He held a bottle of liquor in his hand, pouring it into his mouth, the amber liquid flowing down his narrow jaw, soaking his shirt front.
“Please don’t do this; you’ve had too much to drink…” Lieutenant Jacob tried to take the bottle from his hand.
He pointed at the aide’s nose and laughed loudly, the sound resonating through the wine cellar, shaking the filled glass bottles.“What did you call me? General?” Yes, in the eyes of others, perhaps he was an imperious general, but in the world of love, there was no distinction between high and low; once one fell in love, one would become a humble slave.
Lieutenant Jacob witnessed all of this and regretted not having done something sooner, but even if he had tried to stop it, could he have really done so? At this moment, he knew he could no longer remain silent. “General, please don’t do this; she’s just an African woman.”
“An African woman…” His gaze became somewhat vacant; he had never thought about these things. Yes, he hadn’t had time to think about them. From the very beginning, he had no room for choice. He could choose to kill her or let her go. Killing her, yes, he should have killed her when she seduced him; no, perhaps even earlier, when she tried to escape from the ball; no, perhaps he shouldn’t have accepted Dr. Jaxon’s gift at all…
The basement was dimly lit, and he couldn’t see Lieutenant Jacob’s gray-green eyes, but he could see the light in those eyes, faintly distant yet full of passion. He knew he could trust him. His eyes, stimulated by alcohol, were somewhat dazed and blurred. He wanted to look back at the past, wanted to pour out the pent-up emotions in his chest, but he still chose not to do so.
He chose to tilt his head back and pour the remaining half bottle of wine down his throat. His stomach could no longer endure the onslaught of the liquor, beginning to spasm violently, and a wave of filth spewed from his mouth and nose simultaneously, mixed with thick, dark brown blood.
“General, General Ryan…”
He could no longer hear Lieutenant Jacob’s calls because he was already drunk to the point of oblivion.
“Gianna, take this canvas; the next class is Professor Brown’s drawing session! Don’t forget to wake the model and set up the lighting.”
“Okay,” Khanyi said, clutching the thick canvas as she walked to the studio at the end of the corridor. She pushed the door open, weaving between the wooden easels until she reached the windowsill. She opened the window, letting fresh air into the room filled with charcoal dust. It was lunchtime, and the students were all away. She tidied up, laid out the canvas, adjusted the lighting, and once everything was ready, she walked into the small room next door where the blonde model was taking a nap.
She tiptoed to the chaise lounge and gently nudged the beautiful woman’s shoulder. “Wake up, Irina, it’s time to get up.”
“Oh, is it starting already?” The woman opened her bright blue eyes, looking at the gentle girl before her.
Khanyi smiled sweetly. “In five minutes, the professor and the students will be here.”
As an outsider, it was not easy for her to survive here. Perhaps it was true that those who survive great hardships will have blessings in the end. Fate had been so kind to her this time. When she escaped from that house alone, the cold and hunger had once made her faint by the roadside. It was a church organization responsible for aiding displaced refugees that took her in and brought her to this country. Here, she even found a job, albeit as a staff member in this little-known art school, which was still a place where she could make a living. Although this country had not yet been affected by the war, the tension was rising, and the smell of gunpowder was gradually thickening in the air.
This country bordered the one she had previously fled, and they were intricately connected, almost of the same lineage. This small art school on the border had little influence, but students studying art and teachers involved in it often held the most radical ideas.
In class, discussions would start with Klimt’s Vienna Secession and quickly shift to political affairs, breaking the boundaries between teacher and student as they debated incessantly. Khanyi never participated in these discussions; she just wanted to live a quiet life. Yet, the words that frequently flashed in their conversations were like sharp needles, constantly pricking at her deeply buried pain.
“They are hunting down the Jews, establishing camps; it’s practically a factory for murder!”
“The skin of those Jews is made into lampshades, their hair into cushions, their fat into soap…” A frail boy exclaimed loudly, making shocking statements.
