The prospect of being unemployed and trying to make a living 24 hours a day stunned me.

Yes, a nightclub wasn’t on my bucket list, but at least here I had money to rent a bungalow and some free time to live well enough.

I glanced at the mediator’s screen; my debt had already decreased significantly. What if I could cheat and turn off the device? But then I would lose my income.

I walked somewhere in a sad mood, and before I knew it I’d turned off the main road into the jungle. I could hardly see the path through the thick and thorny bushes, but whose was it? I pushed the vines apart carefully and moved forward, trying not to step on the thorns that protruded everywhere. A strip of water shimmered ahead, and soon the path led me to a stone staircase with chipped steps and a sign on the railing that read “Mangrove Hotel”. An abandoned hotel!

Driven by curiosity I ran down, and small bungalows with mossy roofs came into view. From a distance the houses looked inhabited, but when I tried to open the door of one, another a third, they were all locked. There was chaos and devastation everywhere. Walls were peeling in places, and glass broke underfoot. Through the dusty windows you could see heaps of rotting mattresses piled inside the rooms. The rusted remains of sunshades creaked sadly in the wind.

There was no beach. What I first thought was the sea turned out to be a shallow bay with mangroves and sharp rocks on the bottom. The water was ankle deep. Judging by the pier on the seawall, this seascape once looked different. But something had happened. Perhaps, the natural balance had been disturbed during the construction, or perhaps the site had been poorly chosen in the first place, but work on the hotel complex had stalled. I approached a lone tree on the shore. It had strange nut-like fruits with green lumpy rinds. I took a bamboo stick, knocked dawn a “cone”, smelled it, but did not eat it – what if it was bitter or poisonous?

I couldn’t get the conversation with Randy out of my mind. As I wandered around the overgrown tennis court, kicking a rotten coconut, I wondered what I was going to do. I guess I’ll have to save up for a laptop, or at least a phone. Gotta make a living somehow. I didn’t want to waste time arguing on the network, but I couldn’t think of anything else to do. Except for writing, I knew nothing. Should I start writing advertising articles again? Ehh...

Suddenly, some movement to my left caught my attention. Who’s there? Monkeys? Vagrants? A guard?

“What a surprise!” I heard a familiar voice. “How did you find me?” Austin was standing on the porch of one of the bungalows. “I wasn’t looking for you,” I muttered absently. “I was just walking by.” “Actually, it’s rare that anyone comes here; the hotel has been abandoned for years. Even the locals avoid it, believing it’s cursed and haunted by evil spirits. In a way, it’s true, because I’m a ghost, right?” He made a scary face and laughed demonically.

“But the legend is good for me. I don’t like intruders, but since you’re here, come in.” Austin gestured for me to enter his bungalow, which, to be honest, wasn’t much different from the one I’d rented at the “Sands”. Most of the room was taken up by stretchers, canvases, and sketches of variations on a single landscape – the one the artist observed daily from his window – a rocky bay with a lone tree.

The unusual thing was that, despite the apparent similarity of detail, none of the drawings looked like the other. “Doesn’t the same thing happen in life?” Austin smiled. “But not everyone notices.”

I suddenly realized that I didn’t dislike him anymore. I may not always understand what this hermit is trying to tell me, but at least he is honest. I learned from Austin that he was once a really promising artist. “Maybe even a talented one,” he said thoughtfully. “I lived with my parents in Texas until I was ten, then my mom died, and my father and I moved to Arizona. I had loved to draw since I was kid, and I got a lot of compliments, but mostly from family and friends. It was nice, but I wanted to hear from professionals. However, they were in no hurry to praise me, and that, I must admit, upset me very much.”

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

He was silent for a while, and then continued:

“One day at a college exhibition, where my works were, an old man, the famous master, came up to me and said he liked my drawings and was willing to take me as an apprentice. I agreed and spent a year with him until I imagined that I had already reached some heights. The critics started talking about me; my opinion was taken into account. I started to get orders; money was flowing to me like a river. All this turned my head, and I told to the Master that I was leaving.”

“And he began to persuade you to stay,” I guessed.

“No,” Austin shook his head, “he didn’t hold me back, he just told me that it was just the beginning, that the offers I was getting were cheap, and that I was capable of more, if I continued to improve my painting. But youth doesn’t like to wait; I wanted to get everything at once. Big money and envy of other artists’ fame spurred me on. I thought I was a genius, so I painted day and night. I told myself: ‘As long as I am fashionable and famous, I should use it, then others will come and everyone will forget about me’.”

I didn’t know then that if you’re really worth something, people will always remember you and wait for you.”

Austin stood up and paced the room. Then he sat back in his chair. “I was a successful artist; my paintings were in demand, my muse never betrayed me. I realize now that I was just filled with the Teacher’s power – like a balloon of hot air rising lifted to the ceiling. I dangled there for a while, and when I cooled down, I lost my former lightness. Inspiration had left me and I was devastated. It is impossible to work hard and not lose quality at the same time, you should know that very well. Every ascent is invariably followed by a descent, that’s normal, but it takes effort, a lot of effort to reach the next high. And free energy. As for me, I wanted to be oat the top forever, so I didn’t give myself a minute to rest. I kept emptying myself to the bottom, and didn’t have time to fill up. I was getting orders for years in advance and I couldn’t disappoint my customers. And guess what I started doing? I started drinking. It’s a bad idea to mix creativity and alcohol. It might work at first, but not for long. Under the wine fumes, I hoped to see things I couldn’t when sober, but in vain. I drank more and more, and painted worse and worse. The old passion was gone from my paintings.

He smiled bitterly: “But the saddest thing is that no one noticed. Everyone thought I was still great, but I knew I wasn’t! There’s nothing more terrifying for an artist than knowing you’re worthless. The thought of being mediocre is worse than death. The Teacher was right; I could have achieved more, but I was in too much of a hurry and became an ordinary craftsman. My friends consoled me by saying: ‘Austin, you are being too hard on yourself.’ I am not! Whenever I compared my paintings with the work of others, I was convinced that my feelings did not lie. I may have looked good against the backdrop of bad artists, but I despised them; I didn’t want to look up to the weak. I admired the work of true masters, but I felt a black envy of them – why would they become the best and I would not? In the end, I completely gave up painting, went on a long drinking binge and drunk myself to the point of throwing myself out of the window. Everybody says that, but I don’t even remember it.”

“And it was only here,” he looked around the bay, “that I could return to what I had begun in my youth. I felt a taste for life again, the inspiration, the joy. But I had to die for it.” “So your addiction was alcohol?” I asked. “Did ‘they’ take you for that?” “Alcohol is just a consequence,” Austin disagreed. “There are two ways to be successful – the easy way and the long way. I chose the easy way, and look where it got me.”

To be continued