"Rajnar Vajra - His Hands Pass Like Clouds" - читать интересную книгу автора (Vajra Rajnar)

within twenty feet of his easel, even when I crept up from behind. "I trust
that today's glorious sun will reflect off your best behavior?"
"I'll try real hard, Uncle Joe," I'd always respond, lying through my
baby teeth.
The "Uncle" was honorary but earned. An understanding had crystallized
between the eccentric painter and the local parents that he would act as an
unofficial daycare provider in exchange for meals and resident privileges
(trust me, the parents got the best of _that_ bargain.)
I always wondered how such an understanding began. When I called the
painter "eccentric," I meant it. Just to give you an inkling, the man spent




Page 1
every day, even in the worst winter weather, outside in the company of the
Atlantic Ocean, and he never painted a single wave, sailboat, or seagull. Just
clouds. As long as he could see clouds he'd paint them. A big, clear plastic
tarp was his answer to rain or snow. On foggy days, not commonplace on Cape
Cod, he'd just stand there and patiently study the bland sky.
****
I have to admit that Joe was an ugly old cuss. He had a sun-dried tomato of a
face and his eyes were undeniably scary. Even my dad, Mr.
You-Think-This-Is-Bad-I've-Seen-Worse, once confessed (under pressure) that he
couldn't remember a fiercer case of cataracts. Joe's corneas were so thickly
encrusted, it seemed impossible for him to perceive anything smaller than an
ocean liner, let alone wield a liner _brush_. Not to mention keep an eye on
brats like me.
Yet he did every task gracefully. He watched over us like a faithful
hawk and the quality of his art never suffered. Those paintings sold fast too,
usually to Martha's Vineyard gallery owners who, like mercantile mountains,
were forced to come to Mohammed. Sometimes tourists who were too savvy or
insensitive to be discouraged by the "Residents Only" signs would drift over
our pathetic few square yards of hauled-in sand (which had to be replaced
after big storms) and watch Joe working. Most would soon haul out cash or
checks, even while the fast-drying acrylics were still tacky, and to their own
astonishment, hand over whatever the Cloudman required without one syllable of
bargaining.
Joe's artwork was exquisite. The painted clouds appeared swollen with a
... _religious_ light, and they evoked peculiar feelings that you could
_almost_ name. The Cloudman's big secret, or so he claimed, was all in the
under-painting.
****
Even discounting the cataracts, it was a mystery how Joe managed to keep track
of as many as seven kids without turning his face away from sky, paints, or
canvas. Ears like Superman (and a bladder to match) was the consensus. If any
of us got overly obnoxious, or took one step past the shallowest waters, that
incredible voice of his would come after us like a charging bull.
"GREGORY. COME HERE AT ONCE."
I've never heard anyone else with pipes like his. His voice was