Episode 21. II - Porn and Practice

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nudity and sex 

"I am leaving. The Sangha has no place for me, and I don't intend to camp under torrential rains." Dave briskly told Armand, a few days later. Building proper accommodations, no matter how rudimentary, was taking longer than expected, and the monks could not host the novice Surfer Monk -- who confessed to having left another Sangha farther South, where the Rains Season lasted even longer, when mould started growing on his feet. 

Nor shall they host me, Armand concluded, at his colleague's announcement, glad to be able to pay for the house on the lake, indefinitely.

"Come stay with me, Brother Dave!" Armand mouthed, from within a thick, confusing haze of lust and romantic expectations that blinded him. Longing for another relationship that would make him forget Carlo, and too eager to please ever evading Dave, Armand believed to be thus giving them a chance. Becoming roommates, their friendship should deepen, and expand its limits, and meanings --for it had, with Carlo, and in the isolation of the forest, he hoped it also would, with Dave.

Without formally accepting Armand's offer, ever, Dave was instantly throwing a list of urgent practical measures to face the Rains Season. After inquiring around, they found a native who, having a pile of unused wooden planks, willingly sold them at Armand's generous offer. 

In silent agreement -- Dave being very strong and skilled with tools, while Armand held the know-how -- they formed a team that worked magically smooth. Without any discussions, tasks were naturally divided according to their own talents, while any cooperation was a happy occasion for harmonizing and leveling their efforts, so that they progressed efficiently. Always implying in more sweat and sore muscles from one, and more concerns, calculations and sleepless nights from the other, together they built a reinforced roof, properly inclined towards the lake to drain the rain. Firm, windowless walls followed, to close a corner of the floating platform. They were invaded by a sense of great accomplishment at every step they concluded, and the physical work bonded them way stronger than the spiritual practice ever had. In less than a week, walls facing three directions -- the fourth was left open to be sheltered by curtains, that would be open whenever possible to welcome the sun and try to combat the mould --, two bedrooms of humble proportions had been erected. They called these  -- that, in their bare simplicity, did resemble monastic cells --, their 'private monastery'.

*****

Armand counted the roll films he had already used, photographing the plants and flowers in the nearby grove, wondering when -- and if -- he would ever have them developed. To see their outcome, or to renew the stock, he would have to go to Bangkok someday -- and the perspective did not thrill him. Maybe he would become a monk after all, and the rolls he now stored in a protective plastic bag might be forgotten or trashed when he finally, and definitely, robed. Maybe he should send them to Paris, to Monsieur de Montbelle, as a farewell gift -- and in an impulse, he wrote his father's Parisian address and labeled the bag before storing it.

He had enough rolls to go through the Rains Season and, most important, to document the undergoing transformation of the house on the lake. A register for posterity, was what Armand kept telling himself -- but in the back of his mind, he kept thinking of Carlo, and how he wished to have bought that camera and have it on the Île du Blanchomme already, where he could have photographed his Italian ex-roommate. He owned but a single self-portrait by Carlo, now safely stored in Paris, and olny a couple of Polaroids, made by a colleague at the École, kept inside a book he no longer remembered which, to remind him of the beautiful Roman profile of his lost love. 

This time, though, he would not miss the opportunity of photographing his new roommate and newfound love, the Super Surfer Monk.

"Smile!" he said, before snapping the first picture of Dave, feeling goose bumps as the other man's rough beauty, his chiseled profile enhanced by the frame of the visor, was supposedly captured in a click. Armand quickly readjusted the focus, when Dave turned to face him, and it was through the lens that he watched rage petrify his friend's face who, letting a roar -- that sent in flight a pair of birds that had built a nest on the awnings of their rooms --, leaped across the bridge towards Armand.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" He yelled.

The bridge trembled when Dave landed at Armand's side, at once colliding with him like a well trained quarterback would. Trying to snatch the camera from Armand's hand, who had instinctively lowered the expensive object to protect it from the collision, Dave instead hit Armand in the face. The punch was strong enough to make the smaller man swirl on his feet, and lose balance. He was about to tumble overboard into the lake when Dave pulled him -- not so much to keep Armand from hitting the water, but to snatch the camera from his hand.

"Fucking give me that!" The bigger man cried, at that same moment taking possession of the equipment with a firm grip.

"Non! What are you doing?" Armand whined, when he saw Dave was about to throw the camera into the lake. "What is wrong with you? Arrête!" He had been screaming in French, and the command in a foreign idiom seemed to make Dave hesitate for a moment, and finally detain him.

Dave let the camera fall to the floor. With a metallic bang, it kicked on the wooden planks, rolling away. Making the whole bridge shake, Dave dropped noisily onto his knees, a short and dangerous distance from where Armand had fallen, coiling. 

Armand's legs trembled uncontrollably. He observed how his hands shook while he checked his face -- still hot and stinging, the cheek reddened from the blow --, for any more signs of blood, other than what he felt filling his mouth.

"I'm sorry, man." Dave said, placing a sweaty hand on Armand's shoulder, who actually shook it off, dragging his body away. "I don't like being in pictures." He hissed.

"You don't like it?" Armand retorted, incredulous. His voice sounded groggy. The blood made a thick paste in his mouth, while he tried to check with his tongue for any broken tooth. Cautiously, he glanced at the capsized camera, sitting next to a column, many feet away. Like himself, its exterior looked intact. The lens had not broken. But was it functioning still? The matter now was not how expensive it had been. Had it been damaged, Armand doubted he would find someone to fix it, even in Bangkok. He wanted to crawl towards it, but suddenly aware of the novice monk's menacing strength, Armand was afraid at Dave's next violent reaction. What if he tried to retrieve the camera? How would the man try to stop him, this time? "But why?" 

"I fucked it up, man!" Dave cried. Aggressiveness giving way to sadness, his jaw relaxed as tears welled up in his eyes. "I fucked up my life, that's why!"

Seeing the other man's aggressive posture start to loosen, though his swollen muscles -- which Armand had gladly admired during their labor -- had acquired a menacing quality that was, from then on, impossible to dissociate from their sculptural aspect, Armand relaxed too. He decided to sit closer to the novice monk who, despite a certain feverish glow in his blue eyes, that indicated he was not quite lucid and at peace yet, embarked on a story murmured at a low voice that, aimed at justifying his impulse of violence, complemented and clarified his testimony at breakfast, just a few days ago.

The money not being that good, and having never settled with the many oddities of the lumberjack's community, nor ever finding a proper, fixed work post, after many months of trying to fit in, loosing his wages in gambling and drinking and with prostitutes, Dave had decided to venture in another direction. With little money left, he boarded a bus headed to California. He was convinced that he would become an actor, having been convinced that he could become an actor. Before embarking, he had phoned that one film crew member, who had not only given him Kerouac's book -- with his home telephone inscribed on the first page --, but also waved with the possibility of inserting Dave in the movies industry, that he called 'the entertainment industry', to be more specific -- or perhaps more generic? Hosting him in California for a modest fee and some personal favors, the guy -- who had taken Dave's virginity back at the farm -- did just as promised. A few days only after his arrival in Los Angeles, Dave was filming already. 

"With Jack Wrangler!" Dave stated proudly, a smile -- that still held a sinister quality to it -- contorting his mouth. "It was my first scene, and I was with The Man, already!"

Armand tried to recall all B or independent directors from the American movies he had ever watched, at the Cinématèque Française, and even some lesser known actor thus named -- and he blushed when he finally understood Dave was speaking of a whole other kind of movie. Armand had been only twice to porn theaters in Paris, and he could not claim to have watched the movies, for they were more a bait to gather the crowd who actually wanted only to find sexual release in the audience. Armand recalled the ambient of abundant, anonymous, affectionless sex sessions in the dark, to access his own guilt, trying to empathize with Dave's.

Oscillating between pity and perplexity, Armand listened to Dave's confession, as it oscillated too, between pride and shame. 

No longer a newcomer, but still bearing his ways in the porn industry, he had quickly fallen from a promising act and a prodigy to making just enough money to survive, shooting less scenes each month as he became less of a novelty. Though hung and more handsome than most actors, he had proven exceedingly histrionic -- and worse, unworthy of trust. Substituting him soon proved easier than waiting for him, who was never punctual, and often quarreled, and twice abandoned the set. He was also considered too dry for the money shots, since he never spared his semen in his other professional encounters -- for he was kept busier and earned much more in prostituting himself on the boulevards. 

To bear the doubts and torments of his new, unwanted life, he soon was doing drugs -- and next selling them, as another means of making money. In his first year in town, he'd been to jail several times, but luckily, nearly got killed just once. When he almost died from overdoses, having been saved just because a bunch of guys had dragged and deposited him in front of a hospital, he finally quit everything to come to Thailand, a little after having been kicked out by his host, who had concluded he was more trouble than fun. Why Thailand, Dave never clarified.

"I've never been happier than here, you know." David confessed, not without losing the inward, overcast look his eyes had kept while he recollected, seemingly blind to his present moment. 

Was here Thailand in general, or the Sangha, or the house on the lake?, Armand asked himself.

"Never happier than as a monk." Dave complemented. "Because I know I cannot go back."

"To the US?" Armand asked shyly, still feeling defensive, his voice thinner than usual, despite the thick paste of blood circulating in his mouth, that he dare not spit out.

"Yeah, also." Dave glanced towards Armand, without really seeing him. "But I cannot go back to normal life. You see, my movies -- they are all out there. I met this guy, once, who immediately recognized me, from a scene where a played a cowboy who is tied down by three Indians and..." Dave nodded gravely, at what seemed unpleasant recollections. "He had only watched it, and yet thought he knew me. He thought I was that guy from the screen, and that he really, really knew me, though he'd seen only the worst of me. I had to drink and drug and drag myself into that scene, you know, brother. And do you think I was paid well for taking three..." Dave spit far into the lake, when Armand had just decided to swallow the blood. "Shit man, that guy made me feel like crap, when he wanted to buy me so cheap. He offered so little, that night in Long Beach, that I..." 

For a moment, Armand observed Dave tensing again, the muscles of the Surfer Monk readying for the violence his repugnant memories seemed to inspire him, the already impressive bulk bulging aggressively, as his irritation and outrage grew. But the shrill cry of a bird -- maybe one of those who left the nest at Dave's roar --, coming from the shores of the lake, seemed to awaken the novice monk, and bring him back to Armand's inoffensive company. 

"But that is not me. You know me better, don't you, brother?" He asked, with a force not yet destitute of threat, that allowed no room for a confronting answer. For he did not want an answer from Armand, not even for his next questions. "Will you forgive me?" he asked, and "Will you still have me here on our private monastery?" he next said. But what he really meant was that there was nothing to forgive, and no other chance for Armand but to house Dave for as long as he wanted to stay -- unless, of course, Armand would himself leave first.

*****

It was irreversible. Like Dave had stated himself, after all the heavy work done in preparation for the Rains Season, the house on the lake had become their private monastery, and not just Armand's. He could not send Dave away, and in fact, strongly believed -- or was led to believe -- there was no reason to do so.

The Surfer Monk had been valiant in confessing a past he hated with all his might, and another part of which he was ashamed of. Yet, no matter how painful or sinful, they lent force for Dave's sincere conversion to monasticism, leading Armand to admire his brother in the practice even more. His love grew with the novice monk's emotional confession. Having understood a bit more of his modest, miserable background and troubled upbringing, Armand started looking at Dave with new eyes, turning the simpleton of a cowboy into a spiritual hero.

*****

Having seen Dave denude his soul, Armand shouldn't have been ashamed when, on a hot morning, the novice took all his clothes off to bathe in the nude. They hadn't really discussed the matter, but both tacitly agreed on leaving the Sangha and practicing on their own -- and when they disrobed, too, the moment they left the forest groove, was to never go back. 

Armand regretted that it seemed much easier for Dave to undress from his secular clothes, and remain naked even after he had finished washing himself in the lake, to then swim and sun bathe. Armand wanted to think it was his concern for the locals, whose modesty would never accept nudity, that made him shudder at the vision of his nude friend. Though a mighty, glorious vision it was, for him alone to appreciate! Armand thought it improbable that the owner would request the house back based on moral grounds, but Dave's nudity would certainly shock and drive the locals away, for yet another reason. He had already realized they never came close to the haunted lake -- except on full moon nights, for the offerings laid at the drowned boy's memorial --, making those placid waters practically private while standing in the openness of Nature.

It was that insincere argument, though, that he tried with Dave, who did not fall for it.

"I see you blushing, brother, I see you lower your eyes." Dave smiled when Armand again blushed and lowered his eyes, like he had just said, while being disarmed in his argumentation. "Don't blame it on the locals. It's all the Puritan's shit for me, and the Catholic's for you, that shames nudity, when it is no more than natural. To all of mankind, no exceptions made. Or do you think pastors and priests shit and shower in their robes?" Dave laughed out loud, beckoning Armand. "Come on, undress yourself, and get in the water with me. Come, brother!"

They had been taking refuge in the haunted grove, during the hottest hours of the afternoon -- and there, they were certain to find no other living person. Still, Armand opposed to the idea of such forced intimacy, for he heard in each of Dave's invitations the voice of a cheesy actor, trying to recite the script, and miserably failing to sound natural. 

Truth is -- a porn actor he had been, and still was, utterly conscious of the physical attraction he wielded on Armand. Yet, Dave tried to convince his friend with another original, insincere argument, to counter Armand's own, but which did not sound as bad.

"I've lived through a Rains Season, brother Armand, and you still haven't. Mould will grow and multiply on everything around you... The walls, the books, the candles, the food... It will grow even around your nostrils, for breathing the humid air day after day. And on your fingernails, and making in between your toes turn a greenish blue... It's despairing, believe me! And we will need all the sun and warmth we can get now, as a reserve of health for the months that lie ahead. Please believe me, brother, and burn or bury that shame, along with your underwear. Come sun bathe in the nude with me."

Armand knew feeling shame not to be the problem, but controlling his lust, in front of Dave, who now insisted that they meditate without any clothes on, too. 

Despite all the fantasies inspired by Dave's past performances, as a cowboy raped by Indians or a prisoner having to service the guards, and having renewed, daily chances to check the novice ex-monk's sizeable talents, that had made him instantly famous on the sidewalks of L.A., if not in the 'entertainment industry', in the couple of weeks proceeding the Rains Season's arrival nothing between Armand and his colleague in the practice ever happened -- nothing that could be called erotic, other than that nudity that soon lost all its eroticism, with the continued meditation sessions. 

Though Armand's goal in coming to Thailand had been becoming a monk, thus leading a pious life, following the Buddha's path to see himself free of suffering -- and at some point, for his heartfelt discipline and sincere commitment seemed to entitle him to, even attain enlightenment -- he was now confronted with  his own hypocrisy. Trying to forget Raymond and Carlo, he saw himself now infatuated for yet another handsome, masculine man -- supposedly, his companion on the Buddha's path. Not that they weren't on it anymore, but theirs was rather different from the life and practice of a monastery. 

Dave's suggestion of meditating in the nude, though apparently no more than a plot from a porn movie to quicken sensual fantasies and lead into sex, had indeed turned their nakedness into something less of a fantasy, less sexually appealing, less driving. If any of them saw their organs inflate during a meditation, the engorged meat standing up as a proud reminder of the mundane desires they were trying to overcome, it would simply, naturally deflate during their long sitting sessions of concentrating on their breathing. The mounting tension of unconfessed feelings and desires, that Armand had experienced before with his former lovers -- who had never actually been it --, gradually dissolved. It was indeed a victory, that of not being dominated by lust or craving, nor feel the need to act to satisfy those maddening impulses -- but Armand was not quite sure about his newly found sanctity, when before him was seated a newly found love.

That's what occupied his mind -- until they arrived.

*****

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Episode 15-II | Cherry snow sleep

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All through the four years of my relationship with Angelo in France, I had been able to keep my secret. From him, from my mother, from Edoardo.

They all had different ideas of what had caused my resistance to leave right after New Year's Eve and join university in Vice City for the Spring semester. Angelo was guessing I wanted to spend one last birthday in France -- but I couldn't care less about my birthdays. Or, like him, about France. My mother thought I was full of fear of leaving for the US, understanding it was much more Angelo's will than mine. And Edoardo -- I don't know what thoughts crossed his mind, but at least once he was thankful to me, for the extra time with his son.

But none of them would know my real reason to stay. None of them could ever guess. 

None of them would understand. Angelo would kill me, if he knew what was keeping us away from the US. My mother would be disappointed with my weakening sentimentality. Edoardo would despise me for being even more foolish than he thought. 

The cherry tree on the hill.

I wanted to see her blossom one last time -- not just to say goodbye.

I wanted to feel the miracle of her colorful presence one last time, feel her perfumed embrace. 

My most constant friend  for all those years, my only confident -- I wanted to request guidance one last time, before leaving her forever.

A cool evening, when everybody in the house was busy with their own affairs, I left for a walk. It was known that I needed time on my own, and that I enjoyed the nights to wander. Nobody asked where I was going, maybe nobody saw me leaving. Nobody cared, actually.

I had been watching the cherry tree, and I knew it would soon blossom to its fullest.

As I walked up the slope, the vision of a dark pink cloud towering the hill told me my dear friend would present herself in full glory before me.

I, instead, decided to undress, and present myself before her in my humblest, purest nudity. 

Disarmed.

Leaving my clothes in a bundle at the bottom of the hill, I walked guided by the light of the full moon. The shinny, moist grass breaking under my bare feet was the only audible sound, and that of a faraway bird.

Like I had done all over the years, I carried a question in my heart. Slowly approaching the tree with reverence, I reached out my hand. Opening my palm, I let the question fly in that cloud of subtle perfume, like a bird or a butterfly I was freeing.

I had learned to be patient. I had understood the tree had its own time, and it could be days before she'd murmur an answer.

But not that evening. 

Will I ever see my father again?, I had asked the first Spring. Her silence, her stillness had only indicated I had would have to wait, patiently. Not for another answer -- that never came --, but to again meet him.

Is Angelo the right man? A bird bursting into singing, remaining invisible among the higher branches was the answer. Or was the answer the moment he had fled, flying away from the other side of the tree, where I could not devise it, leaving just waving flowers and falling petals as a sign of his vanishing. Exactly like Angelo would, later in my life.

Should I go to the US?, had been the question, last Spring. A sudden gust of wind, blowing a rain of petals in my direction, had been the answer -- that I had understood as a flamboyant yes, followed as it was by a cloud of fireflies encircling me.

Am I doing the right thing with my life?, was my question that year.

I was ready to come back night after night, or as many afternoons as it took, to receive my answer. 

I was aware it was the broadest question I had asked thus far.

It was also the quickest answer I ever got.

After perhaps twenty minutes -- or less -- of having stayed under the tree in perfect stillness, concentrating on my breathing like I had been taught by my father in Punaouilo, when he had shared brief meditation lessons with me, and repeating the question in my heart as a solemn mantra, the answer came.

Before my eyes, the prettiest cherry flower slowly descended from the tree. Its petals shone under the moonlight, resembling an iridescent bug in its brief flight. I swear I did not move my hand an inch -- yet, it landed perfectly on my open palm. 

The answer seemed clearer than ever before. I must be doing the right thing going with Angelo to the US. 

Even if later it proved that the only right thing was going to the US, where I'd begin my life anew, and a career -- and not Angelo. But he was my motivation to go. And even when he left me, I did not cogitate going back to France. It was like taking the wrong car to get to the right place.

In that delicate flower resting on my palm, I could not foresee how my relationship with my boyfriend would end. I'm now glad for my own limitations in understanding the message from the cherry tree. If it told me I would part from Angelo in the US, I might have chosen not to go, and hold him in France.

The evening breeze agitated the flower in my palm. So light its petals of translucent pink were, they fluttered like the wings of a butterfly. And my heart with it. Pacified. Appeased. 

But the doubt would return, a few nights after my visit to the cherry tree.

I was awoken by Angelo's shouts from the heavy sleep that would hit me after having sex. At first, I thought he was dreaming. But as I opened my eyes, I realized he was indeed jumping before the windows of our room, pointing to the darkness outside.

"It's snowing, Laurent! It's snowing!" He laughed boisterously, clapping his hands, and while dancing, dragged me out of our room.

"We can't go out like that!" I exclaimed, as we headed downstairs.

"Do you want to put on your polar gear, Laurent?" Angelo laughed, in the best of moods. "We'll check the snow only. We are not going to the North Pole."

"Still." I said, releasing myself from Angelo's grasp. "It must be below zero to be snowing!"

Angelo agreed to put on the t-shirt I grabbed for him, while I went downstairs using a warm pullover -- and our rather skimpy underwear.

What seemed impossible, what seemed like a reverie, and that had never happened before in that part of Southern France -- not that I knew, or had heard of -- was actually happening. 

It was snowing. Lightly, timidly. Enough just to cover the ground with a thin layer of shining blue white. When it stopped, after less than half an hour, under the trees' canopies the grass had remained untouched.

Angelo and I danced and screamed and ran, trying to make snowballs to throw at one another -- but there was not that much snow. Enough just to excite and marvel us.

There were no witnesses to our frenzy -- or the snow.

Catherine was away, teaching in Belgium.  Edoardo never left his room, never appeared on the balcony to check our mess. In my mother's absence, lately Edoardo would lock himself in their bedroom, and drink himself heavily into oblivion.

I used to think, back then, that he was trying to forget his son's impending departure, and not to have to lay eyes on our shameless romance, as he reputed it.

Now I tend to think he had learned already about being seriously ill, but had not communicated it to my mother yet. That left him to bear all alone with his own impending departure -- death. Because when he did tell my mother, she immediately resigned from her position at the university. She had told me she was tired of travelling to Belgium and teaching, but later I found her real reason for quitting was to stay 24 hours by Eduardo's side, and dedicate herself completely to him only. So strong and desperate was their love.

But at the time, as we were about to leave to the US, I couldn't care less about Edoardo, and I was glad he remained locked in his room, probably sleeping the heavy sleep of drunkards. 

After Angelo and I grew tired of running around, we collapsed onto the wet floor. The snow would rapidly melt under our hot, sweating bodies -- and despite the dirty mess, we were enchanted. Specially me, the boy from the tropics, who had never seen snow before.

"This is the sign, Laurent." Angelo said. "This is the sign that it is time to leave France. This is the USA calling us, beckoning us."

"But didn't you tell Catherine it never snows in Vice City?" I retorted, confused.

"Of course it doesn't, Laurent." He slapped my ass. "Don't be silly. I'm just saying this snow represents the USA, calling us. Can't you see it?"

I was about to tell Angelo it snowed in other parts of France, so I couldn't see why the snow should represent the US to us -- but we engaged in a passionate kiss that left me breathless and unwillingly to say anything that would taint that magic moment.

But as we kissed, a saddening thought did cross my mind, and partially disengaged me from what should have been an unforgettable moment -- though my body continued to respond to Angelo's caresses, and we almost made love right there on the cold ground.

I thought of the cherry tree. And how the snow should have killed it's flowers. I could picture the petals freezing, and falling to the ground. The tree would certainly survive the low temperature of that single cold evening, but be left bare. The flowers must be all dead, already -- I remember thinking, as Angelo kissed and caressed me. 

I never went back to check on the cherry tree, see whether any flowers had survived. I understood that, like Angelo said, the snow was indeed a calling to go to the US, having killed the cherry flowers.

It was time to leave. 

And it was time to go back to bed.

As the last log collapsed into charcoal, and I heard the faint chirping of birds grow louder and stronger, the light dawned on my uncle Armand's island. And then I recalled he was the only reason why I had come this far -- and not to recollect about Angelo, or Edoardo, or our little family that had never been anything but a bitter impossibility.

The snow, I reconsidered, had been a clear indication of how things between Angelo and I would grow cold and wither away. But I did not know it then.

What saddened me the most, as I returned to bed after having peed, was not so much the hideous years of fighting Edoardo, that had shaped my early adulthood, and my disposition to fight back all forms of bullying.

It saddened me that, in a single sleepless night in Sweden, the most precious memories of my teenager years had exploded in my memory like fireworks, brilliant, noisy and buoyant with love and hope, to next fade and vanish in the dark smoke of the lies and deception that had followed. The only light that remained in my heart, the constant bonfire that had consumed me through the years, was the grudge I held against the Vivaces. Edoardo, already deceased -- and yet I could not bring myself to think of him with the least tenderness -- and his son, my ex-boyfriend Angelo -- whom I hated.

Four years. 

Four precious years of my life, when I had found my first love, my first boyfriend, when I had first kissed and had sex for the first time, when I had come out to my mother to be embraced by her, only to have to fight against my boyfriend's father irrational prejudice in my own house. 

During those four years I had let myself be guided and then convinced to follow Angelo into the dream of his life of living abroad, I had experienced the fear of losing him to death, and found the courage to drag him out of his desperation and catapult us into a new life -- all that, the pain, the pleasure, the joy, the sadness, the doubts, the struggles, the discoveries, all would be revived in very few hours, abridged in one sleepless night. It seemed too melancholic how life, even as it progressed and the years mounted, could be contained in the space of scarce hours, memories brought back to life and left behind to die during a single night. For in the tragedy of surviving the days, weeks, months, years, there were but a few memorable moments that would last and be remembered.

Hoping I would not again dream of the sunken Île du Blanchomme, the nightmare that had first woken me up, I finally slept -- knowing I would need all the rest and strength to have a probably emotional conversation with my uncle Armand in the day that had already started outside my historic cottage.

But nothing would prepare me for the next blow.

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Episode 97 | Financial tsunami

previous episode

nudity

It wasn't exactly love between Gabriel and me, at first -- nor was there love at last, or at all, in the end of our relationship.

It was mutual attraction. Sex was merrily addictive. We should just have become stable sex buddies. But instead, personal circumstances and the historical moment brought us closer together than we ever planned to be.

"I cannot wait until you come back to Vice City!" Gabriel had been completely sincere and showed his disappointment when I said it might take me two months, or more, to return for another workshop at the Museum.

"And how long can you wait?" Normally, I wouldn't have cared. Not even tried to commit myself to him. But reconnecting with Carlo, learning about Joanna's death, finding out that I had an uncle -- all that had cracked my heart open and made me softer, and for the first time in a long row of one night stands I felt the willingness to be in a relationship. It felt like a weakness and a setback, especially in Vice City where the worst part of my love affair with Angelo had unfolded -- but it was also the dawn of my healing process. It could have been with anyone minimally willing to commit -- and it was with Gabriel, who had witnessed my reunion with father. I was grateful that he had wanted to take the extra job to open the restaurant just for us -- though he must have been thinking just on the money. Or perhaps because he knew who I was, and wanted to meet me. 

From the start, Gabriel had opened our relationship -- which was based not just on mutual attraction, but on mutual interests as well.

I hadn't been painting since a few months before the exhibition at Vi/CAM -Vice's Contemporary Art Museum. I was aware the cycle of portraits of ex-lovers was over -- though I wasn't aware that the abundant cycle of ex-lovers was over as well --, and I'd have to find a new theme for a new series. 

But what could be as dashing, yet not repetitive? Watching Gabriel growing his hair and a beard, constantly modulating his voice and trying to impersonate different characters he auditioned for -- I was his only spectator in private -- led me to think he might make a good theme. At least, the only one I could think of, at the moment.

I should have learned from Cindy Sherman, whom I had met once in a reception at New York's MoMA, to stick only to my own figure as a motif, and not depend from anyone else to paint. Gabriel, of course, had loved the proposal to be my model and the sole theme of a new series of paintings -- he was always searching for whatever personal promotion he could get to boost his career, and he seemed to strongly believe in my talent both as painter and promoter.

But that 'Gabrielian' series never came to be, though it ignited a common euphoria that perpassed all our conversations, outings and even our love making. 

During the first weeks together, I took hundreds of pictures of him -- had I been a photographer, my work was done already. But those pictures were only the basis for my new series, that I kept telling myself I'd start painting as soon as I got back to Samsara Heights and my atelier... Still, it was hard to leave his side -- especially in bed -- and our conceited routine of restaurants, bars, clubs and gym. We were maniacs dedicated to being obsessively charming, and there was hardly a more narcissistic couple at the time in Vice City. Mirroring each other's vanity, we both gleamed, tanning under the sun of hedonism.

But we were at the brink of the free fall of the Empire.

*****

Totally oblivious to the rest of the world from within the self-absorbing bubble of our newborn love, we did not foresee the disaster, the financial tsunami that was heading our -- and almost everyone else's in the country -- direction, though the signs were constantly arriving at our shores. 

Often, Gabriel would come to my hotel room saying the clientele at the Nirvana Lounge was acting strange. People were hysterically getting drunk, ordering the finest, most expensive plates, and giving away greater tips, as if burning money -- but often as a form of farewell, since many of the usual customers were not returning to the restaurant. He saw them, day after day, leaving the building in a row, their stuff packed in a box, as they lost their jobs.

One evening, when Gabriel was free but still trying to get over a hangover from the previous night, and we were considering once not going out -- otherwise, we were going to restaurants and clubs every single night, often on invitations I received for my escalating popularity with 'The Dark Room' exhibition, or through Gabriel's many acquaintances --, he received a phone call. 

I knew it was something grave from the look of terror in which his face froze, as he listened while babbling a series of yeahs in different intonations -- "Yeah.", "Yeah...", "Yeah?", "Yeah!" Until that evening, observing Gabriel, I had never guessed 'yeah' could be such an expressive word. In his third 'yeah', he had started shivering and breathing heavily -- and that once, he was not impersonating, nor pretending, nor just trying to impress me.

When he put the mobile down by his side, he remained sitting on the balcony, immobile. He would often freeze in a posture he thought was particularly good, and ask to be photographed, or simply let himself be admired. But that was not the case. Gabriel was absent, his golden eyes vague, his whole golden figure shining less than it normally would, even if the apartment was in the dark. Gabriel's figure naturally captured whatever source of light there was, no matter how far, like the moon, or how dim, like a lighter, and his beauty would shine brighter than everything around. Not that evening, though -- it was as if someone had turned him off. I called him but he wasn't listening to me, and I had to leave the bed, where I had been waiting, ready and expectant, that he would ride me.  

"It was Tim, from the Lounge." He startled, when I touched his thigh, seeming genuinely surprised that I was before him, as if I had materialized out of thin air. "A guy has shot himself in the toilet." He silenced, and I had to hug him tight, until he stopped trembling. Gabriel went on, summarizing the news. "When the other costumers heard the shot, they were afraid a mad shooter might be entering the restaurant. Hell broke loose, with people trying to escape towards the elevators. It was a bloody mess. Bloody, really. A woman fell from her high heels and was trampled over smashed cocktail glasses." He tried a sad smile, that came out as a scowl. "The restaurant will be closed for a while."

After he calmed down, having rejected the tea I offered him and taken a couple of beers, we went on the internet to read more news. Gabriel knew the guy who had shot himself -- apparently, one of his best customers, an impeccably well dressed, handsome Asian guy who was chief risk management officer to one of the banks occupying the building. The guy was always laughing at Gabriel's jokes and giving generous tips, smilingly -- he also displayed a very confident smile at the pictures that had remained of him on the internet. He was the first demi-god to fall -- the Angel of the Annunciation of the End of Times. It was September, 2008. 

"I might have saved him... if I was there?" Gabriel was sincerely touched with that guy's death, and I seemed unable to comfort him. He never refused sex, never was too tired for it -- but that evening, he did. And he did not want to go out, nor watch a movie nor do anything that would normally have cheered him. He just wanted to lie in bed, cuddling, and I was happy to oblige.

The Nirvana Lounge was to never open its doors again. It had been the haven of financial market professionals -- and as the global crisis exploded, the lounge became doomed, being washed away from the glamour circuit by a tsunami of Pure Love, Angel's Wings and other fancy cocktails, drowning in its own sea of the most expensive champagne.

*****

The day Gabriel learned he had lost his job, just to be sure before I offered to back him up for a while, I decided to check my bank account. Coming from every direction and different sources, the news were alarming, and even though I tried to play it cool, I was frightened too. But even by trying to keep my eyes closed I was no longer avoiding seeing the scenery of desolation and devastation around us. 

 And I discovered I had lost 30% of the money I had in my bank account, since the last time I had checked it. 

The following few days I was to lose more, and it was announced that my bank faced bankruptcy. Yet, my situation wasn't as bad as Gabriel's -- he had never saved any money, spending all his wage and tips to pay the rent of his tiny flat and in clothes and going out. Without a job, he did not have how to pay that month's rent already -- and since I was made afraid by the ever decreasing numbers from my bank account, I decided to leave the hotel, that was no longer being paid by the Museum -- I had come to stay in Vice City for ten days, but because of Gabriel I had stayed almost a month now --, and move in with Gabriel.

His apartment was tinier than the hotel room. At least green was predominant, and being my best loved color, I had many green clothes with me, making me feel a bit at home, like just a chameleon would. It was so small that the bathroom was doorless, which was very embarrassing -- but also nearly a tradition in my family, from what Carlo had told me about the Île du Blanchomme. It consisted of a single room, with the kitchen in one corner, near the entrance door, a small table for two with stools instead of chairs, and a twin bed, that could also be arranged as a lounge area. A mirror covered the wall behind the bed, turning sex into a private show in which we indulged observing ourselves, fueling our narcissistic nature.

The owner had decorated the apartment as if it were a garden -- the wallpaper reproduced hedge, birds and butterflies hanged from the ceiling, swaying among colorful paper lanterns in the form of stars that, when lit, were supposed to bring in the sky. The decor ranged from a life-size plastic pink flamingo in the shower to plaster gnomes grudgingly staring from the corners. Gabriel had at least hidden the plastic flower curtains and put white blinds instead, turned off the neon rainbow, and bought a white duvet to cover the otherwise flowery pattern that matched the carpet. It was funny, if one were humorous, and definitely ugly and kitsch, no matter what mood I was in.

The worst problem was Gabriel's mattress, which was too soft for me. Every morning, I would wake up with my back aching. Not only the pain was horrible, but it also made me feel terribly old. So much that in the middle of the nights I would slip out of bed to sleep on the floor. And because Gabriel enjoyed cuddling during sleep, without even asking me why I had decided to sleep so uncomfortably, he simply started joining me on the floor.

Cuddling to sleep on that cheap carpet is among the loveliest memories I have, from the couple of years we spent together. To Gabriel, it felt somewhat dramatic and he enjoyed pretending that we lived like two homeless men, as around us the world continuously collapsed and shrank in an economic crisis unprecedented in our lives. That reminded me of the many difficulties my father had faced all on his own, in the old abandoned factory in Paris, on the cargo ship to Punaouilo, the night he had slept out at that unknown port in the Indian Ocean, feeling lonely, cold and afraid of the rats, and how he had slept in his car on his escape to England... Sleeping on the floor somehow connected me to Carlo, though I wasn't actually sleeping rough, and I had my gorgeous boyfriend nestled in my embrace.

Since Gabriel was completely broke, I started paying everything for the two of us. It was gloomy when I had to cut eating out and our nightly clubbing. Though I still had money in my bank account, I had discovered it was not actual money, but just a number. A number that had been ever and steadily increasing over the years, was suddenly and quite dramatically plunging. I did some calculations -- and I was bad at Mathematics -- and realized that it was as if I had never sold any paintings during my entire career -- that money I had thus earned, had simply evaporated. And now, it seemed, Celeste's money was being taken away from me, too, and that left me angry, perplexed and fearful. Hadn't my grandmother's money been legally handed over to me? Hadn't I paid all the heavy taxes? How could I no longer own that money, how could someone else take it away from me? But then... who was this 'someone else', actually?

And it got worse, when Gabriel's brother lost his job in a construction site and went to live in a tent in Florida. Gabriel asked me to lend money to his brother, and of course I couldn't refuse it, though I might never see that sum again. And it got worse -- not only were my boyfriend and his brother broke -- apparently, my bank was broke too, and that's the first time I heard terms in English like bailout, foreclosure, derivatives. 

And the worse it got -- the building where The Nirvana Lounge used to be had many of its floors empty now --, the closer Gabriel and I became, our budding love the only antidote possible to the ruins that surrounded us. Our bonds seemed to tighten and strengthen as everything else around us declined and decreased.

And it got even worse, when my marchand said he was closing shop, too. It was then that I realized I had myself been part of that so called 'housing bubble' -- people needed to decorate their recently acquired houses, and among these people, some wanted to decorate their houses with art instaed of junk, and for the coolest among those, I was an emerging artist considered to be an excelent investment, rated triple A by the art market and endoserd by some major museums and cultural centers. But just like everything else, it seemed I had been under speculation as well, and when these incipient art investors weren't able to to pay their mortgages -- or my marchand --,  my paintings were plainly abandoned to dust on the walls of their judicially foreclosed houses. Heinrich, Patrick, Craig, Jhun -- my ex-lovers had become specters in emptied houses all over the country, and I wondered if I would ever see them again -- or the money I had not received for some of them --, if they would go to auction or be incorporated into the collection of some bank that would take back the fully furnished houses. It was not a good moment for art, and consequently, not for my career, and ultimately not for me. My rapid ascension had been brief, it seemed.   

And the worse it got, the more Gabriel and I tried to cling onto each other and to our fragile love, as we try to build it in opposition to the mass destruction of the American dream -- and the fall of our own personal projects, of becoming a renowned painter in a world that collapsed into stagnation and scarcity, or a famous actor in theaters that were silently and melancholically being closed.

But I realized that, no matter how things went from bad to worse economically for people all around me -- my friend Darren had also lost his job and position as a prestigious chef in one of the best restaurants in Samsara Heights and was currently occupying my house --, all around the world, they weren't so bad for me personally. I still had in my bank account (actually, it still 'luckily' enough belonged to a bank, that had been bailed out) a figure that could carry me on through many years. And thanking both Celeste and Catherine, I let go of my worries about the immediate future -- and to be honest, I couldn't quite keep out of my mind I was the latest De Montbelle heir, too, and I fantasized about owning the famed Château one day.

On the other hand, as I have already shared, because Vice's Museum had lost many of its sponsors and the exhibition's schedule was suddenly put on hold, Dan asked me to extend my exhibition indefinitely, and my series of workshops, that were fun and brought people to the museum, especially the young crowd, were to be prolonged too. 

*****

And I had a new, stunningly handsome and utterly sexy boyfriend. 

Gabriel was luminous. Even his dark side had a tinge of irresponsible rapture that made him shine like a star. I confess I was insecure by his side, and I paid his rent and gave him money just because I feared he might become a rent boy once he run short of money -- just like Angelo had. Gabriel loved wearing new fancy clothes that adorned his gorgeous body, carefully sculpted at the best gym in town. His beautiful hair demanded a lot of care too, and his golden skin was not tanned at the polluted city beaches nor any public swimming pools, but with dosed weekly tanning sessions at a luxury spa -- that would soon close its doors, too. Since my needs where comparatively meager, I tried to spoil Gabriel by maintaining some of his privileges. He seemed grateful and I indulged in being generous -- evading the shadowy overall mood of those days was all that mattered to us.

But when I was about to return to Samsara Heights, I realized there was nothing I could actually do about him becoming a call boy, if he really and stealthily wanted to, no way to possibly control him -- and I finally let go of that when I saw how awfully judgmental and unfair I was being, with Gabriel and rent boys in general. The reason being in the past -- namely, my ex-boyfriend Angelo.

One of the greatest insights I had about myself, and on love and relationships, was at the very beginning with Gabriel.

We couldn't have been any more different. We both enjoyed going to the movies -- but while he thought the European and Asian movies I loved were boring and too complex, I had no interest in whatever Hollywood movies and stars he seemed to adore, and especially the blockbusters. And while Gabriel did not enjoy books, I was an avid reader -- though he did take interest and started reading Catherine's books. But I wasn't really fond of my mother's literature.

"You don't love me, do you, Laurent?" Gabriel wasn't sad when he said that. "You don't appreciate my company, do you? No, you don't have to answer. You think I'm foolish and superficial..." Gabriel shrugged and dismissed those feelings with the extravagant flourish he had rehearsed for the musketeer role. "Maybe I am vain and futile. Well, I guess that's exactly how I am! And I don't care! Shall we dance?" And when he spun on his heels, his blond hair spinning with him, grown so long that he could braid it, I realized what I thought might have been sincere was just another impersonation.

I tried to deny, even to myself,  that I didn't and couldn't truly fall for the dream hunk -- but unfortunately, it was true. I enjoyed Gabriel's company a lot, but I did not love him.

I loved his cheerfulness, and since he was allergic to dreary dispositions, to prolonged silence and inactivity -- specially mine, it seemed, and I never sat to meditate in his company, for it seemed to make him either more agitated or depressed --,  he was always looking for the positive and bright side of things.

The global economy was crumbling. My own personal world was disintegrating, the more I reflected about all the things my father had shared with me. But with Gabriel, life was still a party -- entertainingly funny, contagiously exciting. Not much more than that, though. Sharing life with him was like experiencing a constant detonation of fireworks -- but once the noisy spectacle was over, there was only the maze of intoxicating smoke and darkness left.

I finally arrived at the understanding that I did not love him simply because I did not love myself. 

I was still looking for approval and recognition in my partner -- and that's why I needed Gabriel to be equally cultured and intellectually well prepared, so that he could be a proper judge of my own skills and qualities. But because he was not into literature, and the cinema he enjoyed was crap and his culture was that of gossip magazines -- 'Of course I know Picasso and Monet!' was as far as he would go in art, and I shivered at his horrible pronunciation of those names as in 'Pikes + Ass + Soul' and 'Moon + net' -- did not enable Gabriel to fully appreciate and approve of me, I thought.

Prince Charming was then, for me, the mirror. It would take someone who could read me in all the several languages I was written in, to recognize my sophistication and highly elaborated culture and refined tastes -- and that's how I realized that, considering Gabriel not good enough for me, happened just because I was too insecure about myself, and I couldn't truly appreciate his qualities either. 

I couldn't really love another person until I developed love for myself. Until then, I would need my partner to serve as my best judge, as an expert and a virtuoso in Laurent's intricacies. 

When I finally realized how unjust that was with Gabriel -- or anyone else --, it was a bit too late to save our relationship. I made him suffer by silently humiliating him and despising his many qualities, other than the culture or intelect I valued. 

If he never managed to mirror me, I was actually unable to even see him beyond the firm bubble butt.

Gabriel never cheated on me, I think -- for he screwed around with other guys openly. I don't know when he started dating the theater producer, and for how long he carried on both affairs in parallel. But I know that, once he tried to mingle us in a ménage à trois, and I asked him to choose between me and the producer, when he dumped me, I was about ready to end our two years relationship, thinking it had extended long enough. Longer than we ever thought it would have lasted. 

It still hurt, but much less than the end of my love affair with Angelo.

But that was later.

At the beginning, it was the opposite -- Gabriel feared I was going to leave him.

"Are you going to Russia to be with your mother?" I hadn't told him what my issues with Catherine were, nor anything about the conversation with my father -- though I was immensely grateful to Gabriel for having silently supported and participated in that reunion with his graceful presence. Still, he sensed something crucial was going on between me and my mother.

 "Why don't you call her again?" Gabriel was truly fascinated by Catherine's fame, I guess, and he was often impersonating any one among her male characters -- and even, sometimes, her female characters, that were much stronger and more fascinating than the men. And he wanted me to shed light on them, as if by being the author's son I had privileged information. 

Gabriel was letting his beautiful hair grow not because of any movie part -- but because he wanted to sell it. He did look more feminine at the time, but his body and manners were too masculine for him to succeed in being feminine. But every book of Catherine's he finished, he seemed to be intoxicated with her heroines for days. "Ask her if she thinks Valentina from such and such book or Amanda from... " And even though I did call my mother after all, I never asked his questions about her characters.

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