Episode 19.II | The forest monks

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nudity

* for the Buddhist terms used in this episode, there is a small glossary at the end

I ran after the rays of the setting sun, that warmed and blinded me.

At my ex-uncle Armand suggestion, I had changed into warmer clothes, picking a sexy Moncler long sleeved, second skin shirt that I had initially reserved for my return to civilization, for my nights out in Stockholm, since it delineated my muscles in a very generous way. But now I wanted to look good for Armand, more than to any anonymous Swedish guy I'd meet later.

Instead of waiting outside my hut, he had walked on his own towards the rocky point where we would watch the sun set. I had seen him start on the path of the setting sun on a deliberately slow walk, probably doing walking meditation.

As much as he wanted to give me time on my own, he probably needed it, too. But while changing -- into pants that did not leave any doubts that I had powerful thighs --, I could only feel the escalating excitement of being the lost heir of a Russian dynasty, that hadn't ended with Prince Aleksander Rostoff after all. Later I'd think more about that, probably try to get a signal for my mobile and call Catherine in  ST. Petersburg at once -- and somehow celebrate.

I was aware Armand did not have much to celebrate, though. Except, perhaps, having survived my father and mother's betrayal, and his father and Celeste Mortinné's campaign against him. Armand had been too kind as to share all the ghosts in his life to simply justify why he was not my uncle.

I observed Armand's beautiful posture, as I approached him on the shore. He stood very straight without looking rigid, as if an invisible string was pulling the top of his head and sustaining him in the sky. He wasn't a tall or strong man -- and for a moment, I was ashamed to think how perfectly he would fit into my father's arms, or mine --, but he seemed to tower above all things. Slim as he was, he looked powerful. He was presence and center, and somehow all the beauty of sky and sea all around us seemed to emanate from him.

"So, what is it that you wanted to ask me, Laurent?" He asked softly.

I had expected we would watch the sun set in silence, as some sort of meditative exercise, like he had often done with my father on the Île du Blanchomme. But probably I was all on my own on the imaginary Île of their past, while Armand dwelled in the present.

"I'd love to hear about your experience as a monk." I said. I wanted badly to inquire about the Rostoff family -- that was now my own -- and about the dossier itself. And about Monsieur de Montbelle, guessing it might have been the last time Armand must have seen his father alive. Instead, I decided to spare my ex-uncle the prolonged torture, giving him the chance to share about a time that he reputed as one of the best in his life (I had read it in one of his rare interviews that versed on personal matters too).

"Really?" He gasped. Though Armand de Montbelle -- having won the Pritzker Prize like he had, the most important and prestigious any architect could wish for -- was not an insecure man, he seemed to doubt anyone could be interested in his personal life and not just his work and career, that had shaped and changed the world for better. "Why?" He asked, genuinely curious.

"I have thought of becoming a monk myself." I said. It was almost true. Having in my childhood learned meditation from my father -- who had learned it from Armand, I loved to recall that detail --, at least the basics, I had picked it again after Angelo dumped me. Having then spent some nurturing weeks in a Zen Buddhist monastery in France, I had almost considered becoming a monk -- almost. And now again, after my disastrous, frustrating conversation with Fabrizio, I had resumed meditating. So it was almost true.

"Really?" As Armand eyed me from head to feet, I had to wonder what he was seeing. Did he recognize my father -- once his sweetheart -- in me, putting his image upon mine every time he looked at me, I wondered. Though appreciative, his kind half smile did not reveal what he thought about me. Maybe, with my muscles and good looks, my physique du rôle was more adequate for a porn movie monk than a real life one?

*****

Having been with the forest monks in Thailand a little over a year before his return to become a monk himself, Armand was surprised to find they had been recently displaced, once more. The forest where he first met them had been cut down, the noble wood sold for furniture companies in Europe. Lifeless, ordained rows of eucalyptus grew instead in the grove where they had once practiced.

Happy to see a foreigner wishing to take the path of the Buddha, villagers indicated and even led the way to the monk's new dwelling. Armand followed uphill, until the source of a stream of limpid water -- that had already weakened but not yet totally dried --, to find the bikkhus had taken higher ground, in a forest that was less lush and shaded than that they were used to having for a canopy to embrace their practice. But they were not complaining. They would never protest, and instead see the teachings in each misfortune, that they did not even judged to be harmful or unwelcome.

With their own meager means and high skills, as an offer and honor, the villagers were still building huts to shelter the monastic community in the new location. Since not even the monks were quite settled in yet, Armand realized he would have to look for temporary accommodations until he could properly join them -- probably for the Rains Season, when more monks would come, and several laymen temporarily ordained. 

Armand knew just the place. 

A local entrepreneur had the lovely idea to build a restaurant as a floating house over a lake. After erecting the whole structure in wood, he realized to have no idea on how to bring electricity to the building. Back in the 1970s, electricity was reputed as a great attraction, since some villages around still did not have it, and especially for foreigners -- who had then just started exploring that part of the country --, used to those comforts back home. Armand was among the first foreigners in the region, then, on his first visit to the forest monks, and had been invited to help the amateur builder in finding a solution. 

More than difficulties with idiom, they diverged in opinions and aims until Armand realized what his true -- and very humble, very limited -- role was. The architect in him wanted to consider security as a priority, without overlooking aesthetics, while his improbable, improvised and very practical client thought only of the costs. But even before they implemented a compromising solution, the man's 3 years old boy fell into the lake, while his father worked, and drowned. 

The restaurant was abandoned forever.

Or at least until Armand proposed to rent it for the entire dry season of 1975, by the end of which, with the arrival of continued rains, he expected to be a proper novice living with his monastic brothers in the forest.

Like on the Île du Blanchomme before, he had unexpected trouble finding workers who would help him with the property -- despite it being a valley of poor people, with few working alternatives but agriculture. Everyday, families would say goodbye to their youngsters, who left for the metropolitan centers in search of jobs and education. Despite his generous money offer, and being genuinely happy that Armand wanted to become a monastic -- a few even offered him shelter in their own homes --, they would not work for him in the abandoned restaurant. Like the Île, it was believed to be haunted, or at least a place of bad omens. 

But he did not need many men, nor for long, since his project to make the restaurant livable was simple and did not include electricity nor running water -- and in a couple of weeks, after three different teams of scared workers had abandoned the site even if he paid overly well, the place was made adequate for his bare needs. 

Leaving the room he had rented, Armand happily moved into the floating restaurant.

Instead of having built the missing walls, he placed light canvases on all side of the building. In less than 24 hours, he discovered none of them had been properly fixed to the wooden columns, all flapping to the wind like curtains. Though the noise was a bit annoying, when he looked around from the center of the big wooden square platform placed in the middle of the lake, he realized the privilege of having the neighboring groves only as walls, and no roof but the beams over his head. His sight wandered over the gleaming water -- so crystalline he could spot the fishes swimming in the lake -- without meeting any fixed limits at the margins, since bushes and trees swayed in the constant breeze, making inconstant walls. Everyday, new flowers blooming on the trees and bushes attracted his eyes with their bright reds and yellows and oranges, vivid like the perfume they emitted to attract the insects, making his nostrils tremble in the same process. Sometimes, he thought he could even perceive the growth of the plants around, and almost hear the sap running in them. Daily above him it were vast blue skies, crowded with stars in the evenings. The sensation of freedom he had once experienced on the Île du Blanchomme again returned to nurture him.

Yet, privacy was melancholically guaranteed by the wandering soul of the poor drowned boy. In the days to come, Armand would find a small altar with food, water and other offerings placed on the most remote corner of the lake -- that was as far as the villagers would approach the haunted property. 

He started thinking of the refurbished, floating restaurant as his private, wall-less monastery where, except for the insistent mosquitoes tormenting trying to feast on him, he greatly enjoyed living in solitude and the gentle, wide embrace of the natural elements. 

*****

One particularly warm and humid night, Armand woke up to an explosion of light. He had been dreaming of shooting stars, and for a moment, thought one had touched his heart. Instead, yet not less poetic, what had startled him was a firefly, landed inches away from his face, where it stood shining its emerald green light. On and off, on and off, to the beating of Armand's heart. 

His watch indicated a quarter before 4 AM. 

Determined to join the Sangha in the forest at once, he walked for some 40 minutes until spotting the warm, flickering light of a fire that led him to the group of monastics, quietly sitting in the coolest corner of the forested hill. It was about 4:30 in the morning, but the monks seemed immersed in deep meditation already. Armand, realizing to be late on his first day, approached carefully.

Doubting he might have recognized some of the faces in the semi darkness -- heads and eyebrows shaved, eyes closed, their faces displaying various shades of concentration and contentment, but floating equally neutral above the brown robes --, he did notice the former master to be gone, either dead or designated to a new monastery. The new teacher sitting at his place was much younger -- and that might explain why the Sangha was considerably smaller than previously, its members much younger, too. 

Armand took seat in the periphery of the monastic group, a great distance separating him from the new master, who sat on a stone embraced by the thick aerial roots of a pair of giant banyan trees that leaned against one another. Armand had chosen a gentle slope where he wouldn't go unnoticed by the bikkhus -- not in his brand new, clean and shiny white vests of aspirant. At first he chose an open spot to be enveloped by the gentle, redeeming breeze, for he had already begun to sweat and smell, but soon felt concerned to have chosen ground higher than that were the master sat, which was considered an unforgivable offense. He thus moved to the bottom of the slope, where it seemed impossibly humid but adequate for a beginner like him -- a rather tactful move, for he was to find the younger teacher to be a whole more traditional, and very reluctant to accept a foreigner in the group.

Once he established his attention and then concentrated on the rise and fall of his abdomen, following the air in and out of his nostrils, Armand knew he could go on in the sitting position for hours, undisturbed -- proudly determined as he was to show them his commitment to the practice.

More than the heat and humidity, it was the night noises that annoyed him at first. Mysterious shrieks in the form of urgent calls echoed in the dark, and he could not guess if they came from birds in their nests or whatever sort of animals occupying the nearby caves. He could hear movement on the branches above him, near and far, and steps on the rug of fallen leaves all around him. Night birds flew about, some of them dangerously close to his head. He realized they were bats. He worried of smelling differently from the other monks, and to shine more than any other in his white robe -- and therefore attract animals that were otherwise accustomed to the group. Aware monkeys could be quite nasty and even aggressive sometimes, it was not of giant snakes and felines he was afraid of, but the hairy spiders, and treacherous scorpions. Even so, without ever opening his eyes to try to identify the source of the noises, he observed his fears rise and fall like his own belly with the breath, without judging them silly, disproportionate or even real. And as his concentration grew, he saw them dissipate and gradually disappear, grown weaker each time they tried to assault him.

Armand did not open his eyes nor move when the bell rang short after the sunrise, signaling the sitting was over. Hoping the monks, who slowly and almost inaudibly rose to their feet, would see it, he shone a smile on his face to indicate he was not asleep, but rather awake. He knew they were about to go on pindabat -- the alms round -- but wasn't sure he would be allowed to go with them, not under this new master. Being quite full from several days of cooking his own healthy food, he decided to skip all morning activities and instead endure the sitting position, until the monks would return for a second session. 

Maybe later that same week he could help with building the huts -- he heard noises of construction all through the morning --, but firstly he wanted to establish and demonstrate the quality of his sitting.

And that's what he did, for days. He just sat and sat, each time trying to find a spot closer to the monastic group, which he did not try to contact. Nor did they ever try to contact him. In silence, he demonstrated his respect to the practice, the honesty of his intentions. And he thought they seemed to accept it -- he hoped.

For there was the barrier of language. Apart from daily greeting a few familiar villagers on his way to the meditation grove, openly smiling and being shyly smiled at in return, Armand spent his days in complete silence. He eagerly joined the monastic community in the chanting and other recitations, for he knew many verses by heart -- though not necessarily their meaning. He could even recognize a few terms from the suttas, but when it came to the teachings, given in Thai, it couldn't have been more frustrating. Apart from a few words in Pali, the simplest, he understood absolutely nothing. During the sermons, he could feel the master's reluctance growing almost solidly into despise -- or was it Armand's own reluctance growing into despair?

Armand had heard from a monk that the Dhamma -- the teachings of the Buddha -- was like rain. One would profit from it even when one did not quite understand it. The rain was not just for washing the leaves, or moistening and softening the superficial grounds. The teachings, like the rain, would naturally sink into the soil of his mind, reaching the deepest roots and seeds in his consciousness, without him doing nothing but willingly accepting and allowing it to happen. Still, it was too frustrating to just sit there, like an empty vessel, listening to word after word without them meaning anything to him.

He fell asleep during one of those sermons. 

The previous night had been particularly tormented. After a period of relative peace with himself and the world, busying himself with remodeling the restaurant, lately he had started recalling Carlo. And Catherine. During the meditation session he did on his own, just before going to bed at home, they had sprung into his mind -- not as individuals, but more painfully, as a couple. He tried to get rid of his recollections of them -- but the more he fought his memories, and the sufferings past, the more they gave way to fantasies of the present. He saw them together, in each other's arms, and though he did not wish them any harm -- on the contrary, tried to wish them all the best --, their happiness harmed him, excluding his own.

That evening, he gave up the meditative battle against the lovers, and leaving his position on the cushion placed before the small altar, around which all other pieces of furniture seemed unimportant, he tried to slip into the oblivion of sleep instead. But on the bed it seemed even worse than the meditation cushion -- for it was the lover's place par excellence. Not until he moved on to the hammock, that was less comfortable and probably much warmer, but that he found empty of ghosts, did he meet some and little sleep.

Armand was ashamed to startle to his own snore, and regain conscience that the teacher was still giving the sermon. Shame was good, though, as he again felt alert -- but not for long, and he dozed back into sleep to be woken later by the bell, when all the other monks but him rose to their feet and bowed before the teachers -- the present master, and the Buddha, and the string of teachers connecting past and present -- to thank for the precious teachings that remained mysterious to him.

Feeling defeated, Armand gave it up for the rest of the day, and made his way home, very slowly, feeling Carlo and Catherine's ghosts would be there to greet him. Instead of shooing them, his only chance lied in making peace with them, letting them be, and making peace with his own suffering. That he knew. For, unlike the drowned, local boy who was believed to haunt the lake, Armand was aware to have imported his own ghosts. They walked with him; they lived in him.

*****

Some days, when the monks left the grove to go on their alms round, Armand -- no longer feeling the need to prove how long he could sit --, simply returned to his floating house to eat and rest, study and meditate. 

At the bottom of one of his backpacks, he found the camera he had bought in Paris on an impulse, and since then, forgotten about it. He had heard of a Tibetan master living in the US who was encouraging his students to take on all tasks mindfully -- arts among them. And why not meditative photography? Armand decided to try it in a nearby grove. Not only had it survived deforestation so far, but it had remained virtually untouched by the villagers, who considered it haunted. 

As he went from one flower to the other, and his eye followed the flights of insects and birds, he observed not just his awareness increase, but also his joy. And pleasure. For the first time he felt to be in Thailand enjoying himself, rather than punishing himself. More and more, he desired to stay on his own, feeling his practice was not being embraced by the bikkhus.

But that was about to change.

One afternoon, knowing no one would actually care, he arrived late for the second sitting of the day. At once, he spotted him, in a dark orange robe that indicate he belonged to another Sangha, where he must have been a novice -- another foreign monk. The young man was two heads taller than all the other Asian monks, even seated. And stronger, with broad shoulders stretching his outfit, and a tanned skin that fitted better on a surfer, or a swimmer.

Strategically taking his place again at the back of the group, from where he could see them all, Armand tried to focus on his breath ten thousand times, losing his concentration ten thousand and one times. Everything distracted him, from the poignant fragrance of the flowers blooming on the trees above him, to the erratic flight of bright butterflies, that mirrored his own mind state. The fast beating of the birds' wings, and their nervous shrill, was enough to accelerate his already jumping heart. He could hardly keep his eyes shut, fearing the surfer monk would evaporate, proving to be no more than a beautiful mirage created by his loneliness and desire. And Armand was genuinely relieved when, after the worst meditation session ever since he had arrived in Thailand, to the sound of the bell that ended the sitting, the young man did not disappear before his eyes.

For the first time, Armand joined the monks in their walking meditation. Placing himself right behind the foreign monk, to be the last in line according to his rank, he walked in rapture, without feeling the ground beneath his feet, knowing only that he was stepping where the other guy had stepped a moment before. 

He tried to read the young man's nationality in his powerful neck, and guess his language from the light blond hair on his strong forearms. He calculated the newly arrived must be in his early twenties, despite some early wrinkles on the corners of his eyes that, together with calluses on his big hands, spoke of labors under the sun, or the disciplined practice of professional sport. A farmer, a basketball player?

Burning with curiosity, Armand jumped at the foreigner when the Sangha disbanded, at the end of the walking meditation, close to where the stream met a group of rocks and made an u-turn, starting to slowly make its descend towards the deforested plain below.

"Bienvenue, frére!" He said tentatively, joining the palms of his hands and bowing low to demonstrate his respect to a monk his superior -- though the guy was so tall, enough to be a basketball player, that anyone would always bow low to him.

"Je suis désolé." The man answered formally, in a voice that was grave and soft. Joining his palms and bowing to Armand, he did not stop walking as he said, "Je ne parle pas Français."

His accent did not leave any doubts about where he came from, Armand thought. Nor his typical All-American boy good looks.

"Welcome then, brother." Aware of the excitement in his own voice, Armand stepped into the other monk's orbit as if approaching a waterfall, like one does after weeks lost in the desert, unsure whether to start by sipping the water and plunging into the pool -- but certain of drowning anyhow. "My name is Armand. I'm very happy to have you here." 

Filled with joy, Armand was smiling like he hadn't for months. But lost in the boy's blue eyes, bluer than the tropical skies above their heads, Armand overheard the young monk's Pali name and title when he introduced himself.

"I'm happy that you are happy." The monk added immediately, not giving Armand the chance to ask his name again. Even taken by ravishment, Armand could sense how the foreigner had tensed up to his proximity. On the guy's neck, strong like a bull's, and on his forehead, peeling from a recent sunburn, Armand could see veins swell and throb, tensely. "Now, if you will excuse me..." The handsome man added, while hastily walking away from Armand's presence, without ever reciprocating the smile. Despite his bulk, the young man's retreating steps made no whatsoever sound on the carpet of fallen leaves and flowers. A gymnast, a ballet dancer? And Armand was left behind hating the beautiful giant ferns around him for smelling so sensually of mating.

*****

For days, Armand followed the surfer monk -- in lack of a proper name, that's how he referred to him in his thoughts -- with his eyes only. The young man kept clearly demonstrating his intention to keep his privacy and distance, leaving no chance for Armand to approach him.

Armand could empathize with him, though. He had always himself enjoyed being the only foreigner in places. Countless times during his first trip to Asia he had felt frustrated upon meeting another gringo in the most remote villages, only to move further and farther. 

And it was not only about the feeling of being unique.

Another foreigner brought back so many things he was trying to leave behind -- the possibility of conversations he would not like to have, on topics he'd rather forget, of impressions he would not like to share. Foreign languages stirred less emotions, he thought -- if any. Armand was aware of being a runaway, one running only after forgetfulness -- and he could understand when other foreigners behaved just like him, keeping the distance from one another.

So he was quite surprised -- to the point of almost dropping his cup of oolong tea, to then immediately depose it and run across the entrance bridge -- when, one afternoon, upon hearing clapping coming from the margins of the lake, his name was called. 

"Brother Armand?" 

He wouldn't have recognized his own name if he weren't living quite isolated there, hearing day after day the cries of parrots only. Armein. The accent making it sound so funny was unmistakable, the voice as powerful as the ample chest from which it originated. 

"Are you there?"

*****

"Laurent, look!"

Armand had slowly turned his back to the setting sun, when it disappeared behind the horizon, and was pointing to the opposite shore of the island, where the full moon was rising.

Tears welled up in my eyes, as I immediately recalled one of many nights decades ago, when Armand and my father had watched the sun set and the moon rise, on the Île du Blanchomme. I wondered whether Armand recalled that too, and how they had called it "going to the movies" or something like it, in reference to one of their best loved dates in Paris, which was going to the Cinematéque Française. But those memories were fresher to me than to him, having just heard them from my father a couple of years ago. And it was very probable that, instead of touching Armand like did to me, they must have hurt.

next episode

bhikkhu: A Buddhist monk

Dhamma: The qualities of mind one should develop so as to realize the inherent quality of the mind in and of itself as taught by the Buddha.
Pāḷi: The canon of texts preserved by the Theravāda school of Buddhism and, by extension, the language in which those texts are composed.

Saṅgha: On the conventional level, this term denotes the communities of Buddhist monks and nuns; on the ideal level, it denotes those followers of the Buddha, lay or ordained.

sutta: Literally, "thread"; a discourse or sermon by the Buddha or his contemporary disciples. After the Buddha's death the suttas were passed down in the Pali language according to a well-established oral tradition, and were finally committed to written form in Sri Lanka around 100 BCE.

for more and complete information click HERE

Episode 02-II | Beneath the waves

previous episode

Arriving in Smögen, I found out I had misread the transportation chart. I thought there was a regular boat going to Armand's island -- when there wasn't any. I'd have to depend on someone going that direction that day to be willing to take me along. The team at the small tourist office was very friendly and promptly engaged in finding someone heading that direction, yet, they still recommended that I do my own search at the port.

Smögen was a beautiful island, one of the most celebrated on the charming Swedish West Coast. But there was a general feeling of hangover after the high season had long withered away. I was able to find a lovely restaurant offering a gorgeous view, from where I watched the sky become a mass of grey clouds and the sea turn into liquid metal. It must have been fascinating shades of silver evolving right before my eyes, but as my own mood darkened, I missed the exquisite luminosity of the North Sea.

While I wandered at the port, not sure if I was just waiting for a message from the tourist information to arrive on my mobile or an actual boat to pick me up, I could not help but recall how my father had seen himself stranded on an island he did not know the name, all alone, wondering whether his friend would come to rescue him or not -- that same friend who had turned to be my uncle. 

I was sure Armand wasn't coming for me, since I had agreed on reaching his island on my own. I knew my situation was not as precarious as Carlo's had been -- this was Sweden and everybody spoke better English than I did, instead of the native language my father had barely understood when he arrived in the Indian Ocean. And I could afford a neat hotel if I had to spend the night in Smögen, before heading to Armand's island -- unlike my father, who had slept rough, feeling cold and hungry and afraid of the rats.

Of course, I hadn't told my parents about my visit to Armand. It was weird to be hiding things from them like a five years old child when I was thirty five. Yet, it was not that simple.

First, I don't think they would have helped me reach my uncle. Catherine might even have complicated things. And trying on my own had been hard enough. It had taken me two years to get an appointment with him -- but somehow, I felt Armand had understood the personal nature of our meeting and had thus invited me as his guest to his private retreat, instead of scheduling me for a meeting at one of his offices around the world.

Second, my communication with my parents had never been very close, nor constant.

After a twenty years gap, Carlo and I had reconnected and our friendship had been revived, yes -- but that didn't mean we were now intimate confidants. I tried to imagine how the sound of the telephone ringing could disrupt Carlo's tranquil and silent routine in the high mountains in central Italy, where he lived all on his own. He hadn't been randomly nicknamed 'The Hermit of the Brushes' by art critics. And though he had never mentioned it, I realized he usually started our conversations with some level of anxiety. It was as if my calls represented an emergency. 

Carlo had always deciphered and perceived me without the need for words. Like when we had visited the Apennines together, and he had sensed my sexuality as I was falling in love for Fabio -- though not quite understanding it myself. Carlo knew me, intuitively, without the need for further elaborations. Privileges of being a father, perhaps? It had been a grand opportunity for both of us to have that long and clarifying conversation in Vice City -- but since then, we had gone back to our mute mode. 

Having reestablished a direct connection to my father seemed to suffice. I knew I could count on him. But after two decades, I had also learned to live without him. His presence on the planet, or just knowing that I again dwell in his heart and thoughts, brought me enough comfort. I did not need to press on him for proofs of his love. 

What had naturally developed in the relationship with my father turned into a struggle when it came to my mother.

Catherine had been a constant presence in my life -- as much as she had been a constant absence in my life, too. Since she had left me at the age of six behind in Punaouilo without any news, my insecurity about her feelings towards me had risen to uncontrolled levels. 

In France, during my adolescence, she was often going abroad to teach. She would leave me alone for days, knowing that I would diligently perform my duties at school and in our rural home. I don't think that, lawfully, Catherine could have left me alone at the age of thirteen and fourteen, and been gone abroad for weeks. But it became a routine for a couple of years. She had been doing that when Carlo was there -- he would take care of me. And she kept doing it when he no longer was with us, expecting that I would take care of myself. 

I should have enjoyed that unprecedented level of independence, and the demonstration of faith from a mother towards her teenager son -- but the truth is I feared that she would also leave me, just like Carlo had. An outcast in my mother's intellectual life, I started surfing a wave of high anxiety the moment Catherine left for Belgium. I would even help her load the car with her luggage. One heavy bag contained mostly books, another lighter yet bigger one with designers clothes, a third one with shoes and accessories, and finally her oversize necessaire with creams and her signature perfume for that season. She must have been the best dressed teacher in Belgium, perhaps in whole Europe, I guessed, as I carried her luggage downstairs. She carried so much luggage that I always feared she was leaving home without telling me. She could spend months away, on her provision of books and clothes. Only when she returned home did I actually relax again, feeling I had once more crashed upon her shores.

Catherine would return each time with a dozen chocolate boxes for me. Belgians reputedly made the best chocolate, and once I had fought my bullies and did not have to 'share' it with them any longer, my problem became to have the correspondent best pimples ever. 

Once, Catherine had phoned me to say she would stay an extra week away. Instead of returning home, she would go directly to some congress in the Netherlands, and try to buy new clothes there.

"Do you have enough food at home, Laurent?" Since she couldn't cook and did not really care for food, we had a freezer that was larger than our refrigerator. From loafs of bread to portions of steak tartar, all food at home was either frozen or canned. Even fruits only existed in our home as preserves. "You know you can always eat at the club, don't you, mon cher? And you know where to find money? You can call me in any emergency, do you understand?" Which meant I should never call her unless it was tremendously important, and instead wait until she checked on me every four or five days. "Are you going to be alright?"

I answered yes to all questions -- what else could I have said? She didn't allow me time to say anything else, firing her questions in a row. And I was thirteen years old -- just or already. No longer I was a child to beg "Maman, maman, please come home... I am afraid to stay alone in this isolated house, maman" But it was often true, specially in the evenings, when the fields around were utterly dark. Wouldn't it have been ridiculous of me, though, to wimp and implore for my mother's return?

When, after that phone call about her delay, I had found a couple of Belgian chocolate boxes in our mailbox, I immediately thought Catherine was saying goodbye to me. She seemed to love the academic environment she had found in Belgium. She had probably found a lover there, too, since in France she had calmed down regarding her love life. 

One day after the other, I had sobbed while devouring the chocolate she had posted, watching my mother's last present to me disappear down my throat -- and it was no consolation to know that they would again surface as pimples. Yet, I was aware that the fear of losing my mother was not a serious and practical enough reason to call her abroad. 

My desperation had only ceased when again Catherine came home. The moment I heard her car winding up the road that ended at our garden, my anxiety receded.  If someone had shown me a movie of myself crying over the chocolate, sobbing before the television that I watched while devouring peach preserves, or the tears that were still falling as I masturbated -- I would have sworn to be someone else. I saluted her as if nothing had happened.  

*****

I was convinced my mother would have stopped me from searching for Armand. Thus I hadn't asked her for help. She must have all his contacts through her lawyers, but I did not want to use those channels. Just like I did not alert my father about my trip to Sweden to visit his former friend. I did not want to go as an emissary of my parents, though I knew I would probably be received like that by my uncle Armand.

The same reason why Catherine had forbid me to meet him, made me more curious to actually go and confront him.

If my uncle had known about my existence all along, why hadn't he tried to contact me? I could imagine how hurt he must have been with Catherine and Celeste in the whole De Montbelle judicial process. I understood that he could even blame them for his mother's death. But that guilt would extend and fall even upon me? 

After a slow lunch, followed by a piece of lemon pie and linden infusion, I had strolled along the wharf until a cold wind started blowing.  I made my way back to Smögen's tourist office where I had left my backpack. It was a really small piece of luggage; for after so many trips around the world I had learned better to always travel light. 

As I made myself warmer, I received the good news -- the super helpful team at the office had found someone heading the same direction I was going. The man had agreed to take me on his boat until Armand's island. We were due in one hour or so.

*****

"He is a very famous architect!" I tried to chat with the owner of the boat, "He was awarded the most important prize in Architecture!"

"I don't know anything about that, so I guess he is not famous for me. No." The man, who somehow reminded me of my great-grandfather Tarso, was very circumspect and after a while I realized I had to shut up in respect to my host, and simply enjoy and be thankful for the ride. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the mist brought in the wind and the sun on my face. The sky had cleared, and a bright light greeted me on my way to the reunion with my lost uncle.

Who must have heard the boat approaching, for Armand was on the deck when I disembarked. As I set foot on the weather beaten wooden floor, I felt Carlo was disembarking with me, like once he had on the Indian Ocean, carrying me as a seed.

I was happy and thrilled to be meeting my long lost uncle for the first time in my life -- but at once I also realized how embarrassing that meeting was, specially for him, and I was grateful to his generosity and openness.

The fact was I did not know what to expect. I had done the most thorough research on Armand de Montbelle that the internet had allowed -- considering that professionally he used the name of Armand Purlux Drurien, after his mother's family.

There were very few pictures of him on the web, compared to the countless images of the buildings he had created around the world. But nothing had prepared me to his... aura? I guess I can call it that, by the way he stood before me, looking solidly grounded to the earth, yet light and airy as if he were ever ready to depart. He had a presence that could not be described as strong, but perhaps as intense, in the sense of a wholeness that did not exclude a certain disembodiment, I thought. Like all things zen, he seemed hard to be grasped and reduced to a few distinct qualities. But there was a sense of calmness about him that was disarming, even the more in contrast to my own nervousness and expectancy. 

"Bonjour, Laurent. Bienvenue." He saluted me as I left the boat. His voice was melodic and silky like Carlo had described, and I was still to marvel on his silvery pronunciation, that was effortlessly better than Catherine's even, she who had always strived to speak so correctly. His vocabulary, I'd find it richer and more poetical than anyone I had ever heard before.

He was dressed very simply, with a tunic, pants and slippers that made him look like a very elegant monastic -- because his simplicity was that of Kenzo or Miyake, judging by the quality and cut of the clothes in a beautiful shade of gray, that changed colors with the sunlight, as if it were mother of pearl. We couldn't be farther from France and the Chateau de Montbelle, but I could see how he always carried around him the echoes of the sophisticated ambients he had been raised in, like an exquisite shell.

 I had fantasized about a welcome hug between the uncle and his never seen before nephew. Despite all the tragedies, deceit and vileness in the story that united us, we carried the same blood, at least partially, and that seemed to matter and stand above all to me. 

Armand just shook my hand, from a polite distance, and though his expression was not tense nor serious, it did not demonstrate any happiness either. Nor was it neutral, because I sensed his curiosity.  He must be trying to guess what had brought me to him -- and I wondered if I knew it clearly myself.

"Merci beaucoup, Armand." I didn't know how to proceed, and his silence and bland expression was not making it any easier for me. I pondered that the lovely scenery was an unemotional enough subject to start our communication. "This island is so..."  I couldn't possibly say tiny, not even small, for it would sound like I was downgrading the place I had just arrived to, "--cozy." I tried.

Armand finally smiled, for a brief moment. I would soon realize he could be as reserved as my father, and given to long silences, too. No wonder they had been best friends, and their daily life as roommates had always been harmonious and peaceful -- at least, until lust had intruded into their relationship.

"I imagine this is..." I did not want to repeat 'cozy', yet I couldn't find any other word, "pretty much like the Île du Blanchomme?" 

Armand stared at me, inquiringly. It was the first mention to the past that I made, only five minutes after having arrived, pointing to the story I had come to rescue. I think right there and then he started wondering how much I knew. But he didn't lift his shield of silence.

"I mean, this is a Northern version of the Île, I guess." I tried a little laugh and winked; again, to no reaction from my uncle. He seemed to be patiently waiting to see where I would lead the conversation to, and I decided to open up. "You know, I want to visit the Île du Blanchomme, where--"

And I stopped. I was about to say "where my life began", but I realized how inappropriate that was. My conception actually meant betrayal to my uncle. It was in his bed that Catherine and Carlo had made love repeatedly, and I suddenly realized how aggressive my simple existence -- and now my inconvenient presence -- in my uncle's life should be. As much as I intended a fresh start with him, I must have been the personification of old wounds. He might have reunited my father and mother, but that hadn't been his will, ever.

"The Île no longer exists." I heard Armand quietly say. At first, I thought he was metaphorically speaking, stating that the past was over.

"Oh... You mean they changed its name, right?" The last two years, as much as I had been chasing Armand, I had researched on the internet about the island of my conception. But I could find no information at all. Since the colonial government had left, many islands in that part of the world had changed their names back to their native denominations, and many records had been erased. Not even looking for Herr Weissmann had brought any results, since that was a fictitious name, given to him by the locals because he was German and so white, even whiter in that part of the world. I had no clue about his real name, that I intended to obtain from my uncle Armand. "I read that some of the islands are now open air museums, displaying the local culture--"

"The Île du Blanchomme no longer exists on this planet." Armand interrupted me. He wasn't being rude; it was more as if he wanted to end my agony. He spoke very calmly, and I realized he was being tactful, for he sensed I would be shocked. "A tsunami has washed it away. It has simply vanished."

"But... but..." Attutering, I felt my heart start to shrink, "Hadn't Herr Weissmann built the house on poles? Hadn't he predicted tidal waves? How come it...?"

"No one ever predicted a tidal wave of that magnitude. And it might not have been the wave at all. The Île stood right on the line where the Sunda Trench ruptured. The earthquake alone might have erased it."

"You mean..." I was dumbfounded, still trying to adapt to the fact that the Île du Blanchomme no longer existed, when one of the reasons I had come was to gather enough information to locate and visit it, "...that 2004 notorious tsunami?" I was now wondering if the island still existed when Carlo had first mentioned its existence to me, back in 2008 during our conversation at the Nirvana Lounge.

"No, it was later. It was a tsunami in 2006."

"The house was destroyed, then?" I mumbled.

"Not only the house, Laurent." My name sounded sweet in my uncle's voice, but everything else he communicated was bitter. "The entire island disappeared from the map! The Île du Blanchomme was merely a tiny blotch of sand topping a coral and perhaps a bed of lava, standing just few meters above the ocean. It was a single source of water that made it so special, and suitable for life. And Herr Weissmann's superior inventiveness and building skills, too. But it was all rather fragile. It might have existed for a couple centuries only, maybe not even that long. And in the dance of tectonic plates and the rising sea level, just like it once rose above the waters, the Île du Blanchomme again sank to the bottom of the ocean."

"You mean..." I felt tears welling up, "nothing remains of it?" I was trying to imagine the house I longed to visit wiped off and turned into floating debris.

"If anything remains, it is a tiny chunk of land mass beneath the waves." Armand's words, that he tonelessly uttered, without any display of emotion, astounded me. As if it was not about a place from his own past, from my own past, where an important event in our lives had taken place. I guess he realized my confusion and sadness, and he complemented, softly, most kindly. "And our memories of it shall remain, too."

And I finally understood. The tenuous geographical contours of my personal world had been forever altered and diminished. The piece that had recently fallen into place went missing again. It did not matter whether it had been the 2004 or a 2006 tsunami to erase the Île du Blanchomme from the surface of the Earth. Nothing was left of it -- and the irony was it already didn't exist when I had first heard of it. A delusion like a mirage -- my father must have been completely unaware of the island's extinction. And all the plans I had made to visit it, once I had found its exact location with my uncle's help, sank with the island, just like my heart sank, too. 

"Shall we go home, Laurent?" Armand whispered to me, closing that subject, perhaps realizing my emotional state.

I recalled Carlo saying the Île du Blanchomme had the shape of a heart. No longer. And I let the tears flow freely, as I grabbed my backpack and followed my uncle on the path along the coast into this other island. 

Not too close to him, in case I started sobbing. I wouldn't want to embarrass him, crying right on my arrival -- just like he had himself, I recalled, on that first night my father had spent with him on the extinct Île du Blanchomme.

next episode

Author's note: having been imported from a former version of the story, some of the comments below are dated previous to this post. Once the plot has not been altered, just the pagination, I am keeping them since they are very dear and precious to me.