chapter Twelve, continued

to read from the FIRST CHAPTER

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EPISODE 30

'That was just another ordinary day' -- Carlo began reminiscing, and we were back in 1988 -- 'but it became a memorable morning in my life.' 

'I was feeling lazy' -- he went on, speaking very slowly, as if approaching the past with great care --  'and I did not want to leave the house, but I had so many errands to do in town... go to the post, pay bills, shop for groceries... I usually got bored doing them, and talking to people did not entice me much. But I did enjoy driving my sports car around, and those ordinary things were actually the only justification I had to leave home. Otherwise, I'd rather stay in my studio, painting all day long. Sometimes, I wish I were back at my hermitage... the abandoned factory in Paris...' -- Carlo smiled tenderly.

I was in the shower when the phone started ringing insistently. Worried it might be something important or urgent, I ran downstairs and picked the receiver, if just to silence it.

'Carlo! Get out of the house! NOW!' -- Catherine sounded very agitated.

'What's happened, Catherine?' -- I could sense her urgency, and I immediately knew the dreaded moment had arrived.

'They are coming after you!' -- she was screaming -- 'An order for arrest and imprisonment has been issued against you! They might be on their way, already. You have to leave! NOW!'

'Arrested, Carlo? What for?' -- I gasped, surprised and confused. I hadn't expected anything like that. And I could not imagine my father revealing that, after all, he was a drug dealer. Nor that he had murdered someone.  He probably didn't have a valid passaport, or something like that.

'Tax frauding. From the very first time, when I had sent the paintings over to Davez in London, I had failed to declare and pay taxes. I confess that, having been so poor, and a simpleton like your mother liked to point out, I did not even cogitate about things like that. And for our remaining two years in Punaouilo after Davez launched my career, and then in France, when I getting frequent comissions, I had continued doing it, since no one had never pointed any problem. I sent my paintings overseas, I received the money -- and to me, that was that.'

'When we were in the Apennines, Laurent, visiting Tarso and our ancestral farm, two officers spoke to Catherine at home. They said they had tried to contact me many times -- but I never got any notification, because I still held Punaouilo as my official address. With the passing of years, the ammount I owed ​​to the Tax Authorities had become quite astonishing. And since in the records I had always avoided court, I was not plainly under investigation any longer -- I was to receive exemplary punishment, in an attempt to frighten other offenders.'

'Catherine made ​​friends' -- that's how Carlo would commonly refer to Catherine's lovers -- 'with one of the officers, and thus the investigation slowed down a little bit and prolongued, since it was in the young man's interest to have free and justifiable access to our house as often as possible. Not to investigate anything, of course. The man had been married and a formal alibi was much appreciated. But because I was a foreigner, my case turned into an international affair and was taken to a different office, where Catherine's friend could not get hold of things anymore.'

'That one morning in 1988, the "friendly" officer had learned I was going to be arrested. He phoned Catherine, and she phoned me. I left the house with just my passport and a bag of dirty clothes I had planed to leave at the laudnry that afternoon, and for hours and hours I drove straight away to the Northern coast, where I crossed to England.'

'Italy was closer but I had problems there, too, with my Army duties. I had suddenly become a criminal in both countries where I had lived.' -- Carlo sighed, and examined the bruise in his hand, the spot where he had applied a burning frame on his own skin -- 'And for the second time I saw myself leaving France by sea with very few posessions, though this time a car was considerably more valuable than my easel some 15 years ago.'

'I did not think of leaving you a note, Laurent, because I did not have time for considerations. Might I have pondered, it ought have been better to go to jail for one or two nights, maybe a couple of months even, but to have stayed in France to try to solve the problem. But that possibility had been discussed with Catherine, and she did not want to suffer the humilliation of seeing me in jail, she said. She thought you did not deserve it, either, and I had to agree with her​​.'

'How did that happen, Carlo?' -- I was perplexed -- 'Why all of a sudden? Did this "friend" of Catherine denounce you? Or was it... herself?'

'No! Your mother tried to help me!' -- it seemed odd that Carlo was always so vehemently defending Catherine --  'But someone else might have.'

'Who?' -- I asked, but I was actually thinking how Catherine must have helped herself on the young officer, too. It was an interesting divertion for her, who had always preferred artists as lovers -- with the exception of Edoardo, her longest love relationship, who had been a restauranter.

'Something else, much more wicked, had happenened to me in Punaouilo, Laurent. Remember I told you Danny Douxis, the island's only art dealer, never sold any of my works? I mean, what are just three paintings in almost eight years?! And how he got mad when I had sold them directly to Davez?' -- Carlo took a deep breath -- 'Will, Joanna's husband, or uncle Will as you'd call him, had already alerted me. We were good mates, and we used to go in the sauna together, almost daily when the owners and guests were not occupying the mansion. His brother worked at Danny's house. I had been curious on who had bought two of my paintings at once... I believe it was in 1978 or 79...' -- Carlo counted his fingers, like a little boy, and that gesture melted my heart -- '...and I know I should remember the date of such an extraordinary event in my otherwise meager career... but when I questioned Danny, he just dismissed me, saying the buyer had demanded secrecy. Well, Will's brother had seen a couple of my paintings at Danny's house... to find out the next day the dealer had burned them.'

'Burned them!' -- I gulped -- 'Why would he do that?'

'It's inconcievable, right? When Will told me, I had to doubt him, and I guess he was hurt. But when, a couple of years later, another single painting was sold, what I regarded as my best work yet, I asked Will's brother to investigate its destination for me. And he said the painting had never gone elsewhere but Danny Douxis' house... and into his fireplace. Of course I could not confront Danny, because that could have harmed the job of Will's brother. It took me many years to realize the meaning of this event. Since I had never believed that story, I had already forgotten it, until one day in London I met a gentleman who had been to Danny's gallery, while we still lived on the island. And his words were shocking!'

"Unfortunately, I did not buy your painting in Punaouilo, young man. It would certainly have been a good deal. But the dealer disavowed your work, saying it was plain bad, amateurish even, and he would not let me buy it. I insisted, since I thought it a pretty good piece, and wanted to nevertheless buy it, but the dealer was determined not to sell. I hope Darius is treating you better, here in London.  Yes, I'm sure he is, from the prices he is charging for your works!" -- and the gentleman had laughed to his holidays anecdote, while I was petrified.

'So I asked for Davez' help, and a friend of his who was an investigator discovered that during all those years, Danny Douxis had received sums of money from an account in Switzerland... It could be for any reason, but we believe that Danny was being paid not to sell my paintings.' -- Carlo studied my face to watch my reaction -- 'He was receiving a salary to boycott me, do you understand it now, Laurent?'

'My God...' -- and exploding like a flash in my brain, I saw Celeste's astute, white smile full of small teeth in a frame of dark red coloured lips, a smile that had fascinated, intrigued and terrorized me, and my strongest memory of her -- 'Was it... my grandmother?'

'Congratulations, Laurent!' -- Carlo exclaimed, raising his eyebrows, truly haunted -- 'I confess that I was so very surprised when I found it out... but you don't seem to be... The money was coming from a joint account under the names of Monsieur de Montbelle and Celeste, but that was mainly used by her.' -- Carlo sighed -- 'And in the last year of his life, Monsieur was senile and could not have made ​​remittances, which leads us to be almost sure that Celeste was responsible... During all those years she refused to send money to us in Punaouilo, claiming it was too expensive and complicated. But she had regularly wired it ​​to Danny's account. With the purpose that he did not sell and eventually destroyed my paintings...'

'My God! Have you ever told this to Catherine?' -- the whole scheme was so cunning, and I was not surprised that Celeste had ensued it, in order to keep Catherine away from France. Or maybe it had been Monsieur de Montbelle, ultimately imposing his vengeance on my father. Whichever way, it seemed monstrous that we had been kept in a state close to poverty, and my father's talents deliberately downrated, his works being destroyed, to prolongue our exile.

'When I found it all out, in London, I finally understood why my paintings were never properly displayed in Punaouilo's art gallery. But at the time of my discovery, Celeste was already in the early states of demency, and there was no reason to try to confront her. I have actually never met her... you know that, don't you Laurent? Furthermore, Catherine might have not believed me, despite all the evidence. And above all, I did not want to further indispose Catherine with her mother.'

'And do you think it might have been Celeste to report you to the Tax Authorities?' -- I hadn't known much about my grandmother, she had always kept us at a distance, but the impression I had of her did match such slyness.

'I don't know, Laurent.' -- Carlo was not defending Celeste like he would if it were Catherine, but he wasn't accusing her either. My father seemed incapable of attacking anyone -- 'Perhaps the process had been running its normal course, and after many years they just decided to finally act. Maybe it was simple like that, and then it was solely my fault for having been so negligent... and of course, with my escape to England, it looked like I had in fact acted based on ill will.'

'And why couldn't you return to France, Carlo?' -- it was hard to believe that the Tax Authorities and the Police Judiciaire could have separated my father from me for so long. 

'This was the reason for my sudden flight. But there was something else, that had also been happening for a few years already. In fact, since you and I had arrived in France... You may not remember a gypsy girl who worked at our home for a few months, Jaella... Catherine turned her down, accusing her of stealing some clothes and bijoux.'

"I needddy the woerrrrrrrk, madamey!" -- the girl had cried and begged, and since it had ho effect on Catherine, she was very angry when she had finally gone away.

We had known the girl was pregnant, but Catherine didn't care the least. So I decided to help her. I kept giving her money, even after she had had a son. A lovely baby boy that she named Jair. I thought she was a good girl, but since Catherine disliked her, Jaella only came to our house to receive the money when you and your mother were not at home. 

"Merrrrrrrrrrci beaucouuuuup Carrrrrrrrlu!" -- the years passed, but her French remained quite simple, and her accent was lovingly musical.

During the weeks you and I were in Italy, Laurent, Jaella reappeared at our house. I had thoroughly forgotten about her, on account of the preparations for our trip. The girl used to call ahead and talk to me to set the day and hour when she could go to my studio. But for the first time she was unable to reach me for several days, and badly needing the money, she decided to show up unannounced. Perhaps fearing that I was trying to dodge her.

'Jaella met Catherine, who thought she had returned to rob us. Catherine ran inside the house to call the police, and Jaella ran after her. With the frightened child in her arms, the girl tried to explain that she had come to receive the money I gave her regularly. What a scene it must have been! And then Catherine, not simply your mother but mainly the best-seller author, let her imagination fly and foresaw I could be Jair's father... And when confronted, perhaps guessing this was the greatest idea that she had never had, Jaella decided to confirm the child was mine. Catherine was enraged when she phoned me in the Apennines, accusing me of having a second family. You may remember the serious and tense conversations I had with Tarso during those days, Laurent. A lot was about the threat of losing part of our lands to the National Park, but also on this supposed son I had... Unfortunately, Tarso, just like Catherine, doubted me.'

'Do I have a half brother, Carlo?' -- I almost laughed at the irony of those news. It would not be as tragic as it would be funny. Catherine had a half brother, and throughout life, according to my father, my mother had suffered from feeling relegated as Monsieur de Montbelle's second family. Had my turn arrived? -- 'Did you leave us for that other family, Carlo?'

My father and mother had always fought. Since the very beginning in Punaouilo (actually, all had begun on the Île du Blanchomme, I now had to adapt my memories), I feared their explosions of mutual rage. In France it had not been different, and their quarreling had even worsened. 

And when my father and I had returned from the Apennines, they started having fights every day, often many times a day. Now I was understanding the reasons.

Carlo and Catherine rarely agreed on anything concerning our daily and common lives. For instance, Carlo loved cooking and eating pasta, while she hated it -- only many years later would Catherine learn to enjoy it, when it was Edoardo cooking, and maybe she had eaten it solely to please him, whom she loved.

But my parents had especially disagreed on my education, disagreed about my happiness. Carlo would even link the two words, and spoke of an education for happiness. Catherine retorted that it was a new age bullshit, and stood up for the traditional education.

'Our son is not happy here, Catherine.' -- that's how many of their quarrels often started, when I was the main subject.

'Oh, not that speech again, Carlo!' -- Catherine snorted, showing her impatience -- 'He just needs time to adapt. He'll learn to like it here in France. Anyways, Laurent is a child, and he has to be where we are. He has no choice. It is as simple as that.'

'You really don't care about his happiness, do you?'

'Don't be unfair, Carlo!' -- Catherine replied -- 'Of course I do. And that's why I know he has to stay in France. He'll get the best education, here. A proper education. In Punaouilo he was just learning how to be a third class citzen.'

'It's not just about education! It's about his happiness! Laurent is increasingly sad here...'

'So what? Do we send him back to that island? To "Aunt" Joanna?' -- she laughed disdainfully -- 'Plus, Laurent has always been sad. Such a melancholic boy, isn't he? I hope he'll make friends with other boys his age here in France, and become less dependent from our company... It's not good for a child to be constantly with adults only.'

'I could go back to Punao... '

Catherine did not let him finish the sentence.

'Then you'll go back all on your own, Carlo! My son is staying here with me!'

'Don't you ever miss Punaouilo, Catherine?'

'Not ever. Not the least.' -- and she made a very peculiar gesture with her hands, sharply slicing the air, that indicated the discussion was over for her.

They did not agree even on the house in which we lived. Carlo wanted to build a pool for me, but Catherine did not want to invest in a home that she considered "too middle class". 

'It's a lovely home, Catherine. Don't you think so? I thought you had chosen it yourself.'

'Oh yes, of course I chose it... among the options that Celeste gave me, all of them far away from Paris!' -- my mother had enjoyed living again in Paris, even if it had been just as my grandmother's guest, in the room she had occupied since childhood, but to which she had "lost the right", Celeste had stated. My mother regarded our rural house as another exile, an exile within France itself -- 'This house is so unextraordinary. So middle class! But at least we don't have a middle class neighorhood around here... I could not stand being invited to those middle class dinners and weekend lunches that are the routine of the ordinary middle class neighborhood... So at last yes, this was the least worse house from the options that I had...'

I began to truly worry about my parents relationship when, after their quarrels, they started sleeping apart. One morning, thinking I had heard a noise outside the house during the night, I went to check. I thought it could be my dad -- he always liked to work late into the night. But his studio was empty.

I found him in the small room attached to the studio, that we used as a guest room. In fact, I was the most common guest there -- whenever we had illustrious guests, usually famous writers or movie directors or actors Catherine would invite, they slept in my room, which was much larger and more comfortable, and I occupied the small bedroom next to the studio. For me, it was like sleeping out, since it was in a separate building from the main house. I was too young to benefit from the presence of Mr. Chabrol, for instance, but I was always thankful that he would send me away from my own room.

On those last weeks before leaving, Carlo would occupy that room every night. Still, I figured it was a passing period. Or at least I hoped -- but the prospect of becoming another child with divorced parents, like so many in my class, seemed to draw dangerously close on me.

Generally, after quarreling, Carlo and Catherine would reconcile in bed. The physical attraction they felt for each other was true and strong still. And as I would later learn, not only had Carlo had a beautiful body and been well endowed; he had also been trained by Catherine from being a clumsy virgin into an expert in giving her pleasure, and he performed in bed aiming excelency, to please her ever demanding ways, and quench her sexual thirst. He just couldn't offer her the spiced variety she seemed to enjoy while having several lovers.

Instead of feeling ashamed or some sort of awkward curiosity about the sounds of my parent's love making, I felt relief whenever it followed their quarrels. I'd rather wake up to their muffled moans and the bedhead banging against the wall that divided our rooms, than with their screams and shouts. 

But a time came when not even sex would reconcile them. Thinking in retrospect, during my father's last months in our home, Catherine must be making it with the young officer from the Tax Authorities, and that's how Carlo had lost his main access to my mother. And she might be leaving him out of her bed because of the gipsy girl and that other supposed son of my father's.

'No, you don't have any half brother, Laurent! Even you shall doubt me, son?' -- Carlo had replied, clearly hurt -- 'I've said it already... I never had another woman in my life who was not Catherine. And it was proved, all tests taken, that the child was not mine. It could never have been...'

Catherine, however, could not, and did not want to believe otherwise. From her own perspective and experience, a second family was something perfectly possible -- and thus weary and traumatized, she did not want to see it repeated in her story.

'Go live with that gypsy girl, Carlo! Go live with your other son! I can perfectly take care of mine!' 

It was no use swearing to Catherine that I had never touched that girl -- nor any other woman. Catherine thought I was avenging myself, because of her own infidelity.

'By no means, Laurent, would your mother see that she had herself planted those lies in Jaella's mind, resulting in a story that resembled the plots of her own books. As if she was reading something, without recogninzing she had written it herself. And that's why our fights were more common than before, with an alarming and increasing seriousness.'

'And Catherine asked me several times that I leave the house... But I could not leave home... I could not contemplate living without you, my son. After all, what would I do all day without having you to give a ride, to feed you, to go shopping with you and for you...'

Since we had moved to France, Carlo had taken upon himself all the household chores, that in Punaouilo had been Joanna's. It was he who bought the groceries and even cooked -- not because he was a natural cooker, but Catherine wouldn't even break an egg. It was he who went to the bank and to the post office, it was he who picked me up in the club, after the training, when due to one reason or another I could not go home by bus or bike.

'And, of course, Catherine did not want to give up the right of having your custody, not even sharing it. For I sometimes pictured you and me living together in Italy... I engaged in these reveries of a better, calmer life as a means to escape that hellish daily routine that my life with your mother had turned into.'

'You have belittled our lives, Carlo!' -- Catherine would scream, accusingly -- 'For you yourself are a small man! Do you realize that? Your interests and your tastes are so limited, your opinions are even narrower, and so unassertive! That you care more about the weather than for politics, that you pay attention to the moon but has never read Schopenhauer... It tells so much about the size of your mind... Your presence in our lives is limiting, Carlo! Everything around you becomes weak, blurred, humble, ignoble. Even me, Carlo. I feel underprivileged by your side. Look at our meek lives! This unpretentious, middle class house that you seem to enjoy so much! Look how you've debased our lives! Look what you did to me! Take a good look at what you are doing to Laurent, belittling his life with your low-born idea of contentment!'

'That's funny, Catherine!' -- Carlo wouldn't lose his temper often, but when he did... -- 'What I usually hear from you is "Oh, you're so big! God, you're so big..."' -- Carlo mocked Catherine's moaning voice in bed.

'Oh, you're so rude!' -- Catherine had replied, disdaining his mockery -- 'But you're right. Your dick is the only big thing that you have!'

'You can not make me leave my son, Catherine!' -- Carlo was running out of argumentation, and he had started pleading.

But listening to my father, I came to the conclusion my mother had actually achieved what she had intended from the beginning. At the Île du Blanchomme still, she had started turning my father into her servant, even sexually.

 And after all I had heard about her that evening, I had to wonder whether she would have been capable of denouncing Carlo... Whether she had not envisioned that possibility with her "friend" from the Tax Administration, and set an strategy under course. 

I did not have a watch, nor did Carlo -- and in that matter it was indeed like father, like son. No matter the hour, I was feeling the urge to call Catherine in Russia and confront her about all that I had heard that evening.

'I was aware that our fights were affecting you, son.'

Catherine and Carlo had never, ever shouted at me, not even to reprimand me, but I recall my parent's screams and shouts at each other coming from their room next to mine, and then the sudden bang of a door, or more than one door -- if Catherine would retreat into the bathroom and Carlo should leave the room, and sometimes they did it concomitantly --, followed by a haunting silence.

And I remember that silence announced the tragedy that was to come, more than the screams. That heavy silence was the prenounce of my father's absence.

'And I tried to stay away from Catherine...' -- Carlo continued with his memories -- 'But she would come into my workshop to discuss the gipsy girl... I guess she had never expected I would cheat on her... and I want to stress I wasn't cheating on her... But she was obsessed with Jaella and her son... Finally, I contacted a lawyer to go through the process of asserting that the boy was not my son. No, Jair is not your brother, Laurent. And I didn't leave home to move in with another family.'

'With my escape to England, this process of recognition, or actually the opposite, since that child was not mine, took even longer than expected. With the passing of years the stress between your mother and me eased into indiference, and we fell further apart. When at last the case was closed, she had already found another mate, as you well know...' -- Carlo stared at me, but I just nodded and made no comment, not even to encourage him to continue -- 'And there was no going back to Catherine any more...'

'But it is not true that I never called you, Laurent. I called home before crossing to England.'

'I want to talk to my son, Catherine! Now!' 

'I'm sorry, Carlo.' -- they had fought so many times, but now that Carlo was away, Catherine felt very calm, and relieved -- 'But Laurent does not want to talk to you.'

'I want to hear that from Laurent himself. Now let me talk to him, Catherine! You cannot do that to me...'

'What am I doing to you, Carlo?' 

'You cannot keep away me from my own son, Catherine... Please, let me talk to him!' 

'Please do not call again today, Carlo! The police is still here. I am trying to convince them to leave before Laurent gets home. I have to go now. Bye!' -- and Catherine had not only hung up, but disconnected the telephone as well.

And then, I called several times from Davez Drew's house in London, where I stayed for a few months before renting my own apartment and studio in the city. He and his girlfriend at the time, Layla, were very generous and patient with me. 

To Davez, it was particularly shocking that I had parted from my "Sunrise Son". 

'Man, there is a worldwide legion of fans of the Sunrise Son... Should we get them to fix this for you? I mean, they could do a manifestation in front of your house... They could actually bring your son here to you, any moment you say you want it done...' -- unfortunately, Davez was doing drugs again, and he was often out of his mind. Kidnapping my own son was not an option.

'Laurent is not home, Carlo...' -- Catherine actually felt sorry for Carlo, and sympathized with him when she thought he was going to start his own personal exile. 

'Of course he is! I know he is. He is doing his homework in his room. I know his schedule, Catherine... Better than you do! Please do not lie to me...'

'You are offending me, Carlo! I'm not lying.' -- Catherine did not even try to sound indignant, for she was so relieved with Carlo's absence -- 'Laurent is not home. You used to know his schedule, you're right, but things have changed.' -- she actually tried to show some empathy towards Carlo's suffering -- 'He has asked me whether he could spend more time at the club, and I thought it was a good idea. This empty house seems to sadden him.' -- while Catherine was quite content to have the whole house all to herself -- 'So now he goes to the club for lunch even, right after school. Then he has his training, and after it's finished he stays there doing his homework and studying. I believe he is even making new friends.'

'Can you ask him to phone me when he gets home, Catherine? I want to talk to him, please...' -- it was almost a supplication.

'I don't think Laurent wants to talk to you, Carlo. But I'll inform him that you have called. And if he wishes to call you, he will. Can we agree on that? I really don't want you to call us any longer, Carlo. Now that you've left us, will you please give us some time... and space? We deserve another chance, Laurent and I, we deserve another life! Please don't ever call again, Carlo. If Laurent wants to talk to you, he will call you, have you understood it?'

That was true, I thought. It had actually happened. Catherine had indeed "informed" me about one of my father's telephone calls -- but in a moment when my anger was so great that I had simply sent Carlo to hell.

After he left, I had been saddened for days. I cried and cried, and I had questioned Catherine on his reasons, so insistently that I had enfuriated her. WHY? WHY? We finally had a serious quarrel. And since I had never had a fight with Catherine before, it was a horrible, terrifying experience. When she had walked out of my room, pissed off and slamming the door behind her, I drew my breath as I felt the floor failing to sustain me. 

In my teenage years, my mother had grown closer to me. And with Carlo's absence, we would become even closer.

'You are close to being a real person now, Laurent. I mean, your opinions are increasingly interesting, in comparison to those childish anectodes of yours.' -- at thirteen years old, that had seemed like a big compliment coming from my ever demanding mother. We were able to engage in proper conversations, and though Catherine was still condescending, I gradually felt much closer to her, as I grew older. Still, I feared losing her, much more now that I had already lost my father.

Or actually, I feared never conquering her.

Then, only a week or maybe many weeks later, I had stopped crying.

That's when my sadness turned into anger. And the longer I suppressed and repressed my sadness, the stronger and wilder my anger grew -- and somehow, the stronger and wilder I felt to be, too. Sadness was my natural state, making me soft, vulnerable, fragile. But anger strengthened me, and thus fortified, I felt I could handle the bulliers at school much better. That's when I started repressing my sadness, identifying it like a weakness, and cultivating the anger that I reputed as a good ground to grow my confidence. 

I recall having tried to destroy the very few paintings from Carlo that existed in our house -- one portrait of Catherine, and two depicting me. 

I still remember when Carlo painted Catherine's portrait -- she had been teaching a seminar in Belgium, and Carlo and I had had the best of times together, just the two of us for a month or more. And Carlo had taken to painting naked, since he had read somewhere the anecdote that Renoir told a journalist about sometimes painting with his penis. Don't we say "In Rome, do like the Romans"? -- Carlo had joked -- "I guess then in France, do like the French, haha!" I always wondered if Catherine had ever learned that little detail about her portrait -- though I don't think Carlo had ever actually painted it with his penis. 

'Stop it now, Laurent!' -- my mother walked into my bedroom as I had just started scratching one of the paintings -- 'That's so childish of you!' -- Catherine had understood well that I was in an age when being called "child" was what I dreaded most, and it was the best way to reprimand me -- 'Carlo has painted very few portraits in his entire career... Actually, there are only these three, as far as I know! They must have some value. So don't be foolish! Keep them and sell them someday, but do not waste them! Later, you'll probably make good money and still get rid of them. Do you understand me? Don't ever touch those paintings again!'

Antoher incident stands out from that period. One Sunday when I had stayed home, since we would not train at the club, I had dragged Carlo's easel and thrown it into the pool.

'Laurent, what do you think you're doing?' -- my mother had heard the splash and come to check  from the veranda on the first floor -- 'That thing does not belong to you... to us. Put it back in that stupid atelier. Now!' -- and she had gone back to her reading and writing.

But for days I had let it sit in the pool -- the pool Carlo had had built for me --, and Catherine never said another word about it. 

One day, I had come back from my long days at the school and the club, to find the easel was gone.

 Nowhere to be seen. Without the easel, and his sports car parked in front of our house, it seemed like Carlo had never existed in our lives. And within a couple of weeks, Catherine would refurbish the atelier and turn it into her home office. 

And in time, my rage subsided and vanished -- just like all Carlo's traces had disappeared from our home and lives --, resentment replacing it. And that's what I had cultivated for the last twenty years, along with the firm determination to forget my father, and to live a life where he wouldn't be missed nor make any diference. 

But my present need for atonement told me I hadn't succeded in leaving Carlo behind, nor out of my heart. WHY, I would every now and then ask, when some events were too heavy to bear alone, and I had wished my father was by my side. WHY?

What Carlo was now telling me is that he would have tried to come back, had I called him. 

But I had not known about that condition imposed by Catherine. The harder life seemed, and the more problems I had, the lonelier I felt, since Carlo was no longer there to advise and guide me. Therefore, the more I resented him.  Until he had become an annoying memory that I forcefully pushed away whenever it sprang in my mind. 

Two years later after Carlo's departure -- and it's funny that what I called "departure", Carlo had called "escape" --, Angelo had entered my life to become "l'homme de ma vie", the man of my life, taking the chore that my father had left vacant. 

Surprisingly at ease with both his masculinity and femininity for a teenager, with his determination and assertiveness, Angelo had grabbed and dragged me to his own will and convinience, and I had so happily obliged to let him take care of me  -- clinging to him even when he had dumped me already, addicted to his body as much as to his fierceness, that I had always lacked, in taking decisions.

Suddenly, I woke up from my recollections at Carlo's voice echoing in the Dark Room. He had himself just emerged from one of his long silences.

'It was not just that you would not speak to me on the phone, Laurent... You never, ever called me back. And I understood it as a sign that you felt just like your mother... that I was making your life small and miserable, and that like her you wanted to forget me... to have "time and space" to grow into a new life, like Catherine had said. You know...' -- and Carlo had tears in his eyes -- '...sometimes I think I could never have been a good father... because I never had one myself... And... I have survived the loss of my father... and mother... since I had no other chance but to survive it...' -- it was hard to see an old man holding back his tears, ashamed to cry -- 'And I thought you'd survive my loss too, Laurent. In fact, your silence made me think you actually wanted to survive my loss... to live without me... as if I were actually dead, just like my father had been for me...'

'I've been listening to your silence, Laurent, since the day I left home. And I left it not because I wanted, I hope you now understand it... And if I never returned, it was because you didn't seem to want it... I was so sure you wanted nothing more from me... until a few months ago, when you called inviting me for your vernissage. I was so happy, my son!'

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