【Baizao Ke/all Ke】Flood Canaan Celebration

【白造家克/all克】洪水迦南庆典

https://42milk.lofter.com/post/31ed617b_2b430742b

"They say we have no tomorrow, and they are right.

Excellent"*

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1

Few people know today that the model for the painting "The Pagan Swan", which has been very famous since its creation, was a genuine Far Eastern boy. He was less than 19 years old at that time, and his naked skin had already been accustomed to being bathed in the staggered and dripping gazes. He frankly unbuttoned his buttonholes in front of everyone, revealing his blade-like collarbone and small waist. The boy wearing a laurel crown sat on the scarlet velvet cloth, his arms covered with white gauze embraced the swan paper puppet, and the soft cloth that barely covered his shoulders fell along his waistline. The young body displayed on the stage was as white as the first snow. In order to play the role of an exotic princess, the model put on heavy makeup, with bright golden eyeshadow on the corners of her eyes, and thick black eyeliner outlining a sharp upward arc. When he occasionally blinked his eyelashes, fine golden powder would fall. The boy's lips were painted red with cheap lipstick, as if they were dipped in hot blood, a glaring wound across his pale face. When the model sat on the simple throne and looked at the painters solemnly, it was as if the ghost of the mysterious foreign girl in the story, with her swan that could only answer any question in the world, descended into this cold studio, waiting for the next suitor who was destined to be hanged.

Painters have a natural preference for viewing animals. They affectionately call the black-headed boy the Silent Muse. The model from the ancient country does not understand the foreign language and always faces inquiries with a silent smile. Due to malnutrition, the boy's height did not change significantly until the end of secondary development during puberty. The body wrapped in an old coat was thin and pale. He has a natural advantage in playing the role of the opposite sex. The bookish face can be reborn with just a little color. In front of the canvas, he can be a pagan princess kissing the saint's lips, a beautiful virgin blessed with golden rain by God, or a crazy queen who kills her own children to avenge her unfaithful husband.

But their stories had nothing to do with him. When he walked into the studio, he had to pose for the next few hours and dutifully act as a silent ghost. Cheap young bodies were charged by the hour, and the salary for a weekend was less than fifty soli. But after the war, this was a rare and better choice, and he could sell his job with dignity.

There were other models in the studio, including many beautiful girls. He remembered that there was a girl who attracted much attention. Her nickname "Golden Tit" came from her light steps. The girl had long platinum-colored hair, which set off her snow-white skin. There were always admirers who gave her roses or chocolates after work. In 1352, a piece of high-quality milk chocolate could be sold at a high price of 38 gold pounds on the black market in Backlund, which was an expense that ordinary citizens could not afford. A month later, the proud tit accepted the flowers from the pursuer, took her lover's arm and walked into the rich night. After that, he rarely saw the girl again, until a new muse replaced the absent one, and the golden tit was quickly forgotten.

"That's just a choice. In the face of cold and hunger, love is just a fragile illusion. It's better to be a gentleman's mistress than to end up in a red theater - although it's essentially selling your body, so why not choose a good buyer for yourself."

The young man with black curly hair adjusted the crystal lens of his right eye and said with a smile: "You seem to have a lot of experience in this."

"Of course. After all, I have personally experienced difficult times." He smiled in the same way as his interlocutor, with a gentle sarcasm at the corner of his mouth. "Didn't I also sell myself to your father?"

Back to the cold winter after the war, he had to trek through the snow hungry on his part-time days, walk through five blocks, and return to his unheated rental house. He just wanted to continue his studies. If it was before the war, he might have a chance to become a history teacher, but now he might be kicked out because he couldn't pay the rent. Across the street from the collective apartment where the teenager rented was the chaotic red-light district. Late at night when he returned home after finishing his part-time job, he met many prostitutes standing under the street lights to solicit customers, their beautiful faces hidden behind the smoke of cheap cigarettes and the lace gauze decorated with the brim of their hats. It's not that there were no pimps trying to seduce him. In the eyes of shrewd "businessmen", as long as hunger and coldness pushed him at the right time, he would fall from the fragile floating ice of life sooner or later.

The insiders in the studio had different guesses. To get a glamorous modeling job, one needs connections. The boy's introducer was a senior art professor who had little contact with the boy before. "I was just asked by someone to help a poor student."

The professor had tactfully reminded his colleagues who were eager to make a move that this silent muse was not an object they could pursue and express their love for at will. She was a plant temporarily stored in the greenhouse and her property had been signed in advance. So the boy was able to maintain precious silence in the obscure gaze. On the second Sunday after the portrait of the foreign princess holding a swan was completed, he returned home before dark, which was a rare occasion. He walked over the rusty steps holding a paper bag of bread sticks. The sound of rats running came from the ventilation duct above his head, and the corridor was always filled with a foul smell of unknown origin. Someone used dark green paint to paint twisted letters on the corners of the peeling wall: God is dead, judgment is coming, and angels have fallen into the flood -

Under the fluorescent light, his shadow was stretched to a funny proportion. The boy hummed a song and fumbled in the pocket of his old coat for the front door key. In his peripheral vision, he saw his shadow sweeping across a pair of men's boots. The visitor's short platinum hair was particularly eye-catching in the dim light. The man was wearing a double-breasted trench coat, which was made of exquisite material that should not appear in a cheap apartment. When he looked into those childlike, clear, light-colored eyes, he immediately understood the legendary cavalry who was frightened by the dragon's gaze and forgot to resist.

"Good evening, Klein, I hope I won't disturb you from preparing dinner."

The uninvited guest walked out of the shadows, like a concrete nightmare rising from the depths of darkness, and appeared in the corridor of the dilapidated apartment. Klein looked up at the man's warm smile. For a moment, he wanted to retreat and refute. The heavy, wet and hot taste of blood once again slowly flowed on his tongue. He wanted to say that the other party did disturb him, but at the same time, Klein remembered his modeling job. The gift of coincidence could not really be free. Now it was time for him to pay the price for such just-right care.

Finally, he stepped aside and calmly invited the man to come in and sit down. Didn't he want to close the door and keep the man out? But Klein knew too well that it was futile. When facing this man, when he decided to approach him, a door, a shield, a wall, or all the strict laws and morals would not be enough to stop him.

2

Klein Moretti met the priest's children at a parish wedding held in the early summer of 1346.

(See the forum for more details)

http://kleinlove.com/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=3199