Episode 18-II | The lover had a lover

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nudity

Monsieur de Montbelle entered the office wearing a silk robe de chambre, indicating to Armand that he was not included in his father's official schedule for the day. The young man was more like a morning distraction, or a brief annoyance. But the perfectly combed silver white hair, and a sophisticated smell of musky eau de cologne about him discarded any notion that Monsieur might have just woken up, despite still having his pajamas pants on. 

 After a moment of hesitation,  Monsieur de Montbelle marched straight to his massive table, turning the exquisite art deco lamp on, to be himself in a pool of light like the works of art surrounding him. The charming secretary was immediately swept away by a storm of responsibilities and tasks, leaving father and son alone.

Wondering whether his father had, in a single glance, perceived the ongoing, secretive connection between his employee and son, Armand now feared for the secretary's position. But he found next the real reason of his father's discomfort, and why he hadn't approached to shake hands, simply motioning Armand to take a seat in front of his desk. Armand did notice the expensive damask before he sat, and knowing his father did not care about home decor, wondered if that was Celeste Mortinné's taste and influence. Armand was astonished to see a vase of fresh roses adorning his work table -- having always prohibited Madame de Montbelle to place them in whichever room he used, claiming to be allergic, Monsieur seemed to accept or at least stand them now, coming from his lover.

"What with that hair, now?" The elder man asked, in a tone that revealed ill disposition against his son's constant, ridiculous changes. No good morning, welcome, how are you son, nothing. "Lice?"

Armand had forgotten about his tresses, or lack of, until that moment when the secretary had first mentioned them. He should have at least then started expecting his father's reaction to be even stronger than the last time, when he had sported a ponytail. He should have braced himself, and thought in advance of a better answer.

"I'm becoming a monk." Armand mouthed, disastrously.

Monsieur de Montbelle fell silent, fixing his gaze on the old copy of  Machiavelli's 'The Prince', probably a most expensive rarity, that lay open on his desktop. More than any other room in the apartment, everything in that office -- from the endless rows of  leather cover books to the best liquor from most exclusive origins --, was carefully chosen to demonstrate wealth and boast power -- for it was where dignitaries, bankers, politicians and businessmen held private interviews, that could not ever make the newspapers, with Monsieur.

"In Thailand." Armand added shyly. Knowing no detail would repair the damage done by his first declaration, he now simply intended to take his father out of a stubborn mutism. "A buddhist monk. A forest monk."

"You are not joining any sect, I assure you." Monsieur hissed, raising a finger to advert and intimidate Armand, as if he was still a small boy. That finger used to signal Monsieur's explosions of anger, when he could use his belt to beat his son, well into Armand's adolescence. The silk band he used at that moment was not very intimidating, though, and Armand had to control himself not to laugh.

"Buddhism is not a sect, don't you worry." He replied, trying to placate his father.

"I am not worried." Monsieur tapped his fingers on the marble desktop. Not so much nervously, but as if rehearsing a tune on the piano. He was trying to control himself. "You are not joining. I forbid you." He sentenced, seriously.

Armand had already felt coffee in his father's breath, floating towards him across the table, but just now he identified another particular smell, that he had learned to attribute to Monsieur since childhood -- newspapers. Monsieur de Montbelle read newspapers in several languages, many of them along each day, from morning to evening, and his fingers were impregnated with that smell, that would spread when the man agitated his hands like now.

"Everything is set, already." Armand informed, most calmly. His decision to retreat from mundane life had nothing to do with his father, against whom, formerly, he had so strongly revolted. "I return to Asia in a couple of days. I know what I'm doing. I know this master."

As tiring as it usually felt, he was aware that everything between father and son essentially came down to a dispute of power. Each conversation was an intricate negotiation, and the son had to clearly mark his territory to leave his father's tyrannical rules at the borders.

"What do you mean by master? Someone you have to obey?"

"Oh yes. Not blindly, though." Monsieur must have been thinking of those mad religious leaders who led their credulous congregations into mass suicide; his incredulity heightened at the thought of his only son obeying another man, while disobeying his own father. "More like a teacher, a spiritual teacher. A guru.", he informed. Though the correct term was arahant, Armand sensed Monsieur de Montbelle might know the other word better.

But Monsieur had overheard everything.

"I shall disinherit you, Armand." He said sharply.

Armand's confusion at his father's unexpected remark was less just than his irritation. But as if he was before his spiritual master -- and he was, in fact! --, Armand observed his anger rise and manifest, and tried not to react or speak out of it. He answered rationally, in a language his father would certainly comprehend. 

"I believe the sum my mother left me is enough for..."

Monsieur de Montbelle cut him short. "Your sanity can be easily contested, in this case. I'll take you to court if you try to donate money for any sect..."

"Oh, so that's your concern, then!" Armand smiled condescendingly. "They don't ask for money. They don't need any money at all. It's not like a club where you pay a fee to join."

"How do they eat? Where do these people live? In a forest, you said?" Monsieur de Montbelle made everything sound exotic, improbable, or foolish, instead of simple and sensible as they really were.

"We do one alms round everyday, begging for food, and accepting whatever people give us. And believe me, a single meal suffices when..."

"You mean you'll beg for food?" The elder man sneered. "My son, you are out of your mind!" 

"Not yet. I need to meditate a lot, still, to go out of my mind..."

Falling silent again, Monsieur de Montbelle fixed his eyes on the Pre-Raphaelite preciosity across the room, a painting which he had contemplated more than a hundred times -- an ageing courtesan playing the mandolin, immersed in the shadows of a cavern or tavern, which did not quite disguise the woman's wrinkled neck and breasts. She had lost her beauty, but would not let go of her joys and pleasure, which she exercised in the form of music and a shameless smile. That melancholic painting had a soothing effect on Monsieur, making him ponder about his own fate in life,  a valuable aid in the negotiations he held in the office -- when behind him, and in full view to his visitors, he had placed another painting, from the same period, depicting a voluptuous nymph. Languidly reclined, a blue cloth so thin as to enhance more than hide her curves, letting her beautifully rigid breasts and nipples subtly show underneath, in one hand she held a purse, and the other rested between her soft thighs, where shadows both hid and let guess the tip of her fingers. More than one visitor had joked about the painting being an allegory to -- or an exertion to -- masturbation. Its observation usually troubled or excited his visitors -- and that was the reason why Monsieur had placed it behind him, facing them .

But he guessed the sensuous nymph would neither excite nor trouble his son, who was indifferent to her charms. 

"Is it a cure for your sickness you are seeking?" He asked Armand.

"Sickness?" Armand asked in return.

"Yes, your... personal sickness." reinforced Monsieur, stressing significantly the words he wanted his son to comprehend, without further explanations.

"I don't know what you are talking about, Gaston." Armand rarely called his father that. "I am not sick. Do I look sick?"

"You know, your... sick preferences." For a brief moment, Monsieur de Montbelle seemed embarrassed. 

"Oh..." Armand sighed. "That is no sickness."

"It most certainly is." His father insisted. "It's not simply a shameful sin. Homosexualism is a sickness. Just look it up on the dictionary." Monsieur de Montbelle couldn't hide his agitation. He was sweating, and particularly annoyed that he might have to take a bath before continuing with his schedule. "Have you considered the problems it will bring you? Professionally, socially. You'll be easily blackmailed, or passed over."

"As a monk?" Armand asked simply.

"Stay in France, Armand, I command you. They'll find a cure to it, sometime. I can offer you the best physicians, the best institutions, the best medicine..."

Like you did with my mother? Armand thought. Will you lock me in the castle, too?

"I don't need to be cured of anything, father." He retorted. "In fact, I'm not here to talk about myself."

"Well, I'm wondering." said Monsieur, momentarily abandoning the grounds of the battle against his son's sexuality, where he was soon venturing again, to try to win. "Why are you here, then, and not at that church already?"

There is no church in Buddhism, Armand wanted to explain. But he knew his father did not want to learn. "It's about my sister."

"Who?"

"My half-sister, Catherine."

"That inconsequential girl! The way she dropped the Sorbonne was outrageous! We still can't believe she went after you..."

"Weren't you aware of her trip?"

"No, we weren't."

"Well, I believe your..." How should he mention Celeste? Maybe in the meantime their status had changed. "...lover was."

"Celly?" Monsieur de Montbelle enjoyed calling her that, but just when Celeste was not listening. "No, she wasn't." He seemed to consider something, or make some sort of calculation. "But why that sudden interest in Catherine?"

"I tried to ignore my sister, but now I want to be just to her." Before I leave this world, Armand thought, but it sounded too melodramatic, threatening even, to be pronounced. "Can I beseech you to recognize her as your daughter?"

"She is not my daughter, Armand." Monsieur de Montbelle was taken aghast.

"Why do you deny it? Or am I not your son, as well?"

"Of course you are. But she isn't." Monsieur promptly dismissed it.

"I should probably have brought her along with me to this meeting. You have never had this conversation face to face with her, have you?" Armand insisted, feeling he owned it to the girl. "Do you know how she suffers with all this?"

"Brought her along?" Monsieur smiled somberly. "How?" 

Armand was very conscious of the way his father picked certain words, choosing elements of his son's sentences, to redirect the conversation towards grounds of his own preference.

"I believe she is in Paris." Armand proposed, carefully.

"No, Armand, she isn't." 

"I believe she is..." Armand had just decided to direct the conversation himself. "I saw Carlo today."

"Saw him as in met him?" Monsieur de Montbelle gasped. His eyes were fixed on his son, who unfortunately had chosen the chair farthest from the table lamp, to suspiciously remain partially in the shadows. Despite Celeste's exquisite taste for decoration, he had to order his secretary to buy a new and more functional lamp, or a brighter bulb, immediately, for Monsieur liked to observe his visitors, more than to be observed. "Are you doing drugs, Armand?"

"No, I did not meet him, but I saw him walking down a street today." Armand decided to sustain his lie, guessing his father actually knew and would reveal Carlo's true directions.

"Utterly impossible." Monsieur shook his head to vehemently discard such a possibility. "They are not in Paris. Not even in France."

"Where are they?" Armand pressed.

"Do you think I'd tell you where that doomed boy is, Armand?" Monsieur de Montbelle gave a half smile, to make his son understand he could not be so easily manipulated. He calculated farther ahead than most of his opponents.  And then he spoke softly, as if to himself. "I wonder what he has got to drive you both out of your minds..." Raising his voice again, loaded with contempt, he demanded, "Is he a dealer of some sort of ecstatic drug? Does he run a mad sect himself, who worship him? Please, tell me what sort of filthy pimp he is!"

The idea of Carlo dealing drugs made Armand smile. He had grown addicted indeed to his friends charms, to his honesty, his loyalty, his simplicity, to his naivety -- if those qualities could ever be called drugs, then mankind needed to be heavily addicted on a whole lot more of them. As to worship him, be it for his beauty, or for his kindness, that was perfectly understandable. Like a spring from the highest fields, Carlo used to be the purest, sweetest man Armand had ever known. But all that had collapsed, once Carlo chose Catherine over him. His ex-friend hadn't abruptly become a bad person, it was not that -- but now his loyalty belonged to Catherine. And they lived in each other's arms in some remote corner of the world that would remain unknown to Armand.

"Pimp? Do you believe I'd fall in love with a pimp, Gaston?" Armand laughed, and decided to tease his father. "No matter how endowed he is, I am sure..."

The bold mention of Carlo's physical attributes immediately disgusted and angered Monsieur. "This interview is over, Armand. We have wasted enough time, and I have a busy day ahead. Please excuse me." And the elder man started lifting himself off the chair.

"No, it is not over." Armand reclined against the back of  his chair, indicating he was going nowhere. "I came here to straighten things about Catherine, and I am not leaving until you commit to treating her fairly."

"But I do!" Monsieur cried. "I do! I always have! I've always treated her as if she were my own child -- though she isn't! I'm telling you, Catherine is not your half-sister, Armand." 

 "How can you be so positive about it?"

Monsieur fumbled in the lower drawer, taking out one of the compromising dossiers for which he was famous and feared. Threateningly accurate, Monsieur de Montbelle's dossiers were essential to the certainty with which he exuded authority, and to the extent of power he exerted on his peers -- men who might be socially, economically or politically more influential than him, even more wealthy, but not as well informed as Monsieur, who had in Celeste Mortinné a great ally.  

"Take a look at this." He said, handling it to Armand. "I give you five minutes, and if you still feel the need, you can pose your questions."

Grand Duke Felix Michael Pavlov Rostoff, Prince Albert Nikolai Stepan Rostoff, Prince Paul Sergei Boris Rostoff, Prince Vladimir Dmitri Rostoff, Prince Aleksander Nikolai Rostoff... The long list opening the dossier indicated that the Rostoffs were a persistent, fruitful lineage of male aristocrats. Originally from St. Petersburg, with branches in Riga and Moscow, informed the Almanacs. Armand flipped quickly through the boring newspapers cuts that followed, most of them in Russian, very few translated in French.  Gossip columns from a Cannes periodic covered the family members vacations on the French Riviera for the three decades preceding the First World War. Addresses, copies of birth certificates, letter and postcards, even telegrams composed the Rostoff dossier. Armand thought more fascinating and worth examining a series of yellowed black and white photographs, indicating sadness more than beauty was transmitted along with rather pure, heavy Slavic features in the Rostoff dynasty.  One boy, several young adults and older men -- but no women --, almost all of them clad in military attire, looking dull or stiff in their studio poses. Dumbfounded, Armand checked again the name on the cover of the dossier -- Prince Aleksander Nikolai Rostoff, the last name appearing in the long list, when the lineage seemed to have come to an end. Below his name was the date of his birth, in St. Petersburg -- but also of his passing, in Paris.

"I don't understand it. Who is he? Aleksander..."

"He was Catherine's father."

"A Russian prince?" Armand lowered his eyes to the dossier again, trying to find the one picture of the single man he had found truly attractive among the lot. Despite a dandiesque mustache, the youngster was the only Rostoff to spot a smile on his lips and eyes, and to sport a tuxedo instead of an uniform. Handsome indeed. For whatever reason, he hoped that was Prince Aleksander, but the name and date on the back of the photo had been erased. "Does she know it?"

"I believe she doesn't. And I am not the one supposed to tell her, when her mother denies the truth herself."

"I don't understand it."

"You blame me for having had a lover, don't you, Armand?" Monsieur smiled bitterly. "Well, my lover had a lover herself. This impoverished Russian prince."

"Can I make a copy of this dossier, Gaston?"

"No you can't. And why would you?"

"I want to read it with more attention."

"You have nothing to do with this story. Even less than I do. Simply forget it."

"But Catherine is entitled to know!" Armand protested. Would that new fact put an end to her vengeance, he wondered. If Armand would help Catherine so thoroughly as to find her a new aristocratic cradle -- she might, even, release Carlo?

Monsieur de Montbelle shook his head.

"This is not for us to decide." He shrugged.

*****

"A Russian prince... was Catherine's father?" I whistled.

"That's what my father believed in, though your grandmother denied it."

Blue blood ran in my veins! If not from the De Montbelle, from the Rostoff family. It felt like my ex-uncle Armand had momentarily taken one lollipop from my mouth to immediately present another, even tastier.

"I believe your mother is in Russia right now, isn't she? Probably researching her origins, don't you think?" Armand rejoined. 

Concomitantly to have been trying to fight her way into the De Montbelle family through French courts, Catherine had continually pursued her very personal obsession for Russia. From her early love for Russian writers, that had turned into that abandoned thesis of a Russian mystic, until her Masters studies that had enabled her to teach Russian literature, my mother must have been unconsciously following the thread of her origins, led by instincts running with her blood. 

She had mentioned something about researching our family origins indeed, in our last lengthy conversation over the phone, years ago, when I still dated Gabriel. But now the question was -- when had she shifted her interest from the De Montbelle to the Rostoff household, and why? Had she finally had access to that dossier Armand read in the 70s -- and why only now?

"Can I ask you a question, Armand?" I posed, carefully.

"Of course you can." Armand's eyes was again on my body, and after leaving my landscape of muscles, he closed them for a moment. They were full of sadness when he opened them again. "But I see you are cold, Laurent. Don't you want to change into something warmer?" His melancholy revealed to be a sort of nostalgia, when he next asked, "We could walk to the other side of the island to watch the sun set, how about that? It doesn't happen as an spectacle everyday, but today seems to be the case, we are lucky. And then we'll have dinner, while we talk."

And I felt I was finally on the Île du Blanchomme of my conception, where my father and Armand had done just that, every single day.

*****

next episode

The Rostoffs I refer to in this episode are supposedly a fictional dynasty from the short story "Love in the Night" by Scott Fitzgerald, that I have loved -- both the writer and the story -- from the first time I read it -- and ever since, always again upon re-reading it, like just before writing this episode of The Last Canvas.

You can read it online HERE.

For more background on the love triangle between Armand, Carlo and Catherine, and how he decided to become a monk and finally accept his half-sister, please see the links in the footnotes of the previous episode.

Thanks for reading!

Episode 14-II - The last celebration

previous episode

"Give me back my son!"

Sometime during that same December, in the weeks between Angelo's birthday and Christmas.

Walking to the shelf on the end of the corridor, next to the TV room, I wanted to grab some book. I don't remember which, nor for what reason.

I noticed the door to Catherine and Edoardo's room being ajar, his voice coming from within. The man was clearly drunk -- since I had complained too often about it, he had at least given to drinking in his bedroom. 

I couldn't quite understand what he said -- nor, apparently, could my mother. He was speaking in Italian.

"I don't speak that language, Edoardo." She complained. "Nor do I intend to."

It was then that he turned to his awful French. More than the words, it was his begging tone that caught my attention. I stopped to listen.

"Give me back my son. Please, Catherine."

I froze in the corridor, a few steps away from the shelf.  My mother must have seen me through the reflex on the wall mirror in her room. I am guessing, here. Because she immediately closed the door, not before eyeing me with a very significant look I could not understand, then. There was anger and there was fear in her look, there was an accusation and an apology in it. It lasted only a second, before she slammed the door, to muffle her voice and scold Edoardo.

It lasted only a second, but lingered with me for my whole life. It would take a few years still to completely understand it -- but the moment I received it, I knew I had done something wrong by listening on the adults conversation. And that my mother liked me even less for that.

I was nevertheless touched. I had heard Edoardo often whine, when he was drunk, inconsolable with our impending departure. I had witnessed another one, a few weeks before.

"Why are you letting them be? Why are you letting our sons leave?" a whimpering Edoardo had asked, between hiccups. "Why are you taking my son away from me?".

"We have to let them grow, mon amour..." Catherine would caress Edoardo's thick black hair, trying to comfort him, and kiss his blue eyes to dry them. And do nothing to try to stop us from traveling.

"This is not right, Catherine. This is too wrong, and you know it."

Edoardo had lost his parents, had lost his first wife. I had lost my father, too, though not to death, and I could relate to his pain of losing Angelo. Knowing he could not stop us, I felt magnanimous -- and in that state of mind I had decided not to quarrel with my boyfriend's father any longer.

*****

The incident about the driving had been a minor thing, I thought. In my self-righteousness, I thought perfectly justifiable to cry for a drunken man to leave the wheel. Even if driving was the sole thing that man would do the whole evening.

Catherine had not simply chosen the restaurant -- she was paying for it, too. She had chosen the full New Year's Celebration menu for us -- an impressive sequence of delicacies in stunning presentation, if rather small portions, from which I can only remember the veal. Even Edoardo was somewhat impressed, though it was not his Italian food. 

The red wine he had chosen, of course, was Italian. Again, I complicated things when I kept Catherine from drinking it with him.

"You are driving. You cannot drink." I declared. "Unless we are going to spend the night somewhere around here. Is this place also a guesthouse?"

"Mérde, Laurent. Will you drive, then?" My mother replied, snorting.

Edoardo said something in Italian, in the sense that I was a bad driver. It was his time to stay out of the car if I were driving.

And he was right. I disliked driving, and cars in general. I drove very slowly, sometimes dangerously slowly.

Angelo did enjoy driving, and was our last possibility to save the evening. But he didn't utter a word. Those days he was behaving like a marshal defeated in his most important battle. I guess he couldn't keep out of his mind that he had intended to celebrate New Year's Eve in the US, and not in rural France. He would be happier eating hot dogs and drinking soda than tasting French delicacies and celebrating with champagne.

That was right at the start of dinner, as the entrées were being served. Catherine took one or two sips from her glass of wine, just to tease me, but never again touched it, sullenly drinking sparkling water instead. 

My mother was the sole responsible for conversation, that evening. She was the only one talking to everyone else on the table. Edoardo and I wouldn't engage in any conversation, of course, nor even look at one another across the table. Angelo sat before me, but he too pretended I did not exist. He still couldn't understand why I hadn't helped him with the campaign to join the Journalism School in the Spring term still. He thought we were losing it simply because I wanted to celebrate one last birthday in France, like he had just celebrated his.

It was sometime after midnight -- and technically already in the new year of 1994, 

that we wouldn't spend as a whole in France --, that it dawned upon me. How mighty my mother was! That evening, she was paying for everything. Not just the restaurant bill. It was Catherine's car, and her fuel. Even the clothes I wore -- and for that matter, Edoardo's new clothes, too. Angelo's fancy blazer, that I had given him for birthday -- Catherine had brought it from Belgium, too, bought with her money.

"Catherine. What was your best-selling title again?" I inquired. To be honest, I could hardly name any of my mother's books correctly. I had just realized to be living on them -- not on her teacher's salary, for sure. Yet, I had never taken real interest in my mother's career.

She was delighted with my question. Seeing her career as my concurrent to her time and affection, I had tried to ignore it. Finally, I realized how my lack of interest had disappointed, saddened her.

But it was not my true intention to suddenly catch up with her. 

During that evening, a feeling of enmity against the Vivaces grew in me. Edoardo and Angelo, sitting on the other side of the table, kept conversing in Italian, while my mother and I spoke French. They rudely mocked the maitre d', who was indeed snobbish to the point of seeming foolish. 

But that they simply went on exchanging private jokes in Italian, while my mother was talking about her career, made me explode.

"Thank you for paying for this evening Catherine!" I burst, suddenly. My mother gave a start. She had just spoken about her forthcoming book, and I guess she expected me to further question her. "How expensive must this restaurant be!" I said louder, to catch the attention of the other side of the table. "Thank you for paying everything for all of us." I clarified, pronouncing it very clearly, so that Edoardo wouldn't miss a word. Whenever I did this I sounded a bit dumb -- being it a tone of voice I reserved for Edoardo only, everybody at the table knew I was aiming at him. "Thank you for my nice clothes. And for his, and his clothes too" I continued, pointing at the father and son across us, who stared at me in disbelief. "I propose a toast!" I raised my glass. Though feeling ruthlessly powerful -- with the power of my family's money --, I considered standing up, too, but thought it might be excessive. "Let's congratulate Catherine for her successful career! And let's cheer Celeste, too," I said, looking Angelo straight in the eye, "for we owe her a lot!"

I never looked in Edoardo's direction as I spoke, all the time watching Angelo blush, growing purple of anger.

With the corner of my eye, I watched my mother, as she raised her hand and calmly landed it on mine, putting my glass of champagne down. 

But in the next second, Angelo was raising his own glass, responding with cheers and praise for Catherine and Celeste. The whole time averting his gaze from mine, he concentrated on my mother while uttering truly beautiful words of gratitude -- so much that Catherine even took a hand to her heart, and next to her eyes, to dry a tear. 

Angelo made use of his best discoursing skills, and though left envious of his unparalleled ease with words, I won't recall any. Because what I do recall came next.

"And I want to express my gratitude to my deceased mother, too." His voice caught. "I never forget you!" He said, looking straight into the champagne glass, as if the tiny bubbles that could be seen rising against the glass were giving rise to his mother's spirit. "I want to thank my father, too." He continued, turning momentarily towards Edoardo, to finally stare at me. "For always having stayed with me." He paused, and I predicted what he was going to say next. "For having never abandoned me."

I gasped. Suddenly, Carlo was among us, his heavy absence turned into a tangible silence. It lasted a few seconds, while Angelo paused -- maybe six or seven, and each second equaled a stab in my heart.

"I should thank you also, Laurent." He touched my glass slightly with his glass, but enough to make it clink. "Maybe tomorrow I will. But not today." Taking a sip of his champagne, he concluded "Cheers!"

When dessert arrived, it was left untouched. The maitre was already apologizing for anything that had happened with the food and the restaurant. Catherine left instead a generous tip to prove everything was alright -- just not with our family.

I recall Edoardo's little impersonation saying he would like to share the bill with my mother. He wasn't man enough to pay for the whole dinner. Nor was I, actually, now that I think of it. My only thought, then, is that probably Edoardo did not have enough money in his wallet to pay for a drink -- if he had brought any.

We left the restaurant in a funeral procession -- Catherine in Edoardo's arm ahead, followed by Angelo a few steps back, and finally me, way behind. I watched my mother whisper something to Edoardo and leave his arm, let Angelo walk past her murmuring something like "Go with your father, darling" -- and I stopped.

I panicked, certain to get slain.

Or what else could she do? Forbid me from going to the US? She was paying everything for me -- I was in her hands indeed. Maybe expel me? Make me get a job? Ask Celeste to withdraw her help to Angelo... Or worse, and I trembled when I thought what her best option was... My mother was a writer, she knew how to plot -- and plot well, otherwise she wouldn't be a bestselling author.

Catherine could keep me in France, if she wanted to -- and let Angelo leave!

The two Italian men had halted, too, and were expectantly looking in our direction, each creating their own scenery for what was about to happen.

I knew I had gone too far, stretching to the abhorrent limit the bonds of affection between Catherine and I, that were already not too consistent. 

My mother had never been physically violent with me. She never beat me, never slap me -- just her eyes, and her calculated words did. And I doubted she would start now, in front of the other men. 

Calmly walking in my direction, apparently self-possessed, I expected her at her cruelest. 

And I tried to look my coolest. Defiantly, I pretended to peruse a corner of the garden. 

"I am sorry, Laurent." Her voice at its gravest, she sounded very serious. Having halted just before her breasts touched my arm, I could still feel them vibrate as she spoke. "I wish we could have worked this out differently. I wish we would have made this happen. And I do wish you had tried harder." She paused. I felt her breath on my neck. Her proximity wasn't threatening; yet, my heart was racing as if I were in great danger. Danger of losing her. "You disappointed me, greatly." My heart skipped a beat when she again paused. I held my breath until her next sentence finally came. "But I do understand you. More than you think. More than you understand it yourself. Because, darling, I know the reasons why you act like this." At her other pause, I looked over my shoulder and peered right into her eyes, trying to scrutinize her expression. I shivered, when I saw piety in her glance. Sorrow. Compassion. Understanding. In fact, her glance on me was drenched in sympathy. I gasped. "I forgive you, now. If only you'll forgive me too, when you have the chance."

Crickets, a distant truck, the power generator of the restaurant, her breath and my mine -- and loudest than all, my heart banging in my chest -- could be distinctly heard in the long silence that followed her last word. Because that was it. It was no soft introduction for a scolding. And like the patron saint of fashionable souls, in her beautiful gown that reminded me of a moving flower bed,  she took three or four steps backwards, softly retreating to join the rest of the family, leaving me behind with the remains of her newly discovered piety and forgiveness.

I had just received a beating. A whispering lashing. The humiliation I had inflicted on others had just been returned on me. It had been me against then, and I was left alone.

I felt my strength leaving me, my intention to behave like an adult, and was about to start to cry when she turned back, holding out her hand.

"Come, darling. Let's go home." She shivered. It might have been the cold, and the dew that infused the night air. Or, like me, she must have thought that 'home' wouldn't last much longer for me. Urging me, she added, "Come. There is a whole new year ahead of us."

next episode

Episode 13-II | Household battles

previous episode

"We found someone who will help fulfill Angelo's dream of progressing in life by going to the US to study in one of the best universities of that country." 

Feeling confident and happy, I made this announcement in one breath. Solemnly, although the last part about Vice City's University was not exactly true. Both Catherine and Edoardo eyed me in disbelief. They had gone on a romantic date, and upon returning home, a revolution had been launched.

"She will sponsor all his needs." I observed Catherine raising her eyebrows, while Edoardo`s tightened in a frown,  "At least until he can make a living on his own." Again, I was lying about Celeste's disposition. All I wanted was to make it sound so completely irreversible that Edoardo would have to simply accept is as fait accompli.  In fact, he was about to utter something when Catherine touched his arm slightly, to prevent him.

"My grandmother was very comprehensive about his will..." I cleared my throat, "that is, our will... to study to become a journalist. She understands studying is very important, for us to progress in life--" I stopped, when my mother lifted a hand in my direction, indicating I had lied enough about Celeste, that she knew so well.

Edoardo turned his back on me, and just before he rushed upstairs, I gave the best news I had saved to the end.

"Angelo is so happy that he is eating again. He had pane con prosciutto..." I hesitated, but could not avoid adding, "and milk." I laughed.

My prosciutto and milk, I wanted to clarify, but knew I'd better not. After that phone call, my boyfriend had thanked me effusively, skillfully using his mouth and tongue on me. His appetite opened after he swallowed all the protein I had kept for him, in weeks we hadn't had sex -- and he had indeed eaten a sandwich I prepared him.

A week went by before another crisis between Edoardo and me cooled down. I had implied in my discourse that a father, in his present, difficult financial situation, not being able to help his son was perfectly understandable, even justifiable. But prohibiting Angelo of getting help was unthinkable, and would only reveal Edoardo's ill will. 

He relented. Internally, I celebrated it as my final victory over him. The fact is, the final battle was still being fought, and his final, definitive blow, that I failed to anticipate, would come from the grave, nearly two decades after his death.

Things again accelerated. The same day Angelo left his bed, he started making international phone calls. He had a notebook with numbers and names written down. Soon, letters were being exchanged. Documents were translated and sent by fax and mail to the US. Applications were filled, long essays written and translated. Instead of the usual piles of Cds and Lps, our room floor was a labyrinth of sheets of paper and piles of books. There were guides to the US, tutorials on filling different applications, text books for English Grammar.

Aware of all that was being spent, I asked Catherine about the money Celeste had sent us on my mother's bank account, worried whether it would suffice. She laughed.

"Celeste has sent enough money to send you boys to the moon. Just don't waste it, but go on, Laurent!" She had encouraged me.

I had to study harder than Angelo for the proficiency tests. But after having learnt the dialect of the mountains to speak to Fabio, my first crush, learning English to accompany my boyfriend seemed easy. And though less than Angelo, I still had a talent for languages.

*****

"I'm very impressed, Laurent." Catherine commented, after I updated her on the situation. She had just returned from Belgium, and I helped her unload the car, full with books. We had gotten our scholarships -- full for Angelo, like he had intended to, and partial for me, which was a good surprise. "If just with your love and dedication for Angelo." She added, "I hope he values and reciprocates your love, mon cher."

"He does, Catherine! You see, I owe him everything that is happening to me!" Now that all was settled, I was elated with the new life before me. 

My mother gasped.

"Don't you think it's the opposite, Laurent?" I just blinked, and looked at my mother in dismay. She was alarmed, and clarified. "Angelo would not be going to the US without your help, Laurent."

"No mother. None of this would have happened without Angelo. He did all the paperwork and--"

Catherine interrupted me. 

"You really don't see it, Laurent? Or you don't want to see it?" She inquired, looking me straight in the eyes.

I just shrugged, and carried a pile of books inside the house, contentedly observing the swollen muscles of my arms, aware that soon I would be showing them off in the US, land of the gyms.

*****

The last battle, in the war that our household had become, was to be lost by Angelo. Against a surprising coalition formed by Catherine, Edoardo and me.

My boyfriend wanted to leave France as soon as possible. That still was a possibility that we could join the University for the Spring term. But for that, we should leave before Christmas to arrange accommodations before classes started, since there were no dorms.

Edoardo not just insisted, but forced Angelo to attend what he called the 'last' Christmas and New Year's Eve they would spend together. My guess is that he new about his degenerative condition already, but hid it from his son.

Angelo gave in, trying to set our departure for January 1st, since classes would start only on the 6th. 

It was Catherine to raise impediments, then.  To begin with, she was alarmed that we would fly. Worse, that we would fly during Winter. News about snow storms in the US were just too frequent. Angelo tried to make her see we were flying to the South of the US. 

'Where Summer is everlasting', he assured her. 

One evening, that I recall being in November, around Angelo's birthday, the four of us were watching television. Suddenly, to the sight of stranded people sleeping on benches of closed airports, Catherine had responded with abundant tears. It was rare that my mother would cry, at least in public. I was heartbroken, and astonished that she did not hide her emotions. Leaving the sofa I shared with Angelo, I sat at her feet. Edoardo took her hand in his hand. At my mother's tears, Angelo pressed his hand to his chest, as if he had been stabbed and was trying to stop the bleeding. 

Not a single word was uttered. My mother just sat there, silently crying. Even when losing control, she remained elegant and discreet. When the news changed to the latest gossip on François Miterrand's secret daughter, she let out a deep sigh. A secret daughter herself, with dignity she stood up, and quietly made her way to the bedroom. A few moments later, Edoardo followed her. 

Left alone with Angelo, I gasped when I gazed in his direction. He seemed to have fainted on the sofa, one arm covering his face, the other hand tugging his clothes around his chest. For a moment, I feared he could attempt suicide again. But no matter how bad Catherine's tears had been for a birthday present, indicating the Spring term was an aborted plan, the US still shone right before Angelo. 

He would just have to conform to our parents wishes. And be patient. 

******

New Year's Eve dinner was never a tradition in my family.

Since it would be the last occasion the four of us would celebrate something formal living under the same roof, it promised to be a big event.

The problem was -- Edoardo wanted to cook. Foreseeing a greasy ossobuco and plain pasta, I placed my protests.

"We are in France, not in Italy." I stated. Full of confidence since Celeste had started backing us, I no longer feared confronting Edoardo in front of my mother. "I'm not eating anything but French food." I said, clapping my hands, like Catherine would sometimes do,  and as I had seen in a documentary about Tibetan Buddhist monks. " French food, or I won't eat."

Without much drama and further ado, I won that battle, too. 

Catherine made reservations at the only Michelin starred restaurant in our region. Dressing our best clothes as an attempt to lift our spirits for the occasion -- a gloomy farewell, more than a celebration of the year to come, when we would split -- we got ready. 

 Upon seeing Edoardo starting my mother's car, I started complaining.

"I won't get inside this car if he is driving." I announced. Calmly. Instead, it sounded like a shot. 

A few minutes passed, as I stubbornly paced near the car. The road starting at our door turned into a cul-de-sac. Catherine and Angelo tried to dissuade me. But then and there, I promised myself I would not die in a car accident caused by the man I loathed.

"We are getting late, Laurent. Please!" My mother begged taking the passenger's seat.

"You can go, then. I'll stay. Happy New Year to everyone!" I said, loosening my tie. Only when I backed a few steps towards the house, did Catherine realize I was not just bickering. Motioning Edoardo out of the car, she let loose a strange choreography. 

"Mérde!" she uttered, stepping out of the car and going around the front of the vehicle to take the driver's seat.

Only when Edoardo stepped out, too, did I approach the car again. From the inside, Angelo observed us with a bored look. True hostility ensued when Edoardo bumped violently into me on his way to the passenger's seat. Gasping, I fell against the car's door. But in a moment I regained balance to, in turn, push him against the car, too. Even if only slightly drunk, Edoardo bumped against the car and then fell to the right. The mirror held him, before breaking. My mother screamed, and that seemed to take Edoardo over the edge -- he ripped the hanging mirror off the car and threw it on the floor. We did not hear the crash because Catherine started blowing the horn in rage. 

"Someone will have to pay for this!" She shouted, looking at me through the mirror.

"Sure." I retorted, "The person who broke it. But he doesn't have--"

"Shut up, Laurent." Angelo said, coldly, before Catherine could reprimand me.

"Shut up, Edoardo." She said, when Edoardo entered the car, swearing in Italian.

Catherine still protested one last time, before starting the car. "This will ruin my gown!" -- and from then on, there was only our silence and the sound of the engine accelerating.

We made it sharp on time, thanks to Catherine dangerously overtaking all cars and trucks we met on our way. 

The restaurant had been someone's house. I mean someone important, famous or historic -- but I did not care to check who. There was an extraordinary garden around it, that could rival Monet's . The murmur of crickets blended to the soft spray of fountains, underlined by invisible toads sitting on the margins of the water mirrors, spoke of enduring summers and sequestered winters. The trees canopies stood like a mass of dark clouds lingering over the garden, but above them, stars shone in the crisp clear night. Pale lights placed on the floor along the paths illuminated the bushes bearing perennial varieties of flowers. 

Catherine took Edoardo by the arm to explore it.

What an extreme change, I thought. The same person who had ordered Uncle Will to cut all the bushes around our cottage in Punaouilo was inspecting the flowers and letting out sighs and exclamations of contentment. Wearing a gown of black velvet covered with hand painted flowers in red and orange, Catherine looked like a flower bed moving among other flower beds.

Edoardo followed her like the sequitur of a queen, in an attitude of adoration. While my mother had eyes only for the flowers, I noticed how his eyes never left her figure, as if she was the only thing he could see. No matter how much I loathed him, I had to give in to the fact that he truly loved her. He seemed to have quieted her sexual appetite -- and Edoardo himself seemed to be faithful to my mother.

She looked impossibly beautiful and young. A woman of over forty, she seemed to be thirty, or even a couple years younger than that. Just slightly older than when she had given birth to me. I had grown to be eighteen, almost nineteen, while those nearly two decades had imprinted only a few more years on her. 

Her fountain of youth, I knew, was the Italian man standing by her side. I wish it had been another Italian man -- Carlo, my father. But with him she had only quarreled, while with Edoardo she hardly fought. 

That evening, despite my bellicose disposition, I finally realized the woman my Catherine was -- not just my mother. And Edoardo too -- the man he was, and not simply Angelo's father. And how that woman and man lived a great love. How, as parents, they might have worried about our trip to the US  -- but as a couple, they might be secretly relieved at the fact that we were leaving them alone, to their own story -- their love story.

When Angelo went to the washroom, while we waited to be seated, I overheard the murmurs of Catherine and Edoardo's conversation.

"I love this place, already. Don't you, chéri? So many magnificent flowers!" she exclaimed, delighted with the arrangements that decorated a table at the entrance hall. Personally, I found the whole atmosphere too old fashioned, and not as sophisticated as I'd have expected. I had my doubts that Celeste, for instance, would approve of the restaurant. Rather provincial, she would have nailed.

  

"Fiori?" I heard Edoardo asking Catherine. "What flowers? I don't see any flowers..."

Catherine gazed at him in disbelief, inspecting his countenance. Had he drunk too much? But Edoardo went on, before she could say anything.

"I see only one flower!" He whispered, in a husky voice. And because his French was often not clear enough, he took her by the waist. Softly, yet very manly, in a gesture that made me think of how passionate their sex life should be like. "There is only one flower for me." he added, pulling her closer. Catherine seemed to offer no resistance, a subtle smile on her lips telling she was enjoying it. "The only flower I need in the garden of my life."

Of course, they had kissed, despite being a public. I simply turned my back to them, embarrassed.

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