How your heart pounds inside me

“Stop the thief!” he shouts. “Hold the robber! Please, someone blocks the stealer! Help! Help! Chase him! Run after him!

His voice is lost in the cacophony. In the chatter of the visitors, in the murmur of the people walking by. What doesn't help is the musicians playing bluegrass in front of Café Dumpy Joe.

Amarant gestures, shouts, waves, screams. But no one looks up.

Then he rises from his chair and staggers to the front of his market stall. It's two o'clock in the afternoon. Crowds of people shuffle through the shopping street. It's the annual art and bric-à-brac market. Enthusiasts have come to the city from far and wide.

Paintings, drawings, graphics, sculptures, collages, photographs, textiles, jewellery, or ceramics. There's plenty to find at the market. Amarant is a regular exhibitor. As long as the market is organized, he can be found there. In his spot across from Dumpy Joe.

The artist sells paintings. Small, simple scenes. His father's broken shoes, his mother's old, worn-out dress, children's discarded toys.

His face contorts. Someone's stabbing him in the back with a bread knife. That damned gout. It sometimes makes him unable to move. And it's a terrible timing now. The thief is nowhere to be seen, of course. And Amarant’s voice is far too weak. He can’t even frighten a butterfly. Who listens to an unworldly, insignificant painter?

There's nothing else for him but to accept the loss, it flashes through his mind. He clings to the edge of the stall and shuffles to his chair. First, a hot cup of coffee. That will bring him back to his senses.

He looks at the empty space in his stall. And realizes which painting has been stolen. The showpiece. The highlight. His pride.

He can barely keep his balance. He’s staggering, swaying. When he's close enough to the chair, he drops his thin body into it.

To get up immediately. His mind is on fire. Is that called will power? He wants the painting back. Doing nothing isn't an option.

Once again, he makes the difficult walk from his quiet, familiar spot to the bustling side of the street. He asks the neighbouring stallholder to keep an eye on things. She sells felt flowers. They've known each other for years. She gives him a thumbs-up.

Before he even begins his search, he has to make a choice. Did the thief turn left? Or right? He decides to follow his intuition, his instinct. That is, he closes his eyes and walks in one direction.

And at the same time, he knows the utter futility of his search. The vanity, the pointlessness. The robber is already gone and has found a safe place to hide. And he won't be found so easily.

But he can't stop. He doesn't want to return to his stall. He can't give up so easily. He will never forgive himself for that. Not now that that one painting is gone. His soul, his love, his beating heart.

What will be the meaning of his life, what the showpiece is gone?

“Hey Amarant! Amarant!” A voice calls out to him. The painter sees a man waving at him. White shirt, red tie, suspenders.

“Sit down, old buddy.” The artist is grabbed by the arm and pushed toward a patio chair. Amarant lets it happen. Finally, some help?

“What would you like to drink?” asks the stranger. Amarant longs for a cold beer. His host waves to the waiter and places the order. It’s clear the man is pretty familiar with the place.

“Don’t you recognize me?” asks the businessman. Amarant takes a sip of the beer. It tastes good. This is what he needs.

“I’m Clemens,” the generous giver reveals. “We sat next to each other in our last year of elementary school. Man, oh man, you made me laugh so much. Your dry humour, your jokes, your witticism.”

Amarant looks at his glass. It's empty before he realizes it.

"And what do you do these days?" the man asks. Before the painter can answer, his old classmate recounts his own success in life. He is a managing director of a handful of companies. Owner of three houses, a garage full of antique cars and a catamaran yacht.

What will Amarant tell him in return? That he's an artist? But that he's never sold anything in his entire artistic career?

While his old friend tells him he's married for the third time and that his new wife is expecting a baby boy, Amarant decides to continue his search. When he looks back, the businessman is still talking. He's leaving for Bali on vacation soon.

The artist stumbles past the clothing stores, the bistros, the food trucks, the coffee bars. Since he walks so slowly, staggers so unsteadily through the streets, he regularly bumps into people. They grumble, they push him away, they ignore him.

And where he used to ask passersby if they'd seen anyone walking by with a painting, he now lacks the energy, the courage. The looks in the eyes of his fellow citizens say it all. He's a bewildered, desperate eccentric. What’s he doing in the civilized world?

Because there's nothing left for him to do, he decides to go to the city park. Meanwhile, he uses a broken tree branch as a walking stick. He shuffles to a bench opposite the city pond.

“Sir, are you okay?” a police officer asks. The officer on duty sits down next to him, looking at him with concern.

“I’ll be following you for a while,” the law enforcement officer explains. “Your gait isn’t exactly smooth. Every now and then you accost people. Are you asking for money? Are you begging?”

Amarant wants to explain to the police officer what’s going on. The theft of his beloved painting. His search for the thief. But what impression, what opinion will the officer get of him?

“Thanks for asking but I’m fine,” says Amarant. “I’m just a little tired. I need some rest. That’s why I’m here. To catch my breath.”

The officer doesn’t believe the artist. But then his walkie-talkie crackles. He’s being called upon. There’s big trouble at the shawarma shop. Some tourists have gotten into a fight.

Amarant is relieved to be alone. The gout crawls like a scorpion down his back. What's the plan now? Back to the stall?

A flock of geese waddles past him. Calm, bold, headstrong. One by one, the birds slide into the water. How long has it been since he felt like this? So himself? So free, so strong, so playful?

"Excuse me, do you mind if I ask you something?" says a woman. Short silver hair, tanned face, long pointed nose. "Aren't you the artist, the market vendor? Maybe I’m mistaken, but you are the one making such sweet, human paintings? Very intriguing.”

Amarant stares at the geese. What does the woman want from him?

"I've stood in front of your stall so often," she continues. "But I don't dare. I don't have the guts to buy your artwork. They're so personal, so intimate. It feels like I'm buying a part of you."

She's right, the artist knows. His works are personal. His paintings are an extension of himself. And even more so when his wife left him. She couldn't handle it any longer. His love of adventure, he penchant for chaos, his inclination for creativity. He understood her. She had often warned him. But he can't seem to adapt.

"Every year I'm glad you're back," the woman says. "Every time I see them again at your stall. Those sad, cheerful, sombre, colourful works. An ode to the true, sincere and authentic life."

From the day she left him, Amarant has fought for it. To change, to lead a new life. More adapted, more settled. To show her that he can do it. That he's someone to live with. Someone to love.

"Do you ever sell the artworks?" the woman asks. "I get the idea I see the same paintings at your stall every year."

Hence that showpiece. The painting that was stolen. The portrait of his wife. That image, that artwork, gives him purpose in his meagre life. Her painting gives him direction, a destination.

When he doesn't respond to her questions, the woman stands up. After a brief greeting, she continues her way to the park exit.

Then his eyes fall on the bench next to him. He can't believe it. There sits the thief. The crook is holding the painting.

Amarant stumbles to the bench. The thief doesn't even seem fazed when the artist shows up. They sit side by side like old friends. "You finally found me," says his ex-wife with a sweet smile.