He tapped the glass covering the painting.
“This is what great men can do, Natalia. Nothing in that pretty little head of yours would ever approach the value of a few scribblings from a great artist like Picasso.” I’d nodded my head, trying my best to hold back the tears that threatened to fall. They spilled over anyway.
My papa made sure I was looking at him and bent down to my level.He saw my tears, and he did nothing to stop them.
“It takes someone special to be an artist, Natalia. You are nothing special.”
That day destroyed every hope I had of becoming an artist.
I couldn’t argue with my father.Of course, my work was never going to be as good as Picasso’s.His words landed like sharp arrows. Each one pierced the bubble of hope that had formed when my art tutor praised my work, when I wrote a strong analysis of an artwork, or when I even looked at a beautiful work of art and dreamed about being the kind of person who could share my ideas with the world in that way.
So when Aleksandr suggests it, I tell him no.
“Please, don’t. I have no idea how to make art.”
He shrugs those giant shoulders. “I don’t want you to be bored here. I’ve already ordered materials. There’s a spare room that you can use as a studio.”
Which is how I end up standing in a room full of art materials. A ton of them — sketchbooks and charcoals, watercolors, oil paints. This could keep an art studio going for months.
“You didn’t say what you wanted, so I ordered a little bit of everything.” He leans against the doorframe, frowning at my overwhelmed expression.
“I’m not an artist.”
Aleksandr comes to stand in front of me. His brow creases in confusion. “You’re always talking about paintings.”
I can tell that this is good-quality equipment. Aleksandr must have gone to a lot of effort to find these things in just one day.
I don’t know how to tell him it’s all pointless.
“I analyze art. I know the value of art. I study art. They’re different things. I don’t…make it. I don’t know what I would even paint.”
“Are these the wrong kind of paints? You know, if you want something else, we can get it.”
I shake my head, confused. I can sketch, but I barely know how to use a paintbrush, let alone an easel. I was hardly even past using crayons when my father fired my art tutor for giving me false hope and putting ideas in my head.
I feel panic rising in my chest.
“Natalia. Hey, Natalia, look at me.” With the gentlest touch, he pushes my chin up. There’s something grounding about the rough, warm feel of his touch. I bring my eyes up to his. Behind the harshness, the intensity, the unpredictability, Aleksandr can be strangely kind.
“I don’t want you to suffer here,zolotse.” Aleksandr pushes a strand of hair away from my forehead. “You are my wife. I want you to feel at home here.”
It’s too much.
I know that I can’t produce anything worthwhile. People will never want to look at my art. Why would they? I’m a spoiled Bratva princess with nothing to say. Artists bring a new perspective to the world. That’s something I don’t have.
I shake my head, trying not to notice the disappointment that this causes Aleksandr.
“Fuck it, don’t use them then.”His face shutters, that earlier softness gone now. He was trying to do something nice for me and I’ve ruined it. “They’ll be set up here. You know, in case you want to.”
Then he leaves me alone with all my inadequacies looking back at me.
12
NATALIA
Agrowling voice and the distant sound of my phone alarm pulls me out of a restless sleep.
I bury my face in the pillow, already regretting my choices. After an entire week of boycotting the art studio and asking Aleksandr for something to do, he said I can work with his business partner, Yuri. My father was ecstatic about it when I told him, but right now, I’m questioning whether it’s worth it.Maybe I can put up with this marriage if it means I can get up at a reasonable hour instead of 4:30 a.m.
