Encounter With A Master
Posted on 22 Jan 2023 @ 8:35am by Brek - Timeless Treasures Art Gallery
Mission:
M3 - Into the Deep
Location: Timeless Treasure Gallery & Habitat Ring - Civilian Quarters
Timeline: MD 8
1508 words - 3 OF Standard Post Measure
“So, what should I do?”
Young Kyrill had spoken. A young hapless Terran artist who had insisted on being apprenticed to Brek and his art gallery. The Ferengi had accepted (for the latinum), but he had little clues as to how to treat a trainee. Although there was, in the deep recesses of his memory, fledgling recollections of the summer he had spent, in ‘75, working for what was best described as a hardware store. This was the summer he had discovered boredom. So as to avoid complete weariness he had done what, just a month before, had seemed tiresome: he had become studious.
“Let me see...” With his fists on his hips, Brek looked around the gallery. It was tempting to give menial tasks to the hewmon: clean the floors, and even the toilets, but it would be too easy a solution. Facile measures seldom paid, he had noticed. “Well, you could start by making an inventory of the paintings we have on display and organize them by genre.”
“But surely, you have already done that sort of work, Mr Brek?”
“It goes without saying, but you don’t have access to that file, do you? As a novice, it will do you good to immerse yourself in the work of the artists represented on these walls.”
Right then the Ferengi received a message from Bajeem, one of his favorite artists. Usually compliant and easy going, the Romulan painter had hit a slump, it seemed. He wasn’t inspired anymore. Worse still, he was having difficulties with “The Fall of Freljord’ a painting that Brek had asked him to complete by the end of the month.
“Change of plans,” Brek announced. “We are going to pay a visit to a renowned Romulan artist. There is nothing, young Kyrill, like an encounter with a master!”
The last time that Brek had met Bajeem, it had been for a pleasant lunch. The sort of meal that goes on for hours with lots of wine and satisfying conversation (the Ferengi had agreed to everything, since his intent had been to gain exclusive rights to the artist’s work).
Sadly today the mood was very different. As the artist let them in, they discovered a studio in complete turmoil. The floor was littered with occasional clothes, the ancient remains of meals, numerous empty glasses and tubes of paint that were scattered everywhere. What a ghastly nature morte this scene would make... In the middle of it all, among several unfinished paintings, stood Bajeem: tall and lanky, long black hair; wearing a white shirt and blue cargo pants smudged with paint. Curiously, on his feet were an old pair of flip flops, in the shape of two bright green fish.
“What happened to you?” Brek asked, staggered. He glanced at Kyrill, who of course wasn’t missing any detail of the scene in front of him. Hopefully, he wasn’t the sort of kid to give a detailed account of his life to his mother, otherwise he would have another opportunity to hear Mrs Novikov’s shrilling voice.
“Life. That’s what happened. I lost it all. My inspiration. My talent. It’s all gone!”
“Nonsense. You are having a little crisis, nothing more.” Brek said, trying to be encouraging. “When was the last time you had a decent meal?”
Bajeem shrugged. “Who cares about food? Just thinking about it makes me sick.”
“If you don’t feed your body, your mind will crumble. That’s what my mum always says.”
Kyrill’s words echoed in the room, several times, it seemed. At least this is the impression that Brek received. For neither he nor Bajeem (an orphan) had ever had the leisure of benefiting from maternal wisdom. The universe had never given them this sort of kindness, and so, to hear that line, it stung a little.
“The boy’s not wrong.” Brek said hastily. “You’ve got to eat. Let’s find some clean clothes, and then we’ll go to a restaurant. We’ll splash on good food. Maybe mangrove oysters and octopus. You know you can’t resist them.”
“I’m not showing my face to the world. No way. Who’s that boy?”
“Let me introduce you to Kyrill, my new apprentice. Kyrill, here is Bajeem, a renowned Romulan artist. He has seen better days, obviously, but I feel sure this is only a little setback.” As he spoke, he rummaged through the artist’s belongings, in search of something the Romulan could wear.
“Never trust a Ferengi, kiddo.” Bajeem said in the form of greeting. “They always lie. But then, everybody lies. Or I should say, they lie to us, Romulans. We receive promises that always end up being empty. This ongoing situation, it’s killing me, little by little.”
“You’ve consulted the news again,” Brek complained. “You know you shouldn’t do that. It always affects you. Besides, I don’t think you have a right to complain. Good progress has been made and the refugees are being relocated, are they not? Ah, this will do!” He added, having unearthed a black jumper that smelled fresh and was stain-free. “Here put that on.”
Bajeem took the garment, but he only held it in his arms, like a favorite soft toy. “You don’t care either about us, Brek. You just pretend and you profit from us, like everybody else.”
“Is he drunk?” Kyrill whispered.
“I hope it’s only that. Let this serve you as a lesson, Kyrill. The life of an artist is fraught with dangers, and temptations.” Brek replied. “Fetch him some water, will you? The replicator’s behind you, somewhere beyond those canvas. Bring something to eat too, whatever you think is best.”
With the teenager away for a short while, Brek faced Bajeem, and encouraged him to take a seat, pushing him gently towards an armchair old enough to have seen the dominion war.
“What’s really the matter? I’ve never seen you like that... Is it Romulan ale that you drank?” Brek took one of the empty glasses that littered the place, and he had a sniff at it. “Hmm... more like Kanar red wine...”
“I told you,” Bajeem whined. “Those hands, they can’t paint anymore!” He showed them to Brek, and of course they looked perfectly normal. Right now they weren’t even trembling, which to the Ferengi indicated that Bajeem’s problem was well and truly in his mind, nowhere else. Then again, the mind, it is everything, isn’t it?
“Nonsense. Although you may need a change of scenery.” Brek pondered. “Forget about your work for a while. Take a vacation somewhere. With a holodeck, you can go anyywhere you want.”
“I’m not burying myself in holo tech,” the Romulan added, now more in a sulk. “If I go somewhere, I want a real destination. With real fresh air.”
“Sure. Anything you want.”
Obsidian would offer the quickest solution to the artist’s quandary, but how do you find fresh air over there? Might as well try to find fairness on Ferenginar... Kyrill came back with a tray that contained a plate of (judging by the smell of it) macaroni and cheese, and a glass of soda, which he called Tarkhun, made with lemon and tarragon.
“This is what I like to have when I don’t feel too good.” The teen commented.
“And does it happen a lot?” Brek asked, getting annoyed at the fact that certain artists, well, they seem to have more problems than he anticipated.
Kyrill shrugged. “Only when my mum shouts at me.”
“Right,” Brek sighed. “It probably means every two days then... By all that is precious... Had I known that you, artists, were so volatile, I'd have kept to cooking books.”
“And this dish there, is it edible?” Bajeem questioned, eyeing the pasta.
“More than edible, it is irresistible.” Kyrill confirmed. “You’re sure to feel better after you’ve had some. It’s the sort of food the brain always craves, that and sugar.”
“And sex,” Bajeem added, as he took the tray. Oblivious to those around him, he then had a go at the macaroni and cheese, which he seemed to enjoy a lot.
One tiny little word like that and Kyrill’s face, already decorated with a bad case of acne, took a red hue only seen on tomatoes and strawberries.
Brek scratched his chin. “Well, young man, I think we’ve done what we could here. Time for us to leave the artist to his, er.... art... Off we go.” Once they had left Bajeem’s quarters he added, “I think it would be best if you don’t tell your mother about this encounter, Kyrill. Certain things are best left... undisclosed.”
“Yeah, I know, Mr Brek. I won’t say anything.”
“Excellent. We can’t have Mrs Novikov worry too much. Think of what it would do to her health...”
