55. Warm and Cold

Date Written: April 29, 2019

Date Posted: November 1, 2020

Summary: Veneziano talks about colors as a haze of sadness settles over his eyes.

Notes:


Throughout all of his life, North Italy had known all sorts of sadness. Some of his sadness was born from the yowling of abandoned kittens. Some were born when empires fell and relics of the past were slowly forgotten. Some sadnesses could be attributed to his people surrendering and dying in the context of the times.

Furthermore, there were so many types of sadness. Some of them are brief and fleeting, yet destructive in their short time span. Others are long lasting and quiet, like the lapping of waves upon the shore.

North Italy has witnessed and born them all.

"Signor, why do people think red is fiery?" A small child asks as he drops a dollop of bright green paint onto a palette. His fingers are short and still plagued with the chubbiness and lack of coordination attributed to small children. Already, the dollop of paint quickly became a mound of green before the boy screws the cap tight, thus staining his fingers. "And why do they say that blue is calm?"

At that, Veneziano stills himself in a chair, which overlooks the canvas the boy wanted to paint. There is a small smile on the Nation's face, one that the boy wishes were a lot bigger. Like the young child, Veneziano's hands are splattered and splotched with paint.

"Have you ever felt so brave, angry, or righteous?" At the boy's confused nod, he adds, "Red is compared to the color of passion. It drives people forward, to do things that they can only dream of."

The child thinks for a moment before nodding slowly. He must have digested the information because he asks another question. "And blue? What do people have to say about blue?"

Veneziano smiles before dipping his brush into the small portion of blue that he had added to his palette before taking to his canvas. Already, there are faint outlines of a noon sky overlooking a lake. "Blue is calm like the sky on a cloudless day and the sea without a storm. Many cultures agree that this color can represent peace and tranquility."

The boy scrunches up his nose. "Blue sounds boring."

Veneziano laughs a little, which causes the little boy to glare up at him in indignation. The Nation continues to stroke the surface of the canvas, his touch as gentle and as soothing as a lover's caress. "I suppose, but blue can also mean…" He stops himself for a minute, as if contemplating something before he continues. "It can mean many things, caro. Blue can mean melancholy, of the very things of life that make you sad."

Sensing Veneziano's change in mood, the young boy looks up from his painting. His young face, unmarred with the troubles that came with age, had contorted into a small frown.

With all the seriousness that only a young child could muster, the young boy toddles away from his easel and approaches the weathered Nation. One of his hands tugs on one of North Italy's sleeves. Veneziano looks down at him, his dark brown eyes lighting up at the innocence that the child unknowingly exudes.

"You're sad now." The little boy whispers. "Why are you sad?"

The man kneels down to the child's level and looks deep into the child's eyes. The little boy, almost confused by Veneziano's actions, only blinks back at the older man. His eyes are clouded, unfocused.

The eyes of a child who could barely see the majesty of different hues that painted his surroundings.

In other words, the boy is colorblind.

Perhaps, that is what made Veneziano so sad today.

To never appreciate the beauty of real life, to never see colors as they were meant to be seen—Veneziano can't imagine living life like that.

Veneziano easily tugs the child tight into his chest. "When you get older, caro, a great many things will make you sad."

The boy grumbles and stiffens against North Italy's chest.

"Do not worry; a great many things will also make you happy."

Veneziano pats the boy on the back and lets go.

"Now, let's see what fun you had with your painting, yes?"