The Mysterious Art Museum

Chapter 9 (1) - The Mysterious Art Museum

Let's organize the situation.

I seem to be dozing off again in the art gallery.

And I'm dreaming. A dream of July 4th, 1939.

What does this dream want to show me?

I looked down at Mucha, struggling for breath.

What I wanted to see was when he was in his prime, but now only an old man battered by the years remains, his moments of brilliance long gone.

Since he's asleep, I should take a look around this room.

It's a rare privilege to see Alphonse Mucha's bedroom.

True to his fame and wealth accumulated even during his lifetime, his bedroom is decorated with very expensive and luxurious furniture.

Interestingly, unlike his flamboyant painting style, the room has a luxurious yet simple interior. I'm not sure if this is his taste or his wife's.

Sitting in front of the painting I had seen earlier, I carefully examined it again.

The painting is only sketched with thick lines characteristic of Mucha, without any color, reminding me of coloring books for kindergarten or elementary school students.

My father used to buy those for me occasionally when he was alive, but after he passed away, I couldn't afford such things. It's been a long time since I've seen anything like this.

Looking around, I see the paints Mucha often used during his lifetime.

Gouache, an opaque watercolor paint mixed with Arabic gum, and Tempera, made by mixing egg yolk, honey, fig juice, and other ingredients with pigments.

Nowadays, such paints are readily available, so there's no need to mix materials by oneself. Ah, but this is 1939, so these paints would already be produced commercially. I used them a lot during my school days.

Unable to dare touch someone else's painting, suppressing my urge to paint, I suddenly had this thought.

'Why worry, it's just a dream?'

Right, who would have the chance to color in Alphonse Mucha's painting? Since it's a dream, I can do anything.

Feeling good with this positive self-justification, I fiddled with the paints. At that moment, a voice came from behind.

"Did you come to take me away?"

Excited about the thought of painting, I was filling my lungs with air when the old man's voice suddenly deflated me like a balloon.

"Ah!"

Did he just speak to me?

There's only you and me in this room, can you see me? This is a dream, and people here shouldn't be able to see me, right? I felt chills on my skin and slowly turned my head.

Mucha was staring at me with his eyes slightly open.

No way, it must be just his mumbling. I stood up to check. But his eyes slowly followed me as I moved.

'He's looking at me.'

He can see me? In my last dream, I wandered among Brunoff, Mikael, Sarah, and the people on the streets of Paris, and no one could see me.

I still couldn't be sure and hesitated. Then Mucha's eyes slowly moved up to my hair.

At this time, Mucha had just been released after being captured and brutally tortured by the Nazis for painting the Slavic Epic, as part of their ethnic eradication policies. He returned home and soon died of pneumonia.

Given the timeline, this would be about 10 days before his death, so his condition must be very poor.

"People's words were true."

".............?"

"They say the hair of people from the afterlife is black."

".............Yes?"

Oops, I unknowingly asked back. Did he hear me?

He struggled to get up. Maybe because I grew up in the East, where manners are important, my body reflexively moved to help the old man, but I hesitated, thinking that it was not certain yet. Mucha got up and leaned his back on the bed frame, then picked up the Bible that was next to him.

The old man who prayed quietly.

Maybe he believed it was the last moment of his life? The sight of the praying old man was almost devout.

It would be better to check if he can see me, if he can hear my voice. It would be better than hesitating like this, neither here nor there.

"Excuse me, sir."

".........."

"Do you need me to call someone if you're in pain?"

Then, Mucha, who was praying with his eyes closed, slowly opened his eyes and looked at me.

"Only I have to go with you to our house. The others are too young, so come back much later."

[T/N: He seems to have mistaken MC with Grim reaper, and grim reaper calling someone]

What does that mean? No, more importantly, did we just have a conversation? Yeah, there's no need for the rules of the previous dream to match. It doesn't matter what happens in a dream anyway.

I was happy to have a chance to talk with the painter I admired, even in a dream.

But I have to clear up this misunderstanding first. I can't make someone who can live for another 10 days prepare for the last moment already.

"Excuse me, but you're mistaken. I'm not from the underworld, and I'm certainly not the one who will take you to heaven."

Mucha didn't seem surprised by my words, he just stared at me blankly.

Maybe he had seen a lot of things in his long life, so this wasn't surprising. But still, it's normal to be surprised when a stranger comes into your bedroom in the middle of the night.

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