He did not know himself what was it that gave him the gift. He was one of the strangest phenomena in fine arts. Everybody who viewed his paintings, including himself, could smell whatever object it was that he’d painted. Not the canvas, the oils, the pastel or the ink, but the plants, or flowers, or persons. From The Candy Vendor emanated the sweet fragrance of sugar and groundnuts; from A Winter Afternoon at the Port, its stevedores, half naked and sweating as they carried bags of fertiliser, the oppressive odour of urea fertiliser, sweat, the sea breeze, and even the garbage piled up on the ship; from Kieu, the fragrance of perfume and the smell of new silver ingots that the melancholy prostitute, on the verge of tears, was holding in her hand after the customer had left.
It was extraordinary. And his paintings sold like hot cakes. Excited by the success, he stood painting all day long. Money came to his pockets and floated around his house like fallen leaves.
He bought a splendid house at the centre of the city. His wife and children left their decrepit house in the suburbs to stay with him and enjoy a modern life of comfort. He let himself be carried away by the euphoria of fame and wealth. Eager and cheerful, he wielded his brushes with great skill. Wherever his eyes alighted, they printed brand new bank notes. The demand for his paintings by collectors could not be met though he worked 18 hours a day. Only when he had purchased everything for his house, when gold and bank notes filled up his wardrobes and trunks and bank accounts did he take a rest. Then the motto became "work little, enjoy a lot." The price of his paintings, therefore, rocketed. Each of his rare paintings was worth ten times than in the past. He lived a life of leisure and luxury he had never dreamt of before.
His pursuit of happiness through pleasure intensified. With the offer of a free portrait, he could have a beautiful woman’s soul. Overwhelmed because they could smell her own fragrance in the painting, woman after woman gave themselves to him. They waited eagerly for him to make advances.
People feared and respected him, it was as if they were standing in front of a sorcerer with amazing powers, not in front of a truly talented painter. The greater the fear and admiration, the better and rarer his paintings came to be seen as. And in turn, he became infatuated with the colourful world of debauchery. There was no thought of giving it up. The greater his passion for pleasure, the more skilful his art became. He was never afraid of being short of money. He painted and amused himself. He painted a flower seller standing in the street waiting for a customer so that she could get some money to buy something to eat and appease her hunger. He painted the spoiled daughter of a big shot who was trying to imitate bourgeois manners, slowly chewing her chewing gum like an old woman chewing betel. There seemed to be a halo around him. He realised that he was a valuable man, a man of great importance, a man of the crowd. He knew that he dominated the world of fine arts, that he was a valuable asset for his village and his country. Now, he wanted to take his magical art and amaze the outside world with it. His dreams were of increasing splendour, of even greater fame and wealth, reeking of money, wine and women.
It was one of the most luxurious hotels in the city. He was closeted in a room with a shy, innocent teenager. The price had already been agreed upon. He opened the bag that he always carried with him, and took out the familiar tools of a painter and put them on the bed. Then he took a canvas and fixed it on the wall with four nails. He mixed up the water colours and busied himself with other trivial things without uttering a word, without even glancing at the girl. Having finished the work, he turned out the fluorescent light and turned on the night light. He came up to the girl and stared at her, like a cat staring at an inoffensive guinea pig. She was sitting motionless on the bed. She looked up straight into the face of the naked man in front of her. Her beautiful round black eyes shone brightly, without any fear, without any entreaty, without any regret. He felt a chill run down his spine. His fingers, he knew not why, seemed to be bewildered as they fumbled with the buttons on her coat. Why was this, when he had already paid in advance, and a big sum at that? He felt increasingly embarrassed by the small buttons that were the door to a new world. He swore as his efforts proved futile. She heaved a sigh, pushed away his hands and quietly unbuttoned her coat. Petrified, he stared at her. Having taken off all her clothes, she calmly stretched herself on the bed. He stood dumbfounded. All of a sudden he heard her voice, "Are you the one who paints paintings that smell?" Startled, he nodded. "You will paint a portrait of me, won’t you?" He hesitated, then said, "Why not, but only after we have finished this!" She smiled, "You should paint me before I become a woman." "Why?" he asked. She sat up, and spoke clearly, "If you paint me now, the painting will have no smell. Absolutely no smell!" Taken aback, he frowned, and thought deeply. Then he nodded, and said, "You’re right. I have painted a thousand and one portraits of women with their smells. But I haven’t done one with the smell of a virgin girl." She shook her head. "Virgin girls have no smell. Only when they have no smell they are called virgins." He grimaced and nodded, "Maybe so. But we should test whether there is no virgin girl’s smell." She smiled derisively, "The painting will have no smell at all." Provoked, his voice rose in a shout, "Let me see." He stepped towards the canvas on the wall. Her voice came from behind, "Why don’t you make a self-portrait?" He startled as if he’d been hit by an electric shock. He turned round and stared at her in panic. He could hear his heart thumping in his chest. And his body was soaked with sweat. He asked in a distorted voice, "What... did you say?" The girl raised her chin, her voice strident, "Have you ever made a self-portrait?" He grimaced again, his face suddenly hot, and he answered in an embarrassed voice, "Perhaps... not yet." She smiled and stood up. Her frail body was as white as the kapok cotton. Arms akimbo, she said, "Then do it now. To see what it will smell like. You must have a special smell! Paint it now!" Her words were imperious. They made his legs and arms shiver. For a moment he did not know what to do. He sat on the cold shining floor, the blood draining from his face. He lit a cigarette and inhaled the smoke deep his chest. After three puffs, he recovered somewhat. The girl was standing, still looking pure and innocent. She was looking down at him with pity. He tried to rise up, and said at length, "Go away. You must get out of this room as quickly as possible. Put on your clothes, quick, and see that everything has come to an end. Come on, quick!" The girl smiled, put on her clothes and gingerly walked out. Just before she closed the door behind her, she looked at him with an arrogant smile, "Don’t forget to make your self-portrait, Hmm? The painting must have a special smell. Bye bye!" He closed his eyes and put his hands to his ears. The door slammed up with a cruel noise. He heaved a sigh of relief and looked around. Only he remained. His shadow was motionless on the wall.
He put on his underwear, went into the balcony for a moment and returned to his room with his easel, canvas, and water colours. He stood naked in front of the mirror on the wardrobe. The canvas was near him. He looked at his pale and weak body for a while. Then he started making a portrait of the painter who made his paintings smell.
Having finished the painting, he sniffed at it. Nothing. He sniffed again and again. Nothing. Not even the smell of water colours. He threw away the odourless but colourful painting, and began working on another one. Then he tried to smell and even lick it. Nothing. He flung it aside and began working again... and again. The sixth, seventh and eighth paintings were finished, and he continued to paint until the wee hours of the next day. But there was no smell emanating from the self-portraits.
At nine o’clock in the morning, seeing that it was extraordinarily quiet in the room, the waiter knocked at the door to wake up the guest. There was no response. The door was opened with a second key. The guest was lying shrivelled up on the cold floor amidst a heap of paintings. He was dead.
The odourless self-portraits was offered, but no one dared to receive them. Someone suggested that they should be placed in the coffin around his stiff corpse. The doctors announced the results of the post mortem. The subject had died of suffocation.
When the coffin was closed, all of a sudden a smell burst out and filled the room. That was not his smell; his wife and children insisted. It was the mixture of all the kinds of smells - of places where he’d lived and visited in his quest for fame, wealth and pleasure.
Translated by Hoang Tuy
