by Mehrnoosh Mana

There is only one path in life, and that is going forward. I always had this piece of advice in mind. Now, standing in front of a dark red canvas covered with messy, careless scraps of a presumably drunken painter, I wondered where he wanted to go with this.

The moment I entered the exhibition, I felt uneasy. Below my belly, between my legs, was an area with a bit of itchiness—nothing terrible, but enough that I, a few times, tried to reach my hand from above the thick layer of cloth to make the feeling go away. It worked for a few seconds, but the itchiness returned every time.

What would Margarita think If she found out what I was trying to do? I didn’t want to imagine the consequences.

She was especially well dressed today: elegant ankle-strap black heels, comfortable enough to stand and walk in a graceful, measured way, but not too comfortably. A cocktail dress of the same color, her makeup with the classic red lipstick, her blond tangles of hair braided neatly in a top knot bun, some delicate curls dancing loosely on both sides of her face. Everything about her seemed perfect today. I barely remember her putting that much effort when we were going out.

I did what I used to do every day. I trimmed my beard, put on a slim black turtleneck shirt, and wore a pair of gray chino pants. Neat and sporty chick, I guess.

Neatness was my thing. I liked it. It gave me a sense of professionalism, of being in charge of affairs. I admired Margarita for that as well. These days, it is getting harder to find a woman being more into formal, fashionable dressing. Many love to dress like Hippies, loose, unfitting, slightly chaotic. But that has never been my thing, and neither has Margarita. I would feel too insecure, too unprepared in such outfits.

I wouldn’t call Margarita old-school, though. She was a fit. Just the right amount of things I liked, no excess of things I disliked. I had an idea of her having a similar feeling about me.

But I knew she took two things very seriously—almost too seriously! —as it revealed to me even more that day: art and her appearance confronting art. It was no wonder then that she paid particular attention to her outfit while confronting the works of X.

Standing beside her, looking at the canvas of inharmonious colors, the only feeling I could resemble this was when being in an orchestra, each player playing out of tune and discordant to the point they hurt my ear, the cellist only drawing her bow on the strings unskillfully to make some sounds and the only job of clarinetist is blowing into her instrument. An orchestra one wants to leave immediately, to flee. But it is impossible because everybody adores the post post-modernist music and the only one who fails to grasp it is me.

But perhaps this was a good time for me as well to relieve that itchiness that was getting more and more irritating. Maybe it was a way to push my hands inside my pants, and in a second or so, while no one was watching…

“Oh, it just makes me wanna cry…,” said Margarita, with a soft, almost shaky voice.

“It is… interesting. ” I narrowed my eyes at the painting.

“There is so much emotion going on. You see the white and black circular patterns. Isn’t that what life is about—chaotic, sometimes even meaningless? A never-ending motion going nowhere?”

No…it was not. There was only one direction for life, and that was going forward. That was the meaning of life. I was working hard to get what I wanted, to pay the mortgage for my new spacious house and my comfortable, classy car. What about the overworking hours I was putting into getting that promotion I had been waiting for so long? These were all motions going in a straightforward direction. No circle, straight, ascending.

She sighed deeply, gesturing to the painting I was trying to make sense of, to give some direction to, or to draw some direction from. She tilted her head slightly with a faint smile.

“Everything ends in an eternal circle of void. A never-ending vortex of circular motions. Meaninglessness like a sleeping dragon, hidden behind, threatening.”

A circular void? Sleeping dragon? I let out a deep breath. Was it even wise to discuss such a topic at the beginning of a relationship? It hasn’t even been two months since we met each other. I had an immediate good feeling about her. As if things had fallen into their right place, clarity and transparency. She was not an excessive talker. More of a doer, like me. I felt at peace. We knew what we wanted from life, and both were ambitious about going for them. I never remembered her talking about the meaninglessness of life or some kind of eternal circular void before. Was it the work of X? The famous painter everybody was talking about these days? The one no one has ever laid eyes upon, living in complete secrecy, they said.

Margarita looked in my direction as if expecting me to say something.

“Eternal motion of meaninglessness…” I repeated the words with raised eyebrows.

Damn it, why, of all the other occasions of life, of all the other times we met, I have to feel this annoying itchiness directly in my balls now! I kept looking at the painting, following the twisting grainy lines on the dark red canvas. Clenching my hands in the pockets of my jeans and staring into the canvas, I tried to reach for the itchy location, but in vain.

Circular motions of void…the words repeated in my mind.

“Seems like you are quite drawn to it as well.” Margarita looked at me with a smile. “X is always like that, playing with your senses.”

“Indeed.” I almost whispered. Perhaps that was just a joke. Maybe X liked to laugh at his viewers this way. I felt ridiculous, so utterly ridiculous at that moment.

I always wanted things to work almost perfectly. But now, I felt trapped, with Margarita smiling at me and so elegantly talking about the eternal motions of life with her almost dreamy half-open mouth. This was not the most comfortable situation I got stuck in. An embarrassing itching location in my body without the chance of being relieved, and a painting I was failing to grasp, whereas everyone around me – including Margarita – looked at it with so much awe and reverence.

And I, the one who used to move fast and work hard to make things move forward fast, got caught among the motions of motionless on a canvas of disturbingly bright colors, splashed in an unrhythmic, odd, irregular way I rarely came in touch with before.

And ah…God damn it, that stupid itchiness was increasing. Now, Margarita was looking straight at me with admiring eyes.

“I’m really happy you like this type of art so much. I honestly did not expect “

“Why not?” I faked a comprehensive smile. “Indeed, it’s hard to describe it with words,” I said, tightening my lips.

“Ah, I get it. I totally understand.”

She turned swiftly toward the canvas again as if having difficulty moving, but overcoming the inertia, she walked a few steps away, light and cheerful. Her smile was brighter than before. Was that because of the painting? Or was it because she assumed we had a mutual understanding of the art? Of X himself? 

Was that a good time to do the deed I had been waiting for, to lessen that tickling itch?

“Here…look!” said a little boy standing beside me.

A group of children approached, standing under the canvas, heads up, looking at the painting.

“X has a reputation for playing with emotions. What do you think, guys? What does it remind you of when you look at it?” said a young lady, their guardian. I was still there, standing right in front of the painting, my hand frozen midair. My eyes scrutinized the painting again; this time, my mouth wide open, I recognized the pattern had changed. As if they moved…in a circular motion. What!?

The young guardian raised her brows and looked at me with a surprised impression. I wasn’t sure if it was the redness of my face or the deep frown between my eyebrows.

“You seemed to be quite impressed by it. It has that effect; X’s works astound,” she said with a smile. I only nodded, stepping aside to give room to the approaching children.

The awkwardness of my situation didn’t let me ask her if there was some sort of trick going on with the painting.

When I turned my head, I saw Margarita looking at me, watching me with a gleam of admiration in her eyes I had hardly ever seen before. There was no way she could guess what was going on in my turbulent mind and the painful agony among the thick layers of my pants.

I gave her a tight-lip smile and approached her. For the last time, I turned back and looked sideways at the canvas. Was something still moving? The messy splashes of white and black and some indiscernible colors?

“Come, The Monkey series is even better!” Margarita called me with such excitement, like someone finding a treasure of gold and jewels.

An older lady, gray-haired with thick gray-framed glasses, was giving a speech in front of one of X’s paintings.

“X’s life is shrouded in mystery, but his impact is immense. His works reflect a cheerful cynicism- a mockery of modern life, perhaps?”

“What is the mystery behind the moving patterns? Are you sensing it, too? As if lines and shapes are moving in a circular motion all the time. But the question remains. Is that real? Should we believe what we see? Trust our eyes? This is perhaps what X wants us to ask ourselves.”

“Many people feel a sort of discomfort or sadness confronting his work. But some feel a longing for freedom, to let go of what they possess and value, to let loose, run, and be free. His works immerse you in the light and liberating sense of freedom and let you experience it for real. Still, some may find the encounter uncomfortable.”

The crowd approached the first painting, peering at it with intense amusement as the lady continued.

“No one really knows how and why they have such effects. Are those colors awakening such sentiments? A sort of despair? Liberation of soul and body preceded by a mocking humiliation? Some say it is the way he applies the colors. Some even say he uses colors and shades and gets inspiration from the shapes and figures belonging to outer space, his vision of distant universes. A few go as far as suggesting X is an alien!”

An alien? Liking to mock human beings and giving them freedom at the same time? That may be what he is. Because what was happening made little sense. I saw goggle-eyed stares and dropped mouths everywhere, as if an electric shock had gone through people. I wished for a shock, too, one that soothed my increasing itchiness, becoming like jabbing thin needles in a sensitive spot on my body.

Margarita covered her mouth with her hands, sighing loudly, her eyes going damp with tears. I, changing the weight of my body from one foot to the other, tapped them rapidly on the floor.

“Oh, you feel it too, don’t you? Is it more like a discomfort for you? A pain of some sort?” said Margarita, taking deep breaths.

“Oh X…it is hard to imagine, hard to even feel. Mockery of modern life. How much I have been longing to see these masterpieces.”

A row of paintings was hanging on the side of the wall where we stood. At first, I saw an entirely white canvas, but then, gazing at it as sweat sat on my forehead, I noticed some shapes. They were also white, but a different shade of white, applied with a different brush technique. I recognized the shape. It looked like an animal, like a guerilla, sitting on top of the white canvas. His gaze was down below, watching a group of monkey-like shapes with a sarcastic smile. I wiped my forehead with the back of my hands.

God damn it, why was Margarita so attentive today? Every now and then, she would turn and watch me, my movements, my face.

“This unsettles you too much?”

“I’m good, I’m good,” I said, as gently as I could, with a half-smile.

I felt the monkeys jumping around in all directions, all around, impossible to track.

The motion of the void… repeated again in my mind.

Haaa? But how was that motion even possible? A 3D trick of some sort? I looked back again, paying very close attention. No, I was delusional. They were frozen in their place, with no motion, in a nonsensical monkey-like gesture, turning and twisting and jumping upside down, shaking their arms in the air. But wait, were they…monkey? Why, the more I watched, the more they took the form of a human body?

“The famous monkey series, first one: Mockery of Modern Life.” The young guardian from before was approaching. Margarita moved forward, watching the second piece the same way as before, in absolute awe and fascination.

“Peter, can you tell me what you see here? “

“I see…noth…Oh, I see monkeys, dancing…hehe…how stupid they look like,” said a little boy among the group, now standing beside me. 

“Mockery of modern life. Why do they look stupid, Peter?” Asked the guardian.

“I… don’t know” said the little boy, unsure.

          I looked at the canvas again. Things had changed, I could swear. The monkeys’ movements, their silly gestures. It was hard to believe my own eyes anymore. Still, I could see myself among the group of jumping monkeys for a second, circling aimlessly with my hands where it…. I blinked, looked again…Ah, how absurd. What was wrong with me today. This was only a monkey touching its balls. Oh no, not touching, really, because his hands were frozen midair, wincing.

“One can see a reflection of oneself there, right Peter?” 

Peter gulped and nodded his head. Was he also seeing a monkey which, in an inexplicable way, resembled himself doing something stupid in the middle of the painting?

I felt a tinge of burn and pain. I think I would even be content if I could change my place with that monkey, being able to scratch the damn itch away. To be relieved, be a free man again.

The speed of my tapping feet on the ground increased.

“Is everything alright, darling?” Margarita turned toward me, gently caressing my back.

“Ah yes, it is just the painting. It evokes some sensation.” 

The painting with the invisible monkeys, now almost all of them with hands frozen midair, a grimace on their faces, a sign of clear pain they were enduring, with the big watching guerilla’s sardonic smile. My burning itchiness surged up. I played with the tip of my shoe, pressing it down on the stony ground until I felt pain in my toes. 

“Discomfort, that is what it really is. It is a reflection of us, our life, isn’t it? I saw myself on the canvas, among those monkeys, for a second or two, falling down from a branch. I felt so strange…like a real falling, for an instant or two,” Margarita’s voice was quivering.

I had a hard time concentrating on what she was saying. We were moving alongside the series. Yes, we were moving forward. The right direction. The path was supposed to come to an end at some point.

I looked back at the Mockery of Modern Life. The painting looked the same as before. A white canvas filled with invisible monkeys turning and jumping in all directions. Something felt wrong. But I don’t know what. Was it my direction of moving? Was it about the clumsily painted monkeys? My optic illusion upon seeing each painting? Perhaps it was only my burning itchiness, my tapping feet, or my uncomfortable, shaking body.

I felt…like a monkey myself. Wanting to jump, to do some silly acts, and I knew I was being watched by observant eyes.

The second canvas had the same quality of pattern and texture, black at first, then monkeys. Again, the big monkey’s watching. I let my hallucination take the better of me because the goddamned monkeys were dancing in a circle, on the ground, in the air. Around…and then nothing. A miserable, emptying feeling crept into me, pushing on my heaving chest as I spotted a hole, a big black hole in the middle. And I saw myself again, a monkey, wincing among the chaos. That itchiness was unbearable, expanding beyond the balls and to my groins.

What was the monkey doing? Who was I? 

“Big Monkey watching”

“What?” I almost choked, feeling my eyes damp with tears, gasping for air.

“Name of the painting…” Margarita turned toward me, watching me with a worried frown.” Oh darling, it really’s gotten into you, hasn’t it?”

“Oh, I’m fine.” I pressed my lids together, giving her a broad, silly smile.

“…Do you see a reflection of yourself in the paintings?” asked the gray-haired lady, addressing the visitors around her.

Yes, damn it, yes. What did my boss say last time? That this promotion would smooth my path toward a bright future? That I was so lucky for such an opportunity offered to me? Soon, I would be the delivery manager of our department. A clean and smooth way upward?

I scratched my head. What was that even supposed to mean?

Sure, I could see some monkeys on top of the trees, very top even, dancing like mad, moving their tails. But they were all monkeys in the end.   

And I, where was I exactly? On which branch? What was I doing on that canvas? Should I be ready to fall?

I stared at the painting. Was there a visual trick of some sort behind it? The more I watched, the more confused I felt.

Who was I really? My head felt dizzy.

I shook my head. Don’t be silly! I thought. There are only a bunch of hard-to-recognize monkey shapes from the imagination of a mad painter, perhaps under drugs. You are here, in the middle of your life, in charge. There is only one path in life, and that is going forward.

But was that so? Why were all the paths circling around? Why was everything in those canvases turning and swirling?

The itchiness was turning into a small flame between my legs, which could only be extinguished by shoving my hands down there and relieving myself.

Monkeys were hopping from one branch to another in a circle.

The third painting, red like blood, monkeys all scattered, the big monkey…. He was looking at me with that ironic smile.

Most of them were jumping down a tree-like shape, descending and scattering around a deep, dark well. What was going on inside the well? I stared and stared. There was nothing inside—a dark void.

“The Dark Void is the third in the series…”

“Ahh..”

“Aww…”

The gray-haired lady’s voice faded away among the jabbering, panting, and gasps around me. Some were awestruck, some uncomfortable, unable to stay steady and calm. An old man said he needed to sit. He put a hand on his heart. A woman was crying, pressing a handkerchief tight in her hands.

“We’d better stop here. Let’s go out, guys. Get some fresh air.” The guardian was right. The children did not look happy at all.

I saw myself again, grimacing from the canvas, this time harder and more painful. Was it the pain from between my legs, or was it my life? As a monkey? Perhaps both!

“An encounter with your real self, the reality of your life, uncensored, naked, raw. That is what these paintings are about, according to many critics.” The gray-haired lady’s voice reached above all the chattering.

Perhaps this time, my chance had come to encounter myself, to free myself from the chains of dumb propriety. What were we in the end, if not only a bunch of jumping monkeys?

I felt Margarita’s hand on my shoulder.

“This was one of my most difficult encounters with myself, babe. But I did it. So did you, almost. This is the last piece in the series: The Oriented Disorientation.” She was staring at the painting, eyes damp with awe and reverence.

I dragged myself awkwardly toward her, keeping my thighs together as close as possible. I felt like I was finishing, too.

“Ahh…darling, let’s take our time and appreciate it. What a lightness you feel looking at it. You are freed again.” she uttered in a deep emotional voice. 

I peered at the painting, resisting my urge to yell and cry. Splashes of colors were everywhere, all different patterns, various disorderly shapes turning around like a Ferris wheel in an eternal void of meaninglessness. I hated the mess, the ugly chaos, the anarchy. But….it was all about it, all about the silhouette of those monkey shapes, each sitting in a bubble of colors coming out of a now half-lit pit, circling around, flying everywhere, to some direction. No, no, no direction at all.

I pushed my hands into my hair, pulling. 

Holy mother of itchiness…This was life itself, all a mess, striving to move, to ascend, to where? What for? I wanted to shout, to cry. Monkeys are free, free to scratch themselves. They are truly free.

Margarita was gaping at me.

“Darling…”

Now or never! I shoved my hand inside my jeans and relieved myself of all the pain, misery, burning, discord, and discomfort. Ah, what a pleasure!

Margarita jolted with a loud gasp.

“What the hell…”  

Heads turned toward me, but I avoided them, looking at the ceiling with a smile.

On the canvas before me stood a monkey with an open face, even a smile, amid the mess of deranged shades and hues. He was scratching his balls.

Mehrnoosh is an Iranian-born writer living in the Netherlands. A few of her Persian stories have been published on nebesht.com. Some of her English works are on Medium: https://medium.com/@mehrnoosh.mana.
Currently, she is working on her first novel. Follow her on Substack: https://mehrnoosh.substack.com and Twitter: https://twitter.com/MehrnooshMana for more stories and updates.