The Legacy

The day, much like every other day, started with the usual morning routine: yawn, stretch, look out the window, get up, brush your teeth, drink your coffee. Another gray day convinces you of trading your workout sequence for five more minutes under your bedsheets. Unlike you, MC always wakes up just before heading out, leaving the kind of dramatic mess around him that you’d expect from his wild, untamed curls and his signature (and only) hoodie.

Your stare is fixed on the dark liquid inside your cup. Your mind is blank until an unexpected pattern of waves takes hold of your attention. This morning is not like every other morning.

“Your Covid-19 PCR test from 14/02/2020 is POSITIVE. STAY HOME. Health authorities will contact you shortly.”

This is bad news. You won’t get paid for the self-isolating period and you’re dragging MC down with you. Goddamn. You should have been more careful about hooking up with that tinder date. Nah, it was worth it. MC won’t get mad, and he’ll get to sleep longer.

The doorbell rings. It must be the health authorities. You put your mask on and open the door. 
“Hello, I’m an old friend of Razma. I was hoping I could visit the atelier one last time.”

Today is not like every other day. Unexpected texts and visitors are not part of your usual routine.

“The atelier?” Being dragged out of your usual monotony, you momentarily forgot that you were living in Razma’s old studio. "Oh right! I’m sorry, I just received a text saying I have Covid. It’s probably not the safest place for you right now.”

“That’s very unfortunate. You know, Razma knows who you are. He accepted you in his studio because he saw something in you…” The man talks slowly and gravely, like old people sometimes do. “If you’re ok with it, I will keep my mask on and stay a short amount of time. Nobody will know about it. I’d just like to feel his presence again.”

What is this man talking about? One last time, presence…? Whatever.

“Yeah ok, come on in.”

The studio is a small space arranged in a very strange way. You have reflected many times on the architectural reasons that could have caused such awkward divisions of space to exist. Right now, you are grateful that they hide the mess you and MC never cared to tidy. The man takes the small stairs that lead directly to Razma’s atelier, which you have been using as a living room. He stands in the middle of the room with a calm, reflective look in his eyes. He picks up what looks like a notebook from the bookcase and gently turns the pages, looking through its content. He chuckles, then puts it back. You watch him silently while attempting to hide your discomfort. Turning towards you with a faint smile, he says: 
“Thank you for letting me in. I’ll be on my way now.” He stops at the door.

“You know, Razma always said that his art was for the people.” He turns towards you before adding: “He never had kids, but considered the young generations of artists to be the inheritors of his legacy. Have a good day.”

You go back to the kitchen where you left your coffee, still unsettled by the strange visitor.

MC’s famously loud yawn fusions with an attempt at talking while he stretches his arms.

“Wha’ wa’ all ‘at about?”

You stand still with a blank stare, not knowing what to say.

“Are you ok mate?”

“Yeah. Some cryptic friend of Razma came to visit the studio, all good.”

“Cool.”

MC goes back to the room. You know what’s coming and start rolling your eyes before you hear it. 
“IT’S SUPER LATE. WHY DIDN’T YOU WAKE ME UP, I NEED TO HEAD TO WORK!” 
The same desperate scream every morning.

“Hey, MC, there’s no work today. We caught the virus, we have to stay home. They’ll be checking on us, bringing us food and stuff until they say we’re good to go. Ten days or so…”

“What?”

“Yeah…must be from that hook up. I’m sorry dude.”

MC stands in silence at the entrance of the doorless room. A fire starts to light up his eyes.

“Mate, what the… I told you not to be going on dates right now! You’re such a selfish - UUURGH!”

He sits on the bunk bed, elbows resting on his thighs, holding his head, letting out a long wail. It will pass. He’s an emotional firecracker that one. You let him do his show. It’s your fault after all.

******

A strident voice resonates painfully in your head.

“You have to leave this apartment i-mme-dia-tely! You are no longer allowed to stay here. I will call the police! Trespassers! Hooligans!”

What in the world is going on? MC is talking to the voice through the closed door, mediating the situation. Everyone loves MC. He makes people laugh. He’s the negotiator.

The voice turned into unintelligible whispers. The negotiation must have gone well. You hear MC’s steps as he come back.

“Sooo…Razma died. We have one month to find a new flat.”

The fever takes hold of your mind. Images of Razma’s sculptures interrupt your thoughts. The fight with the landlady, layered under the old man’s voice, repeats endlessly in your dreams. Razma died. Razma has no children. Razma’s art is for the people…

****************************************

“Dude, I had the most insane visions during my fever…”

The worst has passed. You feel tired but considerably better. Just as you start talking, MC interrupts- “MATE, SO DID I!”

You both laugh and look at each other with the kind of complicity that only old friends can have, knowing you had the same idea.

“Are we really doing this?” 
You both laugh again.

“No dude, it’s immoral. It’s illegal. We can’t do it. That stuff only works in dreams and movies.”

“Yeah, you’re right…”

You stare thoughtfully at all the artworks around you. For the first time since you’ve been living here, you start to understand the unique quality of being surrounded by an artist’s oeuvre. For a second, you believe that you’re seeing the work through Razma’s eyes. No. They’re your eyes. The fever might be kicking in again.

The sound of MC leafing through a series of sketches lying against the bookcase vibrates in your ears. It drives you to touch one of the sculptures. As you run your fingers over the cold, polished stone, you understand the meaning in every curve of the piece. You’re about to tell MC when your eye catches a card on the floor. You pick it up.

“Pierre Sardoix, Art Dealer… MC is this yours?”

MC shakes his head. You remember the cryptic old man standing in that spot. It must have fallen from his pocket.

“Look at this!”

You come over and see an unfinished canvas with two figures holding an object. You take the canvas out of the stash of sketches and lay it on the floor. The similarity to the sculpture you were just touching strikes you.

“MC, I think I’m feverish again.” 
He puts his hand on your forehead. 
“You’re good.”
“MC, I just felt this crazy connection with that sculpture over there. Look at it. It’s exactly like the one in the painting.”

“And look,” says MC, looking at an inscription in the bottom right corner, “the future is in their hands.”

MC laughs loudly, with a deep tone that fills every limb of your body with his vitality.

“Mate, we’re doing it. Remember what you told me about that old man saying something about the inheritors of Razma’s legacy?”

No. Something still holds you back. This is not right. This art does not belong to you. Sitting on the sofa, you let your head tilt to the side. Your gaze gently falls on a black notebook half-way out of the shelf. It’s the one the old man picked up when he came to visit. You extend your arm for it. It’s the kind of notebooks that artists use. Flicking through the pages, you find sketches, diagrams, notes in foreign languages. One of them reads : “Whatever you’re thinking right now, do it. I am the facilitator.”

This is it. You are convinced.

******

Mr. Sardoix expects you at 2pm sharp. You put on your best clothes. MC picks out a long, elegant wool jacket from one of wardrobes in the studio. His curls are tamed for the first time in his life. You look good. He does too, surprisingly. You look at him, he looks at you, and you both nod at each other. You check for the tenth time that you have all the documents with you. The black notebook is in your pocket. MC, the negotiator, rehearses the story: “We recently inherited these artworks from our dad that passed away…”. You’re ready. Let’s go.

“$20,000?!” You repeat the number one, two, three times. The sculpture sold for $20,000. The unfinished canvas sold for $25,000. You look at MC with your mouth wide open. A few minutes ago, you only had $5 left in your bank account. Now you finally have enough to open your own studio.

******

The old man sits at his usual table in the café. Picking up the newspaper, a story in the arts section catches his attention. He chuckles and says to himself “Well Razma, the future is now in their hands.”