Portrait of an Angel
There was an air of defiance about the way daddy sat, like the plush, orange sofas were a vortex bent on trying to swallow him whole. He sat on the edge of the seat with his elbows resting on his knees. Ms. Greer led me in, like a sheep going to the slaughter. Daddy’s office was massive, and the effect was amplified by the high ceilings and the full-length windows that gave the space an open, airy feel. Beyond the glass that was so clean it was imperceptible, the cityscape stretched into the distance, all beneath the egg yolk-orange setting sun that painted the sky like a Monet painting. Daddy smiled as I approached and pointed to the spot across the table from where he was sitting. His lips curled up into one of his trademark smiles as he dismissed Ms. Greer. I glanced at the brown envelope on the glass table. It had been messily resealed, and I was wise enough to pretend not to notice.
“Hey, daddy,” I said, beaming a smile that displayed my rows of pearly whites.
The faint smell of cigarette smoke tingled my nostrils as I plopped down onto the sofas. The ashtray on the table had been emptied. My eyes lingered on it just long enough for him to see that I was eying it. He picked the envelope up off the table and examined it as if it was his first time seeing it.
“This came for you in the mail,” he said.
I could count on one hand the number of times I had seen my father genuinely excited. He tore open the seal once more and pulled out a stack of papers. There were booklets and pamphlets as well as documents with the Oxford University logo on them. He scattered them all over the table before turning his eyes up at me once more. My name was printed on a smaller envelope that was still sealed: ‘Hana Matenga’. I kept my eyes on him as I reached for it.
“I see you already went through everything.”
“It was the security guys,” he replied. His lips curled up into a sly smile. “Can’t take any risks, you know,” he added.
I sighed, sinking back into the seat. The cushions had the perfect balance of drawing me in whilst still holding my body up, giving me the feeling that my body was levitating. “I thought we discussed this, daddy.”
His smile persisted, his blank eyes looking at me, but also through me. His poker face was world-class. I clenched my teeth, bracing myself for the inevitable.
“You’re still going on about this?” he asked.
I had known the man my entire life yet his tone was still unreadable to me. He rose to his feet and strode across the office to the table where he poured himself a full cup of coffee. He raised an empty cup at me, I shook my head in response. He trudged over back to his spot, placing the mug on the table. I watched the ripples on the surface of the coffee until they settled down, and all was still, and a dour silence descended upon the room.
“I told you I’m not going to medical school,” I finally said, breaking the silence.
He winced at the boldness with which I made the proclamation. He kept his eyes on the papers on the table, even as he picked the mug up and took a sip of his coffee. The words seemed to float in the air around us, dipping and rising in eddies of cold air that poured forth from the air-conditioner’s metallic lips.
“You have an opportunity that millions of girls your age around the world would kill for,” he began before his voice trailed off.
He seemed lost in the tiny mug into which his eyes had been sucked. He looked up at me as if he had lost track of what he was saying.
“All of this could even be yours,” he continued.
All 18 floors beneath us, and the one above belonged to my father, and, one day, they would belong to me. The thought paralyzed me like I was a doe who had suddenly found herself staring into a huntress’ flashlight. It was more than just a building — it was a legacy, and there were people whose livelihoods depended on this company.
“Daddy, I have an exhibition tonight,” I said, “and there will be buyers, critics, and curators alike.”
“I know,” he replied. “I paid for it, remember?”
“Can we talk about this tomorrow? Tonight is about my art. This is what I want to do with my life.”
I stood up, placing the still-sealed envelope back on the table. He watched me as I glided across the room like a disembodied spirit. I stopped just short of the window and looked down at the bustling city. The aerial view made one privy to how the city was in constant motion, like a living organism with blood constantly churning and pumping.
“We can’t keep putting this off,” he said, a hint of exasperation in his voice. “Remember how hard it was for me to get you to apply? You’ll need a backup plan…”
His voice trailed off once more, giving his last words greater longevity. They hung between us, like a hook just waiting for some poor fish to take the bait.
“A backup plan for what? I don’t plan on failing like you!”
I felt a tightness in my chest as soon as the words left my lips. I grasped at them, as if I could snatch them out of the air and tuck them away inside my pocket. Daddy’s eyes burned like a pair of candles in the dark. The silence in the room threatened to smother us both like a thick, wet blanket. Yet, somewhere in the depths of my mind was a sense of relief — I had been thinking it for long enough, and it was good to finally have it out in the open.
“Argh!” I screamed as I stomped out of the room.
He was shutting me out again, as he always did whenever we got even remotely close to being truly honest with each other. I knew the conversation had reached its end-point. As I left, I tried to slam the heavy doors as hard as I could, but I couldn’t muster the strength. I did not speak to Ms. Greer as I passed through the waiting room and kept walking until I was out in the halls of the building.
There were days when walking around these halls made me feel like a princess inside her castle, then there were days when it felt like these walls were the jaws of death closing in on me. I walked past men and women in bespoke suits with tablet computers in their hands. Most of them spoke frantically into wireless earpieces and took no notice of me. Others did, however, eying me like the spoilt, little brat they all thought I was. To them, I had been gifted a free-pass in life — I had a father who could give me everything that I wanted; or, at least, he could give me everything that he and everyone else thought I wanted. I stumbled through the halls, allowing my legs to carry me until I found myself in an empty elevator. I pulled out my keycard and pressed it against the surface just below the touch screen. There was a beep, and then an additional two floors appeared on the list. There was a 5-second countdown for me to choose the floor before the options disappeared. I pressed 8 and waited as the elevator carried me down. It didn’t stop, as it had been programmed to do whenever one of the restricted floors was set as the destination. The doors opened on the 8th floor, revealing a short hallway with metal detectors that led into the main viewing area.
The gallery was abuzz with activity as employees from the catering company set up the food and drinks tables and the decorators put the finishing touches on the décor. The centerpieces sat beneath an ice sculpture of a swan in the middle of the first viewing room that people walked into. One of the pieces, a painting of my mother as an angel, had been done by my father when he was still a budding, young artist. The other was a portrait of my grandmother that I had just finished. Both paintings had eyes that seemed to stare back. I stood in front of them and tried to hold back the torrent of tears that threatened to gush from my eyes.
“Why doesn’t he understand?” I asked, biting my lip.
I stared into my mother’s eyes before the whole painting became blurry as tears filled my eyes.
“He just wants what’s best for you,” came the reply.
I blinked and let the fat tears roll down my cheeks. I turned to the side where my grandma was standing, staring fixedly at the painting. She was so light on her feet that we used to joke that she would make the perfect burglar. She had the most annoying habit of sneaking up on people.
“He loved her more than anything,” she added, approaching the painting.
“I miss her, grandma,” I said.
“We all do,” she replied.
She put an arm around my shoulder and squeezed. The warmth of her embrace was exactly what I needed to thaw the icy walls that had been holding back my tears. I leaned into her and began to sob uncontrollably.
“Let it all out,” she said, rubbing my back.
I cried for what felt like an eternity before finally pulling away from her embrace.
“I said something terrible to him,” I said.
“He’s your father,” she said looking up at me. “He can take it.”
“I don’t want to disappoint him, but I’m not going to medical school.”
“Your father has had to deal with much worse disappointments,” she said, turning her gaze back on the pair of paintings.
She took in a deep breath, before exhaling slowly and loudly. I watched her, waiting for her to continue.
“You mean his painting career?” I asked, trying to draw, from her, the story that had been withheld from me for my entire life.
“Did he ever tell you what happened?” she asked. “I’m sure he didn’t. Your mother always said your father would rather swallow a thousand needles than bare his chest to anyone.”
I shook my head and waited for her to tell the story. She furrowed her brow as if she had to retrieve it from somewhere deep in her mental archives.
“Your father could have been the torchbearer for a new generation of talented, young artists,” she began. “He was remarkably productive, and like the great painters of yesteryear, he had somehow managed to invent a unique style. An art gallery owner in France stumbled upon his work and promised to make him one of the biggest artists in the world within a few years. It was everything he had been working for. But, as fate would have it, your mother fell pregnant around that time. They had been trying for months so they were happy, but, at the same, the timing could not have been worse.”
I cringed at the thought of my parents ‘trying’ to make me. I shelved the thought in the back of my mind, directing my attention back to my grandma. She paused for almost a minute as if nothing but the perfect combination of words sufficed to tell this story.
“Then what happened?” I asked.
“Your mother left him,” grandma replied.
The words caught me off-guard. I put a hand on grandma’s shoulder to balance myself as a bout of dizziness came over me. My stomach was flipped upside down, and there was a tightness in my throat that deprived me of air.
“Raising a child is not cheap. Both your parents knew that your father would have to get a steady job, but your mother wouldn’t allow it. She wasn’t going to let him give up on his dreams for anything.
“So, she broke up with him and came back home. Your grandfather was furious. I pleaded with him for hours just to let her stay the night. He wanted her to go back and fix her marriage. He was very old-fashioned like that,” she said with a smile. She always smiled when she mentioned grandpa. “When I woke up the next morning, he was gone.”
“Where did he go?” I asked.
“Your grandfather took the first bus that morning and went to see your father. He took the events of that visit to his grave, but what I know is that, a few weeks later, your father showed up at our door, drenched by the rain, begging your mother to take him back. He had accepted a job at a small tech start-up. He shelved all of his paintings except for this one. He said he was ready to “stop living a fantasy”.”
I clutched my chest; it was as if a red-hot dagger had been plunged into my heart. I could have cried enough tears to fill the oceans and my heart would still have remained unsatisfied.
“He gave up his passion for me?” I croaked.
The words seemed to catch in my throat. My daddy wasn’t a failure; that shouldn’t have come as a surprise to me. My father never failed at anything he tried.
“I’m saying, in his position, he could not be both a family man and also chase his dreams. So, he did what any sane man would do and chose the woman he loved. He was lucky enough to fall back onto something that he was just as passionate about. Look around,” she said, stretching her arms out, “only passion can build something like this.” She paused and bit her lip. “One thing I can assure you, though, is that your father doesn’t regret his decision. He got the opportunity to watch you grow while also giving you a better life than he ever had. That’s all he ever wanted.”
I bit my lip but even that could not stem the tide of tears that followed. Grandma hugged and held me tight as I trembled like a cold puppy in the snow. When the tears finally dried up, I knew what I had to do.
A couple of hours later, the viewing room was filled up with men and women in expensive tuxedos and sparkly evening gowns. The faint smell of wealth pervaded the room — there was more money within these walls than on the rest of the planet combined. Waiters hustled with tall, thin wine glasses on trays. There was no doubt that I stood out in my silver, glittery dress and tiara. I weaved through the crowds like an invisible wraith, drawing no attention to myself. Very few people spoke to me, except those that knew my father and, by extension, me personally. I was just a random, rich kid to the rest of them. The cacophony of voices was interrupted by the slight cling of stainless steel on glass. Daddy stood in the middle of the main viewing area next to what was clearly a painting on an easel covered by a cloth. I approached him, knowing that the moment was finally upon us; the time to reveal the face behind the magic.
“First of all, thank you all for coming,” he began in his smooth, baritone voice.
He had spoken in front of many crowds and wowed investors, competitors, and the press with his eloquence. He smiled that devilish smile that always made him seem like he knew something that the crowd didn’t. He waited for the round of applause to finish before continuing.
“Before we get to the main event,” he continued, “there’s something that must be done.”
He pulled out the sealed envelope from the pocket inside his suit jacket and stared at it. Many in the crowd instantly recognized the seal.
Here we go again, they must have thought. Another rich schmuck making a big deal out of his kid going to college.
He turned to me. “All of this is my daughter’s gift to the world,” he said.
Someone in the crowd gasped. Everyone’s attention was now glued to me. “She is an amazing artist — much better than I ever was, and a genius. We work hard as parents to ensure the best lives for our children but forget that the best life for them is the one that they choose for themselves.”
He raised his empty wine glass and a short waiter hurried over to him. He placed the glass on the tray before continuing. “Hana, if your dream is to take the art world by storm, then I will be right there with you giving you all the support that you need.”
He held up the letter just high enough for everyone to see, before pulling a tiny lighter out of his pocket. Before I could stop him, he flicked it and held it to the bottom corner of the envelope. He held it there until yellow and red flames consumed the envelope which he held onto until the flames had reached his hand before letting it fall to the tiled floor. Grandma’s gaze met mine. She simply nodded.
“Why?” I asked him.
A lifetime seemed to pass before he replied.
“Because you deserve the right to write your own story.”
One of the waiters hurried over with a broom and dustpan and swept up the ashes from the floor. Daddy pulled down the cloth that had hidden that night’s real centerpiece, revealing it to the gathered crowd. There were oohs and aahs and a round of applause that lasted longer than most songs on my phone. When the noise finally died down, the silence was different; somehow clearer and purer. Things were about to change — I could feel it in my bones.
