Episode 23 | Last day

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As we finished eating dinner, Gabriel came to us recommending we got back to the lounge for sunset.

"It is magnificent!" The handsome barman seemed truly enthusiastic in advertising the features of the restaurant he worked for. "And I'll bring you new drinks. What can I offer you, gentlemen?"

Though Carlo didn't seem to care about the sunset in Vice City as much as he had cared about the sunset on the Île du Blanchomme. He sat with his back turned to the sea and the sun, his eyes on me, but actually turned to the past.

I was disappointed. 

I felt Carlo was not being totally frank and honest with me, and rather dubious about his relationship with Armand. I could hardly believe such an intense love would have remained platonic. Two hunky men hanging around naked on a deserted island, with no one to hold them back from experimenting? Maybe for his generation it must have been harder to act physical? Shouldn't it have been the opposite, in an era prior to AIDS? And wasn't it free love in the seventies? 

Nevertheless, it was a simple question I was asking him: have you done it with your best friend or not. With the simplest of answers, yes or no. No need for maybes, I thought, but I could understand he was being reserved, and perhaps out of respect for Armand.

At least, I thought I had understood...

Nonetheless, I had learned more about my father in a few hours than I had in thirteen years of living together, and another twenty of questioning my mother. 

The question why he had left home remained unanswered, though. He had been a dutiful father all those years. Upon our moving to France, he had taken to himself buying food and cooking, since Catherine did not want to engage in any homely duties. His atelier had always been open to me, and I knew I was welcome even when he was busy, painting. I had learned to remain silent and just enjoy my father's presence -- which was a bit different from my mother, who'd spend most of her days typing away her novels and did not allow me to interrupt her. Even my presence in her proximity seemed to disturb her when she was writing.

I then had to think -- if Carlo had been so understanding to his best friend's coming out, why miss his own son's? I was now more confused, and hurt.

But since he had started, Carlo just wanted to continue with his own story. He didn't wait for our drinks to arrive, nor for the sun to set over Vice City. He was back on the Île du Blanchomme, about to live their last day together on the island.

"The next morning..." he went on, with all his heart in his narrative, "Armand's last entire day on the island, we woke up together while it was still dark, ready for our private celebration."

As we got down to the beach, we were just in time to watch the moon set. I asked Armand, who had been my first and only master so far in meditation -- and arts, and literature, and love --, to guide that session. From his trips, he knew powerful prayers and chants, made lovelier by his smooth, soothing voice. I guess that morning he chanted in Sanskrit, or it might have been Pali. And suddenly I heard him start praying...

Lord, be with us this day.

Within us to purify us;

Above us to draw us up;

Beneath us to sustain us;

Before us to lead us;

Behind us to restrain us;

around us to protect us.

Lord, be with us today.

I had to dry my cheeks and neck at the end of that session. Lord... as Armand spoke the word I had shivered. I didn't know my friend had become a believer. In the past, God had been just a concept to us, but I guess he had changed his mind and accepted Him... The question was... in which religion?

That day was so remarkable -- in its barren simplicity. We were finally able to cherish each other's presences, without barriers, without tension, without frustration. Like it should have been from the first day on the Île du Blanchomme -- but such a long, emotional path we had to pace to arrive at our peaceful hearts.

The ocean, so blue and welcoming, seemed to be holy water embracing us.

And we must have been baptized that morning -- Renato and Renato, two yet one in our brotherhood. Which was which, the French and the Italian, the rich and the poor, blonde or dark haired, with green or brown eyes? How could we still be separated entities  after all those years sharing Yeats and Rilke, Kurosawa and Fellini, blankets and sausages... and now, love. His voice was in my ears, my voice in his ears, even when we were silent. I spoke about the wind and the mountains through his mouth, he spoke through mine about... art, music, literature, cinema, architecture and so many other things I'd learned from him. His words contained my words, my sentences had before been in his mouth. How could we have been, existed, persisted, without one another?

The food -- the food in his company turned into a blessing. A proof of love and wisdom -- how, for thousands of years, mankind had learned and transmitted skills and knowledge, generation after generation, enabling our survival as a species. And eating was worshiping the Wisdom of Memory, that linked us to all mankind, day after day across the centuries -- recipes, ingredients, pots... Fire. There was so much work and knowledge in a single metal plate that it could be seen as a miracle... in my friend's company, and through his wise eyes, the world presented all its wonders to me.

We existed -- insisted, persisted -- because the sun existed. And until the day we'd perish -- who has said "without Love we perish"?... Love being the Sun, the water, the air, our parents, the teachers, physicians... --, there would always be a gentle breeze caressing our skins, healing our wounds. Turning his out-breath into my in-breath.

No coming, no going. 

The sun, and the moon, taking turns in the sky. 

Ships passing by, sailing away, returning.

The last sunset.

There had been a last sunset before for us, in Paris, on the last day at the École des Beaux-Arts. We had watched it from the rooftop of our apartment building, over the rooftop of so many other buildings,  seated above an ocean of homes where lives unfolded indistinguishably for us. And that one sunset at the Île du Blanchomme was teaching us that, unless one of us failed to be there for another sunset, there would not be such a thing as a last sunset for us. 

Not yet.

And the reassuring spectacle of the moon... All over the world, even if from different perspectives, it would be the same moon for him and for me, everyday, as a mindful symbol of our interexistence.

"You have changed my existence, Armand de Montbelle, do you know that?" I had been rehearsing a sort of love declaration, and I tried it under the stars, that last evening. "Entirely!" How could I have guessed, when I stepped out of the train in Paris, that I would befriend one of France's richest heirs, and that despite our tremendous differences we would become like brothers? "With your generosity, your kindness, your wisdom, you have changed what should have been five years of struggle into five years of steady growth, a continuous wonder!" I was feeling emotional, and holding back the tears. "And finally, you have saved my life. And you have given me a new life in this very life, a rebirth, with your invitation for this island, this paradise you've shared with me. And through your courage, you have aroused..." And though I felt that too, it was too bodily, "given birth... to my heart."

"Tarso, my grandfather, taught me a song he learned during the war, when he was made a prisoner. I'm not going to sing it because it would be such a disaster... The sky and the stars could tumble and fall at the shriek of my singing, but I want to part with these words of blessing."


May the road rise up to meet you,
may the wind be always at your back,
may the sun shine warm upon your face,
and the rain fall soft upon your fields,
and until we meet again,

May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

But who had said we wanted to part, to put an end to that evening?

I had always been a loner. I had envisioned my future alone, painting day and night in an atelier of my own, all on my own. No wife, no family, no pets.

But Armand's invitation to that deserted island, followed by his love declaration, had changed perspectives. For the first time I was considering how lovely and fulfilling it could be to share a life with someone, the same someone I had already been sharing it for the past five years. And I felt immensely sad thinking about my imminent friend's absence, more than content to be left alone. 

Something had changed within me.

Not willing to close the day, we lingered by the fire pit at the beach. I was wide awake and busy with my thoughts, and all those feelings that were completely new to me, but Armand was really tired -- or just tired, for the first time, because the other nights he had been exhausted, and fatigued from fear and tension.

We finally went to bed, when the fire grew into red embers and then died.

If there possibly is extinction to such an eternal fire as love, and friendship, so quiet, calm and constant.





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Episode 12 | Starving, cooking, dining out

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Somehow, I was not convinced.

Since we had arrived on the Île, Armand was no longer looking me straight in the eyes when we talked. In fact, he was avoiding my stare. Instead, since the moment I had undressed, his glance fell continually on my lap, directed at my worn and stained underwear. Though his expression remained neutral, and I never saw him frown, there was a silent censure implied. I decided to accept his offer and put on the new trunks on the first opportunity, to stop that clumsy comedy of trying to cover my pubic hair to then uncover my buttocks. It had already lasted over twenty four hours, embarrassing me – and worse, annoying my friend and host.

Yet, something else was wrong. Armand trembled and I could sense his tension, as we hugged on the beach, at the end of our conversation. Something had changed – something was missing – in our friendship.


Having sweated profusely, I was willing to go for a long swim. I wanted Armand to come along, so that he could show me the spots for the hazardous currents. He was hungry and declined, retreating to the house to fix a meal for us.

Used to eating not much, after my long meager diet at the factory, I had learned to dominate hunger. Whatever urge I had felt earlier that morning, it was gone. But there was an element of pride in my self-possession, and I felt somewhat superior when my friend was honest about being hungry, and when I again let him go upstairs and prepare the food on his own. That was also new – Armand working for me, ultimately serving me.

He was a prince, born to be served. He would have preferred to dine out every meal during the École. On Saint-German-des-Prés, a constellation of cafés and bistrots was less than a hundred steps away from our door. But to keep me company, since I was too poor to dine out even once a month, he would eat at home with me. He wasn't inviting me to the restaurants just because we had actually been using the money his father sent him for other things we loved better -- like going to the movies, to theater plays, and buying books. Armand had never cooked well, nor enjoyed it. Only because he did not stand my scanty meals, had he started cooking for the two of us. Even if it was something simple like sausages – they were the cheapest kind of meat I could find --, his would have been the best German sausages money could buy.


*****

"That is so like Catherine, I must say... Ha-ha!" My loud laugh thundered across the empty Lounge. Noticing Gabriel had raised his glance in alarm, I blushed.

I had not wanted to interrupt Carlo's story, but I could not help the wicked comment. It was a family joke.

Like he had done that one morning before dawn on the Île du Blanchomme, at the interruption, my father showed no other response but to blink, and blink, repeatedly. Behind the thick lenses of his fancy new glasses, I watched his eyes slowly adjusting to again focus on me. Like someone waking in an unfamiliar room, he looked around, trying to recognize the place. He seemed surprise to find me on his Île. Or to find himself in the Lounge? Or simply to find me before him -- the son he had abandoned for twenty years.

"So you know it, already!" Carlo stared at me, confused. He blinked again, but so slowly that it seemed like he was deliberately closing his eyes. "I thought Catherine had always hidden it from you!" He took the right fist to his lips, to bite on a finger, his eyes wide with bewilderment, fully fixed on me.

"Know what?” It was my turn to blink. I had expected Carlo to join in a joke about Catherine’s ineptitude in the kitchen. “It's no secret that Catherine hates cooking, and that she would rather dine out every meal..." By my father's puzzled look, I realized his comment had aimed something else entirely different. "Know what, Carlo?"

"I thought you knew about Armand..." he murmured.

"What about him?" I insisted.

I was made alert by the shaky tone of his voice. Bending towards him, my eyes flashing, I must have resembled a predator, because Carlo sank further into the leather couch, and nervously changed the subject.

"Which reminds me... Do you remember Joanna?" He asked.

I blinked again. After Paris and the Indian Ocean, he was catapulting us to Punaouilo, the island of my childhood.

"I sure do!" Hadn't I just thought of her, mentioning the candle episode, when I burned myself? Hearing my cry, Joanna had rescued me and comforted me till I'd stop crying... and I had kept it a secret with her. "I might have forgotten other people from my childhood, but how could I ever forget her? We used to call her Queen of the Kitchen." I replied, a bit indignant.

"Oh no, that's how you called her, Laurent!" My father smiled at my remark. "And of course you should... She was the one feeding you all the time, not your mother. I did not worry about you when I was out working just because I knew Joanna would be taking care of you. While your mother just read, or wrote her novels..." Carlo shrugged, dismissing that subject. "The rest of us used to call her The Pearl, remember?”

Of course I did. Joanna had gotten that nickname because she was beautiful and black like the precious pearls sold in the jewelries across the island. Rare like them, too, a native from Saint Louis in the US, brought to Punaouilo to work on the mansion where we lived, as far as we knew, she was the only black woman on the whole island. Tall, and elegant in her signature very colorful dresses of floral patterns, in our kitchen she stood out, against the pale green tiles and the whitewashed cabinets. But to be honest, as a child I thought 'The Pearl' referred to her teeth, shining impossibly white whenever she smiled -- and she did it hundreds of times a day, especially if it were at me. I was convinced her teeth were actual pearls, what turned her into the richest woman on--

“She was the guardian angel of our small family." Carlo added, with a sigh, interrupting my own recollections.

"Why bring Joanna into this conversation, Carlo?" I was intrigued. Was he introducing the pieces of our common past that bonded us, to again win a way into my heart? I doubted my father was aware of how I cherished the memories of my tropical childhood, though he knew of the love I had devoted for Joanna.

"Just because, like you said, your mother never cooked, even when she had to feed you...” Carlo hesitated, seemingly confused with his own logic. “Well, I guess Joanna has been there from the very beginning, the day your mother and I arrived at the mansion in Punaouilo. And from the day you were born... I'm sorry to tell you this, Laurent," Carlo paused, looking out through the windows for a moment. I followed his glance, and noticed the sun was on its descent. Carlo took a deep breath and then said, looking me in the eye, "Joanna died a few months ago."

"No!" I whined, feeling the tears welling up in my eyes. "It can't be!"

I used to reply the Birthday cards she sent me at Catherine's. Each time, I repeated the promise of one day going back to the island to visit her. Just to cheer her, since I had no intention of actually returning to Punaouilo. In fact, that year I still hadn't received her greetings. But I had guessed it might be sitting inside Catherine's postal box in France, now that she was in Russia, and I did not give it a second thought. With Carlo's news, a door to the past had slammed close. And I was feeling left out.

"No! No..." Tears began to stream down my cheeks. "I didn't know she was ill..." My mother had never told me anything. But then, Catherine had never been close to our maid. In Punaouilo, my mother would only speak to Joanna when strictly necessary. Instead, though Joanna's letters were directed at me, she always asked about my mother and sent greetings to her.

"She wasn't. Joanna had a sudden death. A stroke. Quite unpredictable for such a strong woman. I'm sorry to tell you this now...” Carlo bent in my direction, perhaps thinking of tapping my knees. But just like with Armand, he did not touch me. True, the Nirvana Lounge was luxuriously spacious, and the distance between our chairs was such that he would have to stand up to try to touch me in any comforting way. But what Carlo did not transpose was the abyss remaining between us. He simply added, “I could not help recalling her, when you said Catherine behaved just like Armand..."

"What about them, Carlo?" I inquired again, drying my tears and veering from the subject. Later, I would cry more, and say a prayer for Joanna. I knew it would be more heartfelt than those I had said for Tarso, my great-grandfather, who had raised Carlo, and to Celeste, my grandmother, from Catherine's side.


"We will come to that, in the appropriate time..." Carlo took a sip of his wine. Instead of answering my question, he continued with his story.

"Those days we spent together on the Île du Blanchomme, Armand used to cook every day. I was so surprised! And he had been doing so for quite some time already, since he could not dine out being on a tiny island lost in the middle of the Indian Ocean. Though I am sure he could have hired a chef to cook for him, ha-ha!"


Seeing how Carlo's recollections, along with the ruby red wine, seemed to put him in a good, light mood, I decided to lower my guard. Instead of throwing my questions burning with resentment at him, I'd just enjoy the recounting of a part of his life that was completely unknown to me.

*****

We almost bumped into one another, when Armand was coming out of the kitchen. My eyes fell on the tray of food he was carrying towards the tables on the veranda’s corner.

“That looks delicious!” I exclaimed.

“It does, doesn’t it?” He responded, his eyes falling on the fancy Cardin trunks I had put on. One size smaller than mine, they were a bit too tight, but still, the nicest -- if the smallest -- piece of clothe I had ever worn.

In the trail of steam that smelled so good, I followed Armand to the table, still dazzled with how much his cooking skills had improved in the year he spent travelling around the globe.

"Nothing against French cuisine. Not at all!" He winked, to imply he actually missed it. "But I guess my soul is Asian… or at least my stomach is!” He said, and laughed. “I hope you'll like it, mon cher Carlo... Especially for you, the best dish on this island! " Serving me a generous portion of a thick stew, Armand seemed to be in such good spirits, and enthusiastic about his delicacy – which was more colorful than any of my paintings, with different pieces of vegetables in a yellow sauce that, I learned, was named curry. He went on to explain how and where he had taken classes in many places in Asia, mostly in India.


But he silenced, realizing I had tears in my eyes, and asked worriedly, "What is it, mon ami?" He reached for my hand, almost knocking the small Perrier bottle filled with sand that doubled as a candle-holder. Embarrassed, he retreated his hand, after having slightly squeezed mine. My friend had never been clumsy -- but that, too, seemed to have changed.

Armand had neatly laid the table. His care with the plates and cutlery, even if they were cheap, brought back the bistrots atmosphere of our Parisian neighborhood to that deserted island. It was a flair of sophistication, in the rather rustic house. Another bottle of Perrier displayed a bouquet of palms and other colorful leaves beautifully arranged -- refinements I had never known, until I met Armand in Paris. And there was so much joy in how my ex-roommate had prepared that meal for me, while I had been swimming, that I finally told him how I had almost starved in that abandoned factory, and grown seriously ill.

Not because I wanted him to pity me, but because I felt my life had dramatically changed for the better with his invitation. Wanting him to have the appropriate dimension of how grateful I was, though I did not want to use the word 'miracle' with him, I also shared an insight I had had during the morning meditation -- on the Birth Island, just like I said I had been reborn after my first swim in the ocean, I was sure to begin my life anew!

Armand observed me closely during my sharing, and made almost a minute of silence before saying, "Thank you for sharing this with me, mon cher Carlo." He seemed sincerely touched. "I should have insisted more, from the beginning, that you came to Asia with me... I could picture us backpacking together... But you said you wanted to try life on your own, 'without the De Montbelle's sponsorship', as you put it..." Armand closed his eyes for a second, and breathed out heavily. His lips were trembling when he confessed, "Those words hurt me, somehow. But after all, the money we had been using came from my father, not from myself. Ultimately, I wasn't being generous with you, you were right. My father was." He sighed. "And when you didn't answer my letter, I was convinced you did not want to see me anymore. I'm glad I was wrong." Armand gave a shy smile. "I'm glad I have misinterpreted your silence, as much as I'm sad to learn about your hardship and your illness, all on your own in Paris." He paused. "An abandoned factory, ha? That looks pretty cool, though.” His smile broadened. “I can't be any happier now that we are together again, mon cher Carlo. I'm leaving the pantry full for you--"

"Yes, I'm back to your sponsorship..." I joked. To immediately realize I was again being inconvenient. Armand was no longer smiling. "I'm sorry. I'm very sad if I hurt you by expressing it in those terms, Armand. And yes, I know... This now is not a sponsorship. I'm here to work for you..." Armand raised an eyebrow, looking offended upon hearing I was to be his worker. "No, okay, I'm here to help you..." But Armand seemed still disappointed at my words. I shrugged, feeling that, sometimes, my French would never suffice. "Whatever you are offering me, mon cher Armand, my dearest friend, this time I accept it. Humbly and wholeheartedly."

As the afternoon progressed, I became increasingly aware of the beautiful golden light that illuminated that very special island. How weird it was that Armand and I would meet again in a remote corner of the planet, which existence I had never dreamed of before -- and that Armand, who had been princely brought up, always wearing the best clothes and savoring delicacies, in his tropical version was contentedly spending the days in a swimsuit only, barefoot, eating exotic dishes he had cooked himself.


The prince, turned into a bum -- a hippie and transcendental bum--, hanging around almost naked the whole day… That would have been unthinkable in Paris, just a year ago! And there was a new tension and a new ease about him that I could not quite well understand yet.

*****

"Is Monsieur de Montbelle still mad at me because of India?" I dared to ask, as we moved on to our sunset session at the beach. Facing the horizon, I was lying on my belly, feeling the comforting sensation of having a full stomach, and the warm sand against my chest. Next to me, Armand was reclining on his right elbow like a figure from a Greek cup. Right on the edge of the water, he played with the tiny, gentle waves that tapped his toes.  

Searching for inspiration for my painting classes during the École, I had began to read a fascinating book on spirituality -- 'Philosophies of India', by Heinrich Zimmer. In the Age of Aquarius, in the trail of Woodstock and the Flower Power, books like that one seemed to swarm everywhere. I had been drawn mainly by the beautiful illustrations, but in its pages I was to discover another way of life -- and not only to myself. For, when Armand was most depressed, and lost within his sorrowful, desolate family situation, in a sudden inspiration I handed him that book. Reading its first chapter still, he had already decided to go to travel on his next vacations to check the philosophies of India in loco.

India was the most liberating experience to my friend. It changed his life. Mostly his relationship with his parents -- emotionally, he had been dependent from his mother, and financially, from his father. That's also when he started growing his hair to the actual ponytail he wore on the Île du Blanchomme, and when he had finally left home -- and his was the impressive, majestic Château de Montbelle -- for good.

"Ha-ha, I think he hates you, Carlo!" Armand laughed joyfully, unearthing a perfectly shaped shell that bore the most stunning gradient from deep purple to beige. Then, looking at me, his tone less casual, he said, "As much as I... I appreciate you."

His father would never forgive me for having thus influenced his son, on what he thought had been an irresponsible journey to a wicked, dangerous country. What Monsieur did not know was that Armand came back from India willing to quit the École. He had always wanted to study Architecture elsewhere -- he dreamed of Berlin and the developments of the Bauhaus. Contemporary, and not classical Architecture, was his aim. But his father had imposed the traditional École des Beaux-Arts on him. Having wanted to live in Paris, Armand had agreed on it. And it was me to dissuade Armand from abandoning the École -- but Monsieur had heard none of this, and held firmly to his opinion that I was the worst influence for his son.

Thus I had turned into 'persona non grata' and never been invited to the Château de Montbelle. Though a vain wish, I dreamed of visiting it -- if just for a weekend, profit from its marvelous art collection. My ancestors, I thought, all peasants like me, might have entered a castle only as servants. But I, despite my noble friend -- I was never to enter the Châteu de Montbelle.

But all that seemed so far away -- the École des Beaux-Arts and the apartment we had shared in Paris, the abandoned factory that had become my improvised retreat and atelier, the grand and unreachable Château de Montbelle, Armand's family, my grandfather Tarso and our ancestral lands in the Apennines...

And when alone – Armand had stayed on the beach -- I dived into the sea, I was seeking to set myself farther apart from that world.

A bit over twenty four hours before, I had entered the sea for the first time in my life. Already, I could not conceive living my days without falling into its generous embrace at least once every day. How I loved to swim towards the horizon, almost blinded, my face burning, following the liquid, golden thread towards the sun!

Oh

my 

God...

Dio, grazie.

Thank You

for your

Merciful Kindness.



Knowing Armand would call me for the moon rise, I did not distance myself, that time. I counted, already, on the days I would be left on my own on the Île du Blanchomme to swim as much and as far as I wanted – while, at that moment, being with Armand was the most important thing. Feeling our bonds strengthening again, I felt my path was linked, more than to the sun beckoning me to get lost in illumination, to that young man on the beach. Who was already beckoning me, with an urgency I was about to understand.






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Episode 09 | The Birth Island

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Stars still shone, though dawn had already drawn the night into exile, when we approached the Île du Blanchomme.

I traveled for nine hours in silence, respecting my fellow passengers who had dozed into a peaceful sleep after an aromatic tea, like a password, or a bridge into dreams, had been passed around. Cinnamon, clover, cardamom -- trying to guess the spices had only made me more alert. Everyone else slept in touching abandonment, spread all across the deck of the boat turned into a rocking cradle. Leaning against one another, their clothes created a continuous row of vibrant colors and intricate patterns that marveled me. From the various tones of tanned skins, the shapes of shoes and sandals, to the highly elaborate earrings, necklaces, ankle and wrist bracelets in silver and gold adorning women, children and some younger men -- I entertained myself observing all. 

Until I recalled my own melancholic arrival in Paris. Coming directly from the Apennines, probably looking funny in my rustic clothes that smelled to goats, I had attracted people's glances and stares that soon turned into amused smiles. Misplaced and ashamed, I had wandered for one hour in the corridors of the train station, trying to find the exit on my own. I kept returning to the same platforms over and over again, because the cacophony and frantic activity dumbfounded me. Like a baby taking the first steps, I had bumped into people and things, though I was carrying a single, perfectly manageable suitcase. I felt like a sad  clown, newly arrived in town -- though entertaining Parisians in my zany confusion had never been my intention. 

Leaving the boat's passengers to their intrinsic beauty, exotic to me only, I concentrated on the limitless landscape of sea and starry skies around me. The vessel creaked like its wood was on fire, as it rode the waves, and above us the sails flapped with greater fancy than my own ruined painting had, that very morning. Recalling the episode, I glanced at the corner of the boat where our belongings had been secured with rope -- in search of the new roll of canvas Armand had bought me in town. I smiled with gratitude at the renewed demonstration of his generosity -- and a sailor going by stared at me as if I had flashed a lighthouse at him, and smiling back, illuminated the night himself.

My dear ex-roommate had dozed into sleep, too, leaning against my shoulder. Unable to rest, I still closed my eyes every once in a while, and imperceptibly brushed my face against Armand's hair, content just to feel its softness. All about him spoke of a finer, gentler world that I had no access to -- unless in his presence. His familiar perfume caught me in its grip like only a daydream would -- comforting, it brought back the sophisticated Paris he had introduced me to. Remaining still even when we briefly stopped at other islands, in order not to disrupt his sleep, I caught brief glances of native villages over my shoulders. Fishing nets left to dry among torn branches of low trees, cauldrons boiling over bonfires, strings of naked lamps on the porches of wooden houses, an occasional donkey -- the simplest of lives flashed their surprises at me. Knowing none of those stops was our destination, since other people were embarking or disembarking, I did not worry about the journey. Armand had assured me it would be only the two of us on the Île.

His inner alarm woke him just in time to point me our island, delineated in silky black, set against a strip of silver sky rapidly giving into pale blue. In dismay, I calculated the tiny mass of land to be no wider than a hundred meters. Like tally marks made by a giant prisoner, palms were silhouetted against faraway clouds -- the horizontal scratch, telling the days, being a house. Since the distance kept me from distinguishing pillars from palms, the building seemed to float in the air, without a ground floor. When we were close enough and I was about to properly check the intriguing construction, the sun flooded and engulfed us in a golden current that melted and dissolved everything in sight. The house had simply taken flight in the sun rays, when we disembarked. 

"This is all so beautiful!" Like a boy, I cheered excitedly at every form being revealed by the rising sun. Impossibly tall necks with a hundred wrinkles, palm trees reached to the sky, where their elegant leaves rustled in the breeze. Or were they coconuts trees, actually?, the farmer in me wanted to know. Fine sand shining so white, soft like sugar under my feet, seemed to free me from gravity, and I glided effortlessly in an outburst of curiosity. Rocks covered with barnacles, algae and mollusks of the strangest colors, had been shaped by invisible hands to stand like imposing landmarks on two opposite corners of the island. The intense fragrance of guavas ripening suddenly invaded my nostrils, while my eyes were assaulted by the several shades of blue that tinted the water.

"Armand!" I nearly shouted, sprinting towards the beach, leaving my friend behind on the small, precarious wharf to direct the unloading of our provisions. "I'm going into the sea to salute the sun, Armand! It is calling me! Do you hear it? Aren't you coming, too?" Waking to my shouts, the natives eyed me with interest, and for a while, impatiently, I held back my frenzy. But once the boat left and it was only the two of us on the Île du Blanchomme, I was again screaming. "I want to swim, Armand! Follow the golden corridor of the sun towards the horizon... Man, this is so gorgeous!" And without giving it a second thought, I stripped down to my underwear.

"You can go on, mon cher Carlo." Armand replied, calmly taking a seat on an old lounge chair under the shade of a compact group of young palms. Smiling, he watched me intently, as I hastily undressed. "It is gorgeous... Indeed." He said, nodding, and undoing his ponytail, to smoothly wave his hair in the breeze. "Enjoy it! But don't go too far. Beware of the tricky currents around the island. They are rather dangerous. That's just one of the reasons no one ever wanted to live here. I'll explain it to you, later. Now go on," As he tied his hair again, he motioned me towards the sea, "I'll be watching you. I'll be your life guard, ha-ha."  His laugh became yawning, as he stretched his arms. "I think I need to take a nap. It wasn't easy sleeping in town. I guess I've grown accustomed to the incredible silence on this island." 

While Armand reclined the chair, I jumped into the water.

The sea. At first, it had been an obstacle that the cargo ship had majestically overcome. At the port on the Elder Sisters Islands, it had become a detestable, stinky enemy. I had almost forgotten about its existence on the boat that brought us to the Île, because it constituted only the road to our destination, far less interesting than the people sharing the journey. But once it enveloped my body with equanimous solicitude, I understood to have found the essential poetry of the sea. Feeling its complete and unlimited embrace, I gave in. It could mercilessly kill, like Géricault had taught me, or give birth to Venus, as Botticelli had demonstrated. Swimming in the Indian Ocean that morning, I met my very personal sea. The salty, warm water splashing across my chest seemed to reach my heart directly. It murmured of seduction, addictions, surrender. And I knew the goat had become a fish, indeed.

Miracles do happen.

******

"So how was it, mon cher Carlo?" Armand asked, emerging from his dreams as I emerged onto the beach, close to the lounge chairs. The restoring nap under the sun had slightly reddened his cheeks, making his smile look fresher, and brighter. If I was in the position of a Venus risen from the sea, it was Armand who had the necessary delicate beauty to play her -- especially with his blond hair grown long.

"Call me 'Renato', from now on..." I replied. "In Latin, it means 'born again'... That's exactly how I'm feeling!" Throwing the head back and stretching my arms, as to be crucified for feeling too intense a pleasure, I declared emphatically, "Armand... this is the most beautiful place I've ever been on Earth! I cannot ever thank you enough for having invited me here! How did you even find this place?! And you said you've bought it! Mate, it is all so amazing!"

I was elated, in contrast to my ex-roommate, who serenely observed me as I danced and jumped on the beach -- not because I wanted to dry myself, but because I could not refrain my excitement.  I was aware he eyed me from head to toe, as if he had never seen me before. Which, well, in a way was true. I was being noisier and more expansive than usual -- and he had never seen me bared down to my white underwear, either. Worn, loose, and wet, it revealed far more than decency would allow.

"Well, actually I haven't bought it." Armand started to explain, once I calmed down. I had let myself fall backwards onto the sand. My friend startled, but then he left the chair and we lay on the beach side by side, contemplating the horizon. "No one may own this island. But I now have the permission to live on it. And this island has no name, indeed. It was first called Île du Blanchomme by some bureaucrat of the Colonial Government, due to the only person to ever live here before, a German engineer named Herr Weissmann. He built this house." I glanced over my shoulder. Inventively constructed with the natural resources that could be found on the islands, thus looking camouflaged but still dominating the scenery, the dwelling sat at the center of the palms grove. I could not discern any windows nor doors. Some colorful curtains hinted where the rooms seemingly opened onto a continuous veranda that encircled the house. Standing taller than most trees, suspended some five meters above the floor, I still hadn't figured out how such a floating fortress was reached, since no stair seemed to connect it to the ground. "He was quite ingenious," Armand added, "and developed ways of having energy and water on this tiny island. But once Herr Weissmann died... Natural causes, it seems, but locals like to believe otherwise..."

Wondering how to continue, Armand paused, and I took the chance to again glance around. Before us, the sea spread like a magnificent tapestry of inlaid gems that continually shifted their positions, submerging and emerging, emerging and submerging with the currents. Liquid diamonds gleamed on the shore and gradually turned into ethereal aquamarines, their blue growing successively darker and sharper, escalating from topaz to sapphires, until near the horizon the water became pure light and merged with the sky. Stretching my arm, I touched the crystalline water. It was still hard to believe that I was there, on the Île du Blanchomme, in the Indian Ocean.

"This island never had a name, since no one ever inhabited it. But it did have a function for the natives in the past." Armand had a sweet, dreamy way of speaking, and his deep, silky voice, along with a precise pronunciation, made listening to him an addictive pleasure. "This was a 'Portal Island', as they called it. According to native traditions, women were not allowed to give birth on the major islands. They had to come here to deliver. The belief was that the baby had to be born around sunrise and towards its direction, so that the infant would be incarnated by a fine soul. Just as much as the old and the sick were not allowed to die at home, and taken to another Portal Island to pass away. And if they died before sunset, it was believed they were going to be reborn in a better condition. What natives did not want was the transit of dying souls, and those to be incarnated, to unsettle the living ones. That's why they separated the islands they inhabited from the Portal Islands, and sent the dying and the pregnant women with their aides to distinct directions."

"Alors, this is one 'Birth Island' we are now on, Carlo." Armand's glance met my eyes, and he was content to see me entranced by his narration. "Even though, occasionally, a baby or a mother or both must have died here, I guess. Herr Weissmann was given the rights to build and to live here because the Colonial Government did not want these native habits to perpetuate. They wanted women delivering their babies safely at the hospital, and registering them under the law. That was quite a while ago, and now the island is considered to be sacred, or taboo, by the natives." Laying on his stomach, Armand had been drawing something on the sand. An architectural sketch was my guess. Tracing a perfectly straight line, he united two different points and then said "It wasn't easy to find a boat who would bring me here for the first time... And it was even harder to find workers to rebuild the house, that had been completely abandoned after Herr Weissmann's death."

"Natives believe the island is still full of spirits waiting to be born, and dread coming here. Because these souls shall never reincarnate, at least not on this island anymore, they find themselves trapped here. They should suffer an awful lot, because of their lack of destiny, without any perspective of change... for eternity!" Armand erased his drawing, and started a new one with a triangle. "According to local legends, that should explain the strong and dangerous currents around the Île du Blanchomme, to be found nowhere else in the region. The tormented, wandering spirits cannot leave this tiny piece of land and are constantly encircling it, in a frenzied agony... But it is also thought that the currents keep them from fleeing and haunting elsewhere. It's like... with their torments, and the more they fight against them, they are creating their own chains to this prison." My eyes wandered around, trying to guess how that beautiful island, except for being so small, could resemble a prison. "That's also why no couples should be allowed to live on this island. Because, if a baby was conceived or born here, it would certainly bear one of these tortured souls. And no one wants that, of course. But it is alright for a single man... or two single men... to live here, ha-ha!" Armand turned over and sat, facing the ocean.

He had taken the shirt off, and his chest was covered with grains of sand that stick to his smooth skin and the blond hair, gleaming under the sun. It should have been natural, but I was embarrassed at seeing my friend bare-chested, for the first time in all the years we had known one another. I knew he was fit -- it just came as a surprise that he was also muscled, since he had never liked sports. An aristocrat, he had always had everything he wanted delivered to him, at the reach of his hand. But while I owed my swollen muscles -- that had survived hunger and a sedentary lifestyle in Paris -- to years of laboring hard on the farm, Armand's were exact and elegant like a ballet dancer's. Having become an adept of yoga in India was the explanation for his superb shape, as I would later learn. 

"C'est formidable, Armand!" I exclaimed, at the end of his juicy narration.  As I sat, I realized my whole body was covered with fine sand. Unlike my friend, I had sweated so much. The dark hair on my legs and thighs, on my stomach, chest and arms -- from coal black it had turned snow white. "So this island is populated with spirits. Even this beach is crowded, right now... We just don't see them, ha-ha!"

Armand laughed along. "Of course, I don't believe in any of this! As much as it creates a true torture chamber in the spiritual realm, it also creates a secluded paradise for us, keeping the natives away... And that's what really matters to me!" Armand smiled and faced the ascending sun, closing his eyes for a few seconds. "The hardest thing yet was to arrange a boat to come here and deliver supplies weekly. This is an untouchable island, after all. But money does wonders everywhere, even here!" He smiled secretively. "And since the workers have fled... they said they were being chased away by the spirits... I did not try to find anyone else." Armand sighed. "But doing it all on my own is quite hard, and boring, and that's when I thought... Who better than you to help me? My dear mate and best friend! And I'm so happy you are here, mon cher Carlo! I want to share my plans for the house with you. I'm thinking of maybe even turning it into a small guesthouse." He gently patted his own body, to take the sand away. "Aren't you hungry yet?"

"I confess I am." I replied, realizing the story about the island was over. "But I'm also hot, and I'd like to go for another swim." I was afraid I was smelling bad, too, as I watched streams of sweat opening copious channels on the sand that covered my muscles.

"Okay, enjoy it then! I shall start cooking lunch." Armand stood up, and the remaining sand fell off him in a golden rain that the gentle breeze blew away. "Like I said before, watch out for the currents. They are tricky. Very dangerous indeed. That is no legend!"

"Don't worry, Armand, I will." I said, walking backwards towards the water. "I'm not going far this time. And then I'll help you with lunch. In a moment." Again, opening my arms, I threw my head back and smiling, fell backwards into the water.

*****

Once it captured me, I knew I had lied to Armand -- I just wanted to stay in the water for the rest of the day.

From the sea, it became clear how the palm trees, growing slower where it was windier, and more rapidly once sheltered in the grove, composed a gentle green arch stretching like a bridge over the island. There were few other tree types, and I was assuming they were the bananas and guavas I had smelled in the air upon arrival, though I had never seen those before. Compact groups of rocks, no taller than three meters, stood on the two extreme of the island, indicating where the bow and the stern should be in that implausible, immovable vessel. Still, I couldn't guess which was which, and risk pointing whether the Île moved forward or backwards in the ocean. Or even in time, propelled by the tormented souls forever chained to a Birth Island that had been officially declared dead.

Just because its natural materials blended with the environment, the house's ugly solidity was rendered gentle. Egotist and self-centered in its bunker like aspect, somewhat aggressive due to the lack of visible windows and doors, the construction still seemed to redeemingly float in the air. Below and around, only small bushes would grow in its shade, accentuating the impression of an impossible ascension against the laws of gravity, as if it were a boxy balloon.

I tried to spot any evidence of the wandering spirits that were believed to encircle the island. In contrast to the immobility of the house, trunks and leaves of the palms agitated themselves in the idiom of the winds. The radiance of the sun declaimed of colors and shadows depending on his presence to exist -- and posed a threat in which all would be any time annihilated in an ethereal white light that permeated the scenery like a fog. Boulders and sand paired to emanate a discourse on the impermanence of all things. Even the subtle boundaries of the Île permanently dissolved, in the of thrusts and pounds of the assaulting ocean. Enveloping my body, I could feel an army of warm hands with cold fingers, as the currents now and then tried to grip me and carry me farther from the shore -- as if the lost souls had sunk and were trying to drown me, too, pulling me down by the feet.

And unless those were the spirits -- the spirit of creation in all things, natural and artificial, grown and constructed, seen or imagined, manifesting in movement -- I could discern no others. But I did discern Armand going busily about on the beach, bringing provisions and even my easel, from the wharf to the shaded space beneath the house. Exercise would help him keep his shape, I pondered, but I knew I had to help him. My friend was storing the boxes in the small woodshed built underneath the house -- or so I thought it was. Having swam half way around the Île, running and jumping on the sand that had grown too hot as to burn the soles of my feet, I approached it from the opposite direction of which we had arrived, and realized it was a stair. The space under it had been closed to create a shack, and was thus used for temporary storage, Armand informed me.

"I don't ever leave food here. But today, we can bring it upstairs later." He explained, closing the door. "Not just because it would be easy for animals to reach it. To be honest, I haven't seen many on the Île. And I guess crabs wouldn't be interested in chickpeas..." Armand laughed. "Tidal waves." He said, suddenly serious. "This is the reason why Herr Weissmann built a suspended house."

I was not sure what he meant by tidal waves, but that was not why I followed Armand upstairs in dismay. The flight of steps that doubled as a shed would only reach halfway to the house. It was more like a platform lacking a diving board, pointless once there was only sand all around it. Two or three meters above us, the massive wooden square that constituted the floor of the house seemed impenetrable. Plumbing ran to one of the corners of the construction, down along a pillar and then into the soil, indicating the house was livable -- but still, I could see no entrance. About to make a silly joke on having to fly, I felt Armand gently grab my arm.

"This is the limit." He warned, pointing to a step that had been painted red, where we halted. "And this is where you secure the ropes. Or untie them, like now." He slowly undid the knots of the ropes tied to both rails, in a particular order that I would learn later. Immediately, an almost silent and very elaborate scheme of pulleys started working. Light broke from above us, as a retractile stair descended from the floor of the house. It landed smoothly on top of the shed, and stood open like the inviting tongue of a gaping mouth. Eager as I was to be swallowed by it, I followed Armand upstairs and into Herr Weissmann's ingenious house.

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