chapter Nine, conclusion

to read from the FIRST CHAPTER

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EPISODE 19

That night at the Nirvana Lounge, I don't know exactly how I sensed Carlo was lying to me. Maybe it was the pauses in his narration, as if he was pondering what to tell me, and premeditating his next words.

That whole story about the Île du Blanchomme that Catherine had never mentioned... About a great friend, a true love, that Armand guy whom I had never heard of before, not the slightest mention about him in our home nor any news, ever, until publicly I had learned he had won the Pritzker Prize.

It seemed unlikely that Catherine, who was always ready to experiment with a good story, making her family and friends a laboratory for her books, had never mentioned that tropical episode... Perhaps because it had never existed?

There was something so wrong about that whole story, something missing... I was about to find out what it was, I just needed to ask the right question to unmask Carlo... Would he be able to lie so completely to win my sympathy and cool off the affection that I still felt for my mother? He had begged her feelings, and he might have never succeeded in obtaining them -- I myself had felt this way for quite some time, but I had finally understood that if I did not receive Catherine's tenderness or affection, it was simply because she had none to give. On the contrary, her support and protection would never fail me, since she had them in abundance and handed them in overdoses.

'That young god won't stop staring at us...' -- Carlo had suddenly changed the subject, returning to the Nirvana Lounge -- 'Actually, he's been watching you, Laurent, the whole evening...' -- and I recalled how Catherine was angry when my father pointed a finger at the things that he referred to, and I too was ashamed.

Gabriel was indeed looking in our direction at that moment, and instead of looking away or being ashamed to be caught on spot, he took the chance that he had been noticed to approach our table.

'Gentlemen, our kitchen should be closing soon... Would you care for anything else?'

'Yes, I want another glass of wine...' -- Carlo said, and I found out that both my parents had given into drinking after their separation -- '...something sweeter for this time of the night...' -- and while Catherine came to the point of getting drunk, just like Carlo she never missed the sophistication of getting drunk with the best liquor, and the most appropriate for each occasion, remaining elegant in their decay -- 'Until what time do you stay open, young man?'

'Do not worry about that, sir.' -- and although the handsome waiter might have been a bit bored and even sleepy, his beautiful smile disguised everything, and he answered accordingly, as he had been briefed about the occasion -- 'I can serve you wine for as long as you desire, sir.'

'Che meraviglia! This Ganymede is making me feel like Zeus on the top of this building!' -- and as the waiter did not seem to understand Carlo's analogy or allusion to his divine beauty, my father simply changed the subject -- 'Does the bathroom close with the kitchen, haha? Anyway, I need to use it now!' -- Carlo gave me a meaningful look, full of complicity, and passing by Gabriel, patted his shoulder -- 'Behave yourselves, young men...' -- he said, suggesting that something naughty could happen in his absence, leaving a trail of embarrassment behind.

'At what time do you close the restaurant, Gabriel?' -- I asked, to break that awkward silence. But the question sounded more like the old "At what time do you leave?". Probably because I was actually interested in him, and I blushed, all embarrassed.

'I am here at your service, sir, for as long as you need it.' -- did I see him wink? Despite his being perfectly professional, not yet calling me Laurent, he was still charming and seductive, and so gorgeous -- 'The instructions were clear... Do not call it a night until the conversation between you and your father doesn't finish.'

I wondered who would have given him these instructions, if the Nirvana Lounge's owner or Charmand himself. The only one who knew that I'd be talking to my father was Charmand.

'Please do not call me sir... My name is Laurent!' -- he was only a few years younger than me, but that formal treatment made ​​me feel so much older -- 'I am very grateful that you made yourself ​​available and provided us with  this night, Gabriel.' -- I was sure that he was being handsomely compensated to open the restaurant all on his won, on his night off... and I began to think if I could compensate him myself, somehow... He was really beautiful, with his blonde long hair, blonde eyes and blonde skin, all about him shining in beautiful shades of golden... Certainly an excellent model for my next painting, haha -- 'This is an historic night in my life, Gabriel...' -- I felt I could trust him, after all, he looked like an angel -- 'I am very grateful for your presence and for your help here, and if I can reciprocate in any way...'

'I'm glad I could help you with that, Laurent.' -- he smiled charmingly while pronouncing my name, which sounded a bit comical as always when an American tried to imitate the French accent -- 'I'm sorry if I intrude... I read that you will open an exhibition tomorrow, and I would be delighted to visit it... in the company of the artist himself?'

That was elegant and charming from him, I thought, to show interest in my art, and invite himself to visit the museum with me, instead of inviting himself to my studio, or even to my bed, like so many others before him had done. Even though I actually wanted him in my studio - and in my bed -- instead at the museum.

'Am I interrupting something, young men?' -- Carlo asked on his return to the table. The way he said "young men" sounded like we were two horny adolescents, and I winked at Gabriel, who smiled.

'I'll bring your wine in a moment, sir.' -- Gabriel retreated lightly, but not before having addressed me an inquiring stare. And indeed, he was quick to bring us new drinks, my father's wine and my aromatic water, and I returned his glance reassuring him that our private conversation would continue.

'Do you want to continue listening to my story tonight, Laurent?' -- Carlo asked me when Gabriel had left -- 'Its actually your story...  I do not feel tired at this late hour because I usually paint at night, a habit that makes me happy, for it reminds me of the old abandoned factory in Paris... How are you feeling, my son?'

'I'm just fine, Carlo.' -- I had slept so many nights during those two decades of my father's absence, I thought, that I did not mind losing a single night's sleep for his presence and for his story, although it was full of lies, or it was all a hoax, but this I did not tell him -- 'I'm all ears.'

'I could only calm down...' -- Carlo took us back to the Île du Blanchomme on the night of the reunion with his dear friend -- '...when we entered Armand's room and I made sure that Catherine was no longer on the bed... but I still feared she was hiding under the bed, from where she would emerge naked, as soon as she realized that we weren't in danger.'

'I've missed you so much...' -- Armand whispered softly in my ear -- 'I like your shaved face...' -- I immediately separated from his embrace before it became another kiss, when I  finally realized Catherine was sitting on the railing in the veranda in front of Armand's room. She wore a white dress that lit up her whole figure under the moonlight, a yet more sophisticated creation by Yves Saint-Laurent, and that wasn't so completely misplaced in that little island because of the new clothes Armand was wearing; despite being crumpled from the trip, his clothes were of impeccable quality and cut. Armand and Catherine matched each other beautifully, I thought, as I made a grotesque contrast in my rags, my coarse skin and my peasant looks.

'I have... something... to tell you...' -- I didn't know whether to use adjectives like "serious" or "important" and warn Armand of what was to come -- 'We have a guest.' -- I said, simply. Perhaps my difficulty with the French language was revealed in those delicate moments when the subtlety in choosing the right words would have given the right tone to the message.

'A guest!' -- Armand was surprised -- 'We haven't yet opened our guesthouse and we have a guest, already!' -- contrary to what I had imagined, he seemed happy, even delighted, and not at all worried about this unexpected event. His generosity indeed welcomed and embraced everyone -- 'And where is he? How did he hear about us?'

'There is no he...' -- I interrupted him -- 'it's a she...' -- Armand's open attitude and interest did not change with this revelation -- 'I think she's right there on the veranda, waiting for us... She... learned it from other travelers who knew you...'

'Oh, that's wonderful!' -- Armand was happy to have returned, happy to have met me again, happy to have a surprise guest... I seemed unable to stop the escalation of his happiness, and I wondered how our kiss would have contributed to make him even more elated -- 'Such good auspices, to have a guest even before we open!' -- Armand was genuinely pleased with the news, but all his exuberance faded when he ran into Catherine -- 'What is she' -- he hissed it-- 'doing here?' -- he asked me in a low voice, having turned in my direction to hide a grimace of distaste.

'She? She is our guest!' -- I replied, shocked at the disgust he showed.

'This... woman...' -- his voice began to rise and tremble -- '...is not a guest!' -- I had never seen Armand so angry, nor being openly rude -- 'It cannot be!' -- he exclaimed, visibly annoyed -- 'What are you doing here?' -- he asked, in a tone much louder than normal, turning towards Catherine, no longer trying to hide his displeasure.

'Good night, Armand.' -- Catherine gave one of her artificial smiles, not the least empathetic, that actually spoiled her beauty, which had been so enhanced by the impeccable cut dress, elegant and sensual, dramatically illuminated by the moonlight and the lantern she had lit on the porch.

I shivered, and suddenly a thought crossed my mind... I thought I understood what was going on... all the time, Catherine had lied to me! Clearly, she and Armand knew each other, and by the apparent intimacy of their enmity, quite well. I searched my memory for the names of my friend's ex-girlfriends.

'You said you didn't know Armand!' -- my voice was shaky. I was astonished. One of Armand's ex-girlfriends, one of the turned down, neglected girls... and what a revenge she had prepared, going to bed with me... Dio mio! Although she could not have known Armand's feelings for me... Or had she? What was the name of Max's sister, the diplomat he had had a crush on? The way she had applied make-up and dressed, making herself just as elegant as my princely friend, making in fact a beautiful and sophisticated couple with him, as I stood there, the ragged peasant, to suddenly find myself excluded...

'I never said that!' -- Catherine replied -- 'I said I had never met him, not that I hadn't known him!' -- Catherine was keen to that accuracy with words; however, she found no counterpart in everyday life, and much less in me and my French that just sufficed. She said this without looking in my direction, haughtily holding Armand's look, who stared at her angrily.

'You're not welcome here!' -- I shivered as I heard the harsh words Armand directed to my... girlfriend?... lover?... and the future mother of my child.

'Oh, I know that, already!' -- Catherine laughed affectedly -- 'Your partner made ​​that very clear from the beginning!' -- she laughed again, while I froze and started trembling at that "partner" she had uttered -- 'It's a tradition of this island and hostel, I suppose, that guests are unwelcomed...' -- she added, wryly.

'Partner? Which partner?' -- and perhaps imagining a different connotation to the word, Armand glanced tenderly in my direction -- 'Carlo?...' -- and he pronounced my name with so much sweetness in his voice that Catherine was intrigued. She was even more surprised when my friend made a gesture of affection towards me, which I however dodged.

Dio mio! I would be the father to a son of an ex-girlfriend of Armand's... The blow that was about to be unleashed on my friend was even heavier than I had foreseen. And Catherine seemed to enjoy every second of her revenge, although she had not yet realized the true depth and nature of my relationship with Armand, I thought...

She had dressed for the occasion, and for the first time I saw her wearing makeup, looking even more beautiful, and cosmopolitan, sophisticated, wealthy -- typically, one of those Parisian women I had classified as unattainable, one of the heiresses to whom Armand had made the court. Dio mio, who is this woman?

'Didn't you say you were partners?' -- Catherine looked at me with anger, full of suspicion -- 'Aren't you... partners?' -- she confronted me, giving the word a different tone and meaning.

'Yes, of course we are!' -- Armand replied with a tender smile, imagining perhaps that I had confided her about the love that existed between him and me -- 'Although no one has to know about that in France...' -- Armand suddenly looked worried -- 'I forbid you to...'

'It's not what you're thinking, Catherine...' -- and when at the first mention of her name Armand did not react, I realized that at least she hadn't used a false name. But what was the name of that girl whom he had endured just because of the great library and readings with which she provided him? I was so nervous that my memory did not help me. Paris and the École seemed so far away from the Île du Blanchomme!

Catherine's inquiring, acute gaze flew back and forth between Armand and me, and I realized that she was beginning to understand the intensity of the connection I had with my friend, and even imagining beyond...

'You lied to me!' -- she accused me, and I gasped as I heard it.

'I... lied to you, Catherine?!' -- the nerve she had to state that I was the liar stunned me -- 'Wasn't you who spoke first about our "society"? And I wouldn't know how to describe any better my... relationship with Armand... we are like brothers, but we are not brothers, so...'

At that moment, Catherine seemed to be the most surprised of all of us!

'Then that's why you did not attend my mother's funeral!' -- Armand exclaimed suddenly, interrupting my explanation -- 'How long has she been here? What are you ultimately doing here?' -- Armand had directed the first question to me, and the second to Catherine, but I was worried about the indistinct harshness with which he had addressed us both.

'I came here to discuss business! I'm entitled to half of this island!' -- Catherine uttered, as she continued peering back and forth between Armand and me, for more clues about our relationship.

'Oh, so that's what you came for!?' -- Armand laughed -- 'You're crazy!' -- he shouted angrily -- 'I do not own this island. I do not own this house, I do not own anything! Therefore, you are entitled to half of nothing!'

On that instant, I realized that perhaps I hadn't understood everything that was happening -- or had happened -- between Armand and Catherine. Had Armand ever... married?

'Excuse me, Armand... I did not know she was a former girlfriend of yours...' -- I aimed at least on erasing a part of my guilt in the disaster that story seemed to lead to. It was not enough having betrayed my best friend, I was to be father to a son of an ex-girlfriend... or ex-wife... of his! An heiress, who had taken me for a wealthy heir myself... Dio mio!

'She is what?' -- my friend looked at me stunned -- 'Didn't you tell him?' -- Armand challenged Catherine -- 'Oh, of course not!' -- he exploded -- 'You have been continuously living in a lie... how could you not be a liar yourself...'

'I won't tolerate that from you!' -- Catherine cried, advancing towards Armand.

'What is going on here, anyway?' -- I asked with a shudder, and I had to talk louder to be heard in their quarrel.

For a moment they stood silent, staring at each other. And when Armand was about to speak,  without even looking at me, holding back Armand's enraged gaze, Catherine mouthed:

'He is my brother.'

'Armand is...?' -- tears filled my eyes when I finally caught a glimpse of the terrible truth.

'Half-brother!' -- Armand replied, stressing the "half" with a disdainful tone. And as I faced him absolutely shocked, he confirmed it -- 'This is my father's daughter with that... "actress".' -- and he made it sound like "whore" -- 'My half-sister.' -- he turned towards Catherine -- 'It seems that you lost your trip, darling!' -- I had never before heard Armand talk with that acid tone, full of irony -- 'This island does not belong to me, and you are not entitled to a half of it! But how did you know about this island, for God's sake?' -- he snorted -- 'Your mother, of course! It was that... woman... who sent you here, wasn't it? To spy on my life...'

'Your life?' -- Catherine reacted with greater disdain -- 'We don't care the least about your life! Although... it seems to be far more interesting than I had imagined, and full of dirty little secrets...'  -- Catherine glanced in my direction, and then at my groin -- 'or big and thick ones, haha! I think Gaston doesn't know about your... preferences, does he? Haha!' -- Catherine laughed with malice, patting Armand on the shoulder, who jumped back as if he'd been punched.

'Gaston?! You call him simply that, Gaston?!?' -- I knew Monsieur de Montbelle's name, but I had never heard Armand call his father that intimately nor so affectionately -- 'You have no right to intrude in my family's life like that!' -- Armand yelled. He sounded alarmed when he realized that Catherine had unveiled his secret in just a few minutes -- 'I forbid you to...'

'Stop bossing me!' -- Catherine interrupted him with a cry -- 'You think of yourself as superior, but let me tell you... in fact, you are not! What about your family life? It's over! Over, don't you realize it, along with your superiority! Haven't you noticed it yet?' -- Catherine was screaming, and her cries of rage echoed on the walls just like before her moans of pleasure had been amplified by the immense silence of the Île du Blanchomme -- 'With the death of that old owl...'

 'You have no right to call my mother...' -- Armand seemed to calm down, saddened upon recollecting his mother -- 'Please respect the memory of my mother.' -- he gently asked Catherine -- 'If you were not able to respect her during her life...'

'I'm sorry.' -- she replied, unwillingly -- 'You know...' -- Catherine's aggressiveness had not subsided -- '...your attitude will have to change! A new era begins! Now, we are the official family! Just like you were able to see for yourself, my mother was the woman next to your father at the funeral of...' -- Catherine paused -- 'oh, we have always called her... I don't even know the name of the deceased... she was simply "the old owl"!' -- Catherine laughed like a teenager -- 'Yes, your attitude will have to change...'

'Why?' -- Armand looked alarmed, yet he gave no indication on cooling that exchange of resentments -- 'I don't know of any intention from my father's in marrying your mother... nor taking on you...' -- Armand completed, with disdain.

That was Catherine's deepest wound, as I would later understand. The rejected child. The illegitimate daughter. That 'father unknown' on her birth certificate. Daughter to a missing father all throughout her life -- though Monsieur de Montbelle did attend her home, and had already turned ​​it into his primary address in Paris, he had never been present on official dates like Christmas or New Year's Eve, that he officially spent at the Chateau de Montbelle. Although she had Monsieur de Montbelle's affection, Catherine had never had his public recognition. Neither his surname.

'Oh, you still think you are superior to me... But you are no longer on top, darling!' -- Catherine moved swiftly in my direction -- 'Tell him who is on top, now...' -- I blushed as I heard her allusion to our sexual positions, while Catherine embraced me and kissed me lightly on the mouth.

I looked away, because I didn't want to see Armand's reaction to that kiss -- he was so shocked at the ease with which Catherine took possession of me, demonstrating our intimacy. And she had realized how devastated he was.

'Oh, it's so easy to destroy you now...' -- she laughed triumphantly, seeing Armand's suffering -- 'Easier than I had pictured before...' -- she laughed and kissed me again, this time a wet, passionate kiss like she didn't enjoy them to be, while caressing my body too intimately, at the oddity of the moment arousing that tingle in my groin -- 'Oh, you're getting excited, babe?' -- she teased me. I hadn't known Catherine could be so vulgar, nor so cruel, and I was ashamed to have stayed by her side in that discussion -- '...But right now I'm too tired for this... I just want to go back to sleep...' -- she faked a yawn.

Catherine turned away, freeing me from her embarrassing embrace. But to my understanding, she had walked in the wrong direction, back into Armand's room, toward his bed. I ran after her.

'Catherine! For Heaven's sake! This is Armand's room... Please!' -- and as she continued to challenge me, pretending not to hear me, I clarified -- 'We need to return the room to him, please!' -- And then I realized I had used the pronoun "we". On that instant,  I dared not look towards Armand, but I could see he was shaken by a tremor at the "we". He had begun to understand.

'Do you want us to leave this comfortable bed just because he came back?' -- Catherine replied -- 'Why would we do that?' -- and she stressed the "us" in each sentence, every time she pronounced it, echoing my own "we" -- 'We are two, and he is alone... He may well sleep in the room you have left vacant.' -- she pronounced the words carefully and clearly, especially the pronouns, and she spoke turning towards Armand, making sure that she was heard -- 'He said it himself that he doesn't own anything here!'

At that moment, I realized Armand was crying, and I ran up to him. He had remained motionless since the discussion with Catherine had ended.

'Armand...' -- I did not know what else to say. I think I still hadn't quite well understood the situation in which I had gotten myself into. That complex family situation, aggravated by our gentle loving relationship... Siblings!! -- 'Armand...' -- I repeated his name over and over again just like half an hour ago on the beach, invoking it as a powerful mantra that would rescue all our wonderful past and help alleviate the terrible, present darkness.

He remained silently crying.

'Armand...'

'Why?' -- he asked, not staring at me. And the question seemed not addressed at me, neither at Catherine nor at himself, nor anyone else.

'I think you have private things to talk to your... little buddy...' -- I heard Catherine talking at my back -- 'but don't you think that because of his return, you shall have a choice on which bed to sleep, babe, haha!' -- Catherine laughed again. She seemed to rejoice in humiliating Armand.

'Catherine!' -- I ran up to her -- 'Be quiet, for God's sake!' -- I begged.

'Quiet? I was quiet for a whole lifetime! Now it is his turn to be quiet! And listen as I speak! And it will be so, from now on, are you listening to me?' -- Catherine cried towards her brother, as if Armand was on the other side of the house, on the other side of the island, across the world, and not there, just outside his own room -- 'Now we will talk and you will just listen... Silently. And obey, too! Your family has ended, my darling... but mine, it restarts and continues here, renovated, stronger!' -- with a gesture that dismissed me, Catherine moved away towards the bathroom.

'Armand...' -- like the fool I actually was, I ran back to Armand's side, when I thought I heard him sobbing, and I could finally see why Catherine had spoken to him in screams. I had her same impression, that Armand was so distant.

Absent.

His eyes were hollow, and his body seemed to have less substance than a few minutes ago, and his presence was very faint, though he was inhaling my very outbreath, for we were that close. 

Yet, I could not hug him on that moment, so distant and untouchable he seemed to me. Pure by nature, more beautiful than ever, gracious as always -- and in contrast, I felt dirty, dark and nasty.

'Armand...' -- I could just moan and whimper while my friend walked away from me.

He walked slowly down the porch, towards that which had been my first room in the house. He walked quietly, still glancing at me, astonished, as if not recognizing me more anymore... 

Armand cried softly, quietly. Just like his sexual desire was discreet and without any eagerness, his grief too was subtle and calm. His countenance was placid, and if it had not been for his tears, I wouldn't have guessed his sorrow. Apparently, I was more desperate than he was.

If he had been incapable of grabbing me to make love to him, he showed himself incapable of accusing me of his immense unhappiness also, and simply took distance from me, silently crying, so diaphanous and delicate in his grieving.

'Armand...' -- I whispered one last time.

But instead of listening to my call, he seemed to hear the sea, towards which he turned his head, staring at it for a moment, with a gentle smile, wet with tears, and then he entered the room with the single bed that I had previously occupied.

I did not find the courage to go after him.

***************

But on that cold and lonely afternoon

Will you fade or will you bloom?

from the song   'lies, lies, lies'  by Mr. Perry Blake

***************

   NEXT  CHAPTER

chapter Eight, continued

to read from the FIRST CHAPTER

previous CHAPTER

EPISODE 16

There were too many things I did not know at the age of 24 -- and how to love was one of them.

But perhaps nothing I could have done would have changed the fact that I could not love Armand as he wanted and deserved to be loved. Nor Catherine.

Our choices are made in the dark, blindly, while either using reason or emotion. In retrospect, we can judge whether they were wise or disastrous, but still risking making misjudgements, because life is in constant movement and transformation, and so are the consequences of our choices. Maybe we get a glimpse of the whole picture before we die, but maybe we won't, ever.

For that which tormented me in my youth -- my desire, and the imperious need to satisfy it -- was also a source of insights.

I realized that to nestle Armand affectionately in my arms, I just had to open my heart, where he had always dwelled, and from there try to give him the love and tenderness he wished for.

With Catherine, it was almost the opposite -- because I wanted to have her in my arms, I was trying to open my heart to her encapsulated heart, ignoring her bad temper and arrogance, trying to circumvent the disdain and lack of interest she seemed to hold for me.

But that morning, when I saw her occupying one of the sun loungers on the stretch of the island that Armand and I had nicknamed "the tiny beach" -- though the entire island was a beach -- I did not feel any desire for her, even if she was almost naked, in her daring bikini. 

Probably because I had exhausted my lust during the evening, riding my fantasies high -- I had dreamed of Catherine, or at least the body that I held in my arms had her appearance, but it was strangely mingled with Armand's, whose presence seemed to emanate from her figure.

In the dream I kissed Catherine's little lips, the same lips which during the day I had devotedly watched, even when they were uttering harsh words against me, but in my reverie they were never contracted in disdain, because through her amber eyes there was Armand's gaze staring at me, and his loving expression softened Catherine's face. Kissing Catherine I felt I was at once kissing Armand, and as I mounted her delicate body, at the same time I penetrated deep into Armand's virility.

'And as if my long and repeated masturbation sessions hadn't been enough, I had a wet dream...' -- Carlo suddenly left the Île du Blanchomme and, for a brief moment, again met me at Nirvana Lounge in Vice City  -- 'Please pardon me for the inconvenient details, Laurent...' -- he apologized for the sake of being polite with me, not because he actually was embarrassed -- 'This impetuous young man I'm telling you about was not yet your father, even though you had already announced yourself to me, and that young woman was not yet your mother, but a Parisian intellectual taking vacations on the Indian Ocean.'

I confess I was impressed at how Carlo could speak of himself with such detachment and sincerity, telling me intimate details about himself -- it must have been like that with any other boy, but I had never imagined my father jerking off --, at once recognizing his own faults with a compassive look... Meditation had beared its fruits on him already. And he was talking about Catherine in a dimension that I had never imagined it could exist, yet carefully preserving the image of my mother. I was fascinated.

'But in reality it was not so simple, Laurent.' -- Carlo sighed -- 'For my desire demanded an actual satisfaction that was happening just in dreams. In reality, there was no Armand to drop a loving veil of softness over Catherine's presence and make her adorable and friendly... I was increasingly aware that I'd have to soften her myself.'

Maybe again my lust was the reason why I disturbed her that morning, when I saw her sitting on the lounge chair for so long, motionlessly sunbathing. I was afraid that she had fallen asleep and lost track of time -- in my opinion, she had already spent too much time out under the sun, so that I interrupted my work in the garden and went after her.

'Thank you. But I think I can handle myself.' -- she replied at my concerns -- 'When I feel the sun is too strong, I'll move under the shade of the palm trees.'

I wanted to tell her that perhaps the shade of the palm trees was not such an effective protection, because the wind was stirring the leaves continually, but I was afraid to contradict her. I wasn't a native, but being a peasant I responded to nature intuitively, wherever I was, in a very direct way, unlike Catherine or Armand, so set in their sophisticated urbanity.

'Maybe you should drink water once in a while...' -- I suggested. I saw myself trying to be nice... but at the same time checking her entire body, taking in all details as if I was going to paint it later. And the idea sounded perfect to me... maybe I should invite her to pose... and the craziest thought crossed my mind... I felt guilty for never having portraited Armand! There were all these things I'd have to make up for him.

'Will you bring water to me?' -- she tried to put on a friendly smile. I saw she had very light, thin hair on her forearms, thighs and upper lip, all covered with barely perceptible drops of sweat, pretty like precious pearls to my hungry eyes.

'Sure. I'll get water for myself...' -- it was a lie, because whenever I came down to work in the garden I'd bring my water canteen with me, to have not to go upstairs again -- '...and I can bring it to you, too.'

'Oh, thank you...' -- and I realized that perhaps those smiles I had classified as artificial in Catherine, that seemed to pretend empathy, were the only smiles she had, and that was probably the most sincere empathy she could actually feel and demonstrate. And for the first time, she transposed the abyss and touched me, resting the tip of two fingers on my forearm, very lightly but enough to send shivers all over my body, and automatically starting an erection that I tried to hide with my shirt -- 'Thank you...' -- she pulled her fingers to make a gesture that, although so small and delicate... and Catherine had sometimes gestures as beautiful and delicate as I imagined would come from a geisha, when her hands became like two little birds in love with the air around them... lifting her two hands open in the air, palms up, in a lovely gesture that seemed to encompass the whole landscape -- '...thank you for everything!'

And I was touched at her thanking me, and I had been touched -- both my heart and body were joyful at once, the blood now equally distributed between my organs, haha.

I hastily climbed the stairs, running for a jar of water to bring Catherine! I was so happy! That brief and slight touch of her fingers on my arm gave me the chills, and only because of my experience with Armand could I now recognize their nature... sexual... loving -- that discomfort and tension between the girl and me, I now knew what it was.

I recalled Armand with a certain guilt -- what could have been and what we could have had -- but also with happiness, because I had learned so many things with him, and even those most intimate. Although he was only three years older than me, he had experienced the world like I never had, and so I  had made him my master. 

He was present in my mind almost all the time on that initial stage of my budding love for Catherine -- as I was about to forget him completely.

Should I have helped Catherine, instead of thinking only of myself?

When I brought her the water, she wanted to know more about Armand's paintings she had seen scattered around the house.

'There's a portrait of you... on the beach... which is very... realistic' -- and she paused before praising any further -- 'and very beautiful...' -- the model or the painting?, I thought -- 'Have you learned how to paint from Armand?'

I blushed when I told Catherine that the paintings she had seen were all mine, because she seemed so impressed and delighted -- 'How can you have painted your own torso... with all those details on the muscles?'  -- she asked, eager to learn more about our time at the École, curious to know more about my training and Armand's, that she imagined to be a painter, too.

'An architect, is he?' -- she was so impressed and interested that I felt a bit jealous.

I took her to my easel, placed on a corner at the beach, to show her the last canvas I had worked on -- and it was the first time we actually connected, talking about Art.

'You're Italian, right?' -- she asked at one point. When I was thrilled I'd gesticulate too much, even if Armand had recommended me to restrain at least in formal situations, though he himself loved to watch my hands moving like crazy; it always brought him a smile. And my accent manifested also more strongly -- 'Your French is excellent, better than any other Italian I've met!' -- Catherine looked adorable when she complimented me -- 'I knew you were Italian by your... nose.' -- she seemed embarrassed when she said this -- 'It is classical. All Roman sculptures seem to have it... And when you think it is idealized, you find someone to prove that it actually existed... and it still does... Do you have some kinship to those Roman nobles and generals, who nowadays inhabit the museums?'

I realized she was trying to compliment me, and again I blushed. 

Even I could feel the effects of the sun, during that long conversation. And it was only because I started to sweat a lot and I was afraid to stink in Catherine's presence, that I ended our wonderful debate. 

Art had always brought the best things in my life, I thought, like going to live in Paris and studying at the École, and my friendship with Armand... and now that proximity with Catherine.

'Would you mind if I stayed a little longer here on the beach?' -- she replied when I said I was going to fix lunch for us -- 'I could not possibly help you in any way, and maybe even get in your way.' -- she laughed. It was heaven if we would only get along that well during the length of her stay.

I think Catherine always imagined that cooking was reproducing to perfection the meals from the sophisticated Parisian restaurants that she was used to. She never guessed that even simply peeling a potato would be of great help -- nor she ever tried to.

'Perhaps you should bathe in the sea for a while...' -- I hadn't seen her go into the water yet, and as much as I felt obliged to advise her, I feared losing the present harmony of our conversation -- 'and then maybe... move to the shade... The sun is very hot...'

'Thank you for caring' -- my concern seemed to annoy her more than to please her -- 'but I hate the sea... The color is beautiful, ok... But why did it have to be so salty?' -- she laughed and walked away towards the lounger. 

She looked even more beautiful when she was in a good and light mood, so attractive -- and once she was happier and made prettier, my excitement had no shame nor anything that could decrease it. I felt my raging hard-on about to rip my worn shorts, and I was glad to retreat upstairs.

I tried preparing a rather simple and fresh lunch, again thinking on my grandfather's sensible recipes, and trying to add a touch of elegance and daring with Armand's spices.

It mustn't have been that bad, for Catherine ate as much as she could. She had an amazing appetite for a such a petite girl -- and I wondered if she had caught a worm that she was also feeding in her stomach, haha... At least some kind of food poisoning she must have had, because despite having thanked me and discreetly praised my lunch, she was again to vomit in the afternoon.

Though I thought we were having another remarkable conversation, for like Armand and me she had also been an habitué at the Cinématèque Française and we shared impressions about many movies, after a while she seemed to have stopped listening to me. She seemed to be shivering, and I started getting really worried, remembering my own illness, that had interrupted my self-imposed exile in the old factory and made ​​me face the world again... And hadn't I just then found a letter from Armand in the mail... And because I had to go to the hospital was I now living on the Île du Blanchomme... Maybe I should thank the rats and rusty cans for my present good fortune? Had they led me to the lovely young woman before me? A sickness was a blessing in disguise?, I wondered.

I had had a good intuition the other night when I thought Catherine had been suffering from sunstroke. But my intuitions were to no avail when she began to actually feel ill.

During lunch I noticed how she had turned red from all those hours under the sun, and I realized that she was getting sick, though trying to keep her pretentiously (or truly), friendly smile, listening with polite interest while I was discoursing passionately about... Art, of course.

'Are you feeling ill?' -- I finally asked, when I thought she might fall from the chair at any moment, from shivering so much. How could she have been cold under that tropical sun?

That question was the sign for her to get up and run to the bathroom... that she did not reach in time, puking on the veranda in front of Armand's room... She then moved on to the toilet, where again I heard her vomit.

I did not wish to interrupt Carlo's narrative, but I had been guessing something for some time now, and it was making ​​me suffer.

'Was my mother bulimic, Carlo?' -- this was a night of revelations for me, old lies were falling down defeated, and perhaps Catherine's diet, that had kept her with a flawless body at 58 years old, had a different, more sinister nature.

'Oh no!' -- Carlo gave a short laugh, since laughing was not very appropriate at that stage in the story -- 'That's a disturb no one talked about, back then... Your mother has always had a very delicate constitution. She was thoroughly urban, and life in that tropical part of the world... the food, the water, the sun, the temperature, the insects, the boats, the tides, the moon... and even I...' -- Carlo smiled sadly -- 'everything harmed her health.'

'I was monitoring her from outside the room, listening to her crying after she had stopped vomiting...' -- my worries dismissed, we drifted back to the Île du Blanchomme -- 'And since after some time she hadn't come out of the bathroom, and everything was so quiet, I decided to check how she was...'

I found her lying unconscious on the bathroom floor, next to the toilet. She was soaked in her vomit, and when I tried to clean it from her, I noticed how she shivered at the touch of a cloth dipped in cold water -- and if I had been still thinking of food poisoning, from that moment on I was convinced of a heatstroke.

But I had never taken care of anyone sick before. My grandfather had never been sick, apart from an occasional flu -- he used to say himself that he would die healthy. As for Armand, I had accompanied him once to a private clinic of a friend of his father, some famous doctor, where he was treated for an inflammation in the lungs.

I was nearly desperate as I tried to recall what cares I had received at the hospital, and that was when I remembered a first aids book and a box of medicines that Armand had shown me in his office. It was the one room in the house that I rarely entered, and only then did I realize that Catherine had been there already, leaving her notebooks, pens and two novels on my friend's desk.

There was a manual on tropical diseases provided by the Colonial government, dating from Herr Weissmann's time, but I figured that orientations on how to treat heatstroke should not have changed with the decades....

Removing Catherine from the bathroom was my first problem -- when I tried to lift her, she cried in pain. I felt like I was violating her when I nevertheless lifted her in my arms and carried her to bed, despite her painful groans. I felt genuine tenderness with her in my arms, like I had never felt before. Despite her smelling to vomit and the sweat on her skin, I wanted to keep on holding her in my arms. But it was the wrong moment for romantic impulses, I knew -- I had to read the manual, my only advisor in that situation.

Her skin was almost purple and she was sweating profusely -- which was a good sign according to the manual, because it meant her sweating had not been affected -- but what worried me were the chills that made her squirm, and her state of consciousness, semi-consciousness or unconsciousness, that I could not quite determine. According to the manual, if the person presented an altered state of consciousness, she should be taken urgently to the hospital... that lied nine hours away at least, had the boat been there.

I tried not to panic.

One of the recommendations was placing the affected person in a cold bath -- but I had just brought her from the bathroom, and I thought it would be cruel to move her again. I then adopted the second best recommended method, which was to put cool, wet rags on her skin, at the back of her neck, on her groin, and her armpits. And I was supposed to mist and fan her to promote evaporative cooling.

 I moved between the bathroom sink and Armand's bed, drenching the floor along the way and also the mattress, while trying to cool Catherine's body. She struggled, and no matter how gently I placed a wet cloth on her skin, it seemed to cause her an unbearable pain and shock. I also gave her water to sip slowly, to counteract dehydration. And I started watching for the girl in her delirious state.

One of the recommended procedures, however, troubled me -- it was removing the clothes of the person with heatstroke, to help in the cooling process. I decided I would not do that, because no matter how much panic I felt in that situation, another part of me still watched Catherine's exposed breasts, my gaze falling repeatedly over the bikini tan lines on her burned skin... Although there was nothing sensual about the situation, yet one continuous tingle seemed to live in my groin.

But night was falling, and Catherine still struggled in her delirious state, not showing much improvement in her condition, and it seemed to me she was somehow trying to get rid of the clothes herself... So I decided to help her... Promising myself to behave like a monk, I undressed her... She had taken her bikini off before having lunch, and I found her completely naked under her fancy and now stained dress...

It crossed my mind how a sick person is helplessly weakened, totally dependent and not able to defend oneself, and how in this situation someone with bad intentions can take advantage and abuse... Suddenly, I felt that at that exact moment the sick and helpless people were being abused, so many of them at that very moment... at this very moment, for it is happening now, do you realize it, Laurent? all around the world... as I watched Cathrine's beautiful naked body, bare before my eyes for the first time -- at the same time that I was filled with compassion for the sick, I felt those demanding sensations in my groin...

'What is it Laurent? Why are you crying?' -- Carlo interrupted the story.

Those were tears I could not restrain nor explain, and I had been glad that my father was so engrossed in his story, imagining that he would not notice.

'It's nothing... It's just that... thinking about my mom so sick and in pain, and seeing you so lost and unprepared...' -- and while that actually sensitized me, there was something worse... a thought had entered my mind crawling from my darkest fears... it invaded me... the awful truth that my parents had hidden from me... -- 'You were both so young...' -- I could see Carlo... taking advantage of Catherine, and I had been born... from an abuse! That would explain so many things in my life... my karma...

'That was just a training...' -- Carlo smiled tenderly, and in an instant his sincere sweetness liberated me from my fears -- '...for the times when you got sick, my son... Caring for an adult is complicated, but caring for a sick baby, a baby crying in pain...' -- Carlo was sad again -- '... it's heartbreaking! Please do not cry, Laurent, or I'll cry too!'

'Carlo, please continue...' -- I requested, wiping my tears away. Catherine had never mentioned that episode, nor any other story about the Île du Blanchomme. Would it have been to protect me, or actually to protect themselves... that they had lied to me?

'I remember that I began to pray for Catherine...' -- Carlo recalled --, 'for all beings, and for myself, to get rid of my own fear, my lust, the confusion in my heart, mind and groin...'

May all sentient beings have happiness and its causes, 

May all sentient beings be free of suffering and its causes, 

May all sentient beings never be separated from bliss without suffering, 

May all sentient beings be in equanimity, free of bias, attachment and anger.

And my desire, so inconvenient and imperious, that had invaded me even in such a delicate situation... You know Laurent, we cannot judge and classify things as plainly good or bad, and always in the same category in all situations... Because I could not bear looking at Catherine's naked body, for it seemed I disrespected her with my eager eyes, I decided to cover her whole body with a wet sheet... It was what seemed to finally relieve her, promoting her evaporative cooling, as I had read in the manual, and she fell asleep.

She slept for many hours, while I reapplied the wet sheet over her body. Once she turned her back to me, and even though trying not to gaze at her naked buttocks, I was able to get her back wet, too...

I also washed her beautiful dress that was stained and smelling to vomit -- Yves Saint-Laurent, have you heard of him? -- she had asked me. But even if I had never heard of that couturier nor any one else, I could notice the outstanding quality of the piece, and I washed that fine dress very carefully, as if washing the adored young woman herself...

I had already cleaned the vomit away from the veranda and the bathroom, but it was washing her lavish dress that I saw myself finally somewhat turning into a guesthouse employee... happily serving and taking care of the young woman.

I had to be room service for Catherine as well, as I'd spend many days and nights caring for her. I lived long days of tension and uncertainty, since I was not sure about providing her the proper treatment. But her condition seemed to gradually improve.

When she finally overcame the heatstroke, her skin was still in a horrible condition, and I started to care for it, never forgetting to keep her from dehydrating. 

I still remember when Catherine finally came out of unconsciousness. She suddenly opened her eyes, and when she saw me and realized the whole situation, she wept silently. Then she tried to rise from her bed and howled in pain, nearly losing consciousness again... The look of anguish in her eyes was that from a person who, being independent and self-assured, suddenly saw herself fragile, helpless and submissive, and whom, usually superior and arrogant, felt humiliated to have urinated in the sheets.

'Don't you worry' -- I said, gently -- 'I'll take good care of you.'

It was embarrassing to touch Catherine... so intimately between her thighs... for the first time... not as a man but as a nurse... She cried when she forced herself to get up to go to the bathroom, and again when we decided together that she could not do it, even with my aid -- she cried when she had to ask me to put a glass between her legs so she could pee without getting out of bed, and that I cleansed her after that.

Another recommendation in the manual was to apply moisturizer, and despite having remembered that coconut lotion given by the natives to Armand, who actually had wanted to apply it on me, I delayed taking that step for not wanting to touch Catherine without her consent... but as she could not bend over nor stretch her body without feeling too much pain, she asked me to apply the lotion on her body.

She noticed my embarrassment before her nakedness -- and so much greater than her own embarrassment it was, that it actually reassured her, and she started feeling safe under my hands. According to Catherine's own words a few years later, she was able to see in my eyes and gestures how very pure I was -- and a virgin, too, she had identified.

'You're doing well, merci.' -- she encouraged me, as I ineptly but gently moved my hands on her body, my peasant hands that the work in the island's garden had made even more rough, in contrast to her delicate skin.

I ran my fingers over her body with great care -- and delight, too. 

"Oui, c'est bon...' -- and her voice trembled as she tried to encourage me. I noticed her smooth skin aroused by goose bumps, the fine golden hair on her thighs and forearms still erect after my fingers had rubbed them, but I did not know whether she was reacting to my touch or to the temperature of the cool lotion in contrast to her warm skin.

I tried to control myself when I was with her, but sometimes when I went to the kitchen, I gave in to my desire. When I would leave our massage sessions, my shorts would be dripping pre-cum, and I masturbated wildly on the farthest corner of the veranda, closing my eyes to be filled with all the lovely details from her body, visual and now tactile as well, telling myself that this relief would help me avoid embarrassing erections in her presence, when my main concern should be to help relieve her pain with those same hands I used to satisfy myself.

When she slept, basically I took care of the garden, which depended on me as much as the young woman did. But for many days I did not work. I dedicated myself to Catherine, only. I slept on the floor of Armand's bedroom, on the carpet at the foot of the bed where she rested, or sometimes when it was too hot, in the veranda.

It was also on the veranda in front of her room that I took my meals, and I resumed my meditation sessions right there on the carpet next to her bed. For many days I didn't paint because the easel on the beach was too far away from the room, and I didn't want to risk not listening when she called me, and I thought it not worthwhile bringing my easel upstairs. And I didn't paint the walls because the smell of the paint made her sick, even more than the coconut smell of the moisturizing lotion -- and of course, I did not want to have that stink of paint on my hands, risking she would ask me to stop rubbing her just because of their smell.

I felt that between Catherine and me there was an increase in that same tension that I could recognize from the first few days spent with Armand on the island -- and that had diminished only with his coming out, when the sincerity of our friendship had been reestablished, even to a greater level.

But with Catherine my tension was higher, because I feared that at her condition having ​​improved she might decide to leave the island... The boat would be arriving any day now, and my tension grew at each new dawn. That boat seemed to come to end cycles, and none of them lasted more than a week -- Armand's permanence on the island, and Catherine's too. I felt sad -- no longer did I want to be left alone, not again. And I thought that maybe my distress now was equivalent only to Armand's anguish, who had hopes and expectations until the very morning he had left. 

But now it was me in his role, desiring Catherine and watching the days go by without any realization; emptiness and despair growing in me.

Her health was clearly improving, and though she still complained from pain and her skin was far from their normal, delicate appearance and texture, I felt guilt when I did not celebrate the fact that Catherine was again able to stand up and once a day walk to the bathroom, and I no longer had to put the bowl between her thighs. Though we did not have to go through that embarrassing moment any more, I have to confess I felt disheartened at her progresses.

One afternoon, we heard an engine's noise approaching the island.

'Is it the boat?' -- she asked, rising slightly from the bed, where she had been resting.

'I think so...' -- I had also heard it, but hadn't mentioned in case it went unnoticed for her -- 'But I think you are not in conditions to leave...' -- I know, what an irony, thinking that previously I had wanted to throw her out of the island, and I smiled internally -- 'Unless you think you should go to a hospital...' -- I had to suggest it, against my will, but thinking it was the right thing to say. 

'I don't think I could get on that boat...' -- she smiled, with a grimace. She still felt very sick and was often nauseated without having nearly eaten -- 'Can you host me for another week here?' -- and she was suddenly worried -- 'Do you think the natives will come for us? Why are they making so much noise?'

'No, they won't. They usually make noise. They must be delivering more provisions, or whatever Armand has ordered.'

'Won't you go down to the beach to check?' -- she bear an ironic smile -- 'Will you be hiding here, like on that afternoon when I arrived?' -- she asked, humorously blinking at me -- 'And what if new guests have arrived?' -- she laughed.

'One more reason to stay hidden...' -- I was delighted with her ​​laughter, the first I heard since her arrival -- '...here with you.'

And that's how Catherine was to stay on the Île du Blanchomme for more than a week.

NEXT   CHAPTER