A Mentor – an excerpt from the upcoming novel “To Heal A Broken Heart”

Leonora’s studio was cluttered. Her kitchen was worse. Her face revealed nothing.
“So, you came. What do you feel here in my house?”
Cissy was flummoxed. So blunt. Right to the point. She tried to answer.
“I feel lost. I don’t know what to look at here. Sorry, sorry. That’s rude of me.”
“Great start. Be rude. Be bold. Do you want to see my latest painting?”
“Yes, please. Thank you. I would love to see anything you want to show me.”
“Are you always so deficient in bravery? That won’t do.”
“Sorry. I just don’t know how to act with you. You are so accomplished. And I am not sure what to do next with my art.”
“Next time bring me one of your paintings. We will talk.”
Leonora’s kitchen displayed a colorful atmosphere with assorted, non-matching cups and saucers. Cissy sat as upright as she could. Her spine ached with the effort. Could she maintain this posture? Probably not. She felt young and silly.
“So, your name is Cissy. Were you born with that name? Or, is it a nickname?”
No one had ever questioned her name. She was not used to such directness. She felt like her name, a sissy, someone who ran and hid when she couldn’t face life. But fate had brought her to this moment.
“I was born Celeste, but it was not what everyone called me. I have always been Cissy.”
“Ok, not a great name, but let’s move on. I do like the name Celeste. I can show you some of my celestial paintings now, if you like. Maybe they will speak to you.”
Cissy followed into a messy studio with half-finished paintings scattered on tables and chairs, some finished work of angels and horses and small children floating. The one on the easel only had shades of blue and green, no form to them, no shapes. Oh, my, what a world this woman lives in. I could never. Never what? Cissy just knew she was terrified to think of painting anything like Leonora’s other-worldly images. Cissy waited for Leonora to speak. Minutes passed with no words spoken.
“Can I call you Celeste, just for today? You seem dreamy. You have a faraway look on your face. Has anyone ever said that to you? Do you think of yourself as dreamy?”
More minutes passed. Cissy had the nerve to not answer the question. But then she found some words.
“I don’t know who I am. I just know who I have been, a sissy.”
“Why do you think you are in Mexico? Do you know yet?”
“I think I am just now getting the idea that I am here for its mysticism and its art world. I think my life is just beginning. I will turn thirty-six in October, after living here one whole year. I came here after I ran from my New York life and a bad man. But he might find me and I might not resist him. I might go back. I don’t want to go back but…” The sentence hung in the void. More minutes passed. Cissy felt a hand on her shoulder.
Leonora withdrew her hand and spoke so softly, Cissy needed to lean in.
“Being honest with me is a big step. Most people just want me to tell them what my paintings mean. I doubted myself for a long time, especially after I was saved from a dark fate when my father wanted to commit me yet again to a mental institution. My relationship ended when Max was captured by the Nazis. Do you know about Max Ernst’s work? You should look at it. I was saved by a stranger. He came just in time before I was sent to another loony bin. He brought me here and I never left. I am happy here, like nowhere else, even Paris where I was until the war.”
Listening to Leonora was like being in a trance. But it opened something new: A wave of hope that led to an honest revelation. “I have a sister who looms over me. She is mentally ill, in and out of loony bins. I tried to save her. I feel such guilt that I couldn’t. I can’t move on without feeling responsible for her illness.”
The intimacy ended in a wordless moment while drinking tea from the wonderful mismatched cups. A Ouija board lay open on a shelf nearby. Cissy’s blouse was covered with sweat, even though the room was cool. She sniffed her pungent trailing odor but somehow it didn’t bother her.
“Come back next Wednesday.”
“Thank you, I mean, that’s great. I will.”
The stench of sweat wouldn’t leave; nor would Cissy’s appetite to paint more.
A plan was formed. She would go into her art room in the mornings, pretend she was Frida or maybe Leonora, whoever came to mind. Frida would give her courage to paint and Leonora would remind her that she wasn’t alone. After all, where would Leonora be after her horrific hospital experience? If she had not been rescued by Hans, a friend who was a German diplomat, what might have happened to her? Celeste could take hope from Leonora’s story. Hans took her with him from Paris to his post in Mexico City and there she lived, like in a fairy tale, as the princess who was rescued from her imprisonment in the tower. Where would Leonora be if she hadn’t been in love with Max Ernst who introduced her to the world of surrealism? Leonora embraced her own style of surrealism where mythic creatures like unicorns ran with children covered by clouds. Her paintings told stories. When Cissy saw Leonora’s paintings, she only had feelings and no words. As Celeste, she knew Leonora was not famous like Frida. Did that matter to her? Maybe not. Leonora held herself with such pride and confidence, Cissy knew it didn’t matter if Leonora was famous or not. She seemed content. Adopting Frida and Leonora as mentors, Celeste could grow and paint in her own unique style. Even if she showed no one her art, she would move ahead. Mimosita waved her branches in approval. I want to paint you, Mimosita. G&S