The Masterpiece. Act 1. La Oferta (The Offer)
When a struggling artist's talent turns into a high-stakes game of deception, betrayal and survival.
📝 978 words. ⏳ Estimated reading time: 4 minutes.This is the first part of a short story. The second part will be here starting tomorrow.
Act 1. La Oferta (The Offer)
When night began to fall, amber and rose-colored tones bathed Madrid, and Clara Muñoz stood at her easel, capturing in soft focus the dying day through grimy windows that veiled her tiny studio. The brushes, palette, and half-finished canvases lay spilled all over, a clumsy tapestry she alone could read. The smell of oil paint mingled with the light fragrance of jasmine rising from the courtyard below.
She stopped, head cocked to catch the fragile sound of her mother's footsteps overhead. The floorboards creaked softly; a muffled cough knotted a familiar ache in Clara's chest. Bills lay scattered on an adjacent table, their presence as oppressive as the summer heat. Commissions were few and far between, and those she attained barely covered the cost of materials.
A sudden, sharp rap cut through the hush; she jumped. The brush slipped, leaving an indigo streak across the canvas. Brow furrowed, she laid it down, wiping her hands on a paint-streaked cloth. Visitors were few, especially those of the unannounced sort. With every step heavier with unease, she crossed the room to this.
She turned the knob, pulled the door open, and a man filled it-threater-than-life, impeccable in a tailored charcoal suit that whispered money, his dark hair slicked back, his eyes with a glint both inviting and inscrutable.
"Miss Muñoz?" he asked, his voice as mellow as fine aged brandy.
She hesitated. "Yes? Can I help you?"
He gave a polite smile, extending a shiny business card between his two fingers. "Javier Herrera. I represent a client who is immensely interested in your work."
Clara glanced at the card but didn't take it. "I'm not sure how you found me, Mr. Herrera. I don't exactly advertise."
He chuckled low. "Talent like yours doesn't stay behind the curtain for long."
A flicker of unease passed over her. "What is it you want?"
"My client would like to commission a piece from a talented artist," he said, his eyes straight. "A copy, specifically."
She crossed her arms over her chest. "There are plenty of galleries that sell reproductions. Why come to me?"
"Because he's after something genuine," replied Javier matter-of-factly. "A piece that reflects every last detail of the original.
Clara turned back to peer into her disheveled studio, buying a few moments in which to decide upon an answer. "What does your client have in mind, exactly?"
"Diego Velázquez's 'The Surrender of Breda,'" he said to her, watching her closely.
Her breath caught. "That's a huge piece. Really intricate."
"Which is why we need someone of your outstanding talent."
She shook her head. "A painting like that would take months. Maybe longer."
"You have four weeks."
She blinked. "Four weeks? That's not possible."
"For others, perhaps. But I've seen what you can do," he said, his eyes narrowing slightly. "We are prepared to offer fifty thousand euros for your services."
Fifty thousand euros: for an instant, the figure stood before her like a promise of magic. It would pay off her debts, guarantee her mother's care-possibly even allow them to move out of this tiny flat.
"Why the urgency?" she asked cautiously.
"My client is. anxious to add it to his collection," he replied, a tinge of irritation now lying in his voice. "Time is of the essence."
Clara eyed him a moment longer. There was something not quite right, none of it felt exactly right—the secrecy, the rush, the amount excessive. "I don't know. It seems—
He cut in delicately. "Miss Muñoz-an opportunity such as this doesn't often avail itself; I think you would do well to give it due consideration.".
She looked down to see that she was still clutching the paint-streaked cloth. Her mind leapt over the possibilities, the risks. "I'll need to think about it."
"Of course," he said with the nod of his head. "But let me advise you not to take too much time. My client is not known to be a patient one."
Saying nothing else, he turned and walked away. His polished shoes began to go tap, tap, tap against the worn wooden floor of the hall.
Clara slowly closed the door, and the little clink of the latch seemed to reverberate through the air. She leaned against it, and the weight of a multitude of tons rested upon her shoulders in the shape of the conversation she had been holding.
She was back in the studio now, and the canvas lay there waiting for her to start work on it. Yet, her mind would appear elsewhere, for her gaze went to a faded photograph pinned above her workspace: she was in her younger years, smiling beside her mother-both radiant with unspoiled dreams.
She lit one of Vic's cigarettes, inhaled deep, and gazed out the window through the twinkling city lights. It was a dangerous offer; she could feel that. Yet the money was a life-ring thrown out into the churning water she couldn't ignore.
She snubbed the cigarette out and reached for her phone, hoping to get into the motion of it before doubt could creep in and defeat her. The card lay on the table, Javier Herrera's name arcing in beautiful script.
She dialed the number, her fingers shaking with a slight tremble.
He answered on the second ring. "Yes?" She swallowed hard. "It's Clara. I'd like to accept the offer. A moment of pause. "Splendid," he said, the gratification duly implicit in his voice. "I shall arrange for materials to be delivered tomorrow. We wait with bated breath for your masterpiece." He didn't say anything and just hung up. Clara set the phone down, her emotions running a satisfied current of relief and trepidation. She stared at the blank canvas-a clean slate, yet threatening in its lack of color. The path she had chosen was fuzzy with uncertainty, and there was no going back.
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