Van Gogh Reborn! Chapter 135

After reconfirming that there was no abnormality in the body, my grandpa and I remained alone in the hospital room. 

“Little Hun, Do you remember everything? Huh?” 

The affectionate touch and expression of touching my cheeks show how hard it has been for him. 

I nodded my head. 

At first, I thought I was in hell. 

However, I was bewildered by the familiar senses that came after the crushing pressure. 

The air, the sound, and the light felt over the closed eyes were that of this world. 

I never thought I would have been reborn at that time. 

I freaked out because of the baby's body and tried to resist whoever tried to touch me thinking I was being harmed. 

It was only the voices of Mama and Papa that I felt friendly, so I was very anxious when their voices were not heard. 

And, after a few days, when I was able to open my eyes, I began to accept the situation little by little.

If a person dies, will he be reborn? 

Then why was I born with all my memories? 

I had those kinds of worries for a while. 

I was fascinated by the surprisingly changed world and did not think deeply because of my parents' warm love. 

I was grateful for my healthy body every day, surprised by new experiences every day, and got used to my new life as Hun. 

I'm lucky to have seen Picasso twice. 

Picasso was such a shock. 

I couldn't even use my hands properly and tried to copy him. 

Mama and Papa were happy thinking that their son was a genius even after seeing my ugly picture. 

They liked my picture which was nothing but crooked lines, so I thought it would be best to not draw for a while. 

I didn't try to reveal it even after I got used to writing with a pen. 

Since I was very young, I practiced little by little in the insect book I drew. 

I decided to show my skills to the fullest when it was the right time to be understood no matter what picture I drew. 

Then one day, I saw my grandpa's [Pine tree 3] which Mama bought, and I was shocked. 

The pine tree painted with a paint I saw for the first time in my life was so grand and full of spirit that I couldn't think of it as a painting on a 30P canvas. 

I had never seen such a thick, intense stroke. 

It seems to have been drawn at once, but since the shading was expressed by controlling the concentration, it could only be thought of as a Godly technique. 

“I saw a picture of a pine tree. Mama said grandpa drew it and I loved that painting.” 

Grandpa nodded. 

The sadness gets deep as the memories overflow.

I was going to hold grandpa's hand and say I want to go to Mama and Papa's grave as calmly as I can, but I couldn't. 

“Mama and Papa…..” 

When I couldn't continue my next word because I was choked up, grandpa patted my head and said. 

“Okay, let's go together when we get back.” 

The next day. 

I was discharged from the hospital and dealt with inheritance through Thomas Arthur. 

I signed it without any particular complications, and let Thomas Arthur, my parents' attorney, handle the rest. 

I had a memory of meeting him a few times, and both Papa and Mama trusted him, so I entrusted him with the job. 

Things would have been complicated if I had disposed of this and that, but I didn't.

I can't drive my parents' car right now, and even grandpa can't use it because he doesn't live in the US, so I didn't have much use for it, but I didn't want to sell it. 

It was my greed to leave a little trace of them, and grandpa also agreed. 

Talking about this and that with grandpa, it was already time for dinner. 

I was thinking about what to eat and decided to order pizza because I was tired of everything that happened yesterday and today. 

When I called the place I ordered from every time I lived here, the owner of the pizza restaurant greeted me gladly. 

– 325 South Sparks Street? Is it Hun? 

The voice of Sam Fleming, owner of Burbank's best pizza restaurant, was welcoming. 

“Hello, Sam.” 

-Oh, my God. It's been such a long time. I heard the news. I'm so sorry to hear that. 

“Thank you.” 

– Yeah. If you live bravely, good things will happen again someday. 

Even if the wound heals over time, will the scar disappear? 

– It'll be my treat today, so just tell me. What can I get you? 

“Potato pizza, please. With a lot of cheese.” 

– Good. It'll take about 40 minutes. 

“Yes, thank you.” 

When I finished the call, grandpa, who was looking at me, asked about Sam. 

“You must be close.” 

“I ordered every day.” 

“Every day?” 

“Mama and Papa often come in late because they are busy.” 

Sam Fleming's pizza was delicious and unlike in Korea, there was nothing to order for delivery. 

“Then why did you not eat pizza at school.” 

Grandpa mentioned the entry in Mama's diary. 

Mama wrote that I hated Pizza, but there was a misunderstanding. 

“No, I like pizza. Sam's Pizza and lunch pizza are on a different level.” 

“Really?” 

I felt lonely eating dinner alone and the two of them seemed to be overdoing it. 

I could have told Mama honestly that I wanted to have a relaxing dinner with Mama and Papa, but I remember telling Mama that I didn't like pizza because I got angry when she left for work leaving money to order pizza.

I was embarrassed to correct it, so Mama seemed to have thought about it like that along with the school meal problem. 

After that, Mama thought about changing jobs. 

Come to think of it, such misunderstandings were frequent. 

When I was little, it was interesting to see the drawing move and talk, but Mama thought I liked SpongeBob and learned how to talk. 

If I say an old saying or a word that was not in use, she might think I learned it from SpongeBob. 

It may feel strange, but I think my parents are also a little strange, so they just accepted everything in a strange way. 

Unlike when I was pointed out as a freak, my parents told me how wonderful I was and said they would love me as I am. 

I cried several times the day before yesterday, yesterday, and today, but when I think of them, my heart aches. 

Maybe it's the same for grandpa. 

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I stayed at Burbank house for two more days, caressing and comforting the wounds.

Tears that burst out casually even though I thought I was fine also decreased little by little as I was with grandpa.

I talked to grandpa about many things I did with Mama and Papa. 

Once, with the intention of teasing Mama with Papa, I saved Mama's file separately and deleted everything on her laptop. 

“You did such a thing.” 

Grandpa frowned in horror. 

“I almost got in trouble because my father kept laughing senselessly.” 

If Papa hadn't revealed that it was a hidden camera prank as soon as he was called by Mama, we might have gone to the family court. 

“Didn't Hae get angry?” 

“That day.” 

“That day?” 

“Mama spilled beer and water on Papa's bed when he slept.” 

“Then?” 

“She waited until Papa got up. Papa was embarrassed and he touched it and smelled his bed.” 

“Hahaha.” 

“He was secretly going to the laundry room with the blanket, and Mama pretended like she didn't know anything and asked Papa what he was doing in the laundry room early in the morning.” 

I laughed with tears in my eyes watching that scene. 

“You should have seen Papa's expression then, grandpa.” 

I laughed and sighed quietly with grandpa for a long time

“…….” 

It's not something easy for me to move on. 

But, for those who gave me the strength to live again and showed me what happiness is, I must stand up now. 

“Let's go. Brush your teeth.” 

“Yes.” 

Grandpa and I slept together with a blanket in the living room. 

The next day. 

When I came out of the house, I only brought my family pictures and my insect picture book and left the rest as it is. 

I asked Thomas Arthur to take care of it as he did until now. 

Grandpa to meet Ferdinando Gonzalez and I with the intention of visiting the Whitney Museum, we headed to New York after a long time. 

     

Henry Marceau was returning home from a meeting. 

It was a meeting to set a schedule for the Louvre National Art Salon, which was scheduled to be held in December this year. 

The French National Arts Association (Société Nationale des Beaux Arts. SNBA) requested that Henry Marceau, a representative French artist, participate as a jury member.

“Damn those geezers,” 

Henry Marceau gritted his teeth. 

The Louvre National Art Salon was the longest-running event of any existing salon, and it was a great honor to be a judge there. 

Secretary Arsene could not understand Henry Marceau who refused that great honor. 

“El Patron, Why did you refuse? Isn't it a good seat?”

“What is good? Do you like a place where you can gather trash and make a mess?”

Henry Marceau was displeased by the SNBA (National Art Association of France) for inviting him to be a judge, who was still working as an artist.

“If I had time for that in the first place………,” 

A boy's image was reflected in the eyes of Henri Marceau, who was complaining.  

The boy was painting the Colonne de Juillet which commemorates the French Revolution on the street that leads from the Vieux de Juillet to the Place de la Bastille.  

Three men surrounded the boy. 

“Stop the car,” said Henry Marceau. 

Arsene, wondering, pulled over the car past the crosswalk. 

Henry Marceau approached the boy across the crosswalk before Arsene could ask anything. 

“I'll just draw this and go away,” 

The boy begged the men around him. 

“Next what? sleep and go away, huh?” 

One man kicked the boy's easel and threatened. 

“Don't do this. My painting.” 

“What does a Muslim like you know!! Get out of here when we are speaking nicely!” 

The boy flinched as the man raised his fist and threatened. 

Henry Marceau approached more to see the painting between the man and the boy who looked like a Muslim. 

One in the group recognized Henry Marceau and gave the group a hint.

“Marceau?” 

Suddenly, they were confused about the presence of a celebrity, and the Muslim boy seemed relieved thinking that there was someone to help him. 

“Help, help! I really didn't do anything.”  

Henry Marceau, looking at the colonne de juillet, glanced down at the boy. 

“Why should I?” 

“…what?” 

Henry Marceau's cold attitude baffled the boy. 

The men who tried to avoid their seats were relieved at Henry Marceau's words. 

Henry Marceau, as a Frenchman, also hated Muslims. 

“I'm not a cop,” 

Henry Marceau looked away from the boy and looked at the painting. 

The Le Génie de la Liberté, the guardian deity of freedom, was illuminated by the light and shone sacredly. 

“You're wrong,”  

Both the boy and the Frenchmen who were trying to kick the boy away got bewildered.

“It's not a brush, it's a torch in the right hand. It's a chain on the left hand, and where's the hair ornament?” 

“Uh…” 

“Can you see that from here? If you're going to draw it like this, look for a picture.” 

The boy was bewildered and couldn't understand what was happening, while the men who were beating the Muslim boy also looked at him in shock. 

“What are you doing? Fix it.” 

“Ah, yes.” 

The boy Vida Lavani unwittingly picked up the Pastel.

Chapter end