Episode 14-II - The last celebration

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"Give me back my son!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I panicked, certain to get slain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Episode 46 | Sophie

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Our return trip to the Île du Blanchomme was just as painful and fatiguing for Catherine. And this time, my concern was much higher. But there was no medicine that she could take without harming the baby, so she had no other remedy than to endure nine hours of being seasick.

Fortunately, my fears proved unjustified. Armand had not yet returned to the island, and everything had remained untouched -- no pirates, no storm, no rats.

"What do you want to do now, Catherine?" I asked her, not really knowing what else to say.

"I do not know... My life seems to be over." She stated it very matter of fact, without any trace of drama in her voice. "I've never wanted a child. My career, that's all I care about... How will it be, with a child?!" Shaking her head repeatedly, she seemed as lost as I. But while I oscillated between desperation and pride, she was just full of sorrow. Even her appetite had diminished -- her sexual appetite included.

"Have you spoken to your family about it?" I didn't know what had happened during the days when Catherine remained out of my reach at the hospital. And I myself had no family we could rely on. Yet, we were certainly going to need all the help we could get. I felt so powerless.

"Of course not! They cannot know, not yet..." Catherine seemed to panic, just at the thought of it. "I must first return to France... Then maybe I can tell them... Oh, just to think I'll have to go on those boats again... they shall kill me!" After a day or two on the island, she was still feeling seasick. "But maybe they would also kill this embryo... Maybe I should take more boats! Is it possible to throw up a baby?" She grimaced in disgust at her own idea.

"Catherine, for heaven's sake!" I was scared that she insisted with the abortion. And I was glad we were on those tropical, faraway islands... if it had been France, Catherine would have already gotten rid of the baby. I shivered at that thought. If getting pregnant on her holidays in the Indian Ocean had been Catherine's bad luck, it had been Laurent's good fortune, enabling him to survive.

"What is it?" she replied, wryly, "What's the problem? It would be a natural abortion, wouldn't it?" She averted her eyes. "I've said it already. I'm keeping the baby!" Changing subjects, her expression turned from sadness into alertness. "Do you have money? I'll need it! I need to return to France!"

Just then, did I realize Catherine's plans did not include me -- nor the baby, actually. Maybe she wanted to get rid of me in order to get rid of the baby? But I had no money, and the only way to get it would be asking it from Armand... I would have to lie to him, at best, or demand payment for my work on the island. For a moment I felt so desperate that I considered taking all the money he had left in a safe at the office, but I suspected it was not enough to buy two international tickets. There must be more, hidden somewhere.

For several days, Catherine remained silent, lost in her own thoughts, immersed in her misery.

She did not refuse my company, and never again pushed me away. But she would not look me in the eye, and her own eyes looked hollow, as if she was dwelling elsewhere.

I took advantage of her silence to do some reflection myself -- to arrive at the conclusion that I did not know how to proceed. I just knew I had to wait for Armand, and lie to him about Catherine, and make up a good story about having to return to Europe with her... I knew how my sudden departure would hurt him, but a little less if I could hide my relationship with Catherine... and the baby... I would leave, he would miss me -- but at least he wouldn't hate me. 

Catherine spent her days at Armand's office, with her books and notebooks. It was as if clinging to the activities she loved most, she did not have to think about the baby, nor how she would have to give them up with his birth... To not think of the baby, nor of the future she dreaded, she engaged in writing, as she had been doing daily in her recent past at the Université. But instead of extense, intellectual essays, she started writing her first short stories, that would later turn into her acclaimed, best-selling novels. Trying to avert her own desolation was the seed to her future success, as she tried to engage in the lives of beings she created with her pen to forget her own.

When she retreated to the office, I worked in the garden, which had returned to a wild condition. I had abandoned it since Catherine's heatstroke, and didn't have much time or will to work on it after we started having sex. The storm had destroyed my previous, careful and dedicated work, and the brambles and weeds had won their battle against me. Looking at Armand's beautiful watercolors for the gardening detailed plans was disheartening and made me tired, feeling they were excessive for that tiny, deserted island no one really cared to visit. At that moment, they seemed unachievable, and a waste of my time, when I already sensed I would no longer live on the island. In fact, how longer could we wait for Armand before Catherine became too pregnant?

I resumed painting the external walls of the house. I was sure though, that if Armand was already on his way back to the Île, they would still be unfinished when he got home.  Considering the period of time he had been away, I could have painted two houses of that size, hadn't Catherine arrived with the paint gallons. And I sincerely hoped he was already on his way, not really caring if the painting was finished or not -- I needed money, and I would charge him for my work, however incomplete.

My mental confusion was the greatest I have ever experienced in my life. I ruined a painting, trying to work on it without concentration nor inspiration -- and since I hadn't bought more canvas, I suddenly lost interest in that activity, too.

I took up meditation, however, and in my sessions the luminous boy reappeared, and that was the moment when I changed my perception about him... That boy did not represent my future only, he himself had a future -- as my son. He was announcing himself to me! It was a marvelous discovery, and for a while it brought consolation and joy to my troubled heart.

Once, to my great surprise, Catherine joined me at the beach. She set herself in the meditation position beside me, sitting on the sand -- something she hated to do, so that I was even more astounded. I rejoiced, thinking that maybe the boy would announce himself to her too, so that she could catch a glimpse of our wonderful son before he was born -- hoping she would not be too frightened. 

But she sat for no more than five minutes, and I could never convince her of the benefits for herself and for the baby of cultivating peace and awareness, compassion and equanimity during the pregnancy.

As she would justify later, no matter how boring the yoga sessions had been, she had at least learned how to take control of some parts of her body -- most notoriously, her pelvic muscles -- but meditation... to be sitting in silence for so long without doing anything... 

"It's stupid and useless", she said, "when I can sit still and be silent... reading a book, though! It's a waste of time." It was her final statement on that matter. Forever.

"What name do you think giving our son?" I asked all of a sudden, one day when our silence was becoming uncomfortable. Catherine had been dozing on the hammock I had found inside a trunk -- I might have been searching for money instead, and it's hard to confess it -- and that I had placed close to the edge of the water. Although it was in the shade of the palm trees, and even if the sun was already going down, I was afraid of another heatstroke that would affect the baby, and I walked up to her.

The breeze was blowing, and for a moment I thought it had carried my words in the wrong direction, and away from her ears. Catherine had remained silent, eyes closed, for a whole minute at least. "Is it that what you've been thinking about?" She replied, staring at me, not hiding her frustration that those were the first words breaking the long silence into which we had retreated. "Shall we live forever on this lost island? Shall we raise the child here? How will she attend school?" She poured her questionnaire mercilessly on me.

I felt almost breathless, while Catherine asked those questions without waiting for my answers. Nor giving me time to reflect on them, as if she didn't expect me to have the ability to answer them satisfactorily. Or maybe she was afraid to hear more foolishness from me. 

I realized how much she did not trust me -- and how, in fact, I showed to be untrustworthy, totally naive and unprepared for such a complex situation that was taking us over.

"Will this guesthouse ever be profitable? Shouldn't you be concerned with how to sustain your family?" She inquired, introducing me to the practical problems. Not angrily, just expressing her disappointment. "What other income do you have? Does your family have many properties? Could we live on one of them in Italy?"

I shivered at the thought of Catherine living with my grandfather in a sober and dark stone building lost in the Apennines. Our simple house had evolved around a fireplace, that in the past had been a simple open fire, lit by my shepherd ancestors, who had first erected a hut on the spot. As the family had been able to cultivate and through the ages buy more land, the house had also grown to be a solid, two storey construction -- yet without any modern comforts other than piped water and electricity, and many hours away from the closest village where one would find a telephone. And I realized that as Armand's 'business partner', Catherine had imagined my life to be very different from what it actually was, giving the same princely status of my wealthy friend to me. To her inquiries about my 'family properties' in Italy, I had instead concentrated on my chest, picking the hairs that had recently started turning white.

"And it won't be a boy. I do not want a boy." Catherine answered my first question, and I then realized that she had actually thought about it, despite having criticized me. "It will be a girl." she stated, with so much confidence that I thought she knew a secret I did not. "And I want to name her Sophie."

"What if it's a boy?" I insisted. The apparition made me so sure that yes, we would have a son.

"If it's a boy..." She shrugged. "You can choose his name. I do not care. Since it's a French name, I'm pleased with whatever." And even as a subject for conversation, Catherine aborted our son, too.

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Episode 37 | Chained to a madman

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nudity and sex

In the afternoon -- lazily sunny and breezy as they often were --, after having eaten a sandwich, from which I prepared an enhanced version for Catherine Mortinné, I resumed painting the walls. When I got tired of it, I worked a little more in the garden, since the plants needed care and attention daily. Keeping myself occupied seemed the only possibility to avert the troubling emotions the girl evoked -- and I oscillated between anger, resentment and the strongest of them all, a consuming lust . Avoiding her presence did not suffice, for I saw myself constantly thinking of her, even if dreading our encounters.

The girl did not came down to the beach the rest of that day, and I feared she would still be messing with Armand's bookshelf. I also noticed my radar was no longer searching for Armand, like it had constantly done in the previous weeks. To my dismay, Mademoiselle Mortinné seemed to be the new target.

After having painted the walls for many hours, I felt like working on the canvas I had started a few days ago. Like an antidote -- since Paris, I had feared losing my art if I occupied myself too long with painting walls. Like it did happen, in Punaouilo. Anyways... I did not feel particularly inspired, but somehow compelled to paint. Standing by my easel and simply brushing away blandly, hadn't I intended to show off to her?

However, I felt disturbed by the girl's presence on the island, and could not concentrate -- I repeatedly turned my head towards the house because of some noise that had intrigued me... wondering if it would come from the kitchen where she might be trying to cook... or whether she had returned to my room and the bookcase, or would be snooping around Armand's office, where I myself had rarely entered, or... I was used to the immense silence of the Île du Blanchomme, and the noises she kept making were getting to my nerves.

One time I caught sight of her on the veranda, looking in my direction. Ridiculous as it might sound, I broadened my chest and straightened my back, but I don't think she saw me -- she must have been glancing towards the horizon, where the sun was making its way down. 

A few minutes later, she came down to the beach. Although she remained at a distance, my discomfort increased. Should I try to approach her and start a new conversation, since we had reached what seemed a level of polite cordiality -- not so much because I wanted to talk to her, but because it would be my obligation as a gracious host to make her feel at ease, to continuously check if there was anything she needed, and perhaps gently draw her attention to the gorgeous full moon that would be rising on the horizon opposite to the setting sun... Take her to the movies, like Armand had done with me.

   Even though no more than ten meters far from me, she seemed infinitely distant. The more because her natural, elegant figure was enhanced by the fancy designer dress she kept on wearing. The French Riviera of the roaring twenties would have suited her better for a scenery. 

She made me think of Scott Fitzgerald's romantic heroines -- one of Armand's favourite authors during his teenagers, he had confided, but to me so foreign. Likewise, I regarded Catherine as the sort of girl who would never have approached me in Paris. Nor would I go to her -- not on that beach, not in life.

There was also sadness enveloping her like an aura -- and not a romantic aura, rather emanating inaccessibility and loneliness.

She wasn't just alone, contemplating the sunset -- she was immersed in solitude, and not a peaceful solitude like mine. I had a shiver at the thought of a predator seeing her, so small and fragile -- her delicate skin, attacked and reddened by the sun, her blonde thin hair blown and sacked by the breeze, her amber eyes where fire seemed to have extinguished -- and how this predator would attack her, certain of the easy, vulnerable prey she was, and rip her with one stroke. 

No wonder she had so many angry outbursts, that made ​​her look threatening and more powerful than she ever were. A bit like the naja snake does, if you pardon my comparing your mother to that animal, Laurent.

She roamed along the water's edge, with her long dress lifted to her knees, occasionally dipping her foot with a slow, melancholic move. And suddenly, I was sure that she was crying -- that shudder on her shoulders was nothing else.

What did I know about that girl? What suffering would she bring inside her? A broken heart? A disrupted family? Unrequited love? A rare disease? A childhood trauma? Was she an orphan like me?

I did not dare to approach her, who had walked in the opposite direction where my easel was placed, indicating her disposition to be on her own.

Realizing her suffering would be my suffering, and that we couldn't live harmoniously on the Île unless we both stayed on the ground of conviviality, I decided I had to prepare a meal worth of that name for us. Saying goodbye to the Sun even before it had disappeared behind the horizon, I went up to the kitchen.

Someone had told me that 'in Art and Cuisine, the measure is everything'. The person had been quoting someone else, but I could not see any relation between the kitchen and the atelier, cooking and painting; none, whatsoever. I felt insecure upon mixing the ingredients, and it felt almost agonizing rather than the pleasure I took in mixing colors. Each vegetable or grain, having traveled so far to be on the Île du Blanchomme, seemed too precious to be wasted in my unskilled hands.

I struggled. But knowing the results would be negligible, and since I did not intend to impress the girl with gifts that I did not have, I tried to stick to a simple meal, with a bit of daring in introducing the oriental spices bought by Armand. I wanted to please her, make her feel welcome and accepted, thus erasing my rudeness at her arrival. I had finally understood her horrible situation in being an unwelcome guest -- and I was the one making her feel bad.

When I finally finished it, night had fallen. I had lost track of time with my difficulties in the kitchen. I thought I ought to call her immediately to have dinner, but I desperately needed a shower, to get the smell of the spices off my hands, and the sweat and paint off my body. My main intention, indeed, was to be with her at the table that evening wearing nicer clothes... Just remembering the way she had looked at the holes in my shirt made me blush.

There were two entrances to the bathroom. One was the passage next to the staircase, which was close to the kitchen, and the other through Armand's room, separated by curtains -- and it was an unfortunate accident that I had entered coming from the kitchen and a few moments later, when I had already undressed, Catherine came in by the other passage. The house had been so quiet that I had imagined she was still at the beach, instead of being in her room, reading. She was wearing just lingerie and cried at seeing me, undressed to my underwear.

"Get out! Now!" She yelled at me, throwing me out with an imperative gesture of someone who was accustomed to have her orders followed. Or did she have a dog? "This is my bathroom!"

"This is the only bathroom in the house, if you haven't noticed it yet..." I spoke louder than her cry, abandoning my resolution to be the kindest host to my involuntary guest. "And I'm going use it now, if you'd allow me." I said, wryly.

"Quel bordel... this hostel is..." She quickly interrupted herself. "I know, this isn't a hostel!" She commented with disdain. "It is the dumbest house I've ever seen! Merde!"

"If you could close the curtains of your room behind you as you leave, please..." I ignored her complaints.

"Oh, and I'll be in my room listening to you bathe?" she sounded indignant.

"Unless you want to find another place to stay. And no, not only the bath... You will also hear me pee, and fart, and when I start..." masturbating and even when I moan and groan and scream as I come, I meant to say, but it would be so immensely rude, and as much as this girl could bring out the worst in me, I did not intend to go as far or as low as that... She was staring at me, horrified already. Or had she noticed my erection? "Can you go, now?" I asked, in the most cordial tone and opposite to the rudeness of her screams. 

Triumphantly, I watched her leave. "The house is all yours, I know..." she said, shrugging her shoulders. And when I thought she was going to go on arguing, she just left the bathroom, closing the curtains angrily behind her.

Who has said that 'having a penis is like being chained to a madman'?

While arguing with Catherine, I would still notice how transparent her lingerie was, allowing me to catch a glimpse of the tips of her pinkish, perfectly rounded nipples. She had sweated, and her blonde pubic hair was pasted to her panties, a small mount that did not quite cover her opening. 

And when she turned around to leave, I noticed her butt was firm and small, and its soft curves strangely reminded me of Armand's, who had the buttocks of a boy... It seemed like my jumping erection stole all the blood from my heart and, pacifying my wrath and softening my emotions, hardened elsewhere and had aroused me to my sensations.

Obligations first, that's what I've learned from my grandfather.

And at that moment, my duty was to relieve my hard-on, so that then I could take a bath. It felt like living my teenage years concentrated in a few days, intensely, hour after hour, the successive erections I had to beat off but that would never be beaten, until, finally, at the end I was to lose my virginity...

"I thought you were a pervert, and I was afraid of you... To think I was alone with you on that tiny island!" Catherine had confessed, many years later, back in France.

"Why were you spying on me?" I had asked.

"I wasn't spying on you... I came back from the kitchen to ask you if I could eat something from those bowls you'd left there... And that weird house with no doors... I caught a glimpse of you in that bathtub, and I just backed..."

"How much did you see, Catherine?" It was so weird to think she had been watching me jerk off when I had been actually fantasizing about her. "How long did you stay there, watching me?"

"Enough."

And once the bathroom was all mine, I decided to take a really long bath and relax in the tepid water. 

I no longer cared that I had prepared dinner, let alone my plans of sitting at the table with that girl... I would still warn her that there was a meal ready in the kitchen, but let her eat whenever and wherever she wanted. Why set the table with Armand's finest china? The chipped bowls at the kitchen would suffice, and I was content as long as she stayed away from me.

At the end of the bath, I shaved. I even trimmed my pubic hair, for it had grown into a wild black bush. With that explosion of sensuality, vanity had come along, something I thought I had never possessed. Suddenly I saw myself trying to judge my own image, trying to remember the features Armand had praised on me, and trying to guess what the girl might like... Guessing I could annoy her with my delay, I was even more careful than necessary with my appearance.

Yet once more, before the mirror, I had to masturbate -- I had submitted my lust for so many years that it had finally rebelled, taking control and hold of me. Sometimes I wondered if it was not some kind of disease...

When I again heard her yell, I was ready, all dressed in clean, yet if worn and torn, clothes.

"Will you take the bathroom forever?" She shouted angrily. And only then, did I open the curtains to her room. "Since we have this single bathroom in the house, I wish you had more consideration for me and would shorten your... bath." Was she being ironic?

"Naturally." I answered, condescendingly. "Today I got carried away with... the water... more than I normally do. Are you hungry?" I asked cheerfully. I was feeling relieved yet full of energy, and in my tranquility I felt I could easily tame her anger.

"No. I have already eaten." she replied sullenly.

"You mean, the afternoon sandwich? That was just a snack..." I smiled, happily anticipating the nice surprise I held for her. "I made dinner. It's in the kitchen when you want to eat it... And if you want to eat it now..." For a moment, I went back to my plan of dining at the table with her. Candlelight, the moon and the stars, the rustling of the breeze on the palm trees, Nature at its loveliest enveloping us, even if my food was not the best. What else could we care for? For a moment, only.

"Yes, I have seen those bowls." The scorn in her voice indicated those were not the appropriate recipients for a proper meal. "I went to the kitchen while waiting... for your bath... to finish... And I have already eaten." Entirely oblivious to my surprise and disappointment, she continued. "May I ask you to pay more attention to the salt, next time? Nevertheless, I'm grateful for that meal. Though less greasy would have been finer, too..." She gave me her condescending smile. "Now... could you please leave?"

 Not only had Catherine not noticed my clothes... they were surely as ragged as the others, but at least they had been clean... She hadn't noticed my attempted kindness in cooking for her, so full of concern and effort, to try to please her, to make her feel welcome. All I did was small and humble, and went unnoticed for her. And it would be exactly like that anyway, for all the years to follow.

I felt I was losing control of my life. Half a minute before I had been excited, full of energy, and before that I had abandoned myself to an insane pleasure -- and now I felt hollow and discouraged.

I was kind of glad that she had taken my hunger away, I thought, when I got to the kitchen.

Catherine must have thought I had already eaten, like in the afternoon when I had left her a sandwich, having taken mine downstairs to the garden. And from dinner for two there were only a few remains left. So little that it wouldn't be enough for the mice, crumbs and bits that I had no desire to eat. Not the least, when I heard she was vomiting again.

Finally, I understood. An insight sprang up in my mind, seeming to come from the empty bowl before me. And it was very clear. If Catherine's image and memory, even her presence, could arouse and excite me so much, talking and interacting with her was the greatest turn off.

She was the sickness and the remedy, the enslaver and the liberator, all at once. 

And I, what was I in all this?

Another insight would take longer to occur -- actually, it came too late, and because of its lack and delay I got into deep trouble.

Well, it took me too long to understand that as much as I loved Catherine's body, I did not love her.

On the other hand, I truly loved Armand, but failed to love his body.

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