chapter One

             

BOOK ONE

Vice City, 2008

Laurent & Carlo

EPISODE 1

Will you sink?

Will you swim?

Will you sing like a bird in jail?

from the song by Perry Blake

"Help me!", a weary cry darted through the hospital and could be heard even at the beach across the road when, escorted by two nurses, the surgeon walked away with the baby nestled in his arms -- and Catherine realized she was being abandoned in the surgery room.

Such desperate cry was coming from an independent, haughty 25 years old girl who still regarded herself as a Parisian intellectual, not the least ready to be a mother, who had found herself pregnant in a fancy resort island in the Pacific Ocean — a rather limited perimeter of white sand embraced by the sea of transcendental blue, commonly adressed by people from all over the world as paradise, but that to her had proven to be a detestable trap.

That humbling plea must have been the first thing I ever heard in my life, so full of anguish and fear and confusion that covered even my own high-pitched first cry. It has been echoing in my mind for decades now, but it’s not until recently that I learned what its core was — the key to something that I felt had been missing my whole life through.

Maybe Catherine had never been left alone, and in her agony she just thought so. At my mother's call, one of the nurses returned immediately to her side, and realizing what was happening summoned the surgeon back to the operating table. 

But that’s the beginning of my story, not of this story -- so let me start again.

Laurent knew it was irreversible the moment he delivered the last canvas at the museum. “Is anything wrong?”, had asked the perky woman to whom he was supposed to handle it. He had held onto the painting for a moment longer, before finally letting go of it, shifiting from aprehension to carelessness in a second.

It was as if he was giving away his heart and separating himself from the passion and obsession with which he had painted during almost one decade a series of portraits of his ex-lovers — and now, with the accomplished exhibition, that cycle was closing.

Delivering the last canvas had been the final blow. 

Nothing to retouch, nor to reconsider. He was either going to be crucified for the boldness of his naked self-portraits or sued by some of the ex-lovers he had so passionately dumped. Probably, both things. But backing him were the almighty director of the internationally prestigious museum who was his personal friend, and his highly competitive art dealer who had the power to not only influence the trendiest people in the country, but also had to his own interest that the already escalating prices of Laurent’s paintings raised even higher.

He was covered.

Yet, he felt his fingers slowly starting to tighten and freeze, as something in his body began to shut down, and he knew the bonfire in which he had lustfully burned would soon extinguish itself. Call it creative hiatus or painter's block, he felt his blood gradually thickening with fear. You could also call it a premonition, or an intuition, but it was not in Laurent's nature to pay attention to them.

But again, that’s not how I wanted to start this story.

Because, earnestly, I didn’t know I was in trouble the moment I delivered the last canvas at the museum. I did hesitate for a second — wasn’t it a bit vulgar to have my erection displayed at a museum that attracted visitors from all over the world? But I had been encouraged by both my artistic mentor and my marchand to be bold, tough and carefree. Rise or fall, sink or swim, fly or crash — I knew very well I had placed my best bet when I delivered the last and most scandalous canvas to be hung at the entrance of my first major solo exhibition.

What can I bring to my defence, when like a peacock, sumptuous in self-contentment I paraded around — but was instead being led as a sacrificial lamb towards the altar of my own ignorance?

You won't see me with a cocktail in my hands very often.

In fact, I usually say I don't drink alcohol.

But today.

Today I have many reasons to drink.

Not just because the barman is extremely handsome.

And not only because my mother suggested it, a few minutes ago.

As the phone rang, I knew it was her. Third time that day.

'Bonjour Catherine.'

'Bonjour mon trésor. How is everything going?'

'I'm still waiting for him, if that's your question.'

'He hasn't arrived yet!?!' -- she gasped, quite dramatically -- 'Oh honey, I don't know if this was such a good idea after all. You might get hurt again... Oh, why does that man always have to lose track of time?'

'Since he is already 20 years late, I don't mind waiting for some twenty minutes or even a couple hours more. Maybe his flight is late, who knows?' -- I let out a deep breath, letting go of my anger -- 'You'd love this restaurant, Catherine. So fancy, the views over the ocean are breathtaking! Anyway, I have arrived early because I want to settle down, relax and calm my feelings.'

'Drop that meditative crap, darling. You sound awfully like him... Have a drink instead... Like me!' -- she laughed cheerfully at her own suggestion.

'Only if you promise me you won't drink tonight, Catherine!' -- and contrary to her cheerfulness, I sounded very serious.

'But I'm going on a date tonight! How can I not drink?' -- again she laughed.

It was no joke. Since the death of her second steady partner -- the first being my father --, Catherine had been drinking, and getting drunk just too often. Nothing major, like it required rehab, but it still was disheartening to see my mother deal with her suffering so unwisely.

'Aren't you in Russia promoting your latest novel, Catherine? Are you dating a Russian?!' -- after 33 years of coexistence, the speed at which my mother attracted men into her bed would still astound and disconcert me, especially if I recalled she was 58 years old already... or is that a prejudice? 

'Exactly, mon cher. You should see the bathroom I'm standing in! So golden and olden! Makes me feel like Katherina the czarina, haha! And yes, my date is a writer who's been compared to Dostoyevsky. Don't you think I really need my drinks?' -- she laughed even louder -- 'And you know I know how to drink.'

'It's more like you know how to get drunk...' -- I mouthed, quite unskillfully. 

'That's so rude of you, Laurent!' 

'I'm sorry. I'm nervous, I think you can understand it!' -- she wasn't really angry at me, but I nevertheless apologized -- 'So, you're really not coming for the vernissage... That would be a great support...'

'Mon trésor, no emotional blackmail now, not over the oceans... I mean, the phone! Not when we are continents apart!' -- Catherine sounded more bored than annoyed -- 'You know exactly why I won't go, and it's been the same reason why I've never ever visited you in Vice City!' 

'But Catherine... one day you'll have to overcome your fear!' -- my mother had always been terrified of flying. I thought it made everything so much more difficult and time consuming for her -- 'Maybe when they give you the Nobel Prize you'll fly to Norway...'

'There are very comfortable trains and ferries instead, darling!' -- Catherine wasn't in a playful mood and just dismissed it -- 'There's no reason why I'm supposed to overcome my fear, nor do anything I don't want to. Still, I'm sorry I won't be there for the opening.'

'Then... enjoy your Russian date!' -- Instead of your own son, I thought, but did not say it; our conversation had become tense, which was a sign to hang up and avoid quarreling -- 'Au revoir, Catherine.'

'Au revoir, mon cher! Like I said, have another drink. One for me.' -- Catherine giggled -- 'And don't leave me without news or I'll call you again!' 

I walked up to the bar, where the beautiful bartender shone like a promise. 

'Can I please have another gin tonic, Gabriel?' -- he looked like an angel and was named after an archangel -- 'And I'll be moving to the lounge area. When my guest arrives...'

'I'll show him the way, sir, don't worry.' -- his smile was beautiful, and it actually calmed me down more than aroused my desire --  'If there is anything else I can do for you, sir...'

'Please, call me Laurent.'

Laurent D'Allegro.

Born of an Italian father and a French mother. Prematurely, on the island of Punaouilo in the Pacific Ocean, in my unpardonable haste interrupting my mother's first holidays in many years -- and her burgeoning academic career, too.

I had this funny idea that I would die at the age of 33.

Like Jesus Christ. I was so sure! 

Since I haven't died -- not yet -- I've decided to heal old wounds before heading into the uncertain future. 

The rest of my life, the bonus part, is starting today.

 I had thought having the Nirvana Lounge, the most exclusive restaurant in town at that moment, exclusively for myself and my guest was a splendid idea, but instead, its emptiness somehow felt creepy and it was making me agitated. Or was it the handsome barman that was making me feel self-conscious? I couldn't help but check him out every time I glanced over to the entrance door.

Obviously, Gabriel is in town because like hundreds or maybe thousands of young men that arrive here every year, he wants to be an actor. They have all got the looks, the physique, but meager talents might turn them into models instead, or even a rent boy like Angelo, depending on what their skills and aspirations are, I suppose.

Here I am, already slowly sinking into reminiscing about Angelo and the ten years I have spent in this wreck of a city, eagerly waiting for my past to arrive. 

He is so late -- but I don't care. I am a survivor, and I am used at holding off my anxiety attacks.

My first solo exhibition in an internationally acclaimed museum is opening tomorrow night. My detractors like to stress the fact that Dan Charmand, the almighty director of Vice's Contemporary Art Museum, is my personal friend, and that should be the only reason why I was offered this opportunity. But as my artistic mentor, he truly seems to think my work has matured enough, and since I should be getting invitations for Venice and Kassel soon, he intends to be the first one to have shown my paintings properly -- in a dark room, where he thinks they belong.  

It's a major occasion and a great privilege to have this opportunity, and I'm hoping to be a new man by tomorrow night. Less saddened, less tormented. 

Overnight. Starting this afternoon.

This afternoon should be a milestone of forgetfulness -- or forgiveness. 

And suddenly, there he was! I thought I had braced myself for that moment, a preparation that had lasted twenty years... but I hadn't. My hands were shaking, I had begun to sweat.

My father.

'Ciao Carlo, buon giorno.' -- in a moment, I had decided formality would be my shield -- 'Io sono Laurent.'

'Of course you are!' -- he spoke French with a heavy, joyous Italian accent that tasted to breezy summer days spent at delicious meals and long conversations. Days that had never happened -- 'And you still speak Italian!'

'Just a few words I recall from my childhood...' -- I was uncertain how to proceed -- 'Would you have recognized me, Carlo?' -- to my dismay, my voice trembled each time I pronounced his name, and ultimately I sounded just like the teenager he had abandoned.

'After me, you're the best looking man in this restaurant. You had to be my son!' -- Carlo was in a lighthearted mood, seemingly unaware of my nervousness.

'The restaurant is empty, Carlo.' -- I retorted, sarcastically.

'It was a joke... Won't you laugh?' -- annoyed, Carlo seemed to focus his eyes on me for the first time -- 'Apart from that, you're on the local newspapers, son. Big pictures. They seem to love your face more than your paintings.'

'Is that a criticism to my works, Carlo?' -- my voice again trembled, this time with anger -- 'Or is it another bad joke?'

'It's a compliment, son. Have you grown up to be just like your mother... beautiful and elegant, but too serious? No sense of humour at all? Or are you trying to start an argument? Because if you invited me for that, I might as well leave right now.'

'I'm sorry. I apologize.' -- I took another deep breath -- 'I'm glad you have arrived, Carlo.'

'And I apologize for being late.' -- he paused, as if choosing his next words -- 'I'm happy to be here, Laurent.'

I knew it was a bluff. Carlo wouldn't have flown all the way from Italy to simply turn his back on me after a few seconds, and return to his hermitage in the mountains. You are twenty years late, I thought, and I'm certainly not letting you leave, not again, not tonight! -- but I didn't say it.

We sat rigidly, and staring at one another, sank into an awkward silence.

Words don't come easily after a gap of twenty years, worsened by the fact that we had not seen nor even spoken nor written to one another during that period.

Looking through the windows did not help us either -- out there, it was the devastating emptiness and amplitude of ocean and sky that could not be abridged. A stunning view, but quite discouraging in our present situation.

'Can I offer you anything to drink, sir?' -- the handsome barman, 

beautiful like an angel, behaving like an angel, had approached and broken the silence.

'I'm having red wine, grazie' -- Carlo replied, glancing with interest at Gabriel.

 'Can I bring you another gin tonic, sir?' -- he smiled, and his beauty indeed had a soothing effect on me.

'No thank you.' -- having had just two drinks I sounded groggy already, and both Carlo and Gabriel eyed me with curiosity -- 'I'll have sparkling water instead...'

'So, you drink gin tonic... just like your mother...' -- Carlo sounded disappointed, or perhaps surprised -- 'It's a writer's drink, they say.'

'And what would be a painter's drink, Carlo?'

'I guess it depends on the painter, haha...' -- he quickly dismissed the subject -- 'This is a very nice place, son. The views are stunning. It must be expensive.'


'You're my guest, Carlo...' -- but why did I feel compelled to lie? Nirvana Lounge, being the fanciest lounge and restaurant in Vice City at that moment, had been recommended to me by the only friend I still had in town, Dan Charmand, the museum's director. Somehow, I did not want to mention that we were actually both Charmand's guests -- 'A couple of my paintings have just been bought. Let's celebrate!' -- that, at least, was true.

'I'm happy to hear you're having such a brilliant start, Laurent! The art critics are praising your paintings... "A refreshing punch in the face of the portraiting tradition"... Seems like you've knocked down all those guys that are staring at us from the wall, haha!' -- they were classical male portraits, a fine selection made by Charmand at the Nirvana Lounge's owner request -- 'I'm curious to see your paintings!'

He sounded sincere. I had an invitation for the vernissage in my pocket, just to formally invite him. Not as short noticed as it might seem -- after much hesitation, a month ago I had phoned my father for the first time in two decades to invite him, and he had flown from Italy, where he had been living in our family's ancestral lands in the central Apennines, specially to attend the opening. 

'And I've enjoyed the title of your exhibition so much! "Portraiting Dorian G". So witty, and very literary. It's only male models, I read. One of the articles mentioned they are all your ex-lovers... How many portraits are there in this show?' -- Carlo giggled.

'Haha! You're funny, Carlo!' -- not quite like I remember you, I thought. But I was touched with the fact that he cared enough to read the articles about my show -- 'So says the legend, that I only portrait my ex-lovers...' -- it came as a surprise that I could be so straightforward about my sexuality with my father -- 'I don't know who has started this rumour... Probably my marchand, who believes in selling me ahead of my paintings. I have nothing to say about that.' -- we hadn't spoken for more than fifteen minutes, and the subject of my sexuality had already come up on his initiative -- 'Except that there are forty five paintings in this show...'

'Forty five! Wow, that's quite a lot of... models! Haha! So you do have a sense of humour after all...' -- he looked genuinely amused -- 'And you already have a marchand... Impressive! It makes me think... how different from my own start! I could never have afforded dining in such a posh restaurant when I started my career...' 

'It's like I said...' -- I saw myself gesticulating more than usual, already mirroring the Italian man in front of me, and I smiled. If my mother would only see this... She hated when I gesticulated too much, and had strained me not to. But fifteen minutes was all it took to surrender to the Italian blood in me -- 'Don't worry Carlo, you're my guest...' -- Charmand's actually, I thought, but Dan was not a very endearing person in the art world, and I was not sure about his relations with Carlo -- '...and my father, too, so that's why I've chosen the best restaurant in town! Don't think I'm trying to simply show off nor impress you!' -- though yes, I have to confess I was feeling rather insecure.

'I'm not saying you are! But I'm nevertheless impressed, even if just with that shiny suit of yours... and the muscles underneath it... Haha!' -- he halted, before reticently adding -- 'And I'm happy to hear you calling me father...' -- again, he paused, as if waiting for any reaction on my part, but I had sworn to myself not to show my feelings for him -- 'It's just that this place, so elegant... so 'raffinée' as your mother would say... couldn't be any more diverse from my own situation when I started my career, struggling to make it as a painter...'

Carlo seemed to be willing to tell me something. Yet, he paused for another moment, reflecting. His eyes were vague for a whole minute or so, drawn by the white vortex of light that merged sky and sea outside, until he again focused them on me. 

I was still familiar with my father's long silences, and I just waited.

'How much time do we have, Laurent?' -- he had murmured his question, as if fearing my answer. He was indeed a shy man.

'I'm all yours tonight, Carlo.' -- I replied reassuringly -- 'I'm here for you.'

'Okay, then. It's time you learn more about your father.' -- and antecipating the questions I had kept in my heart for twenty years, he added -- 'Maybe it will help you to understand and forgive me. At least, you'll have that opportunity, tonight.'

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