The Baker, The Butcher and The Brewer, Part One: The Baker 21

Mountain Top, first novel

Serial Fiction

 

‘Oh, one more thing. They don’t use their real names here. Instead they choose a famous composer or such and they go by one name.’ Archibald whispered in his ear. ‘They’ll label you with a pseudonym seamlessly.’ He smiled.

The vibrant crowd welcomed them, hugged them and kindly introduced Anton to everyone and vice versa. The music jumped a note up and gave life to their introduction. Fresh food was served and bottles were opened with kind and sincere accommodation.

‘Go on eat something, I am sure that old fool has exhausted you with stories of wisdom.’ Everyone laughed.

The Baker was ushered into one of the stone thrones handed a glass of wine and talked about around the circle. After the initial excitement the music reached back a soothing level and those interested in him came by his throne for a short chat. The place was as Archibald said, truly magical. The way the giant fire played up with the starry sky and illuminated the stone shapes, it looked like this was the only stage in the universe. The shadows run long in all directions fading into the pitch black darkness of the mountain. He took a sip of wine and it felt as if a poetic dash on the strings of a harp rung in his head. Life made sense here because it felt more like a dream than reality. All the little soldiers in his head were aligned and saluted him for they were ready to go to work.

‘You look impressed and inspired, I am glad we are doing a good job.’ A soft-spoken voice broke on his right. ‘I am Verdi.’

He hesitated for a moment and was about to speak when…

‘You have the face of a baker.’ Someone shouted form behind fallowed by a whorl of laughs.

‘What brings you here Mr. Baker? What is your curse?’ He smiled.

‘I am a painter.’

‘That is a dying art form. Filmmaking is the new painting.’

‘Maybe that is why the labyrinth of my life was so tangled that I was most certainly reaching a dead end before I recently found a hidden passage and got in the clear.’ He managed.

‘If you managed to get here that means that you are nothing short of a genius painter. I am looking forward to seeing your work.’

‘You are most definitely going to see his work. He is here for my test and in ten days you will be part of the jury that will judge his work. I need adequate feed back.’ Almost screamed Archibald from across, his face red with excitement and wine.

‘I will be honored to help, art is like air for me, I can’t live without it and sometimes I want more than I need.’ Smiled Verdi.

‘How would you describe your style?’ Asked Suppe, another gentleman with deep and serious voice. The Baker hesitated for a moment.

‘I take a social contradiction or paradox of life, love or nature and turn it around in my head. I keep it inside and feed it alcohol and sleepless nights until it gives birth of its visual child. Not only shape and color but real objects recognizable by all. But objects that would never be together unless I put them together. For I believe a true artist gives rise to something that has not quite been imagined before. Abstract reality if I must put labels. It is a beautiful game that my mind plays on me.’

‘Beauty is an abstract reality governed by your mind.’ Said Dvorak as a circle was forming around the Baker. Dvorak was a very thin and tall fellow with royal manners.

‘What a beautiful thought.’ He bowed.

‘You sound like you are a little tired from modern society, since you are exploring its paradoxes and flows.’ Suppe went on.

‘I certainly feel blessed to be able to even get just a taste of this world and I would love to live a little bit more in it one day.’ He noted soft heartedly.

‘What do you like most about this parallel universe, Baker? Doesn’t it look a bit too static for a young man.’

‘It’s an escape from everything that reminds me of the imperfect world we live in. Out there my mind scatters searches for misery and absorbs it like a sponge. Which is great to create art but when I want to rest I can’t just turn my mind off. Unless of course I down a couple bottles of whiskey. Here on the other hand my mind can rest. Isolation is beautiful. I don’t have to hide behind a wall of plastic feelings.’

‘Everyone is hiding the animal inside them behind plastic feelings, don’t you think!’ Dvorak. ‘Plastic souls, plastic minds, plastic spoons…’ He drifted in thought.

‘No plastic around here. If you have any plastic urges go out in the world and indulge on them. For there, they are likely to go unnoticed for almost everyone acts plastic.’ Said Verdi.

 

NEXT CHAPTER – THE BAKER 22

PREVIOUS CHATER – THE BAKER 20

ALL CHAPTERS

more by PETER ODEON

photograph by Nicolas Swanson

 

The Writers Manifesto

Hire An Editor
Get A Quote For Your Manuscript

Facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmail

You may also like...