Presently, the first huge block of black stone, the one with the Trimurti, was levered off with crowbars and sent crashing to the ground. As the dust settled, the pavement artist awoke from his trance of despair. He rose and went to Gustad. ‘I am very grateful to you for providing me with the wall’s hospitality. Now it is time to go.’
‘Go? But where? Have you made any plan?’
‘Where does not matter, sir.’ The tumbling Trimurti had restored all his philosophical buoyancy. ‘In a world where roadside latrines become temples and shrines, and temples and shrines become dust and ruin, does it matter where?’ He began putting his things together. ‘Sir, one request. Is it OK if I take some twigs from your tree? I like to control the creation, preservation and destruction of my dental health.’
‘Take as many as you want.’ The artist broke off seven small branches and put them in his satchel. ‘Good luck,’ said Gustad, shaking his hand.
‘Luck is the spit of gods and goddesses,’ the artist replied, and slipped out through the gate, padding softly in his bare feet.
Gustad noticed the large box of oil paints and brushes leaning against the pillar. ‘Wait, you are forgetting your things.’
The pavement artist about-faced. He smiled and shook his head, walking backwards for a moment. ‘I have taken everything I need for my journey.’ He patted his satchel. ‘My box of crayons is in here.’ Then he bent by the kerb to pick something up. ‘I think this is yours.’ He tossed it towards the gate.
‘Thank you,’ said Gustad, catching his trampled prayer cap. The black velvet pile was crushed, coated with mud, and he did not put it on again.
The artist quickly disappeared from sight. It was well past noon, and the air was rank with the smell of diesel fumes. A shrunken shadow of the solitary tree crouched to one side. Two men were working on its trunk with a crosscut saw.
Gustad left the sun-flooded compound and entered the flat. Waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, he slapped the prayer cap against his leg; a little dry mud flaked off. He dropped the cap on his desk, fetched a chair, and closed the front door.
Much of the noise from the road was shut out, save the persistent crunch of gravel. He stood upon the chair and pulled at the paper covering the ventilators. As the first sheet tore away, a frightened moth flew out and circled the room.