chapter Thirteen

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EPISODE 32

The way she shows me I'm hers and she is mine 

Open hand or closed fist would be fine 

Blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine.

from "Cherry Wine" by Hozier

Catherine woke up to the mobile phone and for a moment, longer than usual, she didn't know where she was -- nor even who she was.

The ambient full of antiquities reminded her of Celeste's -- but the somber austerity and the exaggerated pomposity were unmistakably foreign to her. And instead of  a bedroom scenting to Celeste's champagne and eau de roses, or Catherine's own gin and patchouli when she had occupied the Parisian apartment after her mother's death, the smell of vodka and candle wax welcomed her to the Russian reality. And a seagull cry finally located her on the banks of the Neva.

Again, during those brief moments of blurred confusion, she panicked at the thought that she might be growing senile like Gaston or demented like Celeste had, in the ends of their lives. Growing old, no matter healthy, slim and wealthy, was dooming enough for Catherine. And then she remembered the investigations about the Rostoff dinasty that had primarily brought her to Russia, and dismissed her worries with a shudder. 

She felt her morning bad humour worsen as "La Cumparsita" went on and on for a whole minute. That melody sounding in Russia was the only actual dementia, and the sole responsible for that was Vladimir -- or simply Vlad, as he seemed to prefer, reasoning it sounded better for global audiences --, who had changed the tone of her mobile phone to the song he recalled most from the night they had first met, during an awkward Tango show in a damp basement turned into a fancy restaurant in St. Petesburg.

'It's so sensual, don't you think, Katerina?' -- had asked the young man who was now snoring next to her, his sweat and breath smelling to vodka.

'This song? Not at all!' -- Catherine observed Vlad blush at her dismissive, abrupt response. She had intended to sound definitive, and she spoke loud enough so that the rest of the table in the noisy restaurant could hear her remark, although she wasn't sure how many people in the group could understand French. The young writer, advertised as a new Dostoyevsky, was too confident about himself, his talents and his good looks contributing in unequal parts to aggravate him to the point of arrogance -- 'Dancing to it, though, might be a sensual thing to do...' -- and when she realized how he had picked her line and was about to turn his embarrassment into a charming invitation to dance, she again took his breath away saying -- 'But dancing is something that shouldn't be done in public, especially when it consists of vigorous physical movements like these.' -- indicating her disgust, she pointed at the dancers who swirled on an improvised stage that seemed like would collapse at any moment -- 'So vulgar, don't you think? To be doing this in public, I mean. Yet, not sensual enough, when it comes to being sensual in private. I really wonder what kind of lovers these dancers would make...' -- and no, they hadn't been Argentineans.

And once Catherine was sure to have aroused Vlad's curiosity with those distinctions between public and private, and specially between sensual and vulgar, she turned to the person next to her in the restaurant and pretended to ignore him.

She was bored when it came to seducing young men. It was too easy to get them into bed because they always had something to prove to others and to themselves, and specially that they were good lovers -- and with Vlad it had been exactly like that. As poor and cliché as it might seem, he was eager to have the approval of an experienced woman. 

But because he also had to prove to be an extraordinary writer, Catherine thought of their relationship as conveniently commercial -- she could well use someone young, handsome and locally famous, to introduce her to the novelties of the Russian literary world, beyond the Academia that would snob her or the bookshops where she was treated like a prom queen, while Vlad was happy -- though not proud -- to be seen as the protégé of an internationally acclaimed writer. 

As man and woman, their age difference of over 30 years only added in terms of public interest, if in private it created many conflicts -- lust, sleep, vigour, the frequency, everything had to be negotiated.

'I love that you can be so vulgar in private, Katerina!' -- Vlad had probably intended to compliment her love making, but perhaps mistaking vulgar for sensual, to Catherine he had sounded plain rude. Growing old, she was becoming increasingly sensitive about compliments, if on the other hand less and less she cared about the validations of her values and preferences. Whatever issues they had, broken French being the only common language between them didn't help, either. 

'What else could I be, in your company?' -- and he hadn't quite understood her disdainful irony.  

'Don't you love me, Katerina?' -- Vlad was continuously asking that, during the couple of months their relationship had already lasted.

'As much as you love me, Vladimir.' -- more than wry, Catherine had sounded practical. She didn't expect the young man to madly fall in love for her, and she surely wouldn't divert from her  personal investigations because of his sparkling, pensive green eyes. 

'Katerina, your phone is ringing!' -- Vlad had finally woken up, when the "La Cumparsita" ringtone started its third loop -- 'Someone is trying to reach you... Why won't you answer, Katerina?'

'Because I know who is calling, and I don't want to talk to him now.'

'Do you think it's your gay son, Katerina?' -- Vlad did not hide his disgust at even having to use the word "gay".

'You know very well that I have only one son, Vladimir.'

'And it's your gay son, isn't it?'

Catherine could not quite understand the medieval aversion Russians, and Russian men specially, and above all Vladimir, seemed to have to homosexuality. She was inclined to think it was too much freedom, diversity and liberation for a country which had been used to centuries of various totalitarian regimes. 

'Laurent it is extremely handsome, elegant, charming, well educated and cultured. He is cosmopolitan and well traveled. He speaks and understands several languages ​... in fact, any one with which he might have contact for over three months. He is very talented and creative, too, and able to create beauty all the time. The world seems better and more beautiful in his company. And I know he is good in bed, too, and has a legion of lovers. Oh, yeah, that's my gay son.'

'If he is so wonderful and you love him so much...' -- and it was Vlad's turn to try to be ironic -- 'why then won't you talk to him?' 

'Because he is my son. And I'm still educating him. Yes, like all young people' -- and Catherine had raised an eyebrow as she glanced at Vlad -- 'he still has a thing or two hundred to learn from me. And of course, I cannot speak to him dressed only in my negligé...' -- and Catherine had laughed. 

Catherine guessed Laurent would probably ask her to turn the computer's camera on, and she would have to be prepared for his questions -- and she considered the proper attire and makeup were to aid her in a conversation she knew would be very difficult.

*****

'Miss Mortinné has called, Mr D'Allegro.' -- and the clerk at the hotel's reception had handed me a dozen notes from Catherine's calls during the evening of my meeting with Carlo -- 'And Mr Charmand called, too.'

I called Dan straight away -- he just wanted to check that I was not freaking out about my opening that evening. "No diyng your hair blue nor having a nervous breakdown, please!" He had seen artists panic before, but he just laughed when I confessed I was bringing along a new companion for the evening. "And let me guess... He is extraordinarily handsome, masculine, he has a body cultivated to perfection, a great smile and even greater pecs... Haha! Whatever you need to validate yourself, Laurent. Just bring your pretty boy walking stick along, but be sure he won't divert the crowd's attention... You're the queen, tonight. See you later!" -- and Dan hadn't asked about my conversation with my father.

But I had decided not to return Catherine's several calls. She did reach me once that day, on my mobile, as I was on my way to the Museum, to briefly wish me "Happy Birthday, mon chéri!". I was thankful that she had reminded my father about my birthday -- Catherine had never skiped it --, and was thus responsible for the lovely celebration I had had with him, but still... I was no longer so sure how I felt about my mother.

As much as I was angry with her for having hidden that much from me, I still feared any confrontation with Catherine. Could 33 years of adoration and begging for her love come to an end because of her lies?

She had been all my family for the last twenty years -- for Celeste, who had never assumed her role as grandmother except monetarily, did not count.

Not a very loving mother, and often unprotective -- after Carlo had left, Catherine had never taken upon her the homely tasks, and I had to learn to prepare myself some simple food and wash my clothes and care for transportation between my errands -- yet surely she was, and had always been, supportive. I had wanted to follow Angelo into that adventure of studying Journalism abroad, which had taken us to Vice City -- and she had paid everything without questioning my choice. Generous as she was, she had sent me double as much, knowing I would be paying for Angelo's expenses as well -- whose father, Edoardo, was broke and had been unable to aid his son.

And she hadn't been surprised nor shown any disappointment when I decided to quit the Journalism School. She never threatened me to continue with my studies nor chose any other academic career, though she valued education above all. She had simply kept sending me the money, allowing me to rent a studio, buy an easel and loads of art supplies to start my art career --  with the "Hungerkünstler" haunting me at that beginning, I wasn't really sure if there would be a career in that at all. 

'As long as you don't do drugs, Laurent, you can count on me to aid you. Always.'

But sometimes, her rather distant monitoring seemed like plain lack of interest, while at other times it felt like she had a deep trust in me, a confidence much bigger than I had in myself, and that's why, without too  much questioning, she allowed me to roam through life.

And that's what the ups and downs in our relationship were all about. If I was feeling well and my self-esteem was high, Catherine -- and how she had brought me up to be independent in several aspects -- seemed like the brightest, smartest mother of all. But if I was feeling low, having been rejected by a guy or an art gallery, what seemed a cool and mature behavior of a well resolved mother would turn into a cold and cruel unnattachment -- not far from my insistent disconnection to the guys I hooked up with.

And she might have understood it. In my worst period, after Angelo had dumped me, Catherine would continuously -- like never before -- check on me. 

-- It will pass, Laurent. Just don't do anything silly or extreme when you're suffering. Do you understand me? -- it was as if my mother could read the suicidal thoughts that crossed my mind then -- Call me instead, oui? Anytime -- and for the few months that my desperation was underlying our conversations, she had been constantly calling -- I don't have to fear the worse, do I, mon cher?

And since my breakup with Angelo hadn't happened long after her companion and great love Edoardo passed away, we had tried a common recovery.

'How many times did you get laid last week, chéri?' -- it was Catherine who, a bit histerically, gave me the idea to put as many men as possible between me and Angelo -- 'A talent like yours is not to be wasted, mon trésor!' -- she had always been proud of the fact that I was hung like Carlo, and I don't know of any other mother who would talk so openly to her son about his sex life -- 'You shouldn't be thinking about the dead, Laurent!' -- and of course that worked for her as well, and though she was talking about Angelo, she might be thinking of Edoardo -- 'I'm not clinging to the dead, either!' -- and I knew how Catherine had desperately loved Edoardo, and how his premature death must have been hard on her. 

But after having learned from Carlo about her lies, my feeling was that I needed time to reevaluate Catherine -- yet, I was also aware that I was under the push and pull forces of the tactics that divorced parents use on their children to gain their sympathy and preference. 

Though in my case, with a twenty years delay.

Not that Carlo had accused Catherine -- on the contrary, during our conversation he had always defended her against my rising tide of doubts and accusations, in which I had let my grandmother Celeste drown. But from the things he had told, if not by the way he had told them, my mother wasn't in her best shape before me, at the moment.

For that process of repositioning Catherine in my life, certainly no longer at its core, I needed time, and time on my own -- but time on my own was something I absolutely dreaded. 

I had never taken drugs, and alcohol just for a brief period -- sex was my addiction. Hooking up with a variety of men, and seducing them into my bed and next the atelier -- though sometimes I feared painting them was just my social excuse, and a financial justification for having sex with them. Sex, not love, since I needed to keep my freedom at all costs, even to the cost of my own freedom, paradoxical as it seemed. How Carlo had put it himself? "I was enslaved by my freedom" -- his insightful words were well worth for me, but at last the insight was his and not mine, and I wouldn't live up to it, not yet.

Mitigating my loneliness might have been the true ground for my promiscuity, and I was aware of its emotinal quick sand -- as much unable as unwilling to deal with the trap I had set for myself.

For the past few days, I had been trying to sleep with Gabriel in my hotel room -- but sharing a bed had always been a problem to me, even with Angelo, whose body and warm presence I had truly adored.

After finishing work, Gabriel would come from the Nirvana Lounge straight to my hotel room. He would wake me up, we would have sex and then fall asleep.

But he would sleep well into the morning, while I woke up sometimes before sunrise, if he turned in the bed too often. 

That morning, after some consideration and feeling I was ready, I decided to call Catherine. The days following the vernissage I had gotten involved with interviews, the first workshops, and a budding romance with Gabriel, but now it was time to confront my mother.

Much of our relationship had happened over the phone during the last twenty years, since I had moved to Vice City, and then to Samsara Heights. Catherine loved writing letters, but I always loathed her criticism, present even in our epistolary exchange -- that I had simply quit when she had returned one of my letters full of corrections and suggestions for improving my style -- she might have intended to help me with the Journalism School, but the effect was soul-crusher.

And that's how we picked up the telephone, and latter the computer. I still recall how thrilled we were when we had our first video conference over the internet. I had to be very patient with Catherine, convincing her to buy a new computer and helping her to set it up with a camera for our conversations. At that time she was no longer living at our house on the French countryside, though she hadn't decided to sell it yet, and she was occupying the Parisian apartment, made vacant with my grandmother's death. 

Because it was a wicked game to which I had co-created the rules, I called Catherine's number and let the phone ring and ring and ring, insistent and inconveniently. I knew she would pick it only when she considered I had pleaded enough to talk to her. And then she might decide to go online -- or not.

I should have checked the hour in Russia, but I knew it actually didn't matter. Catherine would talk to me whenever and only if she wanted to. And after I had left her waiting for so long, keeping my mobile off since the moment Carlo had finally shown up at the Nirvana Lounge, and not returning her insistent phone calls, I knew she wouldn't be so easily willing to talk to me. 

I had made a choice, now she would make me pay for it.

The practical reasons why Catherine never visited me abroad are well known already -- though she could have one day caught a cruise ship that would bring her straight to Vice City, since it was a port town --, but my own reasons for having returned so few times to France in so many years were obscure even to myself.

Atonement. It was not by coincidence that Ian McEwan's beautiful novel was open on my sidetable that very moment. I had bought it the previous year, because I loved the author and was curious about whatever he released -- but also because the title had sounded so personal to me. 

And not until I had found the courage to call Carlo and invite him to meet me in Vice City did I open the book to read it. In my mind, and heart, the book had thus been intertwined with the reunion with my father -- but suddenly, atonement had much more to do with Catherine than with Carlo, who had been a toy in her hands pretty much like me.

I called her a dozen times that morning, as many as she had called me during the evening of my reunion with Carlo, to let her think I was desperate to talk to her. Yet, I wasn't sure whether she would return my calls, or if she had been counting the days I hadn't called her, so that now I would have to wait as many. 

And so I waited for my mother. What else could I do? -- except perhaps get into bed again and poke Gabriel with my hard-on. The first night we had gone to bed was after the dinner given by Charmand to celebrate my opening -- Carlo, of course, had skipped it. 

And since then, his Conan looks, along with his pretty bubble butt, had been getting me wild -- and at least sexually, Gabriel and I were getting along really fine.

*****

'Oh, Katerina, please let me sleep...' -- Vlad grunted from the bed. Catherine had let him sleep through her not so silent process of getting dressed and applying makeup and perfume, but now she demanded his help.

'Then you shouldn't have messed with my mobile!' -- typical as it was for the youthful, Vlad enjoyed playing with technology when he was bored, and he had changed not only the ringtone to the kitsch "La Cumparsita" but several other configurations of her mobile, which Catherine tended to regard as mysteriously untouchable -- 'I want to call my son, Vlad. Now! How do I do it?'

'You just have to press the key where I've stored his phone number, Katerina... Try 1...' -- the young man groaned.

Katerina had dialed 1, and Vlad's mobile started ringing from inside his backpack.

'Then your son must be number 2, Katerina!' -- and Vlad had silently laughed from underneath the sheets -- 'Please let me sleep...'

'Don't you always say French sounds like a beautiful lullaby? I hope you can lure yourself into sleep all through my conversation with Laurent!'

Catherine wasn't in the mood for arguing about the stupid joke her young lover had set up on her mobile, putting Laurent in second place, otherwise she might have just sent him home, to sleep at the horrible little old apartment without heating nor running water he shared with three other young writers, all very talented -- the new Gogol, the new Tolstoy and the new Chekov -- and equally penniless. But she actually pitied Vladimir -- the new Dostoyevsky --, helplessly struggling in an oppressive scenery of no opportunities, and she wanted to help him -- and the rest of the boys, too -- as much as she could.

She forgot him the next moment, though, and was so happy when the call did get through, and Laurent's full, silky voice sounded on the other side.

'Catherine!' -- upon seeing my mother's name on the screen, I had answered the telephone straight away. She might interpret that prompt answer as me being anxious to talk to her -- and wasn't I? -, and that would reassure her that everything was fine.

'Bonjour, chéri! How are you today?'

'I'm alright, Catherine...' -- I murmured. Maybe I should go into the bathroom for privacy?

'Why are you whispering, dear? Where are you? You're not in another of those useless meditation retreats, are you?' -- she snorted, demonstrating her dissatisfaction at the idea -- 'Can we talk or should I try it again later?' -- and when I told her I was in my hotel room, she immediately guessed -- 'So you're not alone, are you? Who is he?'

'It's ok, Catherine. We can talk. We have to talk!'

Did I hear my mother gulp as I prompted her? Anyway, she was completely silent, and that meant she wasn't facilitating things for me. She was already defensive.

'Why, Catherine?' -- and my voice broke as anger and sadness clashed in me.

'Just because, Laurent.' -- she had answered, still cheerfully -- 'Of course I cannot give a more appropriate answer to your question, since I don't know what it refers to... You haven't regressed to that age, after having spoken to Carlo, when you were asking "why" all the time, have you?'

My childhood. It struck me how I had adored Catherine. Suddenly, I felt touched about how I had struggled for her attention and approval. How I had worshiped her and fought for her love, battling against things that I had barely comprehended -- letters and books. Things I would later bring into my life in an effort to share my mother's same planet. A fictional planet, it seemed, full of fantasies for her readers -- while lies had been reserved for me.

All the while, she had been cheating on me, lying to me, hiding my own story from me. Pretty much what Gaston, with his second family, had done to Armand -- and again, I felt connected to my uncle. 

But above all, it seemed an unjust pay off to my desperate adoration for Catherine all through life.

'Why? Why have you hidden my family from me, Catherine? Actually, why have you deprived me from having a family?'

'Are you again talking about Carlo and the reasons why he left us, Laurent?'

'That too, Catherine. But we will come to that later. I'm talking about my uncle!'

'Uncle!' -- Catherine gasped -- 'And you are talking about...'

'Armand! Who else?' 

'That! He is just your half-uncle.'

'Don't play with words, Catherine. Not today, not with me -- not any longer! And what about Gaston? Why have you kept me from meeting him?'

'I did not, Laurent. Your grandmother did. Carlo must have told you. She held us in Punaouilo. All the time I wanted to go back to France. And bring you with me, of course!'

'That's not what I mean, Catherine. You were lying to me, when I asked about your father... my grandfather... Gaston...'

'I never lied to you, Laurent. I said you did not have a grandfather, and you didn't. To the same extent that I did not have a father, do you understand that? Because you were not legally a De Montbelle, and Gaston would never have recognized you, just like he wasn't willing to recognize me... What else should I have told a child? How could I have explained legal problems to you? There are no such meanders to a child, Laurent. Just rejection, believe me. And after all, that's the reason why your grandmother kept us in Punaouilo. She didn't want me to fight for my rights.' -- or what I have always imagined to be my rights, Catherine thought, but it was too early to talk about that to her son -- 'She thought I was going to hinder her relationship with Gaston by taking him to court, and she kept me away until he was already in his deathbed, completely senile.'

'Carlo has explained that to me, Catherine...' -- either it was the final truth, or another lie they had put up together -- 'Still, you lied to me! You used to say my grandfather was dead, when Gaston was still alive...'

'I don't think so, Laurent. No, I didn't. I remember it clearly. I gave you that answer when we were in France already, and by then, Gaston was dead indeed.' -- again, what she said confirmed Carlo's retelling of the story -- 'Are you calling me a liar, Laurent?'

'Didn't you lie to me about my birth? And how you and Carlo had met in Punaouilo and...' -- I now moved through my own story like in a maze, so many walls to dumbfound me having been added too recently -- 'Why did you hide the Île du Blanchomme and my uncle Armand from me, Catherine? Or were you actually hiding me from the De Montbelle family?' 

'I did not hide you from Gaston -- your grandmother did! And I did not hide you from Armand. He is perfectly aware of your existence, Laurent. Just like he was about mine, after he and his mother discovered about Gaston's double life... And yet he never tried to contact me, are you aware of that, too? Actually, what did Carlo tell you?'

I tried to summarize the first part of my conversation with Carlo, our tropical years and my parents' torrid affair on the Île du Blanchomme. 

I might have spoken too loud, since I had already grown completely oblivious of Gabriel, but when I checked he remained sound asleep. 

'I hope you'll understand the reason why I've hidden the De Montbelle family from you... And please don't refer to Armand as your uncle, as if he was family, as if he was dear to you! I'll repeat it... he has always been aware of your existence, and he has never tried to contact you, chéri... Why should I let you suffer from his disdain, when I know exactly how appalling it feels, Laurent? I did not simply lie to you. I have protected you from his scorn!'

'How can you say that, Catherine? How can you shrink my family and say it was for my own sake?'

'Listen to yourself, Laurent! You think I am trying to hurt you. Your own mother! But I was protecting you, don't you see? You are 33 years old... and for all this time, though aware of your existence, I repeat, Armand has never tried to contact you... That's what is hurting you, Laurent, and that's what I've always tried my best to avoid.'

It was hard for me to understand Catherine's feelings on that matter. Almost impossible, I should say, since I had learned about Armand just a few days ago. And she had lived under his shadow for 58 years now, always comparing herself to him -- and losing, as from birth she had been destined to. How could I understand how being a bastard, an illegitimate child had affected her? She had not been recognized by her father, and never accepted by her brother -- and for 33 years, on top of that, Armand had ignored me, too, increasing her revolt and suffering. At that point, I still didn't get any of that, and I couldn't sympathize with Catherine.

'You should have given me the choice to decide for myself, Catherine.'

'Decide on what? Now that you have the chance to do something about this matter, you're doing it all wrong! You're not begging for that man's attention! I forbid you, Laurent! We only talk to him through lawyers! Do you understand me?'

'That's your story with Armand, Catherine. It's not mine. I want a fresh start with him... I don't care about the money... It's all about the money for you, isn't it, Catherine? This whole mess...'

'It was never about the money for me, Laurent.'

'How can you say that, Catherine? Did Carlo lie when he said you've taken Armand to court? Oh, no, even before that, Celeste was already disputing the money...'

'And your grandmother won, to a great extent! It was a just decision. Armand has not even tried to question it further, did you know that? She did help Gaston in making considerable profit and increasing the De Montbelle fortune, and that has been proved. Your grandmother was very influential in the social net of businessmen and politicians she built around herself, and Gaston knew how to take advantage of it. They were a good match, actually. And you've benefited from that already, Laurent. The money you've inherited from Celeste... a lot of it came through Gaston!'

And with that money, I thought, I had built my dream house on a promontory on a secluded beach near Samsara Heights. 

I had never asked about the money's provenance. I had never questioned the humongous amount I had inherited, no matter how implausible it had seemed coming from a theater's ex-diva. My grandmother had always lived so well, glamourously dressed by the best couturiers, her table always toped with imported delicacies and the best wines, and surrounded by works of art and luxurious furniture -- if Catherine would sell just one or two paintings from Celeste's collection, for instance the Matisse and the Chagall, we would have enough money for the rest of our lives... But Catherine didn't want to sell them -- and yet, we had money for the rest of our lives already -- De Montbelle money, apparently. 

A money I had very happily used. And apparently, there was more money for me, now that I was the latest De Montbelle heir.

'It was never about the money, for me. Maybe Carlo has influenced me more than I would like to admit, and I've learned to live a relatively simple life, haha...' -- Catherine giggled -- 'It was about dignity for me, Laurent. For us! Do you realize it?'

Catherine's quest for a family name. Though so similar to my issues, that was something I could not quite grasp yet about my mother -- her quest for acceptance, approval, and validation, came from her crib. It was a core hollowness. Even with Gaston dead, the De Montbelle's influence and importance reduced and ever fading -- she still wanted to have his name on her birth certificate. It was about honor, or justice as she understood it.

'I respect that, Catherine. But, if I may ask... Is it really justice... or simply revenge?' -- or vanity, since I have to confess I was also thrilled about adding De Montbelle to my name, for the family name's prestige and pedigree remained.

'I hear another question behind that one...' -- being a professional writer, Catherine was very perspicacious with words and their meaning -- 'Is it just or unjust? Fair or not fair? Good or evil? I'm being judged behind that question, isn't it so, Laurent?'

'I'm not being judgemental, I'm just trying to understand all this mess. You've never loved Carlo, Catherine! Yet, you snatched him from Armand, from your half-brother...' -- I avoided saying "my uncle", no matter how sweet that sounded to my ears -- '...who truly loved Carlo.'

'What do you know about Armand, Laurent? What do you think you know about him? Anyway, Carlo did not love Armand. And he wasn't pretty much in love with me, either. The whole mess, as you put it, did not involve as much love as you think. You have never dated anyone since...' -- and Catherine silenced before pronouncing Angelo's name, and it was loving from her part that she was still so careful about my old wounds -- '...but you remain being a romantic. Maybe some things are not clear for you yet, and you are missing the right perspective here.' -- she took a deed breath before adding, 'Carlo did not leave Armand because of me... He left Armand... for you!'

'So... I am responsible for separating Armand and Carlo?' -- one more perspective on which Carlo and Catherine seemed to coincide, and yet it was awkward to me that, just like my father had implied, I had responsibility in keeping him separated from me for the past twenty years, and now my mother telling me I had changed the life of three adults when I was just a foetus yet.

'You are now 33 years old, Laurent! It's time you understand your own participation in the lives of others. No matter how central, you are not like the Sun and we are not planets evolving around you. Our lives did not start with your birth, Laurent. Yet, you changed them forever. Your father gave up a few things, while I gave up others, many others...'

'You've always made that so clear, Catherine!' -- I exclaimed, and in the back of my mind I thought I had yelled at my father more than once, yet never at my mother -- 'I now understand how I have destroyed your life. Should I apologize? But in this process you might have doomed Carlo's life as well, not to mention Armand's...'

'Don't be ridiculous, Laurent! That's so melodramatic, and egocentric of you! You have destroyed nothing. Your father is a well known and wealthy painter, just like he wanted to be. He has achieved his dream, which was making a living from this art. Armand won the Pritzker Prize, to say the least. I have had a different career from what I had pictured for myself, but nonetheless fulfilling. And even the trip to Russia, that should have happened after my vacations in the Indian Ocean... It has finally come true, and here I am, in the company of the new Dostoyevsky!' 

Back in 1974, Catherine had been trying to obtain money from Monsieur de Montbelle to live in Russia. Her purpose was to track down a 17th century mystic writer who she believed had been a woman disguised as a monk. And Catherine had been right -- her professor had carried on her research and got all the praise and recognition for that amazing discovery, without ever mentioning Catherine, who for the French academic world might have as well drowned in the Indian Ocean.

'There is nothing to blame yourself for, Laurent.' -- Catherine was trying to reassure me by lessening the damage of my birth in her own life, as well as in Carlo's and Armand's.

'I understand what you're saying, Catherine. You have carried on with your professional lives and everything worked out very fine for all of you... But still...' -- and suddenly the thought struck me that, had Carlo chosen to stay with Armand to live their love, I would have been left like Catherine with a blank space in my birth certificate. If she hadn't snatched her half-brother's man, what kind of fatherless life would have I led? In a way, I could now understand why Carlo had always defended Catherine.

Had Catherine been a feminist, she would have carried Carlo's seed in herself and raised her child on her own. But because she had been a bastard child, she had made sure to bring my father along with her -- and since Carlo had been willing to follow her, it hadn't been that hard.

In fact, in a period when feminists were agitating to pass the law that would ban paternity tests in France, Catherine's extremely long, posthumous process of recognition against Gaston de Montbelle led her to be demonized in several intellectual circles -- and that extended torment coming from her peers, that was again exiling her in her own country, had been another reason that influenced her in going to Russia, and that led her to accept the invitation to teach at the Faculty of Philology in St. Petersburg State Univeristy, where she would remain for almost five years.

'Let me get this straight!' -- Catherine snorted -- 'Are you defending Armand? Who never wanted to have any contact with you? Listen to me again, Laurent... he has been aware of your existence for 33 years and...'

'No, Catherine.' -- Armand had to be sacrificed, I suddenly understood it. It was bad and sad that it had happened that way, but it could have been worse... for me! Perhaps I owed him apologies?  -- 'I'm just considering whether you have done with him what you have done to Carlo... Saying that he shouldn't come looking for me if I did not look for him in the first place... That was so selfish of you, Catherine...'

'Mon Dieu! You are going after Armand!' -- and Catherine's strategy of concentrating on Armand actually helped her avoiding the issues involving my father -- 'You are not going to humiliate yourself before that man, Laurent! Just a few hours in Carlo's company and you are again humble and submissive like him?' -- she paused all of a sudden -- 'Oh no, I can't believe it!'

'You should believe it, Catherine!' -- I was now determined to meet Armand, and my mother's opposition only strengthened my convictions that it was the right thing to do. I was going to look for my uncle Armand and talk to him.

'No, it's not that! I mean, it's not about Armand! Didn't you hear that beep? My mobile is running off its battery... Someone tried to call me the whole morning and now...' 

'Don't lie to me Catherine!' -- I was closer to yelling at my mother, instead I just hissed my dissatisfaction.

'Stop accusing me, Laurent. Do you think I want to  interrupt this conversation on purpose? If you want to, we can turn the computers on...'

But Gabriel had just opened his eyes, and he was addressing his gorgeous smile at me. And since I wasn't ready yet to let Catherine see my lover's butt on the cam, and I was very nervous and angry already, I simply sighed as the call ended with one last beep from my mother's phone.

And just because Catherine had so vehemently forbidden me, my impulse was to try to find my uncle Armand on the internet -- he was well known and it shouldn't be hard to find his architectural firm contacts -- and phone him right away.

But instead, I heard Gabriel asking from the bed "Is everything alright, Lau?" -- and just because I hated that nickname, I decided to punish him with a long, vigorous session of love making and just drown myself into forgetufulness again. 

NEXT  CHAPTER