Wednesday, July 17, 2013

chapter Two

to read from the FIRST CHAPTER










EPISODE 3



miracles do happen.





As I sat there listening to my father, I had to think how little did I know about him. 

He had been not only distant, absent all those years -- he'd been a stranger to me, somehow. We had been close only during part of my childhood and my early teens. But all the rest of what I knew about him had come from my mother, filtered with resentment and prejudice -- that I could right now recognize rising inside me, maybe as my own.

I tried wholeheartedly to get rid of them as I listened to Carlo.




Looking at him, grown old and with a saddened expression, I felt my heart melting.

Maybe it would take longer to forgive my father, but it wasn't that hard to feel compassionate towards the person in front of me, who had suffered so much chasing his ideal, trying to fulfill his heart's wishes to make a living as a painter.


'One day I vomited so much...' -- Carlo had continued with his story without me having to ask for it --, 'or not that much actually, since I had had just stale bread for breakfast, and canned soup two evenings ago for dinner... It was the force with which I expeled the food, not its amount...' -- Carlo closed his eyes for a moment, perhaps recalling his agony -- '...that I fainted.'


I woke up many hours later, still leaning over the toilet, shivering with cold and coughing. 

I was asphyxiating with the bad smell of my own vomit, and I felt I had to throw up again -- but there was nothing left in my stomach.


I understood I had to go to the hospital. While I still had the strength to walk.

My days of tranquil hermitage were over.





Naively I thought that at the public hospital they would give me some kind of medicine and send me back home -- but, due to food poisoning and a pneumonia that had not quiet yet developed, they actually kept me in the infirmary for over a week. Or perhaps more, since I had completely lost track of time. 


All the time I stayed there I worried about the factory, if it had been invaded, what had happened to my easel and especially to my paintings... I had locked it before leaving, but the windows were so wrecked that single push would throw them to the floor, and there was even a hole in the ceiling. It wouldn't have been hard to break into my atelier... the factory.

And when I was liberated from the hospital, being again accustomed to being with other people, I decided to bravely venture the several neighborhoods that separated me from the post office. I wanted to check my postal box, hoping to find a letter from Tarso, my grandfather, who would once in a while send me money in Paris.

And there was a letter from him, indeed, with a very modest sum of money in it. The crops hadn't been good, he justified himself (and I knew that was his way of asking 'when are you going to come back to help me?'; but I did not consider ever going back) but nevertheless he had sent more than enough to allow me to buy meat and some bread, after I had exchanged the money. 

It was my first proper meal in perhaps six months!




And there was a letter from my dear ex-roommate from the times at the École des Beaux-Arts, Armand de Montbelle. 

I did not open it straight away because I knew it would be 
long lines of a poetical, intoxicating account of his travelling around the globe, and I wanted to savour it calmly as my dessert.

He wrote at length about his many adventures in Asia, his words tasting to mangoes ripened under the sun, but the astonishing news was that he was acquiring an island in the Indian Ocean! 

"And I need your help to fix this place! Please say you can come! Will you?" 
There was a telephone number with a long prefix to it.





I called him that same day, from a public telephone nearby. His letter had been sitting in my postal box for almost two months now, and I was not sure I could reach him still.

My heart was painfully banging in my chest as the phone rang and rang 
and there was no answer. I called him again and again. 

I was aware this was the miracle I had been praying for. I only hoped it was not too late...

'Mate! Finally!' -- I hadn't felt that happy recently as when I heard my ex-roommate's voice -- 'What took you so long to call? How could you leave me stranded for an eternity on this lonely island? Or did my letter take that long to get to you? Man, I need you here!' -- Armand said cheerfully, and then I could sense insecurity in his voice when he asked -- 'Can you come? Or are you too busy in Paris?'

'Oh, no! I'm coming... Yes, of course I am! I mean...' -- I was embarrassed to  say I was penniless -- 'I want to come... But I have no idea where this Île du Blanchomme should be...'




'I think I told you on the letter, didn't I?' -- Armand retorted -- 'You will have to get to a sea port, mate. And from there, it shouldn't be hard to get to this part of the Indian Ocean, because I'm not far from some major ports for this region... There is always a cargo ship on the horizon here... Actually, I can see one right now! And once you know your port of destination, I can pick you there and we come together to the Île du Blanchomme... How does this seem to you?'

'Seems like I'll be working as a sailor soon... That should be fun, haha!' -- I laughed at my own joke -- 'I'll go to a port within the next few days, and I'll see what I can find, and I'll let you know...' -- I still had money left from what my grandfather had sent me, and I could also hitchhike to the coast -- 'I think you mentioned it's a deserted island... That means no one around?'



'Mon cher Carlo, I think I included a few hot numbers and names in my letter... They are my father's contacts for the cargo companies. Just call them and let them know you need to travel to the Indian Ocean. Don't forget to mention my father's name. Everybody owes my father a favor, or even money, and you should be treated as VIP... You won't travel first class on a cargo ship, but you won't have to work as a sailor either!' -- Armand sounded very excited, and spoke very swiftly, unlike his usual restrained manners -- 'Mate, I'm so glad you can come! I was afraid you'd say no, or remain silent, or procrastinate... Si, Carlo, you can rest assured... There's no one else on the island.' -- I could imagine Armand smiling as he had said this. He knew how I enjoyed quiet places -- 'It's so tiny, you'll see... There used to be some workers here, a few weeks ago, making the abandoned house again livable... But they have left, and now it's only me... and the sun... and the moon... and the mess. Will you call me again? Promise?'




For a moment, I had to lay down on my bed to calm my heart and sort my feelings out.

I had done many things on an impulse, and some of them I'd later regret -- but going to an island on the other side of the world just seemed like the right decision to make at the moment.




That same afternoon, I phoned the cargo companies, and with the name of Gaston de Montbelle -- Armand's high-powered father, one of the wealthiest men in France -- at the tip of my tongue, I found a ship bound to the Indian Ocean in a week. That did not allow me much time to pack and travel by train to the port.

I had been given a number where I reached the captain of the ship heading to the Indian Ocean, and I contacted him next. He had never heard of the Île du Blanchomme, nor had he heard about Monsieur de Montbelle -- but the owners of the ship had, and so he had to agree to have me on board.




The captain had also agreed that I could bring my easel and paintings on the ship.

"But you have to consider you don't know where you're going, son." -- he had pondered -- "Nor how you gonna get there. Of course you can bring your stuff onto my ship, but maybe you won't be able to bear them until your final destination... Île du Blanchomme! You might have to build a raft out of your easel and canvases to get there, haha..." -- the captain had laughed. He seemed like a nice man -- "Be practical, son. The wise traveler always travels light."

And so I painted the last canvas in that abandoned factory, that I had come to consider as being my "Parisian atelier".





It wasn't easy, but taking in consideration the captain's sensible advices, I decided to burn most of my paintings... 

I'd been practicing letting go in my meditation sessions, letting go of my thoughts and feelings, specially the painful ones, and I'm sure this practice helped me survive those rough months.

But I wasn't ready to get rid of my paintings. 

I was more attached to them than to my own health. I had already rolled quite a few of them, those I considered to be the best, because they were thus easier to carry, even if it damaged the paint a little... And since I could not simply abandon the rest, I decided to burn them.




It was the night before embarkation. I would be taking a train to the port before dawn.

In such a cold night, it was a bitter consolation that the fire warmed me.

As the canvases were being consumed by the flames, it occurred me I should have an indelible memory from that evening -- and I took a piece of burning wood from one of the frames and applied it to my hand.




This little bruise that you can see here, Laurent. 

But big enough to help me remember, for the rest of my life, what probably was the most important period of my Parisian years... -- Carlo paused, as he softly caressed his bruise -- And maybe you don't remember asking me about it when you were a small boy, do you, Laurent? -- Carlo looked at me inquiringly, with a lovely smile brightening his features that had become a bit tense after his narration -- We were still living in Punaouilo. You touched the bruise with your little fingers and asked me if it had hurt... and if I had cried... You touched it ever so lightly, as if you didn't want to make it hurt again... do you remember it, son?




'No, I don't remember that...' -- once Carlo had mentioned the name of the island where I had been born and spent the happiest years of my childhood, I felt my connection to him strengthening -- 'But I do remember being intrigued with your bruise. Especially after I had burnt myself for the first time with a candle...' -- that came out as a confession, for it was an episode of my childhood I had hidden from both my parents, having remained a secret between me and the maid at Punaouilo -- 'And I think I was afraid to ask how it'd happened to you... Apparently I did ask, but I don't remember your answer... When was that, Carlo?'

'Never mind, Laurent. This happened during the time your mother left us to travel back to France. Do you remember that?' -- Carlo inquired.

'Of course I do! I mean, I remember her absence. That's what I remember most from that period...'


















8 comments:

  1. Too bad he burned his paintings. It must really be enlightening for Laurent to hear of is father's life. It seems that his Mom was bitter to paint bad memories rather than the good. Oh well. She had her reasons I am sure.

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    1. It's only because Carlo had been practicing letting go in his meditation that he could burn his paintings... But I guess he is not very attached to things in general.

      Laurent is so engaged in listening to his father's story because he is seeking explanations for his own life, clarifications for his deepest doubts and perhaps a remedy for his suffering so great, and his essential loneliness...

      Yes, Catherine has had her reasons, and I don't think she's ready yet to share them.

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  2. Wow Carlo had a pretty difficult time running off to chase his dreams as he did. But he kept going regardless of the many difficulties he faced. How sad for him to burn his work but I understand he thought it was better than just leaving them for others to do with them as they pleased. I can only imagine what Catherine must have felt being with Carlo and knowing there was only one true love in his life. Hopefully Laurent can gather something from everything his father is telling him and realize that he shouldn't push people away but instead embrace them. Or risk hurting them as his father did to him.

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    1. There is a movie Carlo watched, Summer of '42, that ends with the sentence "... and for everything we take with us, there is something we must leave behind"... He enjoyed the movie, but this sentence made a greater impression on him than the words of many Indian gurus... His meditation enabled him to practice non-attachment with such ease...

      Laurent holds a lot of resentment. I think he might be looking for atonement -- and even revenge. He would like to be the one to walk out on his father, this time.

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  3. The symbolism of burning his paints is too strong. Not only burning the material but his dreams, his hope. His paints was everything he got from a long time while living in the factory.
    At least a light in the end of tunel, finally a miracle was about to happen in his life.
    Life, hard life but beautiful. Congratulations, another great chapter <3

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    1. thank you for reading and commenting, Fabio!

      What you said about Carlo burning his paintings is very beautiful... He's made a funeral pyre of his heart, and we've just witnessed the cremation of his deceased dreams and hopes. He tried to make a life as an artist in Paris, all on his own, but he did not succed, and now he has the chance to start again, with the aid of his great and generous friend Armand.

      I'm sure Carlo has Gauguin's life story in his mind -- and so new hopes and dreams are arising in his heart... and fears as well, for I think he read Sommerset Maugham's "The Moon and Sixpence", and he is now very unsure about his destiny.

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  4. Travel light. Ah, Carlo took that to heart. I've read what you've said about him burning his paintings in the comments above. I can't help wondering if he had signed them, and then left them in the factory, if someone might have found them and thought they were wonderful and worth some money. There is always the chance that Carlo was thinking, where people would come and destroy the paintings, since they were in that poor of a location. I am curious as to why Catherine thinks Carlo is such a bad person. I love the name Armand. :) I am happy Carlo has a different opportunity now.

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    1. Carlo is an earnest man, with an intense conviction and very idealistic, like he has already shown us regarding his volition -- making a living from his Art.

      He is also a bit submissive, perhaps from the upbringing by Tarso, his strict grandfather who has stayed behind at the family's farm in the Apennines -- and thus has Carlo taken the words from the captain like challenging orders, more than simply a sensible advice.

      But the story you've imagined is in fact very interesting, about paintings being left behind... It wouldn't be so true to Carlo's character, but it would certainly add some mistery to the plot... thanks so much for sharing your idea LKSimmer!

      And don't worry, you will learn about Carlo and Catherine's relationship!

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