—I can’t afford the rent!

That was the exact phrase my tenant told me when I went to collect the month's overdue payment.

I own an apartment in the eastern part of the city, in one of its most iconic neighborhoods. For decades, it was home to immigrant families who arrived in the country looking for opportunities. Spaniards, Italians, and Portuguese lived there together. I grew up within that community, made great friends, and shared a good part of my life. Almost all of us knew each other: we grew up together, got married, and, over time, many ended up emigrating.

When my parents passed away, the apartment was left to us, their children. We all agreed that I would be the one in charge of managing it.

Since each of us had acquired our own home, the family apartment was left practically empty. We would visit to clean it, pay the condo fees, and spend an occasional night together as siblings. It was a way to keep it alive and prevent it from looking abandoned—something crucial at a time when criminals and squatters found opportunities in any unoccupied property.

During one of those family gatherings, several of my siblings announced that they, too, were leaving the country. As I have mentioned on other occasions, Venezuela was going through difficult times, and a sense of abandonment could be breathed everywhere. I decided to stay. Together, we agreed to rent out the apartment so it wouldn’t remain empty. Besides, there was a powerful reason: before he died, Dad asked us never to sell it.

The tenant was a gentleman named Leonardo, an artist dedicated to oil painting.

At first, I had my reservations. I was afraid he might be one of those people who take advantage of other people's property. However, a trusted neighbor spoke very highly of him. He assured me that Leonardo was responsible and reliable.

And so he was.

For years, he paid punctually every month.

Until the first of June of this year arrived.

I checked the bank account where he made the deposits and noticed there was no movement. I thought perhaps he had run into some inconvenience and decided to give him a few days.

On June 4th, I checked again.

Nothing.

I tried calling him on the phone and discovered he no longer had the same number. According to what I was told, he had sold the device along with the phone line.

It was time to visit him.

As I drove toward Chacao, where the apartment is located, my mind began to manufacture all kinds of scenarios. I thought that maybe he had decided to stop paying and keep the property. I also imagined that he hadn't managed to sell his artwork and was going through a complicated financial situation. I even thought that something worse might have happened. A similar story happened to a friend of mine with one of his tenants.

When I arrived at the building, I ran into the usual neighbors: old friends of my father and some of their children. We talked for a few minutes about the country's never-ending situation, and then I asked them about Leonardo.

They all answered the same thing:

—We haven't seen him in a while.

That did nothing but increase my suspicions.

I went up to the apartment.

I knocked on the door.

I waited.

I rang the doorbell.

I waited again.

Finally, the door opened.

Leonardo greeted me without looking up.

I returned the greeting and, with all possible courtesy, explained that I was worried because I hadn't been able to reach him and hadn't received the rent payment either.

Then came a deafening silence.

Leonardo kept looking at the floor.

And he spoke.

—I can’t afford the rent. I'm barely eating once a day. The paintings aren't selling.

Then he showed me some of his works.

What I saw put me straight into fascination mode.

Those paintings were extraordinary. It had been a long time since something other than a woman had captured my attention that way. It was a caress for my eyes.

As I looked at those works, my mind began to work at top speed.

And suddenly… a solution.

—Mr. Leonardo, give me these five paintings. In exchange, you won't pay rent for five months. And put on a jacket because we're going out; I’m going to buy you some groceries.

Of course, he rejected the second part of the proposal. Pride is always everywhere. However, he accepted the exchange of the artwork with gratitude.

We said goodbye.

I stored the paintings in the truck, locked it, and walked to the supermarket on the corner. The manager is a friend of mine.

I told him:

—Prepare a good month's worth of groceries and send them to Mr. Leonardo. (He knew Leonardo too. Afterwards, send me the bill, and I'll wire you the money.

And so it happened.

From there, I went to see Maribel, a great friend and art specialist, as well as a museologist with many years of experience.

I asked her to evaluate the pieces and, if possible, find buyers for them.

After examining them carefully, she told me:

—These works have a lot of value. The style is uncommon, but it is highly appreciated within certain circles. I think I can find clients for them.

Today, as I write these lines, Maribel called me.

The news put a smile on my face.

The paintings have already been sold, and a rather interesting amount of dollars is now in my international account.

Of course, Maribel did what any professional would do: she took her commission.

It's only fair.

Now, when I finish writing this story, I will call Leonardo to give him the good news. Not only will he be able to pay the rent for a year or more, but there is also a possibility that he will participate in several exhibitions thanks to Maribel's contacts.

Sometimes doors close when we least expect them.

But there are also windows ready to open.

That’s why I keep believing that God has surprising ways of acting. He tests us, He squeezes us at certain moments, but He never fails to show us paths when we need them most.

That's it for my five minutes, and I think I went over.