“Vasquez y Carbajál,” I replied. “No, I never heard of him.”
“Only one picture, señor, to make him famous. Very old he is, this Vasquez. One picture to make him famous. Five years it has taken him. Five years of working—working—” His voice trailed off into silence.
“Yes?” I prompted.
His head had sunk to his breast; he raised it with a start at my word. The fire came back to his eyes; he sat up rigid in his chair.
“A picture of the kind none other could paint, señor. The secret to put life upon canvas. Is that not droll?” His querulous, half maniacal laughter echoed across the shadowed room. “From the mortal living, señor, we take the life, and upon the canvas we make it immortal.”
I pushed my chair backward violently, half starting to my feet.
“Stay, señor.” He raised his hand, pointing a finger at me. “You who are of the art a judge—you would see this painting, no? This picture by the great Vasquez that soon will be seen by all the world?”
He laughed again—an eery laugh that chilled my blood.
“One moment, señor—one little moment, and your eyes shall see that which they have never seen before.” He rose to his feet unsteadily. “Life upon canvas, señor. And beauty—vivid and real to make your pulses beat strong.”
I stood beside him under the lantern.