old boats, and the silhouettes of people dancing under the moon. All sold, with the red dot shining like a drop of blood. Marión froze, transfixed. The confusion turned into a cold panic.
How was it possible? How had Mazlot’s works gotten from that remote place to a prestigious gallery in Paris? Her head was spinning, and in the midst of the chaos, her eyes fell on Margaret, who was looking at her with a strange expression, halfway between relief and concern. Marión’s joy at her success mixed with her confusion, a wave of unanswered questions. She felt her knees buckle. The noise of the gallery became a distant hum. The vision of Mazlot’s face on her canvas, the crowd, the joy that didn’t belong to her, the weight of the experience she had lived… everything hit her at once. Marión felt the world turn black, and she fainted.
Chapter VI. (2)
Back to the Cabin.
Luckily, there was a doctor at the exhibition who, with speed and professionalism, revived her. The mystery had just begun. After the exhibition, Margaret and Marión went to lunch at a small bistro near the gallery. The city’s bustle felt distant, but the silence at the table was louder than any noise. Margaret, with a glass of champagne in her hand, couldn’t stop smiling. Marión, however, was crestfallen, melancholic, stirring her soup without tasting it.
“Marión, for heaven’s sake. I don’t understand your expression,” Margaret said, her voice filled with a mix of joy and exasperation. “You’ve triumphed. You’ve won first prize. All your paintings have been sold. Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”
Marión looked at her reflection in the spoon. She felt like an impostor, a thief who had unknowingly stolen another’s success. The fear from the night in the cabin had returned, and now it had a name: Mazlot. Margaret’s question hung in the air, demanding an answer that she didn’t dare give. It took Marión two hours to tell her everything. In a hushed voice, she recounted to Margaret the trip, the mysterious path of shells, the voice in the dark, the strange presence of Mazlot and his art, the way the man knew details of her life that he couldn’t possibly have known, and his sudden departure. Finally, with tears in her eyes, she confessed that the paintings exhibited in the gallery were not hers, but the sublime work of the fisherman she had found in the ruined hotel. When Marión finished, Margaret got up from her chair. The waitress looked on in astonishment at the sudden noise. Margaret paid no attention. Her face, which had been beaming with joy, now showed a seriousness that scared Marión.
“So Mazlot is a genius? An unknown artist, living in a ruined hotel?” Margaret whispered, more to herself than to Marión. Then, her eyes lit up with a new determination. She put on her coat, grabbed her car keys, and told Marión in a firm voice:
“I know what we’re going to do. We’re going to the cabin right now.” And she added, “We’re going to find that man. That genius can’t keep painting in the dark.”
“Wait,” Marión said, stopping short. “Before we go, I have to go home to pick up a painting I did in the cabin, a work that might define my existence.”
Margaret looked at her with impatience, but seeing the seriousness on her friend’s face, she nodded. They got into the car and drove back to Marión’s apartment. The urgency of the mission was palpable. Marión climbed the stairs two at a time, opened the door, and went straight to the corner of her studio where she had stored the artwork. There it was. The portrait she had made of Mazlot, carefully wrapped, a memory of an encounter that now seemed more like a dream than a reality. With trembling hands, she unveiled the canvas. The seaman’s face, with its wrinkles and the wisdom in his eyes, looked at her from the painting. It was her truth, her personal connection to the mystery. She took it and protected it with her arm, as if it were a treasure. Without saying a word, she returned to the car. She gave Margaret the address and they remained silent as the car headed south. The sun was already beginning to set, bathing the Paris highways in a golden hue.
“And now we go,” Marión said, with a calm she didn’t feel. “To the cabin.”
The Canvas of Solitude.
The journey was long and tense. The city lights slowly faded in the rearview mirror. Nightfall caught them before they reached the coast. The wind was blowing hard, and the sound of the waves was no longer a distant murmur. When they arrived, the sun was sinking below the horizon, dyeing the sky with the same colors that Marión had sought on the shore on other days.
Marión and Margaret looked at each other. The silence was filled with a shared fear. The mystery that Marión had left behind on the beach was now waiting for them. When they reached the beach, Marión got out of the car. The air was cold, the salty breeze hit her face. The glow of the full moon illuminated the shore. But there was nothing. Marión felt her world was coming to an end. Neither the cabin that had been her refuge nor the path of shells that had guided her existed. The place was empty; it was all beach. And the ruined hotel, the ghostly silhouette that had dominated the horizon, had also completely disappeared. The only thing that remained was the old boat in the moonlight and perhaps the silhouette of a mysterious man…
Marión’s heart stood still. The fear she had felt at night, the relief of dawn, the strange connection with Mazlot, the panic at the gallery… it was all a nightmare, a madness. She felt about to faint again, but this time, the weight of reality kept her anchored. Margaret stood beside her, her eyes wide in the darkness. In a voice Marión had never heard from her, she said, “But… Where is it?” Marión couldn’t answer. She just hugged herself. Tears streamed down her cheeks. The mystery was not a man or a work of art. The mystery was that the place did not, and had not, existed. But Marión had the only proof. In her car, carefully wrapped, she carried the painting of a man’s face who did not live anywhere. The only witness to the surreal nightmare she had lived, the face of Mazlot, the fisherman who painted with squid ink in a hotel that did not exist.
Then, Marión and Margaret saw the last piece of the puzzle. The only thing left of everything Marión had seen was the boat where the seaman had fished. It was beached on the sand, near the shore, but it looked as if years had passed over it. It was older, as if the seas had carried away its soul. It was rusted, its paint faded. It looked defeated.
Marión looked at the boat and then put her hand to her chest. The mystery had no logical explanation, but it did have proof. She had the painting of the seaman’s face in the car, and now, before her eyes, she had the boat. A work of art made of squid ink and an old, tired boat. The ghost of a man who had painted in a hotel that did not exist. And Marión, who had come to this beach looking for a color, was leaving with a heart full of a mystery she could never solve.
A deep silence settled between the two women. Marión, with a calmness that wasn’t her own, pulled away from her friend and walked to the car. She opened the door, took the painting of Mazlot’s face, and returned to the shore.
“Wait before you go, I’m coming back to Paris with you,” Marión said, her voice echoing in the silence of the night.
Margaret looked at her without understanding, but she stopped. Marión went directly to the boat. Without hesitation, she placed the painting inside, leaning against the wooden seat. The seaman’s face, illuminated by the moon, seemed to smile at her. It was a final act of faith. She brought her finger to her lips and then touched the wood of the boat with it. Afterward, with a voice barely audible, she said goodbye to the sea. There were no more questions, no more explanations. Marión had completed her journey. She had come looking for a color and had found a mystery. She had not left with the fame that the seaman’s works had brought her, but with a secret that only she and the boat shared. She got into the car with Margaret and the two drove off, leaving behind the sea, the empty sand, and a painting, that of a man who did not exist, in a boat that was too lonely, ruined, beached, defeated.
Chapter VIII.
A Return to the Past.
The car engine purred softly, a constant murmur that was lost in the vastness of the night. Marión and Margaret had left the beach without saying a word. The lights of the towns they passed at full speed were reflected on their faces, but the silence in the cabin was absolute. Marión looked into the darkness of the road, reliving the image of the empty beach and the solitary boat. The painting she had left behind burned in her memory, maybe her heart too…
It was Margaret who finally broke the silence. Her voice was a whisper, halfway between admiration and fear.
“Marión…” she began, and stopped, as if she couldn’t find the right words. She turned to her friend. Margaret’s eyes, always so pragmatic, were filled with a question she couldn’t formulate.
“Marión, he wasn’t from this world, was he? And, if he was… How did his paintings get to the gallery? And what is it about those paintings that made them all sell?”
The silence returned to the car, this time heavier. Marión looked out the window, with the image of the boat and the painting etched in her mind. Margaret, impatient for an answer, broke the silence again.
“Look, Marión,” she said in a soft but firm voice. “I know a good psychiatrist in Paris. Maybe you should go see someone. What happened to you today isn’t normal. And don’t tell me that you didn’t paint those paintings that won the contest.”
Marión remained silent, without responding. Margaret’s voice was the voice of reason, of logic. The same logic that said a hotel couldn’t disappear, that a boat couldn’t appear out of nowhere, and that a man couldn’t know your secrets. But Marión no longer belonged to that world. She had seen beyond logic. She had seen the soul of an artist in an old boat and a mystery in the colors of the sunset.
She looked out the window again. The lights of Paris were beginning to shine on the horizon. Margaret would continue to believe that her friend had fainted from stress, and that the paintings were hers, without understanding that it had been an act of a miracle, a gift that could not be explained. And Marión, in her heart, knew it was true. She had returned to her world, but she was no longer the same. Now she was an artist who not only painted pictures, but lived a work of art. Margaret stopped in front of Marión’s apartment, on the street near the Bastille. She turned off the engine and, in the darkness of the car, turned to her friend with a look of compassion.
“So…,” Margaret said with a heavy sigh, like someone who gives in to an uncomfortable reality, “I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll drop you off at your house. Rest. Take a pill. You have countless offers!…”
Marión got out of the car, said goodbye with a nod, and entered her house. She stood in the middle of her studio, the same place where one day she had dreamed of painting Mazlot’s face. The space, filled with her own canvases and paint pots, seemed both familiar and strange. At that moment, something deeply disturbed her. On the fireplace was the painting of Mazlot, the same canvas she had left hours before in the gloom of the beach inside the beached boat. She had to sit down, and called the French police, gripped by an unusual panic. She sent the officers a photo of Mazlot’s painting and requested all possible reports, then took a glass of cognac in a single gulp…
She inspected the portrait to see if it was a copy and if something or someone was trying to drive her crazy, although deep down she hoped for something else…
Chronicles of a Mystery.
The initial reports from the police regarding the mysterious Mazlot stated that he had never existed nor owned any hotel, cabin, or boat. Marión, fearing she had gone crazy, called Margaret in a hurry… Then she heard his voice, before she even had a chance to call her agent:
“Would you like to invite me for some tea?”
“What are you doing here! Who are you?!” And she pinched him to see if he was flesh and blood. In Mazlot’s eyes, a light shone that did not seem of this world…
“What do you want?”
“My time is running out, Marión. I’ve come to say goodbye and to tell you that many years ago, you and I…” At that instant, Mazlot vanished forever, and Marión lost consciousness.
Marión woke up in a private hospital, brought there by her good friend and agent when she realized the artist wasn’t answering her phone…
“Everyone wants to meet you. It’s great news. It will be very complicated to come to France in the next few months. What do you say, Marión? Aren’t you happy?”
“I don’t know if I want this success, without him art and painting have lost all meaning…”
“There’s another matter we have to deal with, Marión. A very rich and expert art collector keeps insisting he wants to meet you. He’s your patron; he bought all those paintings made with squid ink… He says he must have taken very good care of them because they’re about two hundred years old…”
Marión smiled. She was definitely not crazy… It was then that a nurse told her to look out the window, that a handsome man was asking for her. He was holding up a book in his hand. It’s Mazlot, she thought. She didn’t stop looking at him; he smiled at her and vanished like a brief breeze.
Then a young girl suddenly appeared in the hospital room where Marión was healing. The girl was carrying the canvas that Mazlot was holding outside, a painting that seemed to have been painted by Monet. In that painting, you could see a beautiful lake, some swans and a family of four people. The father was Mazlot, the mother was Marión, along with their two children, a boy and a girl. Marión asked the girl if she knew the title of the painting, and the young girl replied:
“The man who gave me the painting told me that if you asked for the title of the work, I should tell you: ‘The Painters of the Sea.’”
END
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