Chapter 9 (1) - The Mysterious Art Museum
Let's organize the situation.
I seem to be dozing off again in the art gallery.
And I'm dreaming. A dream of July 4th, 1939.
What does this dream want to show me?
I looked down at Mucha, struggling for breath.
What I wanted to see was when he was in his prime, but now only an old man battered by the years remains, his moments of brilliance long gone.
Since he's asleep, I should take a look around this room.
It's a rare privilege to see Alphonse Mucha's bedroom.
True to his fame and wealth accumulated even during his lifetime, his bedroom is decorated with very expensive and luxurious furniture.
Interestingly, unlike his flamboyant painting style, the room has a luxurious yet simple interior. I'm not sure if this is his taste or his wife's.
Sitting in front of the painting I had seen earlier, I carefully examined it again.
The painting is only sketched with thick lines characteristic of Mucha, without any color, reminding me of coloring books for kindergarten or elementary school students.
My father used to buy those for me occasionally when he was alive, but after he passed away, I couldn't afford such things. It's been a long time since I've seen anything like this.
Looking around, I see the paints Mucha often used during his lifetime.
Gouache, an opaque watercolor paint mixed with Arabic gum, and Tempera, made by mixing egg yolk, honey, fig juice, and other ingredients with pigments.
Nowadays, such paints are readily available, so there's no need to mix materials by oneself. Ah, but this is 1939, so these paints would already be produced commercially. I used them a lot during my school days.
Unable to dare touch someone else's painting, suppressing my urge to paint, I suddenly had this thought.
".............Yes?"
Oops, I unknowingly asked back. Did he hear me?
He struggled to get up. Maybe because I grew up in the East, where manners are important, my body reflexively moved to help the old man, but I hesitated, thinking that it was not certain yet. Mucha got up and leaned his back on the bed frame, then picked up the Bible that was next to him.
The old man who prayed quietly.
Maybe he believed it was the last moment of his life? The sight of the praying old man was almost devout.
It would be better to check if he can see me, if he can hear my voice. It would be better than hesitating like this, neither here nor there.
"Excuse me, sir."
".........."
"Do you need me to call someone if you're in pain?"
Then, Mucha, who was praying with his eyes closed, slowly opened his eyes and looked at me.
"Only I have to go with you to our house. The others are too young, so come back much later."
[T/N: He seems to have mistaken MC with Grim reaper, and grim reaper calling someone]
What does that mean? No, more importantly, did we just have a conversation? Yeah, there's no need for the rules of the previous dream to match. It doesn't matter what happens in a dream anyway.
I was happy to have a chance to talk with the painter I admired, even in a dream.
But I have to clear up this misunderstanding first. I can't make someone who can live for another 10 days prepare for the last moment already.
"Excuse me, but you're mistaken. I'm not from the underworld, and I'm certainly not the one who will take you to heaven."
Mucha didn't seem surprised by my words, he just stared at me blankly.
Maybe he had seen a lot of things in his long life, so this wasn't surprising. But still, it's normal to be surprised when a stranger comes into your bedroom in the middle of the night.Updated from novelbIn.(c)om
