Short Story / Nils Runeberg and the Hand of God
Here in lies the story of a destitute painter’s rise to glory—glory that rolled in quick as a wave only to recede, leaving a thick residue of despondency.
Nils Runeberg had come to the city to fulfill his calling as an artist, but had quickly run out of capital and soon realized the hard plight of an artist. He never had any intentions of being anything else in life. As a kid, he had visions of his grand gallery exhibits, complete with hobnobbing in the Hamptons where he’d be likened to Warhol. A year after he set out to fulfil this vision it became quite clear that none of this would be realized. A year of painting and all he had produced was a ragged apartment filled up with half done canvases. Money was extremely tight and often he would head to less than straight nightclubs to gather the money he needed for the first of every month.
Eventually he fell behind in his rent and was served an eviction notice, on his birthday of all days. He was too ashamed to return home, to return to that rural town that had held him prisoner for early, tenured years of existence. How could he return to that place where Christ was pushed with every meal; where and the expectation to “live as Christ would live” stole the sweet scent of consciousness from Nils nose for the aesthetic. He was also quite sure his family would sniff out his deplorable deeds and ostracize him in some attempt to force the sacrament of penance. He would rather try his fate on the streets then burn in the contempt of his Christian kin. He had become lost in a world of ill ambition.
One night, soon after the notice, he came down with a horrible fever. His head felt thick with steamy blood and his body trembled with nightmarish sweat. He popped pills, stolen from a drug store, hoping to end his terrible sickness; but it was of little use. As he stumbled around his soon to be vacant apartment collecting things he desired to keep he fell into a swoon, and consciousness ceased to attribute itself to him.
Nils awoke to a thunderous knocking upon his door. His fever seemed to have broken, as his clothes were soaked through and scented with sweat. The knocking persisted and Nils slowly gained his feet to make way to the door.
As he approached the door, he called out, “who is it?”
But no reply came. As he reached to open the door the knocking stopped and a voice spoke out, “Nils, you have 3 days until I return.”
Nils hesitated at the peculiar statement, then flung open the door to meet the voice, but the patter of footsteps upon the stairs was all that met him there.
“I have a week until the first, and I plan to be here until then” Nils called down the stairs in confused frustration before returning to his apartment.
Nils had awaked from his faint to a strange reality indeed; as he tried to comprehend the previous situation he began to feel sick again. He was sure his landlord was trying to scare him out before the eviction date; she had probably already rented it, and the new tenant wanted to be in by the first. As he thought, he began to pack up his things in the manner before his slumber. Sifting through the numerous canvases that lay unfinished, he came upon a most curious piece—Curious because he had no recollection of ever starting it, but curious still because it appeared to him to be quite good. A piece definitely fit to show Violet thought Nils as he held it to the light.
It was a vibrant watercolor depicting the crucifixion of Christ; the only thing it was missing was Christ himself. There, in stunning artistic strokes, stood the two thieves upon their crosses, but the space for their savior was left unrendered. There were hills in the background that appeared to leap off the page; in the foreground were the witnesses, though their eyes were fixed on a peculiar cloud that hung in the sky—peculiar because at first glance it looked like an outstretched hand, but to look at it again, was to see an ordinary cumulous cloud. In fact, Nils wondered if the painting was already complete.
Just as he was about to ponder further, another knock beat about the door. This time Nils was quick to his feet and dashed toward the threshold. Before he could answer it, a piece of paper came sliding under the door and footsteps descended loudly on the stairs.
Nils stalled puzzled by the paper for a second, then pulled open the door and ran down the stairs. Bursting from the stairwell he saw no one in the lobby at all, only the bad landscape art that hung about the antechamber of his building. Nils quickly mounted the steps and returned to his apartment to read the paper delivered through his door. Upon it was written an obscure quotation from a great American romantic, whose name eludes me now. It read:
“Nobody, I think, ought to look at pictures if they cannot find a great deal more in them than the artist has actually expressed.”
Nils stared at the peculiar note for quite some time. He was not sure why it had been delivered to him or even by whom. None of his friends were much for practical jokes and it was a late hour for that kind of mischief anyway. With the realization of the time came the realization of his hunger; however with nothing in the cupboards Nils was forced to retire to bed with an empty stomach.
So the cousin of death cozened up with Nils and soon sleep gave way to dreams; Nils dreamt of a great feast. This feast was set in humble banquet hall, with a long oak table and many a merry face. The ambiance of it all was quite vivid, so much so that Nils more than once questioned if he was dreaming by pinching some flesh or pulling some hair in an attempt to distinguish reality. At the head of the table there sat an empty seat; all eyes beckoned him there, for he was the guest of honor. Once seated he recognized all the faces, which were mere foliage before. They were all his friends and relations from home, they all seemed joyous locked in conversation and wine; only stopping to throw him a wink or an approving eye. The dream began to fade and Nils could feel himself falling back to reality when, like a punctual prick above the elbow, the dream surged again as the door to the hall swung open pouring in the feast.
There were the most marvelous foods present, everything from the choicest meat to the freshest produce There was also a bounty of wine; carafe after carafe came to the table as the mirthful crowd drank and drank. Nils could not help but gorge himself; and as he ate between gulps of laughter and wine, genuine joy seeped through to his marrow. Just as he was draining the dregs of the last carafe his stomach dropped and he caught himself with consciousness. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness of his room he realized his earthly hunger.
Half-dressed and alive with energy he ran about the apartment looking for the canvas—the canvas of the missing Jesus. After turning over every half-done canvas that lay strewn about the place he began to wonder if the painting existed at all. “How long had he slept and what had he dreamed?” were questions that began to eat at his sanity.
Nils could not believe that he had dreamt such a wonderful image. He thought of all those drunken nights in the city when he would return home to sit at his easel and capture some scene that danced in his head; out of all those half-formed delusions he hap-hazardly brought to life, his crucifixion scene was the only one worth his while. His lease was up soon and he had nothing to show violet so surly he would be forced to return home. The thought of returning home the wayward son whose dreams had killed his spirit defeated Nils to tears. Failure seemed to brand itself to his flesh as Nils retreated into the crutch of the couch, drawing his knees to his chest, and waited for quiet to transfixed his mind.
Nils awoke from his embryonic slumber to a thunderous knocking upon his door. The knock resonated in some languid dream, calling him from his repose with an occult beat. Catching reality with his feet he began running for the door intent on catching the trick that had been about him. He reached the door with a violent tug and it opened to a slack jawed youth of rough appearance, with vacancy for eyes.
“Congratulations” said the voice behind the face. “ I just saw your exhibit downtown; it was quite remarkable.”
Nils was certainly taken aback, for he could not place the face; but then again there was much he could not remember about his time in the city.
“ You don’t remember me uh…yeah I guess we all try to block out the hustle…”
“ You must have me mistaken sir, I believe you have me confused with someone else.” Replied Nils, eager to end the encounter.
“No way man, I never forget a trick turner…especially one with an exotic name like Nils.”
“Well there is your mistake sir, my name is Lukas…Lukas Peters” retorted Nils as embarrassment swept over him. The man then gave Nils an annoyed look and was about to leave when he turned and said,
“Just cause you beat it Nils doesn’t mean you’re above it…”
“ The names Lukas “ shouted Nils as he slammed the door. On the other side he heard a faint Fuck you, and then some feet on the stairs. Nils was just glad that the conversation was over. He had remembered the lad from The Jolly Roger; an alternative nightclub he had frequented; however The Lad’s first remarks had so startled Nils that he was sure the man was mistaken. How could he possibly be on exhibit? He had shown his work to no one.
Just then he heard the caw of his alarm clock, he remembered setting it a couple of days ago; but for what? Then all at once like the final pieces of some jigsaw puzzle everything came together. Today was his meeting with Violet, the gallery owner, today was his last chance to skirt utter failure, and he had nothing. Then he remembered the conversation at the door. Was it possible he had already delivered the painting to violet and she had accepted it? Without much rational thought Nils raced for the door; he had to get down to the gallery to see if it was true.
Runeberg arrived at the gallery by cab, just as the bohemians from the village were forming at the door. Nils was slightly thrown aback, he thought it peculiar that Violet would ask him to come by on an exhibit date. The crowd of people alerted himself to his own haggard appearance and he sprung for the cab making causal adjustments to his hair and cloths.
Nils approached the line with modest hesitation wondering if he would need ticket. He was about to ask someone when he saw a colorful, surreal poster with Jefferson Airplane lettering spelling out artists on exhibit; one name in particular caught Nils and that was his own. It was written under Basquais in gimmicky psychedelic font. His emotion, which was something between amazement and frustration, almost forced a faint; but Nils caught himself on the gaudy, ornamental, velvet rope that dictated the nature of the line.
Regaining his balance, Nils pondered the possibility of stumbling through his feverish daze to Violet and giving her the painting of Christ. He now remembered the first knock on the door—who was that? What did they want? What was that note? The events of the previous three days were quite hazy and the harder Nils try to recollect the more they slipped into the shadows of doubt.
“Ticket” said the face that appeared in front of Nils.
Stumbling for words Nils blurted out, “I’m Nils Runeberg, I believe I’m on exhibit here”
The employ took an annoyed look and asked for him to please leave, which Nils responded to by demanding to see Violet. With the roll of the eyes the employ whispered in the ear of a slender, scholarly looking man and asked Nils to please wait a moment.
“What seems to be the issue?” asked a sleek, feminine voice at Nils Back.
Turning, he met his first and only contact to the art world eye to eye.
“Violet, its me Nils…Nils Runeberg”
“I don’t know what you are pulling here; but I knew Nils, and you sir are certainly not him.” Responded Violet, slightly taken aback.
“ I know I look a little ragged, I’ve been out of sorts you know” just then Nils stopped and caught what seemed like a drift and asked, “did you say knew”
“ Yes sir, you see the real Nils Runeberg was found dead in his apartment last year, right around this time. So I would appreciate if you would play your morbid joke somewhere else.”
The whole room seemed to spin as the life drained out of Nils, he staved off unconsciousness; but he had to grab the ceremonial rope again.
“Listen sir if you would like to view the piece I suppose I could let you take a little peak but then you will have to leave.” Suggested Violet getting ahead of a potential scene with an unstable subject.
“ I believe I would like that” was all Nils could manage to say as she began to lead him to the painting of the late Nils Runeberg.
On the way to the canvase Violet explained how a year earlier she had been in contact with Nils as a potential client of hers. Apparently he had missed an appointment between them and she figured he had returned home or left the city due to financial reasons. A couple of days later, she explained how she received a call from the police affirming the death of Nils Runeberg.
“Why did the police call you” asked Nils, now quite sure there was another Nils Runeberg who was also a painter.
“ Well you see, he had apparently overdosed on over the counter cold medicine, while in a feverish daze; a daze which apparently produce the painting that now hangs here. They called me because the note asked that the painting be giving to my gallery. I’ve been sitting on it since then, When this exhibit for late modern artists came up On thought of it and dragged it for the show” explained Violet “What is the painting of?” Asked Nils
“Why see for your self” retorted Violet pointing to the canvas now in front of them.
As Nils looked he saw before him, larger than life, his painting of Christ’s death. This time it was complete, it included Christ, thick between the two thieves, hanging by nothing. There was no cross, for it actually appeared, through the spatial relations of the image, that Christ was held by the cloud that hung in the background, only now there was no mistaking its resemblance to a hand.
Even more amazing than the completed canvas though was the fact that Nils now remembered every labored stroke of paint. Quite lucid now was the remembrance of the painting’s conception; and how he had struggled to render it in a fashion he believed to be honest. He began to clap his hands in gesture, while he sighed and said, “It’s called the Hand of God”
“ It was left untitled actually, but that name seems very suiting “ replied Violet.
“Do you know why the artist used watercolor, instead of a more substantial paint?” questioned Nils with a growing smile.
“ Well, we have no definitive answer, but some critics suggest Nils to be remarking on the thin veil belief Christianity holds in contemporary society.” Suggested Violet trying her best to come off as learned in artistic criticism.
Nils of course knew why the painting was done in watercolor in fact it was rather clever and he began to believe that there was some truth in Violet’s answer as well. He tried to explain to her that there was a painting under the painting. He first tried to explain that he knew Nils and had lost touch with him; to which Violet laughed and asked him to please be on his way now. Before Nils knew what he was saying he offered to buy the piece, to which Violet laughed again and questioned him having the money. Much to both their surprise Nils pulled from his pocket 3,000 dollars and offered it to violet.
She was quite taken aback and didn’t know how to take the proposition, but being the business women she was and considering the small response to the painting resolved to take the money and relinquish the canvas to Nils. After which Nils asked her if she had a sponge so he could show her the true endeavor of the deceased artist.
Needless to say, their conversation and the exchange of said money had gained the whole room and its occupants for an audience. Everyone was quite intrigued and a small, wrinkled man stepped forward and offered Nils what he had asked, along with a bottle of Evian with which to wet it.
Violet seemed to be opposed to the mounting events but the soft feel of the folded bills reminded her of her relinquished control. Nils, quietly eyeing Violet, wet the sponge and began to methodically brush the painting and release the concealed image beneath.
As the paint began to loose itself from the canvas, the image of Christ took on a dark, sooty appearance, as if attacked by a rainy deluge, discoloring the water. The miserable crowd at Christ’s feet began to run down the canvas in rainbow rivulets mocking the would-be blood of Jesus’ punctured limbs, as the image gave way to another beneath. As Nils worked, the crowd behind him wrestled for sight lines and small gasps were audible as Nils moved and someone caught a glimpse. Finally the watercolor was washed away and Nils stepped back for the crowd to see.
What the small crowd at that modest gallery saw that day was a painting of stunning talent, dare I suggest genius. It depicted the figure of Judas bent upon his knees with a heavy wooden cross bowing his back. His hands stretched out to a faceless figure, as if to receive Eucharist, but they clearly reached for the pouch of silver that dangled there.
“ It’s Called God’s True servant,” said Nils as consciousness ceased to attribute its self to him.
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Let’s start with the simplest problems first. Your reference to Violet comes very early in the story with no explanation of who she is, you then proceed to reference her several times before finally introducing her fully and explaining her importance. Her importance should be implied more if you’re going to mention her name without introducing the character. As it stands your narrator(or character, I’m not sure which he is) mentions her offhandedly several times but her importance, position and relation to Nils is unclear. Secondly let’s deal with the plot as a whole. The dead narrator narrating his story towards the shocking!(?) twist ending of the narrator already being dead is, well, done to death. No pun intended, but seriously, it’s just a very hackneyed concept, file it along with split personality and evil twins. It’s a literary device everyone toys with at some point or another, but you have to be really great to make it actually work. This, is not really great. You confuse tenses and misuse words very often, And on one notable occasion you use ‘I’ which I suppose is you the author/narrator, however it is the only time you do and stands out greatly from the rest of the piece. On a lesser note there’s numerous times you make small grammatical or spelling errors, I tend not to nitpick at these, but there are quite a few, mostly involving tense, which can be much more confusing than a simple misspelling. Most people can wrap their brains around a misspelling, but not around a tense change that comes jarringly. Also, you seem to display an unfamiliarity with art world in general. I believe at one point you misspell Basquiat. If you’re going to write about an artist, you need to learn more about the world of art, and how galleries and artists work.
I do find it interesting that this is written almost in the style of a Russian Classic(Dostoevsky’s ‘Notes from Underground’ and ‘Crime & Punishment’ come to mind). By which I mean a very wordy, descriptive style. But your descriptions are not of any great depth, you don’t paint the image and show the reader what you’re imaging. Find a better way to say things, a more descriptive way. Draw your reader into your world, then any holes in plot or suspension of disbelief become secondary.
All in all I think you need to start fresh rather than do a simple rewrite. Think of a less hackneyed concept to use as your plot. Create more imagery, paint the world, so to speak, and give your main character some real emotional torment. As it stands it sounds like a ponce whining about a set of circumstances all too common who somehow paints a masterpiece after his death that hardly strikes of a masterpiece.
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The prose has it, your descriptions are solid and your images are good. The problems lies within your dialogue. I get the impression that this story is trying too hard, too grandiose, to much. It feels like an early 19th century piece, not a modern one. Overall, my interest faded in and out. I’d work on the dialogue to punch things along more naturally.
Very nicely written. Your writing is very stylish and conscise. I like it a lot. I saw no mistakes or typos or anything anywhere. This shows that you mean business when it comes to trying to get this bad boy published. Which will make it easy for agents and publishers alike to pinpoint your story out of the many bad ones out there. Your diction is excellent as well and I found myself flowing through your story without trouble. Everything has such a nice and even flow to it. It all forms together so nicely, nothing sounds awkward or forced—and thats especially important when it comes to the dialogue of the characters.
I like the scene where you are describing the painting where christ is missing. You brought the painting to life almost. I thought it was great how you captured that in a single paragraph. Very good stuff. keep up the good work.
Great style, unique in the dialog approach and at points it didn’t quite seem to work but I’ve now re-read this piece nearly 4 times and the more I read it the more sense it makes. Where those slips into fuzzy confusion lie I’m still unsure. Although I do really like the writing itself, descriptive yet not overzealous in descriptions. The only bit of criticism I would suppose could be made, without any reference to a target audience at which this piece would be aimed so to speak, I found some of the words used throughout could be changed due to the irregularity of their use which may tend to leave some readers questioning what exactly you meant and what you were going for. The first of such instances was in my head from the very first line ”...only to recede, leaving a thick residue of despondency.” though understanding what you wanted to say and quite elegantly written as it is, I think it may lose it’s zest to some. Otherwise, great work, looking forward to reading more from you!
I really enjoyed reading this piece. It was very cleverly written and I don’t mind weird stories where not everything is explained and some questions are left to the reader’s imagination.
Saying that though, naively, how did he gather money at the night clubs?
“How long had he slept and what he dreamed?” I think should be “How long have I slept and what have I dreamed?” I wouldn’t be saying to myself that in third person.
I found it a little unbelievable that Nils would end the conversation by giving a false name. I thought it would be more likely he’d accept the praise to end the conversation quicker and without an argument.
The ending was superb and I loved the idea of the true meaning being hidden under the water colour.
Well done.
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