chapter Six, continued

to read from the FIRST CHAPTER

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

EPISODE 12

Next morning, when I quietly resumed painting the studio's exterior walls, entering the mansion by a service side gate, I was surprised to see Barbara coming up to meet me. I honestly did not expect any more personal contact with that extraordinary couple -- I felt so far detached from them and their self-absorbed behavior, perhaps too common in the realm of the rich and famous, but so distinct from my world of natives and servants.

Barbara left her social veneer aside for a moment and showed herself elated. For the first time in a long while, Davez had locked himself into the studio, and every time she had checked to see if he was okay, she had been able to hear him composing.

But to me it was still a major surprise when, that afternoon, he slipped out of the studio for a moment, to hook Barbara and me, inviting us to listen to his compositions.

'Man, I owe you, forever...'  -- he told me, driving me by one arm, while tugging Barbara by the other.

Davez had actually located his producer at a party in London, and through the extension put him to listen to while he played for us each of the tunes he had composed during the night -- one of them the song inspired by you, Laurent. If I remember correctly, he first named it "Seed of a Son".

What am I doing here, I wondered. Never had I heard a song like that, hypnotic and incomprehensible -- and as formerly I had seen intriguing paintings in the museums and galleries of Paris, and Armand had advised me not to judge beforehand, not to close myself to the new -- I tried to approach Davez' compositions through my own painting process, trying to understand how he planned to add other instruments, as he was narrating it to his producer.

Davez abruptly ended the session, frustrated at not succeeding in harmonizing music and lyrics, and annoyed by the festive din which reached us through the mouthpiece of the phone, as a background to the producer's drunken voice.

And after he angrily left the studio to lock himself in the bedroom, Barbara cautiously walking behind him, I quietly and humbly returned to my painting job which was, after all, the only thing that had brought me to that house.

Several days later, I received a call from them. I figured they were going to rush me back to the job, because I had not attended it for days now, to stay home taking care of you, Laurent, who had been sick. Do you remember it? I had been spending a lot of time away, working at Davez' house, but nevertheless I had been able to realize how my absence increased your sadness, paired with the fact that Catherine was not there either -- and she hadn't even bothered to phone you... us... from France yet. I think you got sick from grieving in silence, and I realized that no matter how much Joanna cared for you with great love and dedication, you would not heal without my presence. If you were to heal at all, I feared, without Catherine.

I had intended to spend the night at home in your company, but after putting you to bed, Davez phoned me at the colonial mansion, summoning me to his house. And he did not accept my apologies for not attending work, nor even when I said I would be there the next morning very early, to finally finish painting the walls.

'You're fine, man. You can come right now.' -- it was not a marching order, but neither was it a question.

The rock star's mansion was on the other side of Punaouilo, and when I got there, and a long way it was on a bicycle, it was late, far more than I used to stay awake.

But maybe having slept all afternoon, Davez and Barbara were fully awake and in high spirits. If I had arrived a little later I would no longer have met them, as they were on their way to the bedroom, but not to go to sleep.

They had dined at the best restaurant on the island -- one praised even in international guides; after  all, Punaouilo was an international resort for millionaires -- but before that, they had paid a brief visit to the local art gallery.

'I've never seen so much crap together!' -- Davez spit the words, tracing back to the same viral disdain with which he had treated me on that first afternoon, and I wondered if I had gone there to be humiliated -- 'And what was that creature?' -- I was sure he was referring to Danny Douxis, the poor cover we had for an art dealer in Punaouilo, and I felt embarrassed for him too -- 'How do you leave your paintings sitting there, man? Schatz...' -- I'd never heard the word before, and figured it must be Barbara's family name, who was not hiding her boredom doing the translation -- 'What did we think of our friend's paintings?'

'Good...' -- Barbara replied, without even looking at me -- 'Very good...' -- she said, without enthusiasm.

  That woman, so beautiful and sophisticated, made ​​me think of Catherine. Not only by the disdain both women treated me with, but mainly by the differences between them -- how your mother would have liked to be as rich and famous, and how I was the one bloking her path... Catherine did not blame me for her bad luck in life -- to her, I impersonated her very own bad luck.

'Good?' -- Davez cried and spun in his heels, excitedly -- 'Dude, your paintings are fantastic! Pure poetry... That blue one, it's like cosmic dust...' -- Davez seemed genuinely enthusiastic, and I was truly surprised -- 'Why didn't you tell us?'

Because no one ever wanted to know, I thought. At that point in my life, painting had become a mere hobby. Although it was not a secret, and in not having an atelier I used to paint in the open, in our garden, no one had ever seen my art. In Punaouilo, people knew me as a house painter and gardener. I felt as invisible as my paintings, and defeated.

  I didn't ask which blue painting he meant, because I found myself in a "blue period" -- not inspired by Picasso's, but to Douxis' request.  He held blue to be the latest fashionable color in insular decoration, and he was only accepting blue paintings, to meet his customers wishes and to match their sofas and lampshades.

'Have you ever painted ghosts, man?'

I wanted to laugh at Davez question, just as Barbara's subtle perfume made ​​me want to cry. Before that stellar couple, I felt like crap, so poor and a failure, having given up on my own talent.

And as I did not have anything to reply to Davez, I again thought of you, Laurent, who had reported having seen people in my paintings ... Invisible people, you had clarified. Sometimes, after having finished a painting, I had the desire to scribble and draw on top of some of them, and you could see people and other figures in those lines, Laurent. Do you remember it?

Davez wanted to know more about my paintings, about those invisible people, and my ink scribbles... I said I felt it was a process similar to his composing music, as I had heard it a few days ago. "Not always all things can be expressed in the same layers", I told him, and so I would add those lines later, as if they were an afterthought of poetry. "PS* Poetry. You know what I mean?", I concluded, thinking I had sounded stupid. 

Just like Davez hadn't been able to harmonize melody and lyrics, I had clarified -- fearing to sound arrogant or disrespectful to the rock star --, because lyrics were not simply a complement, but they existed by themselves, as poetry, and I had recognized in his process the same difficulty I had with what I called the "layers" of my paintings.

Again I watched Davez jump to the middle of the room, exclaiming -- "What are you telling me, man?" --, standing there for a minute or two, wide-eyed, staring at me, without seeing me however, to finally leave the house, darting towards the studio.

I immediately said goodbye to Barbara, politely. She must have been as embarrassed by Davez' sudden departure -- the second time he had left us alone. At least, I thought, this time I was not naked as I had formerly been, in the tub, though I felt as bare once again, since the girl had already checked my nudity up and down. And the rags that covered my body made a depressing contrast to her beautiful designer clothes, as much to everything else in that stunning house. I excused myself, and left by the service side gate.

A few days went by without me seeing Davez, although I had resumed painting the house. Barbara was always at the pool, but I never approached her, and she didn't walk up to me either. Maybe she could feel the tension and extension of my desire for her, but it seemed she didn't nourish any sexual fantasies with a wall painter, no matter how hung, and thus she avoided me.

Just once she told me, showing a bit of happiness and enthusiasm, that Davez had again locked himself in the studio, since that last night he had talked to me. Composing. He would leave the studio for his basic needs only -- and by her languid sigh I imagined that she herself would have been one of his most basic needs.

Many years later I would discover that Davez had come to the island in a renewed attempt to get away from drugs and the depression that made him incapable of composing -- such a long creative hiatus that the music industry had practically forgotten him, if not his glorious past stardom. He himself had become invisible -- a ghost of his former self. Just like me.

"I'm a ghost now" -- he had told Barbara in one of his worst moods -- "Aren't you afraid of ghosts, Schatz? Perhaps you should be afraid of me..." -- but that had been before, in London, and once in Punaouilo he had met and spoken to me, ghosts had taken on a different aspect and perspective to him.

Barbara, who had never even smoked and drank only pineapple juice, was his great support at that time. She truly loved and admired him, both as a man and as a musician, and she was happy with his new creative phase, that she perceived as having sprung from me -- and thus she had begun to sympathize with me. But she never failed in treating me like a mere employee, though I wasn't on their payroll, asking me to clean the pool and water the garden. For all matters, they had never even hired me.

During Davez' period of isolation, I was called to the art gallery by Danny Douxis. He treated me more politely than he ever had. I had been recommended to him through the friend of Catherine's mother, who owned the mansion we lived at as a favor. But I felt Douxis was working with me much more because he was interested in the people who had recommended me, and not for my paintings.

Douxis wanted to know more about my relationship with the rock star, since he was convinced of selling at least one of my paintings to Davez.

'He has an exotic taste! Oh, exotic like the man himself...' -- Danny rolled his little eyes, two little green dots on a perfectly round, plum face, thus demonstrating his pleasure -- 'Remember how I said that your paintings were exotic, Carlino darling? Wasn't I right?' -- he had clapped his fat hands -- 'Now someone who has an exotic taste wants to buy them! See the connection? I had envisioned it, haha!' -- and next, for the first time he asked me to bring more paintings to his gallery. 

But because I had been painting more walls than canvases, I had nothing new to offer him.

However, Davez' interest in my paintings finally did touch me, and I resumed painting with enthusiasm, even though they were all blue, all blues... 

At that time, I had been trying to paint the water as a theme, especially its reflections, and I used both the swimming pool of our colonial mansion, near to which I kept my easel, as much as the Pacific Ocean just across the street.

A long time went by without news from Davez and Barbara, and just because local society was so reduced outside the high season, and there was a lot of gossip, did I learn that they remained on the island. Apparently, the rock star had swum naked one night -- in fact, he had already left his mansion naked, had crossed the street, swam in the ocean and then came back home. 

Two, three weeks had already passed since I had finished painting their house, and I thought they had forgotten me.

Then one afternoon, Barbara called and left a message with Joanna -- Davez wanted to see me and my paintings, and they would stop by to visit me that evening.

I had little time to prepare myself, choosing the paintings I liked best and stacking them in the garden -- and to hide you, Laurent, for by no means I wanted the rock star to meet the boy from the song he had composed. I could not imagine what his reactions would be at your intriguing temperament, quiet and centered at six years old, with the presence of an ancient sage and the appearance of an old man, with your white hair. 

I did not want to share my son with Davez Drew -- not more than I already had, anyway.

An unforgettable night it was, and in many ways, it would change my life.

I hadn't known yet, but Davez and Barbara had already decided to leave the island, without having remained the three months for which they had rented the house. Nothing against Punaouilo -- the rock star wanted to return to London as soon as possible to start recording with a band the songs he had been composing on the island.

Davez was a very generous man, as I was to discover shortly. 

I now think he came to our house that night with a clear intention, yet unknown to me. I had imagined he also wanted to visit the colonial mansion, one of the oldest buildings on the island, but he squinted and said "Creepy", going straight to the backyard garden where my 'studio' was set.

'Tonight, it's your turn to show me your songs and poetry..'. -- he told me upon arrival, hugging me.

That evening, Barbara was looking more beautiful than ever, and she gave me a charming smile, like never before. She looked relaxed and happy -- and she had reasons indeed to feel like it, seeing Davez healthy and active again, all dedicated to his music. And she could be considered successful, too, since all other Davez female companions had only managed to drag him deeper into the hole, and away from his inspiration. 

Barbara would be forever remembered as his savior, the companion of his revival, and in one of the tracks from "All things transient", Davez would ask her to record the reading of a long poem about transcendental love, dedicated to herself.

Under the light of the stars, and by a single gas lamp that I had borrowed, emanating a not very poetical but cold light, Davez contemplated at length each of the paintings I showed him. He listened carefully to what I had to say about them, although it may have been not more than its title, if they had had one, and the places where they had been painted. I wasn't very eloquent, I didn't feel like I was selling him anything. It was more like as if I was telling him a secret, still reluctantly, for I had come to like him, but not completely trust the rock star. 

That evening I found out about Davez almost psychic sensitivity, as I proceeded with that little retrospective of my paintings. On one of them that I had painted in the old abandoned factory, when I was sick and starving, he said "It hurts, man." On the first canvas I had painted in Punaouilo, after having left the Île du Blanchomme with Catherine, he said "hurts even more." I don't think I have ever found anyone again to feel pain from looking at a painting -- I've seen people cry, I've seen people disgusted, shocked or be touched, but nothing like Davez' feelings.

But it was my most recent series that made the strongest impression on him. He stared at the first blue canvas before him, and confessed it was giving him goose bumps.

'Ghostly...' -- was the first word he used, and coming from him I could understand it was a compliment -- 'It is a light hole... I'm falling into your painting, man... Hold me...' -- and I had to actually grab him, but his momentary dizziness might have been caused by drinking a bit too much at dinner, for I could smell the whiskey, or perhaps by the uncertain gas lamp light that kept flickering in the garden.

'How did you do it, man?' -- he was breathless -- 'You have erased the canvases with your painting... Do you know what I mean? Your canvases... They are invisible... transparent... nonexistent...' -- he was ecstatic -- 'You've turned the canvas itself into water... No, into light!' -- he groaned -- 'Man, how could you do that?! You have transmigrated these canvases! Man! You are a fucking painting god...'

I was astonished, and even more when he finally announced that he wanted to buy my paintings. Not from Danny Douxis -- he wanted to acquire them directly from me.

Three from the older ones, and all three from the most recent series, although they were still unfinished. I was surprised and did not know what price to give him, but figured they should cost less than in Douxis gallery, and so I gave Davez the discount based on the percentage the dealer would have taken from me.

And I finally understood his intent for that visit. Even if I had shown him a collection of scribbled napkins, he would have known how to praise them, and would have choosen a few to buy from me.

That night, Davez gave me more money than I had ever seen in my entire life. And many valuable advices.

'Too cheap, man. Never sell yourself cheap, man. Your art is grand. Never give up. You have a great talent. I love it. Really do. And I can give you twenty times this amount, yet it would never have been enough to thank you. Thank you. But I think I can help you. More. Later. Forever.'

They then told me they had come to say goodbye, and Barbara even kissed my cheek -- "Thank you for all." -- she said tenderly. 

We would never again be reunited, not the three of us.

Surely enough, Danny Douxis learned about my deal with the rock star. Perhaps he had even seen the paintings being taken from the mansion where we lived, to be packed and shipped to England. After Davez and Barbara's visit, I still had had a few days to retouch the paintings, but not enough to be satisfied with them. Davez, however, did not consider them unfinished -- he had called them 'brut'.

'Natural like a rock, man. You're a rock.' -- again without knowing it, it was as if he was connecting to my mountainous roots -- 'Like your poetic lines. Simple. Direct.' -- the musician had told me, as if reading my soul -- 'Do not try to be like the diamond. It would be artificial. It's not you.' -- he had advised me.

Danny was furious with me about the deal that had excluded him, and kicked me out of his gallery, accusing me of being unethical. I tried to explain to him that Davez had chosen some old paintings, which he himself had already seen and despised, and others that were still unfinished.

'Liar! They were blue!' -- he screamed -- 'And blue was my idea! You cheater!'

Unfortunately, a year later he had humbly to apologize, trying to have my work at his gallery again.

 Because we were to find out, when Davez' album was released, that the musician had chosen one of my blue paintings for the cover. Even nowadays, "All things transient" is among the best LP covers of the century, and I keep getting compliments for that painting from almost thirty years ago. People still send me poems and songs inspired by that painting. It was my first painting ever to be sold for a million bucks, after Davez death.

But what happened at that time, the beginning of the 1980s, was that my work suddenly became known and desirable. Davez, besides mentioning my name in some interviews, always referring to me as a "fucking painting god", had recommended me to a major art dealer in London, Martius Dall who, even before the album had been released, and prior to all the visibility that cover was to give me, had sent a carrier to acquire all my blue series paintings. And so I began being represented in London, and soon after, a gallery in California followed... Since I had no paintings in stock, I was especially commissioned by them, and even received cash in advance... Davez appreciation of my work changed my life! After his studio in Punaouilo, I never had to paint walls again... But it was your apparition, Laurent, to change his life and my life as well... Do you realize it now, and how the "Sunrise Son" became a mythical song, even to me?

After my father's story, I promised myself to listen one more time to the song, and even to that album -- in the rarities market I owned the most expensive of all copies, dedicated "to the Sunrise Son" by Davez Drew himself. Usually, I was troubled from the very beginning, with bells ringing at the song's opening, and would even get a headache with the guitar becoming louder and more pungent as the sun was rising... The poem however, was beautiful, and as Carlo had given Davez the hint, the poetry had been recorded spoken and not sung. The words had not been added to the songs as lyrics, which made the album so unique and special.

'Thank you for telling me this story, Carlo...' -- I was grateful, and sincerely moved -- 'And I apologize for having lost patience and having been rude at you... But...' -- an important detail, maybe a fundamental thing, drew my attention during the story -- '...at some point you said... you left the Île du Blanchomme along with Catherine... Didn't you say that?'

'That's right ...' -- Carlo replied quietly, averting his gaze to watch the immense moon slowly rising over Vice City.

'But how could she be there with you?' -- I  swallowed painfully -- 'Haven't you met in Punaouilo, where I was born?' -- I asked, puzzled. 

That had been the story I had heard from them all my life.

'No.' -- Carlo replied, turning a sad gaze back on me -- 'I mean... yes, you were born in Punaouilo. But it wasn't there that Catherine and I met...' -- Carlo sighed heavily -- 'We finally come to the hard part of this story, Laurent. The part that no one ever told you. The part in which Catherine made ​​me an accomplice, forcing me to lie to you, along with her.'

NEXT CHAPTER

Davez Drew 1981 album

cover painting by Carlo D'Allegro

chapter Four, continued

to read from the FIRST CHAPTER

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EPISODE 8

“Don't walk behind me; I may not lead.

 Don't walk in front of me; I may not follow. 

Just walk beside me and be my friend.”

― Albert Camus

For the first time in our relationship, I think I was really disappointed and mad at my friend.

I turned that strong, uncomfortable energy into very intense strokes -- I got hold of a new canvas and stroked the night away... I painted furiously, uncertain about what I was creating under the moonlight.

I don't know for how long I painted, but when I decided to return to my room -- and after having checked at the fire pit that Armand was no longer helplessly sitting there --, while still going up the very first steps of the stairs, I could clearly hear him crying at the front porch.

He must have heard my footsteps as well, because he swiftly retreated further to the veranda at the end of the corridor, facing his room.

I decided to go after him, even if his attitude of retreating indicated that he preferred to be left alone. But how could I go on praying "May all sentient beings have happiness and its causes... May all sentient beings be free of suffering and its causes..." and leave my best friend crying?

'I'm sorry if I'm intruding, my friend,' -- I tried to be polite, having learned it from Armand himself, the prince -- 'but I'm not going to bed tonight before you tell me what's going on.' -- I said, as I took seat in one of the chairs next to his room, acting perhaps inconveniently, a bit more like myself, the peasant -- 'I've been watching you crying from the very first day I've arrived, and you often look like a man defeated in the last battle of his life... Are you ill, Armand? Or what is it? I've just told you about that apparition that has impressed and touched me deeply, and you seemed disappointed, even half-hearted.' -- I had to express my own hurting -- 'Do you regret having invited me here?'

Armand had stopped crying, and he took a deep breath before telling me:

'I'm sorry for that, mon cher Carlo. And I'm thankful you've come after me tonight... This is really hard for me. Our friendship is so precious, and I'm afraid, at the thought even, that I could do or say something that would cause our parting... I don't want to lose you. Never. That would be the worst thing that could happen...' -- again, Armand took a deep breath -- 'This is something I've always wanted to ask you... Why haven't you ever had a girlfriend, Carlo?'

I was surprised. That had probably been the most personal question Armand had ever asked me in years. We had spoken about the death of my parents, my quarrels with my grandfather when I had decided to leave our ancestral farm, most of my hurts and fears. But that was something new.

'I don't know...' -- I replied, taken by surprise -- 'I have never thought about that. I guess the answer is of a practical order... I can barely take care of myself... how can I dare to have a girlfriend? And invite her to eat canned soup and sleep with the rats? Not even a hooker would do it, not for free. I guess it will happen one day, but I don't know when nor where...' -- the world out there seemed so vague and empty and distant and timeless  -- 'Can I ask you a question too, Armand? How haven't you married yet?' -- that was again my role... I had asked my friend a question, and he had returned a question to me... now I'd have to extract his sincerity from him -- 'You were the one who had so many girlfriends during the École!'

'I was not dating them, Carlo. I was just doing my duty, my social duty. That's all it was about.' -- Armand exhaled deeply -- 'I was the banker's son, the Baron's grandson, dating the daughters of other businessmen and aristocrats.  All the time I lived under the impression that it were our fathers dating, their money dating and courting, not us, boys and girls... Because all those dates were arranged, and expected from me. Margot, Irene, Veronique, Juliette, they were all daughters of my father's friends or partners in business. In fact, that kind of courting was just another form of business, I'm now inclined to think, and a way of preserving and multiplying fortunes, perhaps...  Exactly like my father and mother had done before me, and you know very well the outcome of a marriage that was more like a contract aiming at a successful joint venture...'

'Do you still remember some of their names, Carlo?' -- Armand had continued, with an ironic tone I hadn't heard before in his voice -- 'Take Juliette, for instance... I "dated" her for almost a year, but you know what I appreciated most about her? The fact that she was always late! Because while I waited for her I spent the time reading in her father's impressively well curated library, full of rare and original editions.  That's what I "loved" about Juliette. Taking her to the Opera, to dine out and then bringing her back home was the obligation, my social duty as the heir of one of France's richest men... I could only stand Juliette's superficial chit chat coming in her nasal voice among a cloud of strong perfumes because I kept in mind the books I wanted to finish.'

'They were all like that, spoiled girls that I had to spoil yet another night, pretending to make them court and enhance their vanity. Margot or Veronique -- money from the coal mines or from textile industries -- they were all the same. I was playing with them as much as they were playing with me, because yes, it was a game -- seeing and being seen, and having the right company at the most prestigious places was all that mattered. Perhaps I've hurt just one of them, Irene, whom I think actually fell in love with me.'

'I dated her for over a year... She was nice, nicer than the other heirs... She was beautiful and more cultivated than the others, too.' -- Armand paused and inhaled deeply, holding his breath for a few seconds, before exhaling very slowly, and that technique told me he was trying to deal with strong emotions -- 'But the nicest thing about her was her brother, Raymond...' -- Armand looked at me expectantly, before proceeding to his confession -- 'I had a crush on him. Whenever I went to pick Irene, my true intention and strongest expectation was to meet and talk to Raymond... And he was always there! Handsome, elegant, with the world at the tip of his tongue, always ready to chat with me. He never missed my visits, as if he too was expecting me...' -- Armand's voice trembled -- 'You have no idea, Carlo, how much hypocrisy comes with money. People wear so many masks that to many of them it is impossible to take them out, even when they want to... Raymond was like that, and perhaps a bit more than usual, because he was in the diplomatic career.'

'So, when once I tried to open my feelings for him, and I was so sure he felt the same for me... Nothing was openly said, but the glance we exchanged implied we both knew...' -- Armand paused, for his confession was leaving him breathless -- 'That was the last occasion I ever saw him! I took Irene out a few more times, but he was never there to greet me any longer, ever again... until I learned from her that Raymond had asked to be transferred to an embassy somewhere in Asia. That was also the last time I saw Irene. Or any other girl. I decided to put an end to my social career of living those "luxurious lies", to use my mother's words. To my father's dismay and anger too, who enjoyed following my dates just like he might have enjoyed playing chess.'

'I regret having broken Irene's heart... but I was heart broken at the very same time. Just like I never had the chance to open my love for her brother Raymond, though I'm sure he must have felt it, Irene has never found the courage to express her love for me... It was unthinkable for a girl in her position to beg for love! And it all happened at the same time... A few weeks before Raymond left for Asia, my mother found out about my father's lover, and his second family... Everything seemed to be falling apart, all around me, but the worst was coming from within...'

'In India, I heard a master say the worst enemy lies within us... I could not agree more! But at the time I'm telling you about, India did not exist in my world... You hadn't saved me yet by lending me that book... I was so desperate! Raymond's rejection had left me feeling dirty, unworthy, sick even. I knew where his fear had come from... surrendering to a love like that would have been social suicide. Perhaps more to him with his diplomatic career than to me, but nevertheless... It was inadequate, it was improper, it was filthy!'

'And I lied to you, Carlo. I wasn't feeling miserable only because of my family's situation!' -- he looked at me as if asking for forgiveness, for a brief second, and then again he resumed his fierce confession -- 'But then those days I was lying to everyone, about everything, just like too many people had been lying to me, all the time! And I was lying to myself, essentially. I remember telling you I was dating some other girl after Irene, but I was actually going to the bars to get drunk...  and to try to meet a guy, any guy. And those bars and clubs, they were filthy, the atmosphere of a heaviness that all the pretense gayety did not soften, as men used and abused and ate one another, drowning in an ocean of drugs...'

'And then, there came India! I confess that wonderful book on spirituality you've given me was one of the reasons that made me so promptly want to go... The other reason, maybe you can guess for yourself, was Raymond... He had gone to that part of the world, and it wouldn't be hard for me to discover exactly where... You see, I lied to you, and I still hadn't confessed this to anyone, Carlo... I had that secret expectation, when I first went to India, of meeting Raymond. More than meeting a master, I wanted to meet him.... and what I could have never expected, instead of meeting him, my idealized love... I was to meet myself!'

'Because after three very intense months of ashrams, retreats, masters, meditation... and diarrhea, of course... I had purged myself of the worst part of that suffering. So many veils of delusion had been removed with those meditation sessions where I silently and motionlessly sat there, following my breath, watching my tears fall, but not falling apart myself with them... Learning to detach myself from my sorrow and fears, my worries and prejudices, my anger and confusion, and ultimately from my self-image, even.'

'I started cultivating acceptance towards myself, and towards Raymond, forgiving his "cowardliness" as I had labeled it, and towards my parents and their web of lies and deception... To see more clearly that the way I could love...' -- Armand swallowed with difficulty -- 'that I loved men... was not filthy, not unworthy, not improper, but simply... love!' -- he exhaled deeply, and finally fell silent.

I was touched by my friend's deep sharing, and yet I did not really know what to say. No one talked yet about "coming out" in those days, and I don't think it was clear to me what Armand had been talking about. Somehow, I thought, it did not affect me. I just had to embrace his lifelong suffering and welcome his secret, that was all -- and that was the easiest thing to do to my best friend. 

'I can still recall how deeply changed you were upon your return from India, mon cher Armand... And I was so happy to have lend you that book... A book I somehow stole, I have to confess...' -- as little as it were, I wanted to requite my friend by telling him something that I had kept as a secret as well -- 'I found that book in an abandoned corner of a café on the Rive Gauche where I was painting the walls... I first liked it because of the images it contained, but the text about Indian philosophies was equally interesting, and so new to me... The owner of the cafe said I could take the book and after having finished it, return it to him... which I... we never did.' -- and I giggled.

'Mon Dieu, Carlo! The book was not yours!' -- Armand seemed more amused than disturbed -- 'You never said a word when I decided to take it with me to India...'

'Of course I wouldn't!' -- I replied, blushing -- 'I saw how it had become kind of an amulet to you...'

'Haha, an amulet indeed! The book, you know, is in the shelves in your room, among my own books and those that belonged to Herr Weismann... Maybe I should take it back with me to France, this time...' -- Armand pondered -- 'And try to return it to the café owner. Would you remember the address?'

Silence again fell among us. More peaceful than in the past days, but I still sensed some tension in the air -- and no angel rustling his wings in the space between us. What would a tropical angel have looked like? I remember was the awkward thought that crossed my mind in that moment, and the image of a very colorful, carnivalesque type of angel. Armand had spoken at length about his first trip to India, that had lasted only three months, but what about this last one, I felt inclined to ask -- and so I did.

'Thank you for asking, mon cher Carlo.' -- was the start of his reply -- 'Have you heard the saying "kill the tiger before chasing it"? I have imagined this conversation with you, but because I have experienced rejection quite a few times in the past, it is always present in me, in my expectations... And I was expecting it from you, that you'd reject me... I was so afraid...'

Armand's voice had trembled at his last words, and I heard him take yet another deep breath, trying to brace himself.

'I have never opened to anyone about this before, and you have been so... gentle. I'm thankful for the relief I'm feeling... But... I had a long conversation once with a master in Nepal... They have a certain difficulty in understanding our idea and experience of romantic love and all the suffering we add to it, since it is so differently experienced here in Asia... But as I spoke to him about you, mon cher Carlo... I still remember the words I heard from that master: You have found true love. Too close, and you don't see it.'

I could never have expected Armand's next sentence, son.

'I love you, Carlo.'

And immediately I mouthed:

'I love you too, Armand.' 

 Because it was true. Armand was my best friend, like a brother to me; he had always been my greatest supporter, and what I felt towards him was stronger than the fearful respect and the due gratefulness I had always felt towards my grandfather, who'd brought me up. Little did I remember about my parents, and what I felt towards them was a longing mingled with a curiosity of what could have been if they hadn't died when I was a child. I didn't know much about love, but what I felt towards Armand was certainly my deepest and longest experience of... love.

'Mon cher Carlo... Thank you... But maybe we are talking about different feelings here...' -- Armand seemed calm, but his heavy breathing denounced otherwise -- 'I can say I loved Irene too, just like you are now saying you love me.' -- he smiled sweetly, as if kindly correcting a child's mistake -- 'She was a lovely girl whom I admired and respected, whose company I truly enjoyed. But it was with her brother that I fell in love with...' -- Armand took another deep breath -- 'I am in love with you, Carlo.'

'I guess I've always been in love with you, Carlo.' -- Armand continued, not allowing me time to react nor respond -- 'It was love at first sight. And it has survived my own internal struggles, my doubts, my fears, and all the rejection and guilt I have cultivated during these five years, almost six now, that we have known each other... I didn't know my feeling for you was so strong until I saw you again a few days ago, at the port! Now that I'm not burdened with my own prejudice, I could see it so distinctly... My love for you... Pure and sincere as it is, it has carried me through the years, bringing me faith and hope where there would only have been suffering and instability... But to express it clearly in words, like I'm doing now... Honestly, I still don't know if I am capable of doing it, or if I should be doing it, Carlo...'

'I've experienced a turmoil of feelings since you've arrived, Carlo, and I know you've been sensing it... And I'm aware it has hindered our communication... You know, I've been sitting by your side all this time, secretly wishing you were in my arms... actually, more like I was in your arms... And then over and over I've been feeling aggravated, and I reacted in ways you probably didn't quite well understand, even if I was trying to hide my frustration. Yes, there has been tension and discomfort these past few days, and I apologize for that.'

'I've been questioning myself since your arrival, the moment I laid eyes on you and love started revolving in me... How can it be love, when it can destroy friendship? How can it be nurturing, when it makes me discontent, longing for more than I've always had, that has always been so satisfying before? I was always happy in your presence, but suddenly... I found myself longing for more... Why can't I be content anymore... with sharing all meals, all moments, all day long, like it has always been? When I'm standing close to you... I'm willing to hold you, or to be held by you, to be nestled in your strong arms... And I've lived in fear, these past days... Fearing you'd sense it and reject me, fearing I'd never find the courage to tell you, and if I ever did... Right now... fearing your reaction.' 

And my reaction was springing up to my feet -- it had been overwhelming, actually, too much and too intense in just one gush. I don't know why I did it -- I suddenly felt like I was suffocating in that corner of the house, too close to Armand and to his bedroom. Trapped in that corner of the world, and submitted to a treacherous test.

Startled, Armand sprang to his feet as well, and we bumped our heads. It was funny, and for a moment we laughed. But it was also embarrassing, when we stood with just a few inches separating our bodies, yet already joined in the heat and tension that emanated from them. For the first time to me, our proximity, that had always been part and played an important role in our brotherhood, felt disconcerting. For now, I knew Armand was longing for more than just embrancing or cuddling with me.

'I have to go to bed.' -- I mumbled. I suddenly felt so tired, drained of energy, with no courage nor any discernment left.

'You mean... you want to go to bed with me?' -- Armand giggled, as he brushed his forearm against my stomach, and a gesture that before would have been left unnoticed was now an invasion, when it sent shivers up and down my spine, that I felt as deep as into my bowels -- 'Do you want to try it, mon cher Carlo?' 

Having for days believed my friend was crying over his dying mother, over his disintegrating family, over some mysterious disease he might have acquired in Asia, I was now starting to realize my own responsibility in Armand's recent -- and past -- suffering.

Now I could not fool myself anymore. Just like he wasn't fooling himself anymore, nor was he deceiving me any longer. His love, and lust, were open and on offer. And so weren't I to deceive nor fool him anymore. His presence and proximity demanded a response.

Falling again silent, Carlo once more concentrated on eating his food, that by now must have been cold. His eyes were vague, his gaze distant, and I realized he was absorbed by the past, lost somewhere in the Indian Ocean -- and it was as if he had again abandoned me, this time at the restaurant, to be once more in Armand's company. Wasn't that the same reason why he had left home twenty years, I now wondered.

I was feeling a bit calmer and contented, since the story had now started making sense to me. I was thrilled with the possibility that my father had had a male lover in the past. It seemed so... redeeming to me!

Yet, I observed my mind as it was running fast, and jumping at conclusions as I envisioned one justifiable hypothesis after the other. When had all that happened, exactly? Carlo had said some 30 to 40 years ago -- that was typical of him, his inexactitude with time.  Since I was 33 years old, his affair with Armand -- if there had been an affair -- could not have lasted long, because he must have met Catherine shortly after that. It felt like I was being told a big secret, something that turned the "Hermit of the Brushes", a nickname given to Carlo by the art critics, into an improbable Don Juan... Haha, that was rather unexpected -- I never thought I'd be thrilled about my own father's love life!

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