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Yuri Nabokov was an artist whose paintings had acquired a legendary status due to the uncanny resemblance it shared with the people he painted. There was a great amount of mystic associated with his art and with time his work began to be compared with the likes of Pablo Picasso, Leonardo Da Vinci and Rembrandt Van Rijn. It seemed his brush strokes conveyed a certain level of brio into his paintings and it was widely said that one could notice the apprehensive glittering of consciousness in the eyes of the people his paintings depicted. Also, he charged expensively and only the wealthy could afford his services. But there were no room for arguments as it was generally accepted that his esoteric art deserved every damn cent charged.
It was said that Yuri’s family were Russian Jews and he’d escaped from Russia during World War II after his family were slaughtered by the Nazis. Young, alone and scared, he arrived the shores of America with only a box containing a paint brush and a palette. The palette and brush was a family heirloom passed from father to son for generations and on the day his family were slaughtered, his Pa had pushed the box into his hand and told him to run like the minions from hell were at his heels. But before he took to his heels, his Pa hugged him tightly and implored him to celebrate their life by making a painting of them all, that way they would forever be with him. Yuri did as he was told and till this day, the paintings of his family can be seen lined up on the wall of his studio cum home. It is said that their eyes were ever roving as thought watching over Yuri.
The bulk of Yuri’s clientele were widows, widowers and grieving lovers who came to Yuri seeking a reanimation of a loved one lost. Such was the precision of his art that it soothed the aggrieved and filled their hearts with succor once their eyes beheld the paintings. Each customer felt an enigmatic connection to their paintings, an inexplicable connection akin to those felt in beatified relics. Everyone wondered how he did it and strange theories were cooked up from all sectors. Some claimed he made a pact with the devil, while others suggested he was the devil himself. But all these talks never fazed Yuri as he continued to do what he loved best, painting on bright sunny days.
It was on one of those sunny days that a potential client came over to see him. He’d been putting finishing touches to Sir Simon Edinburgh’s late wife’s painting when a young man barged into his studio unannounced. The young man who introduced himself as Sgt. Jefferson Wolfe was despondent over the sudden death of his betrothed, and hoped to keep her memory alive through Yuri’s esoteric art. But the problem was that Wolfe had little or no money and Yuri wouldn’t work without a substantial fee. So Yuri made it clear to Wolfe that he has set a standard for his art and he wasn’t ready to lower his work to a level of mediocrity because of him. Yuri further stressed that his brush and palette selected his clients not him, therefore his hands were tied in the matter. Wolfe begged and cried but his pleas fell on deaf ears before he was eventually bundled out for threatening Yuri’s life and then physically harassing him.
Two weeks later, Wolfe made good on his threats by breaking into Yuri’s home at night and bashing Yuri’s head to a pulp with his military issued revolver. Halfway through his frenzied attack, Wolfe had paused to admire his handwork, but what he saw made him madder. He saw that the bloodied and pulped up face of Yuri had a ghost of a smile plastered on it as his only seeing eyes mocked Wolfe. So Wolfe continued to bash Yuri’s face till there were blood splatters and splinters of bones flying around the room.
Twenty minutes later and out of breathe, Wolfe lay bloodied on the bedroom floor when he spied something on Yuri’s dressing table. It was the box which housed his brush and palette and a tingle of excitement went up his spine as an inviting thought went through his head. As thought in a trance, he soporifically walked to the dressing table and opened the box. In it was the brush and palette and as he picked them, he felt a strong discharge of current through his body. Now under the influence of obscure forces, all that went through his mind as he sloshed towards the studio was to paint. In the studio, his hands seemed to move in synchronization with the strings of a puppeteer as he moved about the studio, as thought he’d been painting all his life. And before it was known, he’d painted two masterpieces of equal artistic proportions.
Three hours later, and with the memory of his earlier illicit activities but a distant blur, Wolfe lay on his bed stroking his erect genitalia as he admired the smiling painting of his betrothed. The painting was placed on a mantle opposite his bed so that the first and last thing he sees before and after he goes to bed would be her beautiful face. He was still smiling at the painting when he fell asleep, fifteen minutes later. But some time during the night, when Wolfe had woken up to answer the call of nature, he’d looked up at the painting and noticed something was different. The urge to visit the toilet was temporarily abandoned as he drew nearer to inspect the painting of his beloved. But what he saw drove an icy jade of fear into his heart as he stood transfixed while he wet his pants.
The following morning, the whole country was thrown into turmoil over the death of the famous painter. His body had been discovered by his cleaner when she came in for work, so she’d immediately called the law and upon their arrival, a search was conducted, which produced the murder weapon at the scene of the crime. A quick trace showed that the revolver belonged to one Sgt. Jefferson Wolfe and a whole troop was dispatched to his home but the sergeant was nowhere to be found. What was found in his absence were Yuri’s brush and palette along with the painting of Wolfe’s betrothed.
A large manhunt for Sgt. Jefferson Wolfe was organized but till this day he remains wanted in connection to Yuri’s murder. Everyone had some sort of theory as to what had probably happened and where Wolfe might be, but no one bothered to search for him in the most obvious place. If anyone had been unfortunate to see and compare the original painting Wolfe had painted and what was confiscated the next morning after the murder, one would have noticed that Wolfe’s betrothed was no longer smiling but grinning. Secondly, she now had a brush and palette in the painting and hanging on the wall beside her was a just finished painting of a seemingly alive and a most terrified Wolfe. Thirdly, at the bottom right corner of the painting was a much harder to notice inscription. The inscription said, “Now forever and together as one in Hades” and it was signed Yuri Nabokov.
Moreover, only the most observant noticed that in the studio, a smiling painting of Yuri now hung on the wall alongside those of his family. No one knew who painted it or how it’d gotten there and it remains a mystery till this day, just like how the whispers and giggles that could be heard in the studio at night have remained unexplained.
Yuri Nabokov had no known heir because he’d been too deeply immersed with his work that he never considered tying the knot with a woman. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t had a couple of flings in which might have produced an illegitimate child. So till this day, his brush and palette, gathered dust in his studio as it waited patiently for an illegitimate son who definitely would come to wield its mighty power of mysticism. It patiently waited for the day the Nabokov’s legacy will once more be upheld in all its infinite magnificence.
My Dark School Of Thoughts 
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