Renaissance Man

The quiet little man sidled into my studio one day unannounced.  He was wearing the most ridiculous turban I'd ever seen with a chicken's feather tucked neatly into a fold.  Dropping a bag of unmarked coins in my lap, he leaped onto my desk, pulled open a book that seemed a little too big for him, and struck a most amazing and haughty pose.  Not having said a word, and I wondered if he ever did speak, I assumed he meant for me to draw him.  Since I had no other commissions or chapel ceilings to be working on at the moment (business is always slow at that time of year) I obliged the little fellow and set to work immediately.  As the night drew closer I expected my odd little patron to leave and return the next day, but since he never made a move to go (and he truly never made a move to do anything, he could hold so still) I continued working.  Straight through the night my pencils swirled across the paper, yet I'd never felt so awake before.  I pushed the charcoal around as if it were the finest paint in all the world.  My eyes were straining and my fingers aching, yet I couldn't seem to stop.  I didn't want to stop.  By the time the sun reached the peak of the mountain the next morning I finally laid down what was left of my pencils.  My quiet patron stared long and hard at the work I had done.  Then he swept off his turban, bowed the deepest bow that has ever been bowed and defenestrated himself.  Shocked, I rushed to the window expecting to see his broken body, for no one that size could survive falling three stories.  Instead, I saw him, barely a speck on the horizon, using the voluminous fabric of his head covering to navigate the air currents and glide slowly away.  "Your portrait!"  I called, but he didn't come back.  So I've kept the drawing ever since and I hang it in my studio, for I've never created anything since that brings me as much happiness as that portrait and I hope my little fellow returns soon to claim it, for I'd like him to pose for even more drawings.