Sweet Hope (Sweet Home 3)

He smelled good… too good. So good it was pushing the boundaries of my professional conduct.

The heavy muscles and cords in Elpidio’s arms tightened. He ran his hand through his hair once more. I surmised that he did this when he was feeling nervous.

“Is there a particular reason for you wanting the piece to be in that corner?” I asked.

Elpidio tipped back his head and stared out the glass domed ceiling. I followed suit, my eyebrows pulled down in confusion.

“The sun will pour in through the roof for most of the day. If we angle it just right, the rays will cut across sculpture and reflect the knives on the floor, like I’d planned.”

The more he spoke, the more I picked up on the devastation in Elpidio’s deep timbre. By the end of his explanation, I found I was no longer looking at the domed ceiling, but at him and the expression of deep sorrow etched upon his face.

For a brief moment, Elpidio closed his eyes, and I could feel the sadness pulsing from him.

In an instant, my heart broke for him. I had no idea why, but he definitely seemed to be suffering.

Seconds went by in silence, yet I couldn’t stop watching his face. This mysterious sculptor was more intriguing in person than I could ever have imagined. Intriguing but troubled… intimidating… a man about whom my every instinct told me to steer clear.

Not wanting to intrude on what seemed like a personal moment, I forced myself to focus on the sculpture.

“Do you agree?” Elpidio eventually asked.

“I love it,” I said quietly and moved so the full moon and all its light was in sight. As I looked at the shadows cast on the floor, my eyes widened.

My attention returned to Elpidio, who stood with his bulky arms crossed over his chest. His harsh gaze was focused on me.

“I’ll agree with whatever you want, but…” I trailed off, leaning down further to check I was correct.

Elpidio tensed. “What?” he snapped.

I reared back slightly at his sharpness. Elpidio then sighed, his tanned cheeks flushing red as he rocked unsurely on his feet. It was as if he were insecure, like he wasn’t used to having someone discuss his art on a personal level with him… like he was completely out of his depth.

But that couldn’t be right. Although this was his first show, he must surely be used to people discussing his art, both academically and publically. He’d been sculpting for a couple of years.

Sighing, I straightened up. “Well, with the sun’s rays shining down, it will look like he’s bleeding.”

Elpidio craned his neck to the sculpture but didn’t move.

“Come here and see,” I urged, and reluctantly, Elpidio moved to my side and crouched down, careful our bodies didn’t touch. I knew the instant he saw what I was referring to, as a quiet exhalation escaped his lips.

Elpidio ran his hand down his face. “It does,” he agreed in a graveled voice.

“Does the effect of bleeding fit with what inspired the piece? We don’t want to change what it’s meant to represent,” I asked. Elpidio hadn’t named any of his masterpieces, nor provided any background on what inspired them, what the art was meant to portray. As a sculptor, its conception could only ever be explained by one person, him. But as the curator, not knowing anything about the sculptures’ backgrounds made them a nightmare to stage.

“Completely,” he replied breathlessly. Seeming completely taken aback, Elpidio sat on the floor, content to watch the moon-shadows project what looked like black rivulets trailing along the concrete below.

Slumping to my knees beside him, I waited for him to speak. I was used to artists having unconventional methods when exhibiting their work, but Elpidio appeared to be completely at a loss with this process.

Leaning forward, I traced a long a black shadow on the polished concrete floor with my finger to gain some form of composure. When I looked back up, Elpidio was watching me. His gaze was a touch softer than before and his expression was warm.

“Sorry,” I said quickly. “I know I can get carried away at times. Your work…” I sighed and flushed red in embarrassment. “It makes me all kinds of crazy.” I sputtered a nervous laugh and went back to tracing the shadows near my knees.

Elpidio didn’t speak for several seconds, but then asked, “What do you think he’s bleeding?” Surprised, I glanced at him. Elpidio jerked his chin to the marble statue of the man before us.

“What do I think he’s bleeding?” I asked, confused.

He gave me a stern nod.

As I studied the sculpture, his form bent over as though in agony, I said, “Pain? Blood? Rejection?”

Elpidio’s eyes were unfocused, lost in concentration.

“Is that right? Is it pain? Blood? Something else?”

Elpidio’s eyes abruptly met mine. “Guilt.”

Guilt…

I looked at the sculpture again, this time with fresh eyes. Now I felt the guilt. Each dagger, a sin the man should not have committed… The marble man was breaking apart because of his guilt.

“You… you ever felt guilt like that, Aliyana?”

My heart fluttered at the way Elpidio spoke my name, his tongue wrapping around the Spanish pronunciation perfectly. As I met his eyes, his gaze implored me to answer his question.

Sadly I shook my head. I didn’t carry anything close to the level of guilt portrayed in this piece. In fact, I doubted many did.

Teeth clenched, Elpidio abruptly got to his feet and darted for the exit.