Page 51 of Theo of Golden

That young boy, now grown old and resting on a bench in the American Southeast, watches the same sun that, decades ago, had tanned his strong shoulders and glistened in his ink-black hair on the hillsides of Southwest Europe. And he wonders…

Might it be that water from the river of his childhood had found its way to this one, that the cyclical life of rainfall — sky to earth to sky again, over and over — had brought the elixir of the Iberian wine country to this place? That the river of gold in Portugal had come, through cloudburst and current, to this river of gray in Golden? And had some of Golden’s flow found its way to the hillsides of Theo’s childhood? Was there, after all, only one big river that flowed across the earth?

Across the river, a thread of color, woven into the evening clouds, caught Theo’s eye and conjured up a memory from boyhood.

It was summer.

A Saturday.

Clear weather.

Theo left his bicycle at home and walked into the town that morning. He and his friends spent an energetic day together — kicking futbol, walking through the marketplace in the town center, sitting among others at the fountain, and finally, exploring the riverside.

By late afternoon, the small gaggle had begun to thin, falling away one at a time until Theo found himself alone, walking home by the route that allowed him to stay beside the Douro for as long as possible.

For a young boy like Theo, one with a sensitivity to the subtleties of light and color, the beauty of early evening was entrancing, even if he had no words yet for the feeling of sacredness that was taking up residence inside him. Perhaps there are no such words.

As he walked the footpath along a treeless stretch of shoreline, he saw ahead a small fishing boat, Menino do Rio, anchored at an eddy among short reeds. It was a simple craft, outfitted with oars and an old three-horsepower motor. It was well maintained, freshly painted, and filled with all the equipment of the trade: nets, rods and reels, line, catchwell, and bait box. The owner, like many in the region, probably worked the vineyards and the river — depending on hour of day and time of year — harvesting from land and water for his daily bread.

Near the boat on the riverbank stood a fisherman whom Theo had never seen before. The man wore high rubber boots, a short-brimmed cap, and the working clothes of a commoner. His heavy shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, was stained with the evidence of a day’s catch. He was stocky and muscular, a fact that became clearer as Theo walked toward the man. Heavy stubble highlighted his strong, square jawline. Thick eyebrows guarded dark, serious eyes.

At first, Theo could not tell what the fisherman was doing. As he stepped closer, however, he realized the man was painting a picture, standing at an artist’s easel, facing west. The man held a palette with small bowls of color in his left hand and a paintbrush in his right. His eyes were fixed intently on the sunset and the distant shore. He did not seem to notice the boy approaching hesitantly from his left.

Not that young Theo was afraid or timid, not in the slightest. Rather, he sensed intuitively that the man was doing work worthy of silence and should not be disturbed.

Theo stood behind the stranger, with only a few feet between them, and watched as the western horizon took shape in miniature on the canvas. With each brushstroke, the fisher-painter’s sinewy arms rippled, as they did, no doubt, when he pulled at his net or fishing lines. In both cases, the man was in quest of a catch.

At the moment, he was intent on catching the sky in front of him.

The little boy discerned a pattern in the artist’s work: observe sky, observe canvas, brush to palette, mix color, brush to canvas, stroke or dab or blend. Again and again and again.

Without knowing he had done so, Theo had inched forward until he was standing close enough to touch the fisherman, close enough to smell the odd, subtle fragrance of oil paint and perch.

“If you’ll step here, I believe you can see the canvas better.”

The fisherman’s voice startled young Theo and brought him out of his daze, but he said nothing in reply. The man continued speaking, as if he and the boy were old friends who had long been in conversation. He only looked at Theo from the corner of his eye. There was a welcome in his voice.

“Any fisherman knows that this is the best time to be fishing. But artists know this is the enchanted hour, when the sunlight is most magical. It’s hard to know sometimes. Fish or paint, right? Fish or paint? Well, I tell you, this time of year, I’m afraid I have no choice. I always make time for this. And thank the Almighty, I had a nice catch this morning. A full net. If I could, I would do this every evening for the rest of my life. I would stand right here every evening and paint that same tree line, that same horizon, that same sky, and no two paintings would ever be the same.”

Theo listened without reply, not fully understanding what the man was saying. He watched like one in a trance as the man painted.

Observe sky. Observe canvas. Brush to palette, mix color, brush to canvas, stroke or dab or blend.

The man, brows raised in query, looked at the boy with a disarming gentleness in his eyes.

“Am I getting close? Is it done?”

The boy remained silent.

“The problem with a sunset is that it won’t stay still. In a single minute it can change itself entirely. See?”

He touched the brush to the canvas at a streak of orange that he had applied only minutes before.

“See?”

Then, he pointed his brush toward the western sky. Instead of orange, there was now a muted shade of violet.

“It’s already gone. Oh, well.”