The Portrait Poser

I woke up feeling dizzy. It was dark outside. Where was I? I gazed at the floor. Wait, it was the pavement. I looked up with a blurry vision. I must’ve fallen.

“You alright?”

Men laughed. “It’s just a drunk,” one of them said.

“Yes, but look at his clothes. It’s like he walked off the stage of the future,” another said.

“Come on, nothing to see,” another interfered, clearly not belonging to the group of partygoers.

Oh, I remember, I was out having drinks with friends. I haven’t been this drunk in a while. I needed to stand up and walk home. I stood up, unsteady. This really was another low point, I thought. When will it end? When will I stop this pathetic attempt to stay young?

I wobbled on the pavement, step by step, focusing with all my might to walk on without falling again. Shit, I hurt myself. My hand was bleeding.

“Sir, where are you going?”

I looked around to find a man with a funny hat, a navy blue trench coat and a walking stick talking to me. I started talking, but even I couldn’t figure out what I was trying to blurt out.

“Excuse me?” the man said, looking both earnest and suddenly washed in disapproval. “Your father will have me fired if I shan’t bring you back before breakfast. You have your appointment with the painter, sir.”

I started to giggle uncontrollably. “You’re a flunny man, chairs mate.” I said in slurred speech as I continued to walk home. I looked ahead but my vision was still troubled. Wait, where was I? I went to the bar around the corner, right? Where’s my building? I was looking at a park where I was pretty sure my apartment used to be. Shit, why did I need to get so shitfaced? I probably walked in the wrong direction. I need to take better care of myself. Tomorrow will be another one down the drain. Double shit, I have a gig tomorrow night.

“Fuck!” I shouted through a hiccough.          

“Sir! One can’t say that word out on the streets, what if someone heard?”

“Fuck, I don hav asprin at home, d’you hav on on you?” Another hiccough. I’m hilarious, I thought and started laughing.

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re on about, sir. And heavens, where did you get that ensemble? What in Mary’s name is that pattern? And the fabric…” He was touching my coat now.

That was the last thing I remembered before I passed out.

***

The headache was excruciating. Water. Shit, nothing next to my bed. Wait, this wasn’t my bed. I sat up straight. This definitely wasn’t my room. Did I go home with someone?

“Ah, you’re awake.” A middle-aged man with thick black curly hair, neatly combed, and a short, thick mustache stood in the door opening. He was wearing a tuxedo.

I jumped. “Who the hell are you?” I cried. How drunk was I? This was too much.

“Oh, the blasphemy! Don’t let your dear mother hear it. You’ve already missed mass.”

“Mass? Mother? How come you know my mother? I haven’t seen her in weeks.” I probably should visit. “Can you tell me where the hell I am?”

“Master, you’re not quite like yourself. Are you ill?”

Master? Who was this guy? I’d never seen him in my life.

“Where’s my phone? I’ll call her. Where am I you said?”

“I haven’t said it, sir. But we’re at home. It’s Sunday. You’ll be late for your posing session. And what on earth is a phone?”

I started laughing. I looked around the room to search for hidden cameras. For sure my friend Frank was hiding behind the curtains filming all this. He bought all those alcohol blazing shots last night. When will I learn to say no? My head was about to burst. I grabbed the blankets and threw them aside.

“Sir! I can see your… Heavens, where are your clothes?”

I didn’t listen to the short-mustached man. Instead, I walked around the room in search of my phone, checking the floor beneath the bed. No luck.

“My, have you been possessed, dear Cornelius?”

“Cornelius? I think you’re mistaking me for somebody else. Come on, cut it out. Tell me where my stuff is and I’ll bounce and go home. This isn’t funny anymore. I have a gig tonight, I feel like I’ve swallowed a chimney, and I want a gallon of Coca Cola and four aspirins. Now move it.”

The man looked as white as a sheet. “Cornelius, now I must insist that you quit this illusion at once. We’re not playing dress-up anymore, neither are we in a play. Chop, chop, to the washing room and into your suit. The painter is waiting.”

Painter. What a weird guy. It felt like my eyes were about to be pushed out of their sockets. The man grabbed my hand and ushered me into the hallway. Which startled me in its magnificence. A marble floor, statues, portraits on the wall of distinguished-looking people. I thought I was in a fancy hotel. I had no idea what was going on as I was walking around naked in a hallway. The silly mustache man pressed his cold hands on my naked back and pushed me through a heavy wooden door which led me into a bathroom. The bathroom was out of a BBC drama. The porcelain bathtub was big enough to fit four people. I spotted golden faucets. It was as big as my apartment. I started panicking.

“Let me go! I need to go home.”

“Stop this at once, Cornelius, or I’ll call your father. You’re a grown-up now, act like one.” There was something in his voice as if he’d been fathering me all these years. I was fed up with the whole thing. I turned around, went back into the hallway and started making my way down the seemingly endless stairs. Red velvet curtains were draped against the wall. I never understood curtains hanging in front of a wall. Put them in front of a window.

“Cornelius. Halt. Your mother and father have returned from mass, they can’t possibly see you in this condition.” But I was too fast for the man, he had a limp.

I peered into the rooms, still feeling like I was on the set of a movie. I walked into a room that looked like the dining area and smelled fresh croissants. My starving stomach was screeching. I saw a long table decorated with food. I helped myself to a croissant and poured some orange juice. I devoured the croissant and gulped down the juice. That felt better.

Outside I heard hooves trample. I made my way towards a window and looked outside. A little yelp escaped my mouth and the glass I held dropped to the floor. I must be on a movie set. Horses and carriages. People wearing old-fashioned outfits. No cars. A canal broke the street in two.

“Cornelius! What are you doing here looking like that! Irville? Why isn’t my son dressed? You ought to be ashamed of yourself, young man. Your mother is already disappointed with you not showing up for mass. She’ll faint if she sees you like this. And Peter is waiting in his studio to paint you. Go!”

The mustached man walked in, panting. “My apologies, your lordship.”

“Can anyone tell me what the fuck is going on here?” I asked, trembling. The butler looked like he was about to faint and the other one rushed towards me. He smacked me in the face. I was about to hit him back, the imbecile. Who did he think he was?

“I swear if you hit me, I’ll throw you out.” There was something in his voice that made me hold back. “Bath. Portrait. Now.”

Who was this stern man and why did I let him boss me around like that?

My eyes caught the front page of the newspaper. Was my mind playing a trick on me? It was dated December, 18th, 1900.

“What year is it?” I demanded.

“1900, sir. I’m sorry your lordship, I have no idea what’s going on with your son today.” Irville looked appalled as if someone just told him he looked like Hitler.

“Should we be worried, Irville? Do I need to telegram the physician?”

“It’s probably just… his age, sir. And tiredness.” Irville grabbed my neck and pushed me into the hallway, up the stairs, and into the bathroom.

So there I was about to be washed by a man with the same mustache as Hitler. I mean how cruel can a joke be for a Jew? Mass, they talked about. Catholics. Damn ‘em. Not that I was religious. Mom was Jewish, but we weren’t practitioners or however you called it. I didn’t believe in God. Not one of them.

I shouted at the servant and told him I was perfectly able to wash myself. Pervert.

As I dried myself, Irville laid out a suit for me. It could have been a prop for one of my plays. The man, still desperate, looked the other way as I stood there naked.

I fumbled with shorts the size of a swimming trunk. “What are these?”

“Your underwear! Sir! You must’ve hit your head quite hard yesterday.”

I put the underwear on and giggled at myself. I had no clue what to do with the rest of the clothes. “Help me, will you? I have no idea what the fuck this is.”

Irville hesitated, but helped me anyway, mumbling in a language I couldn’t identify.

When I was finished, I looked in the mirror. I couldn’t believe it. It looked kinda cool, but still, what was this? I half expected that a director would show up at any point, but slowly I came to realize that this was not a trick. I’ve seen a TV show once about a woman who found herself transported two hundred years in the past. I can’t remember the name of it. I started to wonder if that was what had happened to me.

***

I was reminded it was winter again when I stepped outside with Irville nervously standing by my side. The clothes were warm enough, but I was fascinated by the damp of my breath in the brisk cold. I closed my eyes, hoping that when I would open them again, everything had turned back to normal. It didn’t. I watched sophisticated looking couples walk on the streets, there were no honking cars or ringing bikes around with impatient city folk. Men wore bowlers, women classy hats. The houses on the street were the same as I knew them. Although with a certain twist, almost as if they breathed wealth and dignity. People still lived here. The aristocrats, the artists, and the businessmen. In my present time, they were occupied by companies, fighting over every square meter left, paying for the space in gold.

Irville led the way. Where was I going again? Oh, to the painter. We turned the corner and I looked at the newsstand. Same paper, same date. A young boy yelled the headlines to an undisturbed crowd. I felt like I was on the set of Peaky Blinders, a TV show I had just binged with Frank. But that illusion soon faded and I forgot all about watching the TV show.

On a broad road, I recognized old carriages driving through the city, one or two horses slogged through the cold. A small tram sped through the street. We crossed and turned to another part of town. We had to pass through a small alley. It was known as “Beggars Alley”. I quickly understood why. Never in my life had I seen so many beggars. Their clothes ragged, their faces covered in soot, cysts, and other deformities. I realized I never gave a beggar in my reality a second look. They are sparser and compared to these people they could almost be called “normal” considering the clothes they wore. But then again what did I know. I was horrified by the smell and had to pinch my nose. People were pulling at my coat, asking for money. I tried my best to ignore them, but halfway through I was struck by a sickly woman carrying a baby in her arms. Her look will likely haunt me into my grave. I rummaged in my pockets but they were empty.

“Hey Irv, don’t you have something on you?”

“Sorry, master, but we’re late. Keep up.”

“Look at them! We have to give them something.”

“Better not touch them. And above all don’t give them money. It will never stay with the person you gave it to. They’re vultures, the sound of a coin or the smell of a note turns them into different beings.”

“But—"

“We must go,” Irville said. He addressed me in a harsh and opposite tone to his usual self. I stopped arguing and moved onwards.

We turned and crossed more streets and canals. Beggars and sick people still lay scattered against the houses, but not as many as before.

“How come there are so many poor and sick people, Irv?”

“Distribution of wealth.”

“Come again?”

“In this city, you’re either rich or you aren’t. And if you’re under the illusion that you’re in between, you’re actually serving the rich.”

He stopped and I bumped into him. “We’re here.”

Irville pulled a lever and a bell rang. It took a couple of minutes before the door opened. A man with a thick black beard and neatly combed hair opened. He looked at us indifferently. “Come on up.” I studied his clothes, they looked similar to mine. I was surprised that a painter wore such a sophisticated outfit. He was smoking a cigarette. I welcomed the smell.

We climbed four stairs and arrived in the attic of the building. The rooms were small, but the high ceilings made up for it. It was a mess. Half-finished paintings lay everywhere. Most of them were just pieces of canvas without a body. Paint tubes and books lay scattered on every inch of surface. The painter led us into his workshop, which also served as the bedroom. A mattress without covers lay in the corner. His easel stood in the middle of the room. A stool stood opposite.

“Right, I’m off to do some shopping. I will pick you up in an hour.” Irville lingered as if he wanted to add something. He merely squinted at me. I guess he was contemplating whether or not to ask me to behave.

“Alright, Irv. Hey, can I grab a cigarette off of you?” I asked the painter.

He pointed at a desk next to me. I grabbed a fag out of his case and he walked towards me with a candle to light it. “I’m not adding the cigarette to the painting. And since when do you smoke, Cornelius?”

I was startled. I recognized the name, but it would take me a few more minutes to figure it out. And apparently, the version of me in this reality didn’t smoke.

The painter put on his apron and sat down. Holding a palette in one hand and a brush in the other. Next to his easel, stood a small table with water and other utilities. A cigarette sat in the corner of his mouth and he took a long drag every once in a while, the ash tip glowing.

“Pretty cool place, man. What’s your name again?”

The painter looked at me in disgust. “Are you drunk? I’m Peter, you know that. And I don’t like to talk during our sessions. You know that too. Or at least you should.”

Defeated I just sat there, smoking. Wondering what the hell I got myself into again. I looked around.

“Hold position.”

I didn’t dare move. There was something in his voice that made me listen. So I kept quiet, sat still and studied him instead. He looked vaguely familiar. Like I had seen his face before. Perhaps I had. This was the past after all. Only a distant past. Clouded in schoolbook memories I didn’t care about. Cornelius… Peter…

“What’s your last name?”

“Van der Steen.”

“Come again?” It hit me.

“Silence.”

Peter van der Steen. Surely not the Peter van der Steen? The world-famous painter? Cornelius… Of course! He painted my great-great-grandfather and his family. Cornelius was his name and that of his son. Fuck, was I my great-great… what? I have no idea. The room started spinning. I needed to take a deep breath and focus on something. Somehow Peter’s beard got my attention and the specs of paint in it. Apparently, he lit another cigarette. Smoke swirled in front of his eyes. He seemed not to be bothered. What the fuck was happening here?

“How long have you been working on my painting?” I asked.

Peter sighed and put aside his palette and brush. He studied me and got up. He left the room for a while. Such a strange man. He returned with two glasses of whiskey. “It’s no use anyway. You’re off. As if you’re not here. At least not with your mind. I can’t catch that on the canvas today. I’m a bit frightened to show the portrait to your father.”

That got my interest alright. “Show me.”

He nodded and I walked over. Fuck, I did look alien.

I was shocked to find I seemed so lifeless. It was as if someone extinguished all the candles in my eyes and left one burning out of spite, to mock my insincere pathetic existence. But it was me. Well, a blend of me and someone else. I’ve seen this painting.

My grandfather had it. It hung above the fireplace. The few times I visited him, I didn’t pay attention because my parents always fought with the man. We weren’t close. He lived on the other side of the country and disliked all people, even his own. They always said I resembled the man in the painting, but I had never thought about it until now.

The portrait was almost finished, but the eyes were still off. I looked hideous. I thought about the man in the painting who was a version of me. A forefather. Who was he again? Cornelius, yes. Wasn’t he the black sheep of the family? A man forced to lead the family business. He married young and without love. His wife gave birth to one daughter. My great-grandmother. I’ve met her a couple of times when I was young. She always gave me these wet pecks on the cheek. I could feel her mustache sting on my skin. I shivered. And then I remembered another thing. Cornelius managed to drive the business into bankruptcy after a year or two, left his wife and was taken into an insane asylum at the age of forty-two. Shit, I don’t want to follow in his footsteps.

“I can’t work when you’re in a mood like this. I can’t capture the right expression. You seem empty, close to depressed. Are you alright?” Peter’s tone changed. He looked more relaxed like he was on a well-deserved break from a busy workday. He took another gulp of the whiskey and poured himself another. With one swift movement, he lit his next cigarette.

At that moment, I felt like he was the only one I could talk to. He sat there, ready to listen. I might as well spew up all my concerns. Only I’d leave out the time travel part. He also looked like a man who would open the window, pick me up and throw me out. This was his church and although he seemed to be the most open-minded person I met today, he’d still throw out the heretics.

“I don’t know. Waking up in this world. Sitting here, posing, waiting. Seeing the beggars before I got here. Realizing stuff about my past and my present, I just feel…”

“Yes...” He almost finished his cigarette, another lay waiting behind his ear.

“Empty?”

“Do you feel empty or are you asking me?”

“I feel it I guess.” I suddenly stood up and looked at the painting again before I helped myself to more whiskey. “What is it all about you think?”

“What?”

“Life! Living. Waking up every day fighting to make a dent in the world. And then, when I’m finally getting close, I get scared. I close off and drink, party, try not to feel. As if feeling itself is something I desperately try to avoid.” I heard myself say it. It was vague, but I knew what I meant. Leaving my ex whenever it suited me. Always when I felt she took away my freedom. What if there was someone better? Why commit? It was the same with everything. Why pursue acting? Why not do directing or photography? Or settle for a desk job, marry, have kids and live out my life?

“It seems like you’re not ready to attach to anything. Tell me, what do you do?”

“I’m an actor.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“Yes.”

“Do you care enough to support yourself with shitty jobs or whatever you can, to see if you can make it? Does it excite you?”

“I guess.”

“Would you do it if no one paid you?”

“I don’t know, what else would I do?”

“You see, I would paint no matter what. If I had to choose between buying a loaf of bread or another color of paint, I would choose the latter.”

“Would you? What if it were cigarettes instead of bread? You’re eating them, rather than smoking them.”

“They aren’t part of my daily food rations. Don’t change the subject. Have you acted in anything?”

“Yes, I did in one film. And I’m in a play.”

“A film? What’s a film? Is that some sort of genre play I’m unfamiliar with?”

Oh fuck, yes, I remembered this was the 1900s. “Something like that.”

“Well, does it feel like something you want to do every day of your life?” He smiled for the first time. Probably because he knew the answer by now.

“Yes.”

“There you go. Hold still for a moment.” He put aside his glass, picked up his brush, mixed colors and got back to the canvas. He mumbled.

“But what about—"

“Shh, I almost have it.”

I stayed quiet, deep in thought. Ok, so I guess I always knew that. But what if I couldn’t make it? What life would I have if no one hired me? What would my friends or family think if I failed?

“Make sure you don’t fail, son. Listen, it’s your life, not anyone else’s. Reach for that dream every day. Plan it, execute upon it. Make sure you’re turning every stone. Set a life up for yourself where you create the freedom to follow your art. Support yourself. Find support in others and support them too. Find like-minded people on similar paths.”

“Can you hear my thoughts?”

“I’m a painter, not a magician. I’ve been where you are. I know the struggle. That moment of choice. Will you or will you not? If it’s all you can think about and all you want to do, grab it. Don’t let go.”

“But what about, you know, the regular things? Relationships? Other people? Doing something for someone other than myself?”

“Well it’s the same, isn’t it? Do you want it? Does it excite you? Do you want to start a family? Do you want to be a part of a community? It’s all up to you.”

“How do you do it? How do you juggle it all? How did you decide what you wanted from life?”

Peter laughed and put down his brush. He took a drag from his endless fag. “Don’t ask too many questions. You already have the answers. I wanted to become a professional painter. But the dream never stops. Now, I want to become the most famous painter in the world. Be mentioned in one breath with Degas, Monet, and Van Gogh. I want meaningful relationships, but I don’t want to marry. I want to see the world. I want to be among friends, dance, make music, celebrate life. I deliberately made these choices. I didn’t leave anything open. I decided. Come take a look. What do you think now?”

He beckoned me enthusiastically and pointed at the painting. I got up and stood behind him. He did it. “Hey, I’m… alive.”

Peter laughed. “Yes. Because you were excited. The light in your eyes returned. Every Sunday here in my studio you look gloomy, almost beaten.”

“I’m here every Sunday?”

“Well, yes. And your mother has been, and your father. You see, I paint portraits to make a living and make art to feed my soul. Your father has been very kind to me. I give him painting lessons every once in a while too. He’s become a friend. Plus, he got me all these other jobs with distinguished families. With your father’s network… There it is again, that look.”

He woke me up from a daydream of expectations and obligations. My real dad didn’t want the acting life for me either. He insisted I’d study and find a real job. I tried economics, psychology, and several other studies before I finally stuck with art history. A condemned choice by my dad, but at least he thought I could work as an art dealer or at a museum. I hadn’t studied Peter’s work yet. In the first year, we discussed the classics, the Renaissance and what not.

“This is who you could be, Cornelius”’ he said, pointing at the portrait.

Oh yeah, that was my name. “Who am I, really?” I didn’t realize I said it out loud.

Peter said in response: “The better question is: who do you want to be and how can you become that person?”

***

The rest of the day I thought about what Peter had said before I left. When I got to the house, the most unusual scene awaited me, for the woman I laid eyes on as I entered was a former Queen. Queen Mary to be exact. Our Queen from 1944-2008. Except at this point, she was still a princess.

The man of the house, Cornelius senior, was talking to the girl’s parents. She looked stunning and I clumsily bowed because I’d seen that in the movies. She giggled. Her auburn hair and her deer eyes were accentuated by her night blue dress. I was glad I was wearing the ridiculous suit after all. But who was I kidding? She’d marry this German baron and produced our current King.

“Ah Cornelius, come and welcome the Princess and her husband,” a woman said, just entering the parlor from another room. My mother. No, my character’s mother. No, the woman who ran the house. I had no idea what to call her. Safe to say my great-great-grandmother was a sight to behold. She wore a simple deep purple dress and had a matching feather in her hair. Her lips were painted a faint red as if she wasn’t confident enough yet to go all out. I remembered her portrait too. A great-aunt had it in her study. She donated the painting to the national museum after she died. I had seen it once. Above all her expression stuck with me. From wherever you stood, she looked at you with her ocean eyes.

It turned out the royals were staying for dinner. During dinner, Mary and I were to be quiet. We were only allowed to speak when spoken to. I found out the hard way when my “mother” kicked me from under the table. Mary laughed.

They mostly spoke about state affairs, fellow acquaintances, and business. They talked about us as if we weren’t there. Listening to their conversations, I remembered another thing: my great-great-grandfather was filthy rich. When our nation ruled the seas and became a glorious haven for trade and commerce, his ancestors controlled the majority of coffee import and export. The business had been passed on for generations. Unfortunately for me, it disappeared into another branch of the family tree.

First, they talked as if we weren’t there. Then, they simply didn’t care anymore.

“Wants to be an actor… Despicable… He’ll run the family business…” I heard Cornelius senior utter through a sautéed piece of salmon he tried to swallow. “He needs to do as he’s told. Like my father told me to take over when he retired.”

I couldn’t help myself and interfered. “I hate your coffee business, which is built on the blood, sweat, and tears of slaves.” Since when did I become so outspokenly socially moral?, I thought to myself.

“Excuse my son, your majesty. He’s at that age.” Cornelius senior squinted at me. I was sure that wouldn’t be the last I heard of that.

“Let the boy act on the side then, Cornelius. I played at the theatre before I met Margaret. Simply marvelous,” the Prince said.

“Absurd. No one does what he wants. If we’d do that we’ll all be egotistical maniacs running after our own gains. Lulled into the existence of selfishness and disconnected from our community. No, you do as you’re told.” I saw a drop of spit landing on his plate as he said it.

“What about a woman? Have you found anyone suitable yet?” the Princess interfered, ignoring everyone else.

“I’m trying to find a lovely girl for him through our parish, but it’s not been easy. I do have my eyes set on a family friend. It would be great if our families could unite.” The woman of the house said.

“Indeed, darling. The Vespucci’s from Northern Italy. Powerful family. They’re in the tobacco and realty business. My friend Luigi’s daughter is a real catch.” Cornelius senior supported his wife.

“She must be ugly then,” again I spoke when I was not spoken to.

“That’s it! Leave the table. My apologies, your majesty.”

“Never mind, Cornelius. You mean well. Mary, join him and leave too please.”

Mary smiled and followed me. I wondered if I dared to. I mean, the opportunity of a lifetime arose. None of my friends could claim…

“Do you smoke?” she asked, rudely waking me from my fantasies.

“Uh, yes. There’s a balcony upstairs.”

“Well, lead the way,” she demanded.

I did, pinching myself. We climbed the stairs. Servants followed our every move with intrigue. Irv had difficulty keeping his mouth shut when we passed him. I was going to have a fag with the former fucking Queen! When we got to the balcony, she offered me a cigarette and lit it for me.

“Thanks.”

“I find you interesting, Cornelius. I never thought I’d say that. Usually, you’re quiet and obedient. Tonight, you not only look ravishing, but you’re rebellious. And with my family present nonetheless. Finally some excitement in this charade of an existence. I love that you want to pursue your dream. I know all too well when adults decide what your destiny is.”

“Yes, but you’re a future Queen.”

“Exactly. No one asked me. You have a choice. I don’t. My whole life is directed by my family. Then, when I marry the dread they picked for me, it will be directed by him. I don’t want any of this, but no one hears me. Or they hear me but choose not to listen.

I didn’t know what to say to that so I chose to take a drag and stare at the canals.

“I want to find some sort of meaning. To spend my days doing something I love because I want it. I want to be a businesswoman. That’s my purpose. It’s only my destiny to be a Queen and a woman that stands in the way.” She paused. “What do you make of that, mister?”

Shit, now I had to respond. “I don’t know how to respond to that, to be honest. To me, it’s such a given that I have the opportunity to pursue the thing that gives meaning to my life.”

“I’m confused. You’re father just told you not to.”

Oh yes, the time travel thing. A thought popped into my head and I started laughing. I couldn’t. But I wanted to. Finally, liberating myself of that disturbing truth. I’d better have some fun with it. “Want to hear something crazy?”

“What is it?” Her eyes protruded and she leaned closer, blowing the smoke in my face to taunt me.

“I’m from the future.”

She scoffed. “You’re weird.”

“I’m not joking. I know it sounds that way. You betrothed is Baron Schiffhausen.”

She eyed me suspiciously and took a step back.

“Anyway, you’re going to be a great Queen. Your son is a bit of a douche though.”

“Son? Douche? What does that mean? I’m not sure I find this very funny, Cornelius. Just as I thought we might get along.” And just as quickly as I day-dreamed it, the Queen left before I could steal a kiss. She opened the balcony door and left me there speechless.

***

Great, I fucked up with my only ally here. Going back to the dining room was out of the question, so I grabbed a coat. Before Irville could spot me, I got out of the house.

I walked with no particular place to go, watching the few people left lurking on the streets. It must’ve been past ten already. I felt an urge to go back to Peter’s house. Low lives had crept out of their dark corners and onto the streets. They stared at me.

A screaming woman disturbed the nightly winter peace. It gave me goosebumps. It was coming from one of the alleys. As I approached it, I found it was Beggars Alley. A van was parked around the corner. Officers were riling some of them up and putting them in the van. I recognized the woman with the baby, she was still screaming and refused to get in the van. She recognized me too and shouted: “Oi, mister, tell them I have a home. Please don’t let them take my child away. Help me!” She sounded desperate and I froze.

I turned around and started running. I had no idea why. I guess I was just startled. I could have given her money. Or food. Or to convince Irville to sneak her into the house. A woman with a child shouldn’t be outside in the cold, with Christmas around the corner.

I was suddenly reminded of a hymn that my gran put up in her bathroom. I’d read it so many times, I knew it by heart:

“Have I done any good in the world today?

Have I helped anyone in need?

Have I cheered up the sad and made someone feel glad?

If not, I have failed indeed.

There are chances for work all around just now,

Opportunities right in our way.

Do not let them pass by, saying, “Sometime I’ll try,”

But go and do something today.”

My feet led me back to the house and then I had an idea. I knocked on the door and Irv opened, flabbergasted. I rushed past him and ran to the kitchen.

“Quick, give me any leftovers!” I shouted at the chef. She just stared at me. “Come on, hurry.” She looked from me to Irville who made it to the kitchen too. He shrugged. She grabbed a basket and started to put in bread, leftover salad, chicken and mashed potatoes.

“What are you doing, Cornelius?” Irville asked.

“What I should’ve done earlier today.” All this leftover food would’ve made it into the bin by the end of the night. It could easily feed four people.

“You’re mad, sir.”

“I don’t care. Come on, Irv, let’s do something good today. Grab more bread and follow me.”

“But… I must speak to—"

“No, you mustn’t.” I felt the adrenaline rush through me. “Is there a back exit?”

Irville showed the way, carrying two more loaves of bread. He followed me as fast as he could with his limp. I admired him for coming along and not telling on me.

We reached the alley and the van had gone. There were only a few beggars left. They rushed over. “Here, there’s plenty for everyone!” I said. “Where is the woman with the baby?”

A short man with an arched back, worn-out clothes, and one boot answered: “They took her and the child.”

“Where to?”

“Who cares?” he said while taking off with a piece of bread and a half-eaten chicken leg. Perhaps the Princess herself had taken a few bites off of that.

“That was kind of you, sir,” Irville said while placing his hand on my shoulder. “But now we must leave.”

“I agree, is there a pub open around here? I’m dying for a drink.”

“Just one, then, follow me.”

He took me to a small den with a dark wooden interior. Candles lit the place. Wax covered the tables. People looked up when we entered, but I ignored them.

“Two whiskeys, please. Make it a double.” I demanded from the bartender who growled at me. “Keep ’em coming.”

I drank one after the other. I wanted to go home now. My home. I was done with this place. Images of the beggars, the scream of the woman, my dead eyes in the painting, the Princess, the house, the money, the time-traveling, everything fought for my attention. I just wanted to quiet the voices, even if it would only be for one night.

It was Irv who finally dragged me out of there. I think. I had about seven doubles in less than ten minutes. I had trouble walking and the limping servant tried to keep me from falling over. It didn’t work. I fell and all went dark.

I opened my eyes only to see the pavement.

*

- THE END -

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