Wine and Gun

Herstal stared at Albarino's back for a while, and then the other party suddenly knew that he was awake, although Herstal did not make any sound. Albarino suddenly said, "Mock—I tasted mockery in the air, what do you want to say?"

Hestal himself couldn't taste anything other than blood in the air. He thought about it and asked, "Do you always act like this? Without a plan, just gān what comes to your mind?"

"What do you count as having no plan? Did you see the table next to you, there's a notebook on it, with sketches of my work in it." Albarino asked without looking up, his hands He was holding wire and pliers and was threading some bones together. Based on Herstal's knowledge of the human body, he actually couldn't tell which one of those bones should be connected to which one.

Herstal glanced at the rickety table, which he was sure had four legs of different lengths. The notebook was on the table, and Herstal thought that what Albarino said just now should mean that he agreed with him to move this thing, so he took the notebook and put it on his lap.

He could see a few dried bloodstains on the leather cover of the book, and he could easily imagine that Albarino was wearing rǔ rubber gloves, and when the gloves were still bloody, he was writing and drawing on the pages. look.

"Do whatever you want," Herstal added a reproach to the word. "Even if the killing of Sharp was an accident, it's entirely on your whim to set them up as a Sunday gardener. Besides, you don't want to Procrastinating until next Sunday and not wanting to start work while I'm away leaves you with only 24 hours to do it all. As a result, you obviously have to throw away all your normal physiological needs Come to gān about it - so yes, I did say 'no plan'."

Albarino threw a bloody mass of something unknown on top of the mound of innards on the plastic sheeting, smoothing the strands of hair back on his forehead without hesitation, though Herstal looked at him. His face was not seen, but apparently the action had rubbed several bloodstains on his face.

Then Albarino gave a loud laugh.

"I sense your distaste for people who don't do things according to plan," said Albarino lightly, "but suppose that the artists were inspired by the gods, and they recalled the idea at the moment of the gods. The perfection of the world, and thus creating your own work as a copy—then you don’t know where the inspiration comes from or when it will come, all you can do is obey it.”

Herstal snorted coldly, apparently feeling that Albarino was just making excuses for himself with philosophers who lived more than two thousand years ago. He lowered his head and opened the book in his hand: of course, it was neatly bound sketch paper, without writing, without any date or signature, only the vague human body sketched by Albarino with a pen.

Herstal did not know that the other party had not systematically studied painting, but no matter how artistic the paintings were, Albarino's paintings were very accurate in grasping the structure of the human body, which may also have something to do with his medical background. relation.

This book has apparently been in use for many years, with cracked skin, frayed footers, and some pages stained with blood accidentally smeared on. Apparently it had been kept by Albarino somewhere in this cabin for his own Works are used as drafts.

Some of the drawings are reminiscent of some of the crimes committed by the gardener, who did draw skeletons in wedding dresses and skulls filled with blood-red pomegranate seeds on the pages. Herstal turned to the last page of the drawing, which was supposed to be the latest content of Albarino's drawings.

There are indeed two human bodies sketched on the page, and Herstal could speculate that's what the gardener left to Billy and Anthony Sharp.

He looked at the painting for a while, feeling sluggish from the uncomfortable sleep and the aches all over his body. But anyway, soon, he recognized it.

Herstal looked up.

Albarino was still just a shadow focused in the light, and he wondered if Herstal's gaze had made him look like a light on his back - but in any case, he suddenly turned around as if he had eyes on his back. Come and look sharply at Herstal.

As soon as he moved his position, the warm orange light was almost hidden behind him, and Herstal's vision suddenly dimmed; and Albarino wiped away the blood that had been cleaned up. His skull rested on his lap, silently entrenched in the darkness.

Under the light of the light, his skin looked strangely smooth and warm, with some mysterious metaphors, and the whole person looked almost silent and unknowable, very much like the "candlelight painter" Georges de Latour The kind of figure that would appear—perhaps the penitent saint with his hand quietly resting on the skull, but Herstal was sure that the man in front of him was not believing in God.

Herstal's finger was on the notebook in front of him, still a little surprised by the picture he saw on the last page.

He spat out a name, as if that said it all: "...Artemisia."

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