Episode 30 | Closer to the truth

previous episode

"I agreed with your mother that you were too young to understand some events." Carlo said, gravely. "But now you are an adult, and you can use your discerning and understanding about the reasons why so many things have remained hidden from you. And the lies told to keep them secret... I'm sad that it has to be me telling them to you, my son, but I think Catherine will never find the courage..."

I felt a shiver of anticipation. And when I thought my father was going to start talking, he again retreated into a concentrated silence. I did not realize he was choosing the most skillful way of revealing the facts to me -- I thought he had chickened out.

"Is Armand my father?" I was direct and incisive. Wealthy, cultured, traveled, spoiled, a bit of a dandy, intellectual, even if he were a homosexual... now that I knew better my father's best friend, I could imagine Catherine falling in love for a sophisticated man like him, and not with a pauper peasant like my father.

Carlo laughed happily. I had already realized that Gabriel, the handsome bartender, had been following our conversation from the distance, and he too seemed pleased to see my dad amused.

"Of course not!" he looked at me, surprised. "What an idea! I'm your father, Laurent. And this is not one of those stories of mystery and adventure that you wrote and illustrated in your childhood years..." And reluctantly, because his memories about his son could not extend beyond, Carlo added, "... and early adolescence."

Carlo seemed amused with my guess. His laugh was so youthful and full of joy, and since I liked to make people laugh, I continued. "So... Armand is my mother?" In fact, I was anxious and distressed, and I could behave foolishly when I felt like that, especially in front of my father, whom I had not seen for twenty years.  "I don't know... I was an apparition in this story... why wouldn't I be a freaking aberration, too? Born from the womb of a man with another man... Weren't you on an island with a powerful spell, the Island of Births?"

Carlo looked at me puzzled. Realizing that it wasn't serious, he again burst into laughter.

"Hahaha! I don't think even the natives have envisioned such a miracle, Laurent!" Suddenly, Carlo became serious. "I'm glad you're in such a light mood to approach this story, son..." and he laughed again.

That laughter! It had been twenty years now -- or maybe more, perhaps much more, since Carlo wasn't very happy while we lived in France -- that I hadn't listened to his laughter.

Suddenly, scenes of my childhood came back to me, infused with an impression of tenderness and the feeling of happiness. Precisely that period about which Carlo had talked, when Catherine had gone to France, and it was only the two of us in Punaouilo... I had found out that I had the ability to make my father laugh -- for until then, I had been trying it only with my mother, who was always seriously immersed in her books. And she had looked on me condescendingly, a little sad at my childish jokes, as if saying... How silly my son is. What a waste.

But my father could laugh at my jokes, and suddenly I found myself creating a repertoire to amuse and please him. It was during Catherine's absence that I truly became friends and affectionate with my father, because until then my focus had always been my mother -- seeking to attract her attention, win her approval. 

Interestingly, I remembered the joy I felt during that period, and that Carlo had taught me how to ride a bike and swim, and our mutual fondness -- but I could not remember my illness due to sadness, that he had mentioned. Had I really been that sad, with my mother's absence. Or had it lasted only until she had finally phoned me to say that she was already in France? -- and 'already' meant several weeks, maybe two months even, I think.

"When I got that huge amount of money from Davez..." Carlo recalled, "I could quit working as a house painter and exclusively devote myself to you, while we waited for your mother's return... And I could give you the bike you wanted so badly... You were so happy, and I was even happier!" Carlo was moved. "You never, ever complained about not getting the things you wanted as a child, Laurent. We were almost poor... But then, you had no terms of comparison, I guess, since the natives we befriended were also leading a very simple life... Those were happy days, only the two of us, all the time together..."

"Gentlemen, would you care for dessert now?" The bartender named after an archangel, and with the face of an angel, was again hovering near us. "And I would like to draw your attention to tonight's full moon, another privileged sight of our restaurant... Our best table has been kept for you..." Gabriel poised his invitation with a sexy smile and a touch of irony, since all tables were free. "...with the best view we have. Could I serve you another drink there?"

When I was about to answer "No thank you", Carlo sprung up from his seat saying "Fantastico!", ordering yet another type of wine. And ahead he went, to the table at the corner where the huge windows converted, impressively opening to the wide sky and onto the city, like an invitation to fly. My father chatted spontaneously with Gabriel, and I overhead he was intrigued how such a wonderful restaurant could be totally empty -- and I knew the handsome waiter had rehearsed the right answer to give him.

I followed my father across the restaurant. But my mind was elsewhere, and in another time -- instead of design furniture and exquisite collection of art on display, it were breadfruit trees and messes of iguanas around me. It had wandered back to Punaouilo, to my childhood memories of full moon nights... I recalled how lively they were, and how I'd stand alone in the back of the garden, close to the mountain and at the edge of the tropical groves, listening to the unruly noises of birds and other usually quiet animals, aroused by the full moon. I also remember in other occasions reading under the moonlight, fascinated by its intensity -- and that I could even cast shadows in such nights. Which, to me as a child, had seemed so magical, as if I had gained supernatural powers to turn the nights into darkened days.

"You were a fearless boy!" Carlo had once commented about my childhood. "Not in the sense that you were brave or courageous... You were a peaceful child, with a confidence... a general confidence, in life, I guess... that kids don't seem to have at your age. Because of that, you seemed to face all things fearlessly."

And in fact, I recall having often crossed the garden at night, from our little cottage at the corner of the backyard until the mansion, to deliver Joanna one message or another from Catherine or Carlo. Despite the darkness, making the grass a wide extension of mysteries, and the nightly noises springing from unidentified sources, I walked confidently -- while Joanna herself, who believed in evil spirits hiding in the shadows, was terrified that I should be walking alone in the dark. It was only later, when we moved to France, that like her I would dread the night and the dark places, and become a frightened kid -- but not in Punaouilo.

I realized I was feeling nostalgic... and affectionate. How could it be? I had foreseen myself enraged, calling for justice and atonement during that reunion with my father. 

HOW? and WHY? I was going to ask him, with the resentment I had cultivated for twenty years. Instead, he had taken the word and the direction of our conversation, he had taken me back to his youth, to rough times I'd never imagined had existed in his life -- and to that matter, in our life, the life of the small family he had tried to run... Strangely, I could only remember the wealthy Carlo of the final years in Punaouilo and back in France, when he was already a fairly well know artist, his works being sold in a few galleries around the world. And he bought me plenty of toys, and gave Catherine fancy dresses -- things he had been incapable of doing, back in Punaouilo.

I guess I had also forgotten how friendly and charming Carlo was, despite being shy -- or exactly for that. And how he could subtly change situations and even people's dispositions to his favor -- just like he was now doing it with me.

But that's not true. 

I had not forgotten it, and that was certainly part of my resentment -- why had I been deprived of his warm, affectionate presence for so long?

"After Armand left, I led a life of solitude, discipline and austerity on the Île du Blanchomme. But because they had been merrily self-imposed, it was a life of great peace and happiness, too." Carlo recalled, a discreet smile lighting his face.

"Every morning, I'd wake up before sunrise for my meditation session, and to the apparition that intrigued and comforted me at the same time." Carlo paused briefly, as if to punctuate my previous explosion at the mention of the apparition. He smiled sweetly, when this time I remained silent and attentive. "I still hadn't deciphered it. I was yet to understand the message it brought me, but which I nonetheless perceived to be that of a good future. And thus I grew very fond of the apparition, and that's how it started keeping me company on the Île du Blanchomme."

I worked diligently in the garden, always on the shaded side of the house, to be gentle with the plants and with myself. Gradually, I managed to clean the weeds and the dead plants, and started applying compost to the soil. In response, the seeds finally started germinating and would grow many seedlings. It was a lovely sight, and the myriad of buds seemed to bolster the energy of the island!

 With equal commitment and determination I painted daily, although I hadn't yet found a theme in that lush part of the world -- unlike the old abandoned factory, where the decay and decrepitude all around had fascinated and stimulated me.

I still practiced every day, to soon realize the canvas scrolls that I had brought with me would soon end. At some point, I'd have to leave the island to buy more -- not that I had the faintest idea about where to go. I sensed that when that time came, I should take the boat from the Île and just ride it to its final port, probably the same one where I had embarked with Armand. But at that moment, I did not even want to think about that!

Like formerly in the factory, I felt no desire to go out and face the world. My mind was the only wanderer, and sometimes I thought of my grandfather Tarso. How would he have reacted to the letter I had sent him from Paris, shortly before leaving for the Indian Ocean, saying I did not know exactly where I was heading to, leaving him no address, and saying that it was for an indefinite period? How would those careless lines and vague news about my plunge into the vast, unknown world have struck him, he who lived a rather simple and solitary life of a peasant widower, isolated in the high mountains? 

Now in my heart I apologized to him, for being so cold and uncaring. And I promised myself to start soon writing another letter, that I would somehow send to him, describing my tropical idyll and renewed happiness.

When I thought about Armand, however, I was still saddened. Sure, we had already been separated before. Like when after we graduated, he had left for his tour around Asia. It had been without the promise of reuniting even, and yet I hadn't felt his absence so much. 

But unlike Paris and the factory I had occupied on my own, at the Île du Blanchomme all things made ​​me think of him. I felt like I hadn't absorbed his presence enough -- though he had always been wise and generous during our Parisian years, after the crisis in his family and his experiences in India, he had become ​​far warmer, and more intense, more sincere, more affectionate.

Armand seemed to acquire a new importance in my life, more essential, and deeper... I started wondering if what I was feeling... affection... tenderness... a longing... wasn't it what people called love? I had read novels, I had watched movies and plays, and yet, experiencing it was completely unexpected and new to me.

"And suddenly, being in love with my best friend seemed so natural and welcome..." Carlo sighed.

Listening to my father's words, at that point I thought I knew what he was going to tell me next. 

Our conversation had lasted only a few hours yet, but I already sensed where his narrative was leading us to.

An answer, and an excuse to have abandoned me and my mother -- and they both bear the same name: Armand de Montbelle.

next episode

Episode 29 | The Sunrise Son

previous episode


A few days went by and didn't lay eyes on Davez, although I had resumed painting the house, giving the finishing touches. Barbara was always at the pool, but I never approached her, and she didn't walk up to me either. Maybe she could feel the tension and extension of my desire for her, but it seemed she didn't nourish any sexual fantasies with a wall painter, no matter how hung, and thus she avoided me.

Just once she told me, showing a bit of happiness and enthusiasm, that Davez had again locked himself in the studio, since that last night he had talked to me. Composing. He would leave the studio for his basic needs only -- and by her languid sigh I imagined that she herself would have been one of his most basic needs.

Years later, I would discover that Davez had come to the island in a renewed attempt to get away from drugs and the depression that made him incapable of composing -- such a long creative hiatus that the music industry had practically forgotten him, if not his glorious past stardom. He himself had become invisible -- a ghost of his former self. Just like me.

"I'm a ghost now" he had told Barbara in one of his worst moods. "Aren't you afraid of ghosts, Schatz? Perhaps you should be afraid of me..." But that had been before, in London. Once in Punaouilo, having met and spoken to me, ghosts had taken on a different aspect and perspective to him.

Barbara, who had never even smoked, and drank only pineapple juice, was his great support at that time. She truly loved and admired him, both as a man and as a musician, and she was happy with his new creative phase, that she perceived as having sprung from me -- and thus she had begun to sympathize with me. But she never failed in treating me like a mere employee, though I wasn't on their payroll, asking me to clean the pool and water the garden. For all matters, they had never even hired me, but I was happy to serve them.

During Davez' period of isolation, I was summoned to the art gallery by Danny Douxis. He treated me more politely than he ever had. I had been recommended to him through the friend of Catherine's mother, who owned the mansion we lived at as a favor. But I felt Douxis was working with me much more because he was interested in the people who had recommended me, and not exactly for the quality of my paintings.

Douxis wanted to know more about my relationship with the rock star, since he was convinced of selling at least one of my paintings to Davez.

"He has some exotic taste! Oh, exotic like the man himself..." Danny moaned and rolled his little eyes, two little green dots on a perfectly round, plum face, thus demonstrating his pleasure. "Remember how I said that your paintings were exotic, Carlino darling? Wasn't I right?" he had clapped his fat hands. "Now, someone who has an exotic taste wants to buy them! See the connection? I had envisioned it, hoho!" And next, for the first time since we had started making business, he asked me to bring more paintings to his gallery. 

But because I had been painting more walls than canvases, I had nothing new to offer him.

However, Davez' interest in my paintings finally did touch me, and I resumed painting with enthusiasm, even though they were all blue, following Danny's trends.

At that time, I had been trying to paint the water as a theme. Especially its reflections, and I used both the swimming pool of our colonial mansion, near to which I kept my easel, as much as the Pacific Ocean just across the street. The glimmer, the shimmer, twinkles and sparkles, the interactions between light and water had become my obsession.

A long time went by without news from Davez and Barbara. Having earned some money, our needs reduced once Catherine and her demands were gone, I could spend several days in a row, dedicated to painting and playing games with you, Laurent.

And just because local society was so reduced outside the high season, and there was always a lot of gossip free flowing, did I learn that the stellar couple remained housed on the island. Apparently, the rock star had swum naked one night -- in fact, he had already left his mansion naked, had crossed the street, swam in the ocean and then came back home. 

Two, three weeks had already passed since I had finished painting their rented mansion, and I thought they had forgotten me.

Then, one afternoon, Barbara called and left a message with Joanna. Davez wanted to see me and my paintings, and they would stop by to visit me that evening.

I had little time to prepare myself, choosing the paintings I liked best and stacking them in the garden -- and to hide you, Laurent, for by no means I wanted the rock star to meet the boy from the song he had composed. I could not imagine what his reactions would be at your intriguing temperament, quiet and centered at six years old, with the presence of an ancient sage and the appearance of an old man, with your white hair. He had flipped at less than that, and I guess I feared he could kidnap you. His attitudes were often beyond comprehension, and I felt I could not trust him.

I did not want to share my son with Davez Drew -- not more than I already had, anyway.

An unforgettable night it was, and in many ways, it would change my life.

I hadn't known yet, but Davez and Barbara had already decided to leave the island, without having remained the three months for which they had rented the house. Nothing against Punaouilo -- the rock star wanted to return to London as soon as possible to start recording with a band the songs he had been composing on the island.

And I had misjudged him. Davez was a very generous man, as I was to discover shortly. 

I now think he came to our house that night with a clear intention, yet unknown to me. I had imagined he also wanted to visit the colonial mansion, one of the oldest buildings on the island, but he squinted and said "Creepy", going straight to the backyard garden where my 'studio' was set.

"Tonight, it's your turn to show me your songs and poetry." he told me upon arrival, unexpectedly hugging me.

That evening, Barbara was looking more beautiful than ever, and she gave me a charming smile, like never before. She looked relaxed and happy -- and she had reasons indeed to feel like it, seeing Davez healthy and active again, all dedicated to his music. And she could be considered successful, too, since all other Davez female companions had only managed to drag him deeper into the hole, and away from his inspiration. 

Barbara would be forever remembered as his savior, the companion of his revival, and in one of the tracks from his legendary album'All things transient', Davez would ask her to record the reading of a long poem about transcendental love, dedicated to herself.

Under the light of the stars, and by a single gas lamp that I had borrowed, emanating a not very poetical but cold, hard light, Davez contemplated at length each of the paintings I showed him. He listened carefully to what I had to say about them, although it may have been not more than its title, if they had had one, and the places where they had been painted. I wasn't very eloquent, I surely didn't feel like I was selling him anything. It was more like as if I was telling him a secret, still reluctantly, for I had come to like him, but not completely trust the rock star. 

That evening, I found out about Davez almost psychic sensitivity, as I proceeded with that little retrospective of my paintings. About one of them, that I had painted in the old abandoned factory, when I was sick and starving, he said "It hurts, man." On the first canvas I had painted in Punaouilo, after having left the Île du Blanchomme with Catherine, he said "It hurts even more." I don't think I have ever found anyone again to feel pain from looking at a painting -- I've seen people cry, I've seen people disgusted, shocked or be touched, but nothing like Davez' feelings.

But it was my most recent water series that made the strongest impression on him. He stared at the first blue canvas before him, and confessed it was giving him goose bumps.

"Ghostly..." was the first word he used. And coming from him, I could understand it was a compliment. "It is a light hole... I'm falling into your painting, man... Hold me..." I had to actually grab him, but his momentary dizziness might have been caused by drinking a bit too much at dinner, for I could smell the whiskey, or perhaps by the uncertain gas lamp light that kept flickering in the garden. I never thought my paintings would affect a person like they hit on the rock star.

"How did you do it, man?" He was breathless. "You have erased the canvases with your painting... Do you know what I mean? Your canvases... They are invisible... transparent... nonexistent..." He was ecstatic. "You've turned the canvas itself into water... No, into light!" He groaned. "Man, how could you do that?! You have transmigrated these canvases! Man! You are a fucking painting god..."

He was elated, and I was astonished. Even more when, after having seen all my paintings, he finally announced that he wanted to buy them. Not from Danny Douxis -- he wanted to acquire them directly from me.

Three from the older ones, and all three from the most recent series, although they were still unfinished. I was surprised, and did not know what price to give him, but figured they should cost less than in Douxis gallery, when Davez could already have inquired for their prices. Thus I gave the rock star a massive discount, based on the percentage the dealer would have taken from me.

And I finally understood his intent for that visit. Even if I had shown him a collection of scribbled napkins, he would have known how to praise them, and would have chosen a few to buy from me. He wanted to reciprocate.

That night, Davez gave me more money than I had ever seen in my entire life. And valuable advice.

"Too cheap, man. Never sell yourself cheap." He had refused my prices, paying many times more than I had asked. "Your art is grand. Never give up." He shook me by the shoulders, as if trying to turn on a machine that had stopped. "You have a great talent. I love it. Really do." He took my head in his hands, and pushed me towards his face. I thought we were going to kiss, but we just stood there, our foreheads touching, as he praised me. "And I can give you twenty times this amount, yet it would never have been enough to thank you. Thank you. But I think I can help you. More. Later. Forever." It was a promise, that I hadn't yet understood. And Davez would honor it, as long as he still lived.

They then told me they had come to say goodbye, and Barbara even kissed my cheek. "Thank you for all." she said, tenderly. 

We would never again be reunited, not the three of us.

Surely enough, Danny Douxis learned about my deal with the rock star. Perhaps he had even seen the paintings being carried away from the mansion where we lived, to be packed and shipped to England. After Davez and Barbara's visit, I still had had a few days to retouch the paintings, but not enough to be satisfied with them. Davez, however, did not consider them unfinished -- he had called them 'brut'.

'"Natural like a rock, man. You're a rock." Again without knowing it, it was as if he was connecting to my mountainous roots. "Like your poetic lines. Simple. Direct." the musician had told me, as if reading my soul, "Do not try to be like the diamond. It would be artificial. It's not you." he had advised me.

Danny was furious with me about the deal that had excluded him, and kicked me out of his gallery, accusing me of being unethical. I tried to explain to him that Davez had chosen some old paintings, which he himself had already seen and despised, and others that were still unfinished.

"Liar! They were blue!" he screamed, "And blue was my idea! You cheater!"

Unfortunately, a year later he had humbly to apologize, trying to have my work placed and selling at his gallery again.

 Because we were to find out, when Davez' album was released, that the musician had chosen one of my blue paintings for the cover. His agent had sent me the copyrights contracts, and I just signed them without reading, thinking I was again helping my famous friend, instead of the opposite. Even nowadays, 'All things transient' is among the best LP covers of the century. I keep getting compliments for that painting from almost thirty years ago. People still send me poems and songs inspired by that painting. As you might have heard, Laurent, it was exactly the painting to be sold for a million bucks, after Davez death.

But what happened at that time, the beginning of the 1980s, was that my work suddenly became known and desirable. Davez, besides mentioning my name in some interviews, always referring to me as a "fucking painting god", had recommended me to a major art dealer in London, Martius Dall. Who, even before the album had been released, and prior to all the visibility that the cover was to give me, had sent a carrier to acquire all my blue series paintings. And so I began being represented in London, and soon after, a gallery in California followed... Since I had no paintings in stock, I was especially commissioned by them, and even received cash in advance... Davez' appreciation of my work changed my life! After his studio in Punaouilo, I never had to paint walls again... Pretty symbolic, don't you think?  But it was your apparition, Laurent, to change his life and my life as well... Do you realize it now? And how the 'Sunrise Son' became a mythical song, even to me?

I was feeling overwhelmed. After my father's story, I promised myself to listen one more time to the song, and even to that album. In the rarities market, I owned the most expensive of all copies, dedicated 'to the Sunrise Son' by Davez Drew himself. Usually, when listening to it I was troubled from the very beginning, with bells ringing at the song's opening, and would even get a headache with the guitar becoming louder and more pungent as the sun was rising... The poem however, was beautiful.

The sweetest seed

to a love so luminous,

The sunrise son.

The resounding silence

of a blessed birth,

The sunrise son

 And like Carlo had given Davez the hint, the poetry had been recorded spoken, and not sung. The words had not been added to the songs as lyrics, which made the album so unique and special.

"Thank you for telling me this story, Carlo..." I was sincerely grateful, and moved. "And I apologize for having lost patience, and being rude at you. But..." An important detail, maybe a fundamental thing, drew my attention during the story. "At some point you said... you left the Île du Blanchomme along with Catherine... Didn't you say that?"

"That's right ..." Carlo replied quietly, averting his gaze to watch the immense moon slowly rising over Vice City.

"But how could she be there with you?" I gulped, swallowing painfully. "Haven't you met in Punaouilo, where I was born?" I asked, puzzled. 

That had been the story I had heard from them all my life.

"No." Carlo replied simply, turning a sad gaze back on me. He seemed embarrassed. "I mean... yes, you were born in Punaouilo. But it wasn't there that Catherine and I met..." Carlo sighed heavily. Having been caught, he no longer wanted to deny anything. "We finally come to the hardest part of this story, Laurent." He made another pause, and I realized fear growing in me. "The part that no one ever told you. The part in which Catherine made ​​me an accomplice, forcing me to lie to you, along with her."

next episode

Davez Drew 1981 album

cover painting by Carlo D'Allegro

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.