Aleksey peers outside of the cathedral and confirms the shared ride vehicle is no longer there. He and Zachary cross Taylor Street, enter the brick-paved walkways of Huntington Park, and sit on a bench in the elliptical center facing a copy of Rome's "Fontana della Tartarughe"-Fountain of the Turtles-designed in the sixteenth century by Giacomo Della Porta and Taddeo Landini. The elegant marbles with pink, red, and beige tones are the focal point of the 1.3 acre park that fills approximately half of the city block.
"Where did these clouds come from?" Zachary asks, glancing at the wispy forms swiftly moving over the hotel skyscrapers.
"It reminds me of Seattle, Portland, and the rest of the Pacific Northwest," Aleksey says. "The weather changes every few hours."
"I agree. But you will remain with me if I choose this city, right?"
"Of course."
"Good. Thank you."
"Your decision is drawing close?" Aleksey asks.
"No, it's not," Zachary answers. "Knowing me, it will come out of the blue, like a thunderbolt. I did not expect to have to leave Phoenix. But even if I moved to a new neighborhood, eventually, the temptation of falling back into my old life-going to the same stores, restaurants, gyms, and so forth-would be too natural and easy."
"Yes, there is no doubt you need a fresh start."
"Sometimes I wonder if this obsession with secrecy and evading peril is counterproductive. An utter waste of time, energy, and money. Most pro fighters do not live like this."
"But those guys are not at your level," Aleksey counters. "Most do not realize how critical the mind game is for ultimate success. Others are naive to what is happening underground with some of these leagues. Most vital of all, none of those guys is best friends with Nathaniel Balder."
"You are right," Zachary replies. "It is too late to change now. Nate's friendship comes with giant peaks and hopes, as well as the deepest trenches and dangers. There is no use howling at the moon about it."
"When you first hired me I prayed that Nathaniel would metamorphose upon becoming the super middle weight world champion. Having reached the pinnacle of glory, he would no longer need to provoke his enemies-real or imagined-and be swept up into an existence full of threats, taunts, and fear tactics. By association, you would be safer too-not painted with the same brush, so to speak."
"Nate only intensified upon becoming the champ and then losing his title."
"I have accepted Nathaniel is not going to change," Aleksey says. "I don't fret. I just dedicate myself to keeping you protected. I would put you in a force field bubble if you would let me."
"I trust you would," Zachary says. "No force fields though. I need a bit of freedom for my vices."
They cross the park, pass the grand brownstone James C. Flood Mansion, and enter the legendary forecourt of The Grand Vestige Hotel between two Gothic columns topped with beacon-like lanterns. Perched precariously at the juncture of two steep slopes, the wings of the hotel appear to grasp the southeastern corners of Nob Hill while maintaining a stately countenance and rising to prominence in the San Francisco skyline.
Among the guests exiting vehicles in front of them is a brawny man with unruly ginger curls getting out of a taxi. He is attired in a blue tartan kilt and dark brown boots and politely declines a valet's offer to carry his knapsack and suitcase. Zachary and Aleksey are only steps behind him as he walks over the brick pavers and up four steps adorned with red carpeting. The man glimpses back at Zachary and locks eyes with him before moving through the center entryway and nodding his head in greeting to the uniformed doorman. Instead of veering leftward toward the check-in counters and elevators, the kilted man, about thirty years of age like Zachary, goes forward to a sophisticated lobby seating area with couches and comfortable, oversized chairs next to tables with fanciful lamps. He turns half way around for a better look at Zachary and sets down his suitcase.
"Give me a minute," Zachary winks to Aleksey. "Go on up to the room."
6
Self-Portrait
Four bare outlines, arranged on easels in a crescent shape around him, hint at the possibilities of exhibiting expressed emotion. The angle of the face varies by canvas, as well as the positioning of the eyes and the setting of the mouth. Though they are inspired by the same young man-the artist-they appear to represent four separate individuals.
As a professional, Gustavo has not embarked upon a self-portrait before this moment. He is ready to admit that there is always something of the artist in every piece created, but he has not attempted an outright physical representation of his likeness since art school. He does not know why he dreads painting himself-it is more than his aversion to vanity or discomfort with his flaws-but finds it to be an appropriate project today, perhaps to punish himself for having an artist's block that is paralyzing him at such a precarious time.
Choosing which one to develop further, Gustavo wants to pick the first outline. It is a classic pose, looking forward and directly at the viewer, which is most complimentary to his personal features, particularly his amber irises. If his goal is self-flattery, then he has an easy choice. However, the fourth and final outline intrigues him. Gustavo is looking downward with a titled head, hiding his eyes, though exuding no sadness or despair. He sees traces of his late father and his Brazilian heritage, particularly in his thick eyebrows, high cheekbones, and sensuous lips. Gustavo also foresees a puzzle. The outline beckons continued viewing to determine if the subject is at ease, in pain, revealing vulnerability, or hiding himself behind a formal manner.
Making his selection, Gustavo moves the peculiar outline directly under the lights. He places the other three canvases behind a wall so they can no longer distract him. He prepares his palette, spending the most time blending colors to capture the light and creamy bronze of his skin tone. Gustavo decides against any mixed media. This is an experiment, not a piece he plans to complete for sale, and he has no need to adhere to his past techniques.
For the moment Gustavo ignores the background and paints only his face, hair, neck, and shoulders. The result is pleasing to the eye. Though successful in terms of its enigmatic qualities, he finds it a near failure with conveying much depth about the subject-himself.
He turns away, cleans his palette and brushes, stretches his arms and legs, and takes a stroll around the block to clear his mind. When he returns to the studio, Gustavo studies his portrait from all angles, up close and far away, from floor level and looking downward by standing on a chair. He folds his arms across his chest and pinches his chin. Gustavo recognizes his likeness on the canvas, but, he decides, the truth is that he is not really there.
He is absent from his own self-portrait.
Gustavo wants to destroy it. But the days of ruining canvases during fits and tantrums is years behind him. No matter how heinous, Gustavo does not let himself wreck incomplete artwork without a cooling off period.
Instead of jabbing a paintbrush through it, Gustavo applies vivid colors to the palette. He is not going to invest the time to complete a background for a painting he will never sell. In the blank white space surrounding his head and shoulders Gustavo applies pinpricks of color-just dots-illustrating the colors he would want people to see if they could share his viewpoint. The greens and oranges are most complimentary to his skin and evoke a complexity that was missing before. Gustavo applies more paint and uses his brush to fan out the added colors, transforming dots to ethereal-like glows emanating from himself.
The startling result has Gustavo's heart racing. Without any mixed media, he has achieved an extra dimensional effect. Worried he will go too far and lose the accomplishment, Gustavo immediately stops work and sets down his materials. From the back of the studio he observes something much more important than a dimensional effect.
His self-portrait is illustrating an aura. An energy. His personal energy.
7
Interview
Aleksey and Zachary exit the shared ride car at Yerba Buena Gardens in the South of Market zone of eastern San Francisco. They cross the oval-shaped park, then pass an extensive collection of movie theaters and museums. Admitted into a secure corner high-rise office complex, they advance through another round of security on a top floor and enter the offices of a nationally syndicated sports radio station. Both show hosts-one a retired athlete basketball player and the other a longtime sports journalist-genially welcome Zachary and spend a few minutes discussing interview topics with him. Aleksey stands behind Zachary, near his side, as usual in settings like this, drawing no attention to himself.
The hosts treat Zachary like a rockstar. They have had numerous athletes with more accomplishments, money, and fame join them for taped interviews. But Zachary's previous segment, taped a year ago, was repeatedly aired due to popular demand. Instead of canned answers, he engaged the listeners with authentic and down-to-earth descriptions of what life is like for a contemporary mixed martial arts fighter. Zachary made no attempts to disparage his competitors or bluster with trash talk or false statements of grandeur. He shared his awareness of the need to please the audiences without losing focus on winning the bouts. He spoke of fears of injury, both temporary and permanent, and the battles between his doubts and his confident mindset. Zachary also was truthful about the money-how much of it was up for grabs in the fighting leagues-in purses and prizes, not to mention the endorsements, private clients wanting tips and lessons, social media plugs, paid appearances, charity functions, and international events. Well-spoken and forthright, Zachary gave listeners insights they were not accustomed to hearing on sports interview shows.