Episode 17-II | Of seagulls and airplanes

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Thin clouds traveled fast above us, the weather changing rapid and constantly. One moment, I felt caressed by the sun -- the next, it was gone, and the wind made its entrance in the bay to blow ripples on the water, and on my skin. In seconds, it would change from being comfortably warm to surprisingly cold. I guessed I would have to at least put a shirt on, if I were to be high jacked to Paris in the 70s, a time in Armand's past that probably coincided with my birth. Still, I could not move, for an immense tiredness had descended upon me. 

Being almost naked on a beach of cold currents was only the most visible sign of my own foolishness. The vain desire to belong to the aristocratic De Montbelle family line had trapped me on that faraway island. For a while, I had dared to dream of being their lost heir. But as I resignedly listened to my ex-uncle Armand, our differences heightened. 

I recalled Carlo praising Armand's voice -- and his dictation, too. His French demonstrated the impeccable upbringing in the best schools of Europe -- while I still sounded like the uneducated islander I had first been, learning French from natives that spoke it as a foreign, second language.

Armand sat only steps away from me -- but he actually existed in the parallel world where he came from. The castle of his childhood and adolescence, that was no fairy tale, still stood tall around him, and the subsequent array of private islands to take refuge in, that most of us could only dream of, was a path that he alone as an adult had followed. Suddenly, I was so aware of having been brought up in a borrowed, derelict hut, in the far back of someone else's mansion. 

Mustn't my father, the peasant, have felt exactly the same in his best friend's presence? Armand was neither snobbish nor distant, or condescending. But his manners, even his physical posture, denounced nobility. His hands would move lightly and agile like butterflies, yet with the certainty and determination of hawks, knowing they could grab anything desired. For they could easily come to own anything they desired. 

But Armand's hands never moved -- already owning everything desired.

Except, perhaps, my father. Not much must have remained unattainable for a man like Armand de Montbelle during his life -- but my father had, I thought, when I saw Armand's eyes land on my body. He had never really owned Carlo's body, no matter how much he had longed for it. 

What if he could own my father now? Finally own my father, nearly forty years later, in my body -- through my body? 

I wondered how much of that hung Italian hunk Armand had loved was before his eyes now, recognizable to him, as I nonchalantly flexed my muscles, and tightened my abs. Through the corner of my eyes I watched as my ex-uncle's eyes followed the path of blonde hair leading from my bellybutton into my crotch, the bulge on which his eyes rested for a moment, before diverting to a past he seemed to meet again, lying between my open thighs.

*****

It would be the last sunny day in weeks. Though he couldn't have known nor guessed, Armand decided to fully enjoy it by taking the longest way to his father's apartment on the Rue de Furstemberg.

Sunlight shone illuminating all things, equally and beautifully. Man could believe in, or at least be tempted to dream of égalité, on such a bright day. Yet, Armand felt comfortably warm only because he had indulged in buying a new sweater, at the prestigious Pierre Cardin boutique next to his hotel. He tried to think of that nice and expensive piece of clothing, from one of the avant-garde couturiers he had admired most,  as one last luxury before he became a monk -- as much as a necessity against the chilly day that had made him wake up early that morning to his own loud sneezing.

Autumn was a might ruler to Paris. Ice cream parlors, puppet theaters and other outdoor venues were closing for the season. Green chairs that had lied scattered on the parks alleys were now being piled, and would remain so for the next months. When he thought he had left France in definitive after his mother's death, all things around seemed merry to be having yet another chance to greet him Welcome to his country, while bidding Farewell to the fair season. 

Strolling along the alleys of the Champ de Mars, where tourists still abounded, Armand thought of the lines from Rilke's poem 'He who is alone shall long remain so; shall stay awake, read, write endless letters, and wander restlessly in the alleys, where the leaves drift.'  Despite his broken heart, and the burdening melancholy of being back to the city where he had last been to bury his mother, Armand relished on the beautiful day. The warm sun and the cool breeze both gently hit his face and shaved scalp, from different sides, as he wandered about the naked flower beds -- some of them, too, being put behind fences. 

Having already decided not to visit the cemetery, his mother having remained alive in him, for he felt to be her continuation, Armand felt instead like dancing -- despite it all. 

Paris remained impregnated with Carlo's presence, Armand soon found out. All the small bookshops where as a student he had bought piles of books to supply their 'Church', were painful reminders of the lovely hours they had spent together, and he avoided entering them -- trying to convince himself he wouldn't need French books in his monastic life in Asia. Streets he had once walked arm in arm with Carlo, turned ghostly, he now ventured melancholically alone.   

Strength to be all on his own in such a haunted Paris came only when he thought of the noble mission that had brought him to town. But was it noble at all, when it included engaging in anonymous hook ups?

Armand had been sitting on a bench just outside the boutique, enjoying both the new sweater and the sun, when he thought to have spotted him, walking down the street. Armand had completely lost track of Carlo -- and Catherine --, when they left the Île du Blanchomme. Only now it occurred to him that Paris had been their most probable destination. As much as it was the only address to resolve his family issues, the Rue de Furstemberg might also be the best place for Armand to try to meet Carlo again.

But did he want to?

Armand's heart jumped at the unexpected marvel, the familiar sight of broad shoulders, strong arms and powerful thighs. The guy confidently striding had Carlo's beautiful dark complexion, and the same admirable tightly packed muscles that no clothes could ever quite hide -- and on the contrary, tight jeans quite enhanced --, which Armand had so often admired with lustful, secret adoration. The curly, short hair, and the exuberant classical nose, spoke of strong Roman ancestry. In a glance, Armand knew the hunk that now passed his bench without noticing him was Italian -- and though equally handsome and sexy, he wasn't Carlo, after all. 

Still, Armand followed him, taking the opposite direction of his father's address. He had bought the expensive sweater knowing it was his last chance to use something so fine and fancy before putting on the monastic robe. Likewise, he knew this might be his last chance to undress, and caress, such a gorgeous male body. His lustful determination lasted for half a block, until the guy abruptly turned around to face him, and rather rudely ask, 

"Do you follow me? Ma che cazzo vuoi? What you want?"

The hunk's French was tainted with an accent heavier than Carlo's, as much as the hands he waved while speaking were bigger and rougher. Armand could not help as his eyes fell on the man's bulge, seeking to compare it to Carlo's. The guy, who was unmistakably proud of his good looks, living to enjoy the feeling of superiority his masculine appearance exuded, noticed Armand's inquisitive look between his thighs.

"My hotel is near here. Can I invite you to drink something with me?" Armand finally asked.

"You want to drink my piss, eh?" The arrogant Italian hunk shouted, grabbing his crotch, and laughing with cruelty. "Want my horse dick in your ass, eh? Go fuck yourself, queer!" He made an obscene gesture with his fist, and leaving behind a stray of Italian swearing words from which Armand could only understand 'cazzo', the guy noisily moved away.

Tormented, Armand lost his way a few times, through expensive neighborhoods that were too familiar to him, until finally arriving at Monsieur de Montbelle's pied-à-terre on the Rue de Furstemberg. He was aware that his father's lover, Celeste Mortinné, Catherine's mother, lived directly below him, as he passed her door on the way up to the last floor. It was said that spiral stairs located in a secret corner, known only by the two lovers, connected both apartments. 

Armand tried not to think of the theater's ex-diva -- whom he had never met, but who had caused his mother so much suffering --, while holding in his heart the justness of his purpose in coming to Paris. His noble mission. Even if, when he pictured his half-sister -- who was the aim of that mission --, he pictured her all the time in Carlo's arms. 

Being almost half an hour late, Armand wasn't surprised to learn through Monsieur de Montbelle's secretary that his father would make him wait.

Armand had met the secretary before, upon Madame de Montbelle's death, but for the first time he actually glanced at the guy. A fine young man of Arabic ascendance, Monsiuer de Montbelle's employee was clearly, maybe dangerously trying to compensate the father's lack of understanding, or excess of rigueur towards the son, with a kindness that exceeded in charms. But not exactly in manners, as his next comment gave in.

"Who would say beauty could be enhanced by loss?" were the secretary's words as he led Armand into Monsieur de Montbelle's sumptuous home office, smelling to noble woods, cork and dust. That single room displayed enough works of art to probably triple the size of the collections of most small Parisian museums, such as the neighboring Musée Eugène Delacroix. Beauty on display in the room took distinct forms -- elegant Greek vases, Renaissance masterful paintings, the finest dynastic Chinese porcelains, intricate Egyptian figurines -- all of them attested originals, even if their acquisition might have not come through the uttermost honest means. Still, the secretary was clearly addressing Armand, and what was supposedly his beauty, that should beat all the preciosities in the room.

Armand gasped. 

"I beg your pardon?" He asked in dismay. "My... loss?!" He could only guess the secretary was referring to Madame de Montbelle's death, which was the occasion they had first and last seen each other. But Armand could not picture his father having a man so rudely indiscreet and cruel as his most qualified helper -- though he could not picture, either, his homophobic father having taken a gay man under his service, which was obviously the case. 

"No, please..." Taking a manicured hand to his own chest, the secretary pressed it against his velvety, old fashioned waistcoat, rather theatrically beating his heart. The last remains of blood had rushed out of the young man's pale skin, that beautifully contrasted with his raven black hair, as the secretary realized the misunderstanding. "Not that loss! No!" He whined.

Because the works of art only were under pools of light in Monsieur de Montbelle's office, Armand drew closer to gaze into the other man's sparkling green eyes, shining with intelligence under thick lenses. While waiting for a justification, and an excuse, Armand wondered whether they both would be so daring as to start an affair on the very grounds of the enemy. Though far from the hunky types he preferred -- his father's employee being a thin man --, still he brimmed with enough elegance and initiative as to have Armand wondering what kind of lover the Arab man would make. The frail frame seemed to disappear under the young man's every purposeful word and movement, and Armand hinted of a dominant, rough lover, that could recite poems of love, though never really capable himself of loving. A dangerous, fascinating charade of a man, Armand thought.

"Not that loss!" The young man repeated. "That fine cascade of hair, the color of wheat, that adorned your face the last time we..." The man stuttered, loosing his thread of thought once he me Armand's eyes. "Like a frame to the most beautiful work of art..." He rejoined, "Who could guess that the painting would glow to its fullest once the frame was removed?"

Armand acquiesced. Such a nice compliment should have been enough for him, in a terminal state of desperation and humiliation, to gratefully kiss the lips that had proffered it. They were only half a step away, his owner ready and willing as much as Armand could perceive it. 

But something in the secretary's tone made Armand think that the fairly handsome man was well aware of his other and most recent loss, and being referring to that -- instead of Armand's hair, elusively used only to cover the secretary's lack of discreetness. A subject he must have overheard whispered, or perhaps even heard openly discussed in that apartment, and the apartment below. 

Carlo -- and how Armand's lover-to-be had instead chosen his half-sister, Catherine.

*****

Surprised, almost shocked, I pondered Armand's recollections of that distant Fall day -- all I had just heard, mingled here to what I learned later. Despite being heartbroken, he had not hesitated in hunting down an anonymous Italian hunk on the streets of Paris, where he had just arrived. Nor considering having an affair with his father's closest, most private and personal employee. Or just a one-night stand, probably. In his desperation, he seemed capable of pushing down the secretary on the regal sofa of Monsieur de Montbelle's office, and having him right then and there, adding to the explosive joy of fast sex, the thrill of risking being caught.

I could picture the effervescence of gay life in the 70s, from several movies I had watched. Paris -- rivaled only by New York -- was then a fabulous world of free, unlimited sex in underground nudist clubs and famed discothèques, like Le Sept, that attracted tout le monde of the international jet set. Fantasies about being there myself, stumbling upon young Yves Saint Laurent or Karl Lagerfeld, to steal a kiss or a night from them, made my groins tingle. Though, probably it would be Jacques de Bascher -- the man who had turned the two couturiers into enemies for life -- to sniff my promiscuity and come after me for a fix or a quickie. 

It was more difficult to place Armand in that wild scene of equally dangerous angels and devils, alongside Kenzo or Andy Warhol, when in fact he seemed to have stayed just on its safer, more civilized borders of casual encounters on side streets and parks. 

Still, I would have liked to think of my ex-uncle suffering longer for Carlo, for years melancholically sighing after memories of my father. Becoming a monk -- choosing to be chaste and retreating from the world -- to try to heal his broken heart. Instead, he had tried to shamelessly replace him in bed with the first pair of swollen biceps that had seemed attractive enough to him -- and Italian enough, too. 

Were I Italian enough for him?, I caught myself wondering.

As Armand's words died, I followed his eyes when they raised to the sky, where a flock of seagulls choreographed elongated circles above the bay, letting loud, piercing cries. It took me perhaps half a minute to hear the other sound, graver, more like a tremor in the background, and spot what had really caught Armand's attention. A single bird had left the circles that seemed to entertain its companions, and in an impossibly straight line aimed at colliding with an airplane that crossed the same blue sky, leaving a thin track of condensed air behind him -- but impossibly high. 

The fates of bird and airplane, of course, never met, though their trajectories did cross before my eyes. And there was something, in the opposition of the seagulls' organic circles, and the straight line of the airplane's course, and the fact that its coldness had a destination and a purpose in flying, while the foolish birds seemed to randomly and pointlessly exercise their wings; something in those contrasting forms of being -- and altitudes -- sparkled an insight.

Armand spoke of himself as if he was speaking of someone else -- an impression I would have repeatedly, in the days I'd spend with him on the island. With such good humor as to denote not being afraid of looking foolish or joke about himself. Unlike everybody else, seemingly delighted in speaking of themselves, to Armand his own stories sounded nearly a sacrifice. Not quite, for there was no suffering in his revelations -- more like an offering. And an offering directed at me.

I realized he spoke of himself to help me better understand myself. For, when I was about to blame him for so easily trying to forget my father, who should have been the love of his life, until that point and maybe still so, to shame how he had hungrily chased the Italian hunk -- just then did I realize how I had acted exactly the same, after Angelo had dumped me. But while Armand seemed to have less luck, or far more scruples, to stop himself before further embarrassment, I had instead plunged into promiscuity. He couldn't have known about Angelo, and it was not the case to say it was in the family's blood, since Armand was about to justify why he was not my uncle. It was simply the typical act of hurt men, whether straight or gay. Still, it brought me closer to my ex-uncle, to learn he was far more human than I had imagined.

Without a warning other than intensifying or perhaps interrupting the piercing cries, a loud explosion was heard, when the seagulls started dive-bombing into the pearly waters of the bay, to next emerge with their victims kicking between their beaks. Their flying in circles had been not so aimless after all.

Nor had Armand's confession been. Who, by my side, was asking, "Laurent, are you still with me?"

*****

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This episode makes many references to Part ONE of The Last Canvas, when Carlo D'Allegro left his atelier set in an abandoned factory in Paris  to travel to the Indian Ocean, responding to an invitation to meet his friend and former roommate Armand de Montbelle, and the impossible love triangle that followed with Catherine Mortinné's arrival and troubled stay on the Île du Blanchomme, until the painful unfolding when these three characters parted (click to read specific episode, some of them NSFW, I'm afraid).

Laurent (and you, reader) is the first person to hear all three sides of this story, though I must say it is far from coming to an end or being the whole truth about the events that led to his birth.

If you'd like to learn a bit more about the live 70s disco scene in Paris, you can check here and here.

Episode 99 | Nobody's hallway

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Catherine had declared the hallway of her apartment 'Nobody's Land' -- like most of the public spaces in Russia. Recalling Paris, and how there had always been fresh flowers adorning a table at the elegant entryway of the building on the Rue de Furstemberg, on her first week in St. Petersburg she had bought a bouquet of champagne roses, that she thought would suit the damask in tones of gold and bronze on the walls. Coming back from lunch, she artfully arranged them -- one among the classical refinements she had learned from Celeste -- on the table standing alone under a dimly lit lamp on the corner. The table was stained and unstable, if still classy and solid, and the lampshade was dusty and charmingly torn -- but her flowers had instantly enlivened the ambient, poising as an antidote to the decaying elegance. When leaving for tea, later in the afternoon, she found they had been stolen already, together with the little crystal vase acquired at the Udelnaya flea market. In the evening, she placed back the dried flowers and the plastic vase she had trashed earlier, wondering if they could have been dear to any of her neighbors.

Just then did she really notice how worn the carpet at the stairs landing was, to later find it had been placed there to hide a horrendously executed repair that had damaged the wooden floor, permanently. Nobody seemed to care about the peeling wallpaper, the stained mirror, the molded ceiling where rain had once leaked, the crannied marble of the doorposts -- all was considered historical, it seemed. Termites had been tenants in that building longer than any other people, she hinted, shrugging to those problems under the privilege of being a foreigner.

Standing in the hallway, Catherine would fantasize that Raskolnikov was just waiting to jump on her from behind one of the five other doors -- not to kill her, though, but to beg to appear in one of her novels. Because she was actually aware that the neighbors were spying on her through their peepholes -- she could see and sometimes even hear them being lifted, and the change of light in the holes as eyes were being pressed to them. Not so much scary, she didn't really care about that intrusion, and always thought that, through their provincial curiosity, they might learn a few lessons from her. At least on how to dress elegantly, and move lightly -- for her neighbors walked around in a rhinoceros stampede that made the crystal chandelier in the hall tremble and tinkle. 

In that hallway, that often smelled to boiled eggs and coarse tobacco, she realized the heated dialogue with Laurent was a scene many of her neighbors were watching from behind their doors. She pictured them in old underwear or pajamas, picking their teeth or noses, unable to understand more than just a few words -- if any of them spoke French, she hadn't come across him or her yet. While she was ready to go to theater herself -- wearing the new Prada black gown she had bought that very morning --, they were enjoying their homely stage with her.

Upon identifying Laurent's name on the mobile's screen, she had asked Vladimir to fetch her stole, though she was comfortable enough. Catherine had been waiting for her son to make contact, for she knew it would be worse to push him when he was in one of his hurtful moods. She also knew she should better no longer avoid talking to him. She picked the call at Laurent's second try, entertaining hope that they wouldn't fight -- but they had seriously argued, and the end of their conversation couldn't have been more melancholic.

"Laurent? Listen to me... Laurent!" It seemed like he had not only hang up, but typically, also disconnected his phone. She had heard a shower being turned on in the back of their conversation, and it was very probable that her son was not alone. Was he, ever?

"Your son is not a child, Katerina." She startled, hearing Vlad's comment immediately after Laurent had hang up. "He is old." Her young lover was at the mirror, grooming himself -- or pretending to, since the light in the hallway was so dim and on the tainted surface, images were barely visible.

"Old? He is older than you, Vlad, but not so much older, I should say..." She giggled.

"Old enough, Katerina, that's what I want to say. You should not treat him like a child. You are justifying his very bad behavior." He was at the mirror trying to look busy and self-important, as if he hadn't been there plainly waiting for her. And showing off his costume, too, because he knew she liked it when he dressed more formally.

"Not that again, Vlad!" She had chosen and bought his new clothes, and they fitted him perfectly. It was much better than the ragged jeans and the stained leather jacket he used to wear trying to look modern and European. Still, wearing formal clothes as if they were a plaster cast, Vladimir's unlikely elegance was, at best, that of a Russian mafioso. 

"There is another case of pederasty in the newspapers today. Another dirty priest." He sounded awfully serious and offended. Maybe it was his way of protesting, when she had fooled him about the coat, and kept him waiting for so long.

"And how does that relate to my son?" Catherine asked, with a sigh. Vlad's reasoning being like quicksand, she knew she was going to be dragged into the darkest ages of prejudice. 

"The priest was an homosexual molesting little boys. You are not going to defend pederasty, Katerina, are you?"

"Of course not!" She hadn't taken her earring off, and after having pressed it against the screen of her mobile phone for so many minutes, she had a headache, making her feel defeated before the combat had even started. "Pederasty is a crime! And those priests are sick, and they need treatment. But do you realize you didn't mention them in your first sentence as homosexuals? The problem here is not their homosexuality, but their pederasty."

"Katerina! Don't try to fool me! They molested little boys, not little girls! They are sick homosexuals." 

She tried to think Vlad's bad French was keeping him from being a more reasonable person, unable to express what he really meant... Or maybe it was actually preventing him from being even worse?

"That is not the problem." She continued. "It's probably because they are claustrophobically closeted, and in a position of social power, that they become abusers. Laurent is gay but he has never abused a boy, because he can live his sexuality openly, in a very healthy and happy manner. Religion, and its hypocritical rigidity, might be much more the problem here, leading to sexual abuse. And of course they abuse little girls, too, if that's their sexual preference. If they could be open about their sexuality, and have partners, those priests might not be abusing boys--"

"Are you talking about openly gay priests?" Vladimir grunted, either emphasizing his opinion, or from having removed one of the many blackhead that dotted his face. "That we should accept gay priests? And that they could have partners? Gay married priests? That's so sick! You must be crazy, Katerina!" He sneered.

"I know. I am crazy. Happily crazy!" They had been shopping that morning, and she had spent a small fortune. Designer clothes in Russia were much more expensive than in Paris, but she wouldn't deprive herself. Buying fashion was also a way to honor Celeste's inheritance, that she was now living on, and instead investing all her royalties and paychecks. "Otherwise, life would be so boring, and I, myself, so tedious! Don't you think so, darling? And you, Vlad? Don't you think you might be gay? You can't stop talking about my son, and specially about the fact that he is gay. Maybe you are falling for my handsome son--"

"You are crazy indeed, woman." He glanced sideways at her from the mirror, where his reflection appeared horribly distorted. "Of course I am not gay! I am a very healthy person! I don't desire little boys. And how can you be so sure about your son? I mean, how do you know he has never abused little boys? It's very common among gays, you see... Maybe you are hiding a criminal, and defending him!" Vlad was left nearly breathless by his impassioned opinions.

"Laurent, a criminal! That's grotesque and obtuse, and so rude of you, Vlad! I shall always defend my son, of course, whenever it's appropriate to defend him." Such an irony, she thought, when currently he keeps accusing me. "And I will always defend him against himself, that is the most important, you see." She murmured the last sentence, wanting to keep it to herself, but not willing to silence it. "And he always seems to need it..." 

"See, Katerina, even you agree with me that you need to defend your son against himself."

"Just like I should defend you from yourself, Vlad..." If only I cared for you like I care for my son, she thought. "I should defend you from your monstrously antiquated prejudices, for instance. Vlad, you are so similar to Laurent, more than you'd like to admit! I know you have been dating older women, almost exclusively. Don't you think you might be seeking your mother in them?" And am I not impersonating your mother right now, she wondered. "Just like Laurent is seeking his father in all the men he dates. The boy he loved most was Italian, like his father... and--" Catherine decide to quit talking about Laurent, realizing she was just giving more ammunition to her lover.

"Then he's been seeking a lot, Katerina!" Vlad grimaced, and his voice was leaking irony. "I read on the internet that in his exhibition are displayed the portraits of 45 of his ex-lovers... Do you think that is normal, Katerina?"

Naturally, she knew that already. Instead of being the least horrified, Catherine thought she should have kept a record of all the lovers Laurent had mentioned to her -- at least as a list for male character's names. She was pretty sure they were a couple of hundred at least, and not just forty five. When everybody thought Laurent was making up and showing off, she actually knew her son was being quite modest and discreet.

"Laurent has a big heart." She hesitated, since she wanted to mention another big organ her son had, just to shock Vladimir. "A big broken heart. And the wounds have made his heart even bigger, by cracking it open... Laurent's heart is constantly bleeding, continuously swelling..." She loved the image of men being swollen by Laurent's big heart, and that when they were ejected off it, or simply dumped, they came out bleeding like him. But it was not the same sort of blood she seemed to find everywhere in Russia, where all stories ended or began with assassination; Laurent's was the tragically romantic blood of a brokenhearted heartbreaker. "Maybe I should break your heart, Vlad." It had just occurred to her. "And you know why? Because it would grow a bit larger, and perhaps more compassionate too, so that more people would fit in it. Unless you are a coward, and decide to protect yourself by shrinking it. But I don't think you are a coward. Nor do I think you love me enough to be heartbroken if we'd split."

From inside one of the apartments, a cat screeched, and from another, an alarm clock had started. She had heard it before, and knew it could go on for hours, if the tenant had left. She also noticed that a few more pieces from the crystal chandelier were missing. Someone was either selling them or taking them to repair their own.

Vlad finally left the mirror, and took two heavy steps in her direction, menacingly. "Of course I'm not a coward, Katerina! And of course I love you! But don't try to break my heart... or I'll break your legs!" His whole body tensed, as he hissed those last words. She saw saliva flying from his mouth, and she backed a little, giving the wrong impression that she feared him.

He must be speaking like his father now, Catherine guessed. He probably would like to be spanking like him, too -- Vladimir had clutched his fist and seemed to make an effort to avoid hitting her. 

But she wasn't afraid. Again, she wondered what kind of abuses Vladimir must have suffered from his father. He had actually started their conversation by mentioning little boys being abused. Looking at Vladimir, for the first time she realized her tormented lover would make a wonderful and practical research field on domestic violence, and Catherine started thinking she should consider that as one of the main themes for her next novel. 

Otherwise, having a young lover was so tedious, Catherine thought. Because she had teased him about being gay and a coward, he would probably be more passionate at love making that evening, as they'd come back from theater and dinner. Just to prove to himself he was a real macho. It was that easy to arouse him. 

And he would also try to be romantic, to prove that he loved her. No flowers nor any presents, since Vlad was always penniless -- and she have to ask herself seriously one day if poor men were a fetish she cultivated, unconsciously. He would probably deliver another poem overflowing with powerfully evocative words, written within a few minutes, at the dozens if he wanted to. Obviously, the poem would be in Russian, and when he'd try to translate it into French  Vlad would be utterly frustrated, and maybe again find some motivation to go back to the University to study French. She surely enjoyed having the young man in her bed, but she'd like to have him again among her students rank, too. Trying to communicate with her would enable him to finally communicate with everyone else in France, Catherine pondered, and she was just trying to act like a bait to the big lazy fish boy.

It was that easy to manipulate men -- a talent that was innate to her as much as it had been refined and perfected with Celeste's practical lessons at home.

"We can go now. I hate being late." On saying those words, Catherine shivered, for they sounded awfully like her mother's.

"Well, it's not my fault if we are late." His outrage made him drool. "And I know, again you will defend and protect your son. Let's go." He snatched her coat from the arm of the single, rickety chair that stood in the hallway, where he had left it hanging. "I'm tired of waiting!"

Watching Vladimir fleeing down the steps, Catherine wondered if he was still feeling embarrassed.

That morning, she had surprised him on her computer, looking at the picture of a naked, well hung man.

"Oh, I'm sorry if I'm intruding!" She giggled at the vision of the beautifully well defined torso and powerful thighs that reminded her of the Riace bronzes -- though, unlike them, the depicted young man boasted an impressive erection.

"It's not what you think!" Her lover had retorted swiftly, openly ashamed, startling at her presence by his side.

"Of course not!" She retorted, amused. She had dated young men before, and a couple of them had declared themselves bisexuals. Vlad wouldn't state anything so contemporary and defiant about himself, but still, she wouldn't be surprised if, like other men his age, he was experimenting with his sexuality. "That's a boner in the picture, that's all. It can be a metaphorical image, I guess! It's not porn, is it?"

"Do you think it's porn, Katerina?" Vladimir inquired, and by his triumphant tone, Catherine knew she had been caught in a trap. "Well... supposedly, this is art!" He twisted his mouth with disgust. "Your son's art, Katerina! How about that?"

And though they had engaged in yet another discussion about Laurent, his sexuality and  his 'degenerate art', in her lover's own terms, Catherine wondered whether the young man's fixation on her son wasn't down to sexual attraction, like her boyfriend so vehemently insisted in denying.

So -- would Laurent's revenge come that way, she wondered? Hooking her Russian lover across the oceans? The explicit nudity of his paintings were all over the internet now, though she hadn't checked them herself.

But the possibility of Laurent taking revenge on her did not exist. 

Since he couldn't possibly know that, just once, she had stolen a guy from him. It was more like she had borrowed him -- it had been a one night affair, tormented and fiery and redemptive. She hadn't foreseen it, unthinkable as it was that she should compete with her son for the love of men. 

Laurent couldn't possibly know -- he shouldn't know, and she dismissed those memories with a shiver, her heart shattering at the simple thought that he could one day find it out.

this is the conclusion of

First Trasmission | The Heart

 Second Transmission | The Body
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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.

Episode 79 | Exile

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A few days later, Clothilde clarified my doubts about our 'stay' -- to Catherine. 

We had been avoiding the owners of the mansion. Catherine hated it when we sneaked out by the side of the guest house, through an unattended small path among overgrown tropical plants -- concerned that she would spoil her lovely Saint-Laurent summer dress, and with her pride, too. We never used the front door, since we had nothing to do inside the main house, expect sometimes go to the kitchen -- through the backdoor. Not only embarrassed to have been caught in our lies, we were also nervous and expectant, waiting for the money Celeste would send us, through Johnny.

 How to bring that subject up to him, without being rude or causing further embarrassment? Catherine would have to do it, since it was her mother's money. But she seemed to forget all the humiliation of our rundown honeymoon cottage, of having to use the same dresses over and over, and even be willing to overlook my lack of sophistication after a few glasses of champagne -- being imported from France, it costed the equivalent to many meals and, intending to save money, I avoided drinking it, leaving the whole bottle for her. A bit inebriated night after night, Catherine didn't seem to care about the decreasing money, as long as we still had some for the next day. I could not complain, once she was even more lascivious in bed.

 For whatever reasons, the elder couple had been avoiding us, too. Until one day Clothilde towed Catherine to the small pavilion by the pool, on the opposite back of the garden to where our chalet was. Johnny had busted my somewhat innocent lie -- now our house of cards was about to come tumbling down.

"You are pregnant, aren't you, honey?"

"Of course not! What an idea!" Catherine's voice was shaky as she confronted the older woman.

"Oh, you might not know it yet?" Clothilde feigned surprise. "Then I suggest you to go to the hospital today to check it out..."

Though increasingly nervous, and getting progressively nauseated from the pungent smell of chlorine, Catherine continued to deny it.

"Honey! Not only are you pregnant... You look pregnant! Even over the telephone you seemed pregnant!" Clothilde gave a little laugh, and then paused dramatically. She was in real life the actress she hadn't been in the movies. "Do you understand it? Or not yet? Why do you think Celeste has sent you here to Punaouilo? So that Clothilde..." Another pause, when she pretended to be some sort of statue, tilting her face to display only her profile to Catherine, "...could take a good look on you... and that crude yet handsome boyfriend of yours. He is the father, right? Get it now? You're here just to confirm what Cel had already suspected from your lame excuses over the phone!" Clothilde again stared at Catherine. "You, young people, find yourselves very smart, isn't it? Yet, you have a lot to learn from us, honey!"

"Impossible! No!" Catherine moaned. "My mother cannot know anything!" And then she had to flee the pavilion, just in time to throw up at the bushes behind our little cottage.

But Celeste knew -- or at least she had suspected it. And now, through Clothilde, she was sure.

Thus, without realizing it, we had already started our 'stay' on the island -- our exile in Punaouilo. 

It was not a complete waste of time since, in the beginning, Catherine did not fail to enjoy the island. We had been to the famous restaurants where the wealthy would arrive directly on boats, coming from their yatches. We had visited the jewelry shops, though not to buy, and we had even taken a look at the beaches -- however, Catherine had never wanted to go into the sea. The first two weeks, despite the tension with our hosts, were really nice and we behaved like carefree tourists.

On the third week, Johnny and Clothilde left, but instead of feeling relief, Catherine started manifesting concern. She began to see herself isolated from the 'civilized world'. It was painful to see how she missed Paris so much, she even got headaches from longing and thinking about her former life. I had nice conversations with Will, Joanna's husband, but Catherine would not address the couple of employees unless she had a demand. 

After repeated phone calls, Catherine had not yet been able to talk to Celeste, to try to discuss the next stage of our journey back to France. And our money was running out. The maid at the apartment in Paris just reported that Celeste had traveled, leaving no contact number nor address.

It was the most elegant way, perhaps, that Celeste had found to imply to Catherine that she would spend a very long time in Punaouilo -- that Catherine would actually live in Punaouilo, for an indefinite period, as it was told over a telephone conversation they had, a couple of weeks later. 

We had already been on the island for five weeks -- and every week, Catherine was 'increasingly pregnant', as she put it herself. Our plan to travel to France with several stops seemed to be less feasible. We were almost in a hurry, running short of time.

"I was at the Chateau de Montbelle!", was Celeste's bombastic revelation, upon her return to Paris, when Catherine had finally reached her. She was elated to have visited the property she now wished to occupy, and that for decades she had been kept away from. Encompassing the multitude of rooms and corridors, the gardens and even the stables, Celeste wanted to redecorate everything, to erase the traces of the former Madame de Montbelle, that she would now become herself. But unwilling to give rise to false hopes in her daughter, of having herself a room in the castle, she shot "Have you gotten used to the island yet, my dear?"

"Get used to this?! I've had my share of this place!" Catherine growled. "I need more money, Celeste, to move to the next leg of the journey, which I thought could be--"

"What is it that you did not understand, Catherine?" Celeste interrupted her daughter. "Your presence in France would only disturb my plans at the time being! Even more, now that you are pregnant!" Catherine had started mumbling a reply, but Celeste cut her short. "Don't try to deny it, child! How could you do that to me? How can I become a grandmother at my age?!?" Celeste snorted, outraged. "I have to go, now."

"No Celeste! Don't leave me here. It's so hard to get a connection and--"

 "I do have to hang up, Catherine. I have to go to the theater. One of these silly modern pieces they stage nowadays, and I have to contribute to their success by being in the audience and going backstage..." She yawned delicately, pretending to be bored. 

Despite having abandoned stage so many years ago, Celeste was still invited to all prestigious social events. Her presence fashionable and desirable, she made sure not be ever forgotten nor left out. Her circle of friends included ministers, bankers, business and industry magnates, but also a wide scope of celebrated artists -- actors, painters, sculptors, composers, couturiers. Not so much an extensive list, she cared to be only among the best, those who were top of their métiers. In the same day, she could attend a fashion show at the front row, a vernissage and a gala evening, privileging wherever she was being honored or revered, strategically allowing herself time to change clothes, redo her hair and make-up for each event. Mainly in the theatrical world, Celeste would often make appearances in the category of 'ex-diva' -- though she hated to think of herself in the past tense. She had a reputable and ever-growing collection of Art, and her enviable wardrobe included several exquisite pieces that the couturiers tailored for her only. Her fortune had only grown over time, together with the influential reunions and soirées she held at the Rue de Furstemberg, where she had her apartment, frequented by noblemen and the best creative minds. Because she favored the company of men, the insistent gossip suggested she was no more than a first class hooker -- but she knew better how to play deaf to her detractors, and whenever the right occasion came around, behead them.  

"Au revoir, enfant." A simple click set mother and daughter oceans apart.

Catherine had tried to phone her mother a dozen frustrating times that same evening, and she was sobbing when she got into bed and slapped me. "Stop snoring! You sound like an animal", she had yelled at me. I woke up startled, almost choking, and without asking, at once I knew the conversation with Celeste had gone wrong.

"You cannot force me to stay here Celeste! Not at the end of the world!" Catherine had hurled at her mother, during another phone call. It hurt Catherine even more when she heard Celeste speaking of going to fashion shows and theaters in Paris, while she could just return to our tiny chalet at the back of the property, which now seemed like a prison to her -- bare in comforts and full of mosquitoes. Being near the hillside and close to the forest, it was full of uncanny, unknown noises all through day and night.

Under the new perspective, since we had little money left, we restrained from going to restaurants, and the only food we ate was Joanna's -- that was actually delicious, but Catherine hated it for not being served with glamour. And Catherine hated me for controlling our money, too. It really seemed that she thought I was to blame for all her tropical unhappiness... even if, slowly, Celeste made her intentions clear to her daughter.

"Forcing you? I wish you would consider it as a favor to your mother! And ultimately to yourself, don't you understand, child? Your distance and your silence are necessary for me, so I can get Gaston to marry me!" Since the death of Armand's mother, Celeste attacked with renewed intent her lifelong ambition of becoming the new Madame de Montbelle. But through marriage, and not through legal battles, as it was how Catherine intended to join the Montbelle family and acquire the right to that surname. Such legal procedures contradicted Monsieur, and put a lot at risk, as Celeste knew better. "What do you prefer, you idiot? A castle or a surname? Oh, I know your stupid answer already! 'Illegitimate daughter'! What does it matter? Who cares? You know, your ridiculous insistence is annoying and dangerous!"

Catherine wanted to go to court with a paternity acknowledgement process against Gaston. She believed that the right moment had arrived for her -- Gaston was finally free and no longer needed to hide his second family, and his relationship with Armand was not at best terms. Armand was shaken and devastated himself, willing to hide and retreat and not to fight, as Catherine knew so well. Finally, the De Montbelle household seemed vulnerable -- and both mother and daughter wanted to deliver their blows on it, though by different means, with distinct purposes and from opposite sides. Just that Celeste wouldn't allow Catherine to strike. And to remain sure of that impossibility, had decided to confine her daughter to the tropics.

"You already know what I think about bearing a child when one is so young!" When Catherine had been born, Celeste had been even younger than her daughter was, and she spoke from her own experience. "How many times have I warned you! It is not only stupid... it is... a waste of life! And an ordeal!"

Celeste used to say that her actress career had been interrupted by the birth of her daughter. But Catherine herself had overheard a conversation between Gaston and Celeste, where she had accused him of having demanded she let go  of her career. Ever since, it was Celeste who made ​​the demands for compensation.

"You have used me, Celeste, haven't you? You sent me here to check on Armand's life... To try to obtain part of that stupid little island you thought he owned... Or did you actually know he did not own anything? You won't answer me, right, Celeste? But actually, you simply wanted me far away from France, isn't it so?" As the understanding that she had been used and deceived by her own mother dawned on Catherine, she was doubly hurt. Deeply, in her pride. And she came to doubt her own intelligence, too... Catherine, the intellectual, realizing how naive she was if compared to her wily mother.

"You really needed a vacation, ma chérie! Haven't you said so yourself?" Celeste joked. What once had left us feeling puzzled -- why were we heading to Punaouilo, which was in the opposite direction to France -- was now being answered by the very author of the plan. 

But Catherine wanted to keep on fighting, though without any weapons against Celeste and the exile imposed on her, on us -- on our small family-to-be.

"I have my research on Russian mystics to carry on at the Université, Celeste!" Mentioning her studies, Catherine had almost cried. Celeste had usually encouraged her daughter's academic ambitions, and Catherine thought that might be a way of reasoning her mother. "And you were going to ask Gaston to pay for my field trip to Russia!" Catherine heard Celeste sigh impatiently, and her despair grew. "Oh mon Dieu! Did you lie about that too, Celeste?" From a very early age, Catherine had been forbid to call Celeste 'mother'.

"Don't be ridiculous, Catherine! You've changed those plans yourself! It was you who decided to get pregnant! How many times have I warned you against it? And it is you who cannot fly by plane! It is you to get sick on ships! How often have I refused Paul's invitations to go to Tangier, because of you and your ridiculous fears? Now, darling, it's my time to enjoy my freedom!" Next, Celeste used a softer tone, as if she had realized how doomed her child must be feeling. "Weren't you happy, chérie, to visit Punaouilo? Everybody say it's Heaven on Earth! Don't you think it's a privilege to live on an island that the whole world dreams of?" Again, Celeste sounded bossy. "Now calm down. You are not leaving Punaouilo because you have no means, do you understand? And now I must go. I hate being late for the Opera!" To Celeste, being late meant having to make her entry in the dark, without the gaze of admirers following her, and that she could not bear!

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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.