Episode 83 | Owls and parrots

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Carlo was never a bad father, actually.

But he abandoned me. 

And the fact that he used to be so loving doesn't mitigate his fault, nor the pain he caused me -- maybe it even worsened it.

He was never a bad father, let's put it this way, until he walked out on me. Immediately, he then became the worst.

*****

One night in Punaouilo, I was already asleep when Carlo woke me up to share that we would finally see Catherine. He had just spoken to her over the telephone, and he wanted to let me know it right away.

It was the year of 1983 -- the Catalan painter Joan Miró died that year, but not until more than 10 years later would I get in contact with his works; William Golding was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature, but only 20 years later would I read his haunting novel 'Lord of the Flies'; Red Hot Chilli Peppers launched their first album, but I took music for the few folkloric songs from the Pacific I knew, and had never heard of rock'n'roll before; "Return of the Jedi" opened in theatres, but I had never been to the movies before. Be it the opening of Disneyland in Tokyo -- both places unknown to me -- or Tatcher being re-elected -- I had never heard of her, either -- 1983 was so important to me because it was the year I reunited with my mother.

"When is she coming, Daddy?" I had asked, screaming and bouncing on my bed, filled with joy. Next, I jumped on my father's neck and we swirled around the room.

When my euphoria subsided, Carlo put me on the bed again, where I went on jumping. Catherine would never have allowed me to do that, but I knew Carlo wouldn't complain. "Actually, we're going for her." Carlo stared at me, studying my face, worried about my reaction. "We are going to France, Laurent."

Of course we learned about the history of France in school, but from that night on, I began to ask Carlo all about the country. How big? How far? How do we get there? Are we going to stay in Versailles? Do I have to study in France, too? Who is the King of France, now? How are the French children? Is the school near the sea? Will we visit Mademoiselle Monalisa? What can I bring? He was patient and kind to me, but actually he did not know much about our destination either.

"I've only been to Paris, Laurent." I now imagine that Carlo had then suffered from my frequent questions about Paris -- a city inextricably tied in his memoirs to his beloved Armand. "And, for now, we will not go to Paris. I'm afraid Mademoiselle Monalisa will have to wait. Your mother found a house for us in Southern France, and that's where we'll meet her." Patiently, Carlo clarified me about everything he could, even if the return to France would cause him a bit of anguish mingled with melancholy. "That's where we are going to live!"

Moving to France was the most exciting thing that had ever happened in my eight years of life. 

I had never left Punaouilo, and I took it for a very, very large island, since it was impossible to circle it on my bike, not even within one whole day. Actually, I had never tried that -- but I imagined it being thaaaat big!

I had no idea about ​​the size of the country I was headed to, nor how far I would have to travel until reuniting with my mother. 

Nor did I perceive the dimension of that farewell to Punaouilo -- I did not realize it would be so definitive, for I had never gone back. 

The only goodbyes I knew at that age were those at the end of the school year, when I bid farewell to my classmates -- to meet them again the next semester. I guess I still imagined that we would meet my mother and then together return to the island that I knew as home. France was not  yet definitive in my mind -- maybe I simply hadn't learned the meaning of 'definitive', yet.

That's why I was not sorrowful during our last visit to Passage Beach, where Carlo had taught me how to swim in the company of the haunting ship wreck and sharks.

Because I did not know that everything I did was for the last time, I don't remember crying. 

I was instead so very happy to meet my mother again. And Carlo mentioned we would celebrate my birthday on a ship, and that seemed so special and exciting to me. All the new things that kept coming made me more expectant and enthusiastic about our moving to France, and just because I had no clear perception of the dimension of how my life would radically change, I felt no fear, no sadness.

The last time I hugged Joanna and Will. The last time I swam at the enormous pool of the mansion. My last day in Punaouilo's school, probably the most beautiful school that has ever existed in the world, with classrooms opening onto the vibrant tropical landscapes, the sea illuminating our lessons, the breeze sometimes carrying away the voices of our teachers and liberating our minds for daydreaming.

I did not know that for the last time I was inhaling the scent of the tropical flowers and picking from the trees mangoes ripened under the sun. Nor that I would never again fall asleep to the sound of the animals in the forest next to our house, glancing through the window at the starry skies. 

The hardest part was to get rid of my bike and books.

"Why can't I take it with me, Daddy? You said the ship is huge! Don't you think my bike would fit in?" Carlo must have heard thousands of questions during the days preceding our departure.

And that was my first lesson of letting go and unattachment, when I finally gave my bike to Uncle Will's nephew. That bike had been my greatest wish for a long time, and the first gift that I had ever received from my father. I think for him as well, the bike was like a landmark of the shift in his life that Davez Drew's support had represented for his art. 

"We'll buy you a new one in France, Laurent, I promise! A fancier one, even!"

"But it is this one that I love, Daddy..."

And indeed, just a few weeks after landing on French soil, I had my new bike, even better and more modern than the Punaouilo version had been. And a lot of toys, books, and a whole new room -- all just for me. 

"Are you coming from the Carnival of Venice?" -- Catherine had laughed the moment she saw us arriving at our modern, beautiful and tranquil house on the French countryside, with no neighbors in sight -- nor the sea to be seen anywhere. She was talking about the new and colorful clothes that Carlo had bought for us in Marseille still, just after we had disembarked. A last minute change of plans when Catherine couldn't have met us at the port -- and I had boarded the first train in my life to get to my new home.

My adaptation would be difficult. All the novelty of my life as a wealthy boy did not compensate the loss of the proximity to the ocean and the freedom of going about dressed only in my swimsuit, had I wanted it -- Catherine had always hated to see me "dressed like a savage, and smelling to salt like cod", as she put it. But I had taken advantage that Carlo allowed it, in the couple years she had been absent from Punaouilo, to be exactly that 'little savage' she dreaded. But in France, Catherine's territory, she had definitely won -- and I had to be the neatest boy she made of me.

I was constantly questioning my parents about the sea. How I could reach the sea. "The sea is far away, Laurent!" Catherine had already explained it, "One day we will visit it, Laurent!", my father kept promising. "When?", was the only thing I wanted to know.

And while that excursion did not happen, Catherine had changed my room's decor into nautical and marine patterns, while Carlo gave me boats and submarines for toys, instead of cars and trains.

In France, I was to discover I was afraid of sleeping alone -- for I had never slept alone before in my entire life. 

I missed both Carlo's snoring and my mother's grumbling noises, as much as I missed the mysterious forest noises to fall asleep -- and when Catherine started leaving the door of my room open to the balcony, so that the nocturnal country sounds could enter my room, I was terribly scared. The mysterious owls had replaced the familiar, more exuberant and gleeful parrots, and I cried to the lowing of cows and the neighing of horses, so melancholic and doleful if compared to the boisterous monkeys that lived in the grove behind our chalet.

I started peeing on the bed, to my great embarrassment. 

"What is happening, Laurent?" Catherine had asked, half amused and half annoyed. "Are you too excited about your new life or are you marking your territory, just like a puppy?"

But I was too young to understand my own feelings, and the reasons giving rise to them  -- I just felt very confused and plainly ashamed.

I used to cry when I was all on my own, almost every day. Probably because I missed Punaouilo, really hard. I missed my home, our little damp, cramped cottage by the forest, even though in France I had a very spacious bedroom all to myself, full of toys and books, and even my own bathroom. I missed the vast landscapes I had known so well, the far horizon where sea and sky were of one indistinct blue -- while in France, everything was fenced within ungenerous limits. Hills brought the horizon just too close and narrowed it, giving me the sensation that I had been imprisoned -- not to mention the fences and walls I was not used to seeing everywhere. 

There were too many rules, too many things were forbidden, and a whole new social code to learn. 

I missed my school, where we happily sang songs and recited poems that got carried away by the breeze that roamed freely through the classrooms. The school in Punaouilo had been less than a hundred steps from the sea -- and just too often before returning home, we would swim after class, leaving our books and uniforms in the mango grove nearby. 

The happy days of going to and returning from school on a shadowy path under enormous, leafy mango trees, with the white sand and blue sea shining just on the other side of the road, were foreby. The path would go across the backyard of some friend's houses, and as they would join me, until we got to school we would be a bunch of six or seven happy kids. In France, I had to walk down a desolate road, along boring cultivated fields, to wait for the bus -- where I used to sit all on my own. I was the weird, funny kind in France, and no one would dare join me.

Though bullying would only start a little later, the school in France was a true horror for me, with all the kids aggressively competitive and dressed to impress, talking in slang and revolting against things that seemed quite orderly and reasonable to me. 

I now realize how I put myself into that submissive position that led to bullying, fearfully retracting and isolating myself rather than expanding. And somehow refusing to adapt -- I never dressed like any of the groups I could have belonged to in my survival struggle, and by the way how I dressed the mockery had begun. I was a tiny bit more exuberant than most of my French colleagues, and when I realized that, I was made shy. I also refused to play their games, and ultimately refused their friendships, too. During the class breaks, I would stick to my books, clearly enjoying Phileas Fogg and D'Artagnan's company better than my colleagues' useless chit chat. I considered Edmond Dantés, the Count of Monte Cristo, to be my best friend in my initial years in France.

*****

But from that harrowing period, there stands the most striking incident of all. One summer afternoon, a few months after we had arrived,  my father came home driving a fancy sports car. Carlo seemed to be enjoying himself in France, now that he had his own money.

"What foulness is this, Carlo?" Catherine accusingly questioned him, as he walked out of the car. 

"No need not be worried, Catherine!" Carlo was so happy with his acquisition, something inimaginable in his former life, and could not understand Catherine's wrathful irony. "I bought it with my own money! I got a new comission from an art gallery in Los Angeles and they have paid me in advance..."

"Oh, I don't care what you do with your money!" There had started a financial unrest between my parents, as Carlo seemed to be making more money with his paintings than Catherine with her books. It was not only her third book that she became an unstoppable bestsellers writing machine. "But I imagine that this car is a gift to me... and Laurent!" She exaggerated in her irony.

"Of course it is, Catherine!" Carlo was starting to feel weary. Catherine tapping her high heels indicated something was terribly wrong, but he could not fathom what. "You can use the car whenever you want! And--"

Catherine clapped her hands to interrupt him. "For God's sake, what is it that you don't yet understand, Carlo?", she continued to protest, "This car has only two seats, isn't it?" 

"Like any fast sports car, Catherine!" Carlo had replied, a bit indignant once he had started feeling hurt by my mother.

"Great! But I think you forgot that we are a family, Carlo! Who do you want to leave out?" Catherine's voice rose. "Laurent?" 

"Of course I won't leave Laurent out! Never! I'll be taking him to school in this car... Why do you want to bring up his education right now, Catherine?" Carlo was  convinced that she was overreacting.

"But I'm not bringing his education up!" Catherine shouted. "His education is perfectly fine, the proper education a refined French boy should get--"

It was Carlo's turn to interrupt her. "You know I don't agree on that, Catherine, and I don't see the point--"

"That's so foolish of you, Carlo!" She cut him short. "To think that Laurent would still be better  in Punaouilo, learning native songs and walking barefoot like the little Indian he is not! But don't try to change the subject!"

"It's not about being better, Catherine, it's about being happier! And I'm not changing subjects... I'm actually corcerned with him and no, I don't want to leave him out of anything... He is home, isn't he? I wanted to take him for a ride..." My father went on naively, trying to demonstrate his good will, feeling increasingly uncomfortable under her glare.

"So it's me you want to leave out, Carlo?" my mother exploded, stomping her feet on the floor. For once, Carlo was reminded of Catherine's arrival on the Île du Blanchomme, and the subsequent daily explosions when she had gained dominance over him.

"That's not what I said, Catherine... I can take you later on a ride too, if you want..." Carlo was perplexed with her anger, not quite yet understanding the reasons giving rise to it, but he decided to nevertheless apologize. "Sorry, sometimes I guess my French is still not so good to express what I'm thinking..." What have I done wrong?, my father must have thought. Just then did Carlo guess what the problem was -- Catherine must have been thinking a sports car was dangerous. But before he could reassure her, she was attacking him again.

"Your French is very good, Carlo. It's just your accent that is awful! And you're not as stupid as you appear to be! But let me translate what you are demonstrating when you buy a two-seater for a family of three members." My father blushed when he finally realized Catherine's point. "Unless you yourself stand away, Carlo, you will be leaving Laurent or me behind, whenever the other one is riding with you. God, that is so mean of you! And that's what your private toy means to our family, Carlo. The cruelty of exclusion. And you still say you are worried about Laurent's adaptation... Thus a family begins to disintegrate... It's really sad."

"Please forgive me, Catherine..." Carlo groaned, not hiding how embarrassed he was. "I never thought you could look at it that way--"

"A clear demonstration of your lack of consideration for our family, that's what it is! Shame on you!" Catherine had turned her back, puffing, and returned to the house, her high heels hitting the stone paved path and echoing in the hills next to our house.

In the immensely boring silence of our rural neighborhood, I had heard the powerful roar of a car engine approaching the house. Thrilled, I had come out of my room to the balcony, and watched the whole scene from the first floor, unnoticed. 

To the grief and anger of my mother, to the grief and shame of my father, I added my own sorrow and perplexity, when I returned to my room to cry.

Carlo's sports car was my parent's first major fight in France, and I never got to ride it without feeling sadness and guilt, no matter how cool and fancy that car might have been  -- and I think Carlo felt the same shame, and a few years later, he changed it for another sports car. But only after giving Catherine a family station wagon. And the period of endless bickering between them started, to only end when my father walked away on us.

"Laurent!" I suddenly heard my father calling my name, when he gently touched my thigh to wake me from my reverie. "We have arrived, son. But it really seems to be closed, already."

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Episode 08 | Rats on arrival

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It hurt a lot, Laurent. Not my flesh, as it burned. The canvases on flames. Most of the works I had painted during the École des Beaux-Arts. But I didn't cry over the ashes of that bonfire.

The next morning, boat loaded, we left the port as the sun rose. Watching the French coast slowly fade into the morning mist, it was hard to evaluate how much I was leaving behind. I had all my possessions with me. But it seemed that th years spent at the École were also staying behind. Years if memories dissolved in smoke, my works turned into a spiraling fume that had vanished during a single Parisian night.

Had known I would never return to Paris, I might have cried a little.

But I did not -- know nor cry.

It was my first time on a such a huge ship. My first international trip outside Europe, actually. I'd never thought of myself as a traveler, and quite unexpectedly I was crossing oceans to the other side of the world.

I had never seen the sea, either. From the Apennines to Paris, it had only been mainland. And unlike others, I had never longed for the ocean -- how could I, when I knew not what it was? When I was a child, Tarso had said once that the sea was simply much bigger than a lake. Enough so that we couldn't see the other margin. He didn't make it seem quite attractive, did he? Thus the ocean was not ranked among my dreams.

At first, the ocean seemed more like a huge obstacle, between me and my destination. A mountain boy like I was, riding the cargo ship corresponded to be standing on the peak of a mountain, and the sea all around were the distant plains I did not long to visit.

The novelty of the vessel's routine and the sensation of movement made me thoroughly happy for a few days. But as time went by, it started resembling a prison. I recalled Rilke's poem, the panther in the zoo cage, going round and round and round, going nowhere -- though I knew the ship was ever moving.

Ports went by. Places I only saw from the distance. Places I didn't know, not even their names, and that I would never visit. Nor wanted to. They were mere anticipation, a countdown.

My heart felt peaceful. Yet, if sometimes painful, when I recalled my parents had died in a shipwreck. But I wasn't afraid to find myself on board of a ship, for no matter how hurtful, those were the faded recollections of a little boy.

Nor did I suffer from the growing distance that separated me from the places I had known. Not the D'Allegro farm where all my ancestors had always lived in the Apennines, but that could no longer accommodate my dreams. Nor the nostalgic Paris of my years of studies, that had burned down in the patio of an abandoned factory. Those memories were all mild, and bland.

And I didn't feel any anxiety towards my destination -- the Île du Blanchomme was no more than an exotic name that did not correspond to any images in my mind. Blank.

I felt detached from everything. 

Days seemed incredibly long and plain, and at night I felt I was floating in a boundless emptiness. Stars shone in the sky mirroring the distant cities that blinked on the horizon. When they slowly moved before my eyes, I guessed they were other ships. If they blinked and disappeared, to again reappear, I had already figured out they were lighthouses. And night after night, there was nothing else to be seen.

During those weeks on the ship, I dropped my meditation practice. Everything seemed to meditate around me. Everything was silent, neutral, empty, vast, uncertain, signless. And to my contemplative nature, life itself had become a single, uninterrupted meditation session.

I did not paint, not once, on the ship. Nor felt any motivation for it, since that last canvas I had finished at the factory. It hadn't been a bad painting, not at all, and with it in my hands I had returned to the public hospital, and given it to the doctor to express my gratitude. For the treatment, the compassion, and the new shoes.

I didn't befriend the sailors, though a couple among them were Italians. I did not try, I did not want it. At the end of my journey awaited Armand -- my best friend, my only friend, and that sufficed. Even the captain seemed to understand and respect my silence and distance. After the first evening that I had been to his table, unable to make conversation, I was left alone. 

My small bed, the long and narrow corridors, the resounding metal stairs, the barren room for meals, the multitude of decks -- I could always find a silent spot to be on my own. I wandered listlessly around, while I drifted around my own essence, as the ship slowly and steadily moved towards my destination.

And my essence was that of the loner. 

But I never felt lonely.

An introvert, I rejoiced in isolation. Reclusive. Intentionally, spiritually -- I felt seclusion was as much my destination as my destiny, both my faith and fate.

As usual, I felt more peaceful than happy -- and that seemed perfectly fine to me.

There was a storm, I vomited. The food was too spicy, I had diarrhea. Someone stole the book I was reading, I chose another one from a shelf on the corridor. The major obstacle was that one of the ports of call had been on strike, and the ship could not unload.

I arrived at the Elder Sisters Islands some three weeks later than appointed with my friend Armand. I was not surprised when he was not there at the port waiting for me, late in the evening. Laying my bundle of art stuff and the small backpack in a neat pile on the floor, I looked around.

The port was empty. No other ships had called in that day. The Port Authorities, the food stands, the shops, everything nearby was closed. The few passersby with whom I could communicate were very nice, but not very helpful.l -- only a couple could speak decent French.

No one had ever heard of the Île du Blanchomme. At my question, they regarded me as a madman. I checked again Armand's letter, even showed it to the natives, pointlessly. The Île du Blanchomme was unknown to all.

And I guess my thorn clothes were not helping me either in giving a good impression to the local people. They were all so tidy, using beautiful and colorful costumes like I had never seen before. They did not run away from me, but they regarded me in disbelief. Like I must have regarded them myself, and the landscape. The island was a mass of darkness enveloped by the silvery ocean. I had never seen anything so flat in my life. There was not even a hill on the island, as far as I could see. The mountain boy I had been was completely dumbfounded that the highest point could be the cranes in the port. 

I had not thought of a plan B. Actually, I had not thought of anything referring to my destination.

My friend Armand was the only plan. And he was nowhere to be seen.

That evening, emotional exhaustion knocked me down. I had dragged my bundle of belongings to a corner of the port, where I devised some picnic tables under the moonlight. I thought I could rearrange them, putting one on top of another, to create a shelter.  I had already made up my mind -- I was going to again sleep rough, and save the last francs for a meal. That if francs were locally accepted... Frustrated, I succumbed to prostration -- the tables were bolted to the floor. I then chose the one farthest from the trash, fearing that the tropical rats I saw roaming suspiciously around, big like cats, would bite me in my sleep, as if I were some kind of exotic food. I did not fear that the natives, who seemed to be a peaceful and welcoming people, would rob me, but I still made a pillow of my backpack, where I kept my last francs. 

After weeks under the oceanic skies, my starry canopy for that night left me unmoved. Five minutes of immobility, I had to unroll one of the painted canvases I had brought with me, to serve as a blanket. I took the one closest to me on the bench, too sleepy to consider I might be ruining it. I just longed for the oblivion of dreams that would take me away from the joke of feeling cold during my first tropical night.

*****

My body covered with sea mist, feeling hungry and miserably cold from the wind blowing, I opened my eyes to the sunrise. Nearby, something was flapping, and I awoke thinking tropical vultures had arrived to devour me. 

Immediately, I recalled having used one of the paintings to cover myself. I tilted my head in the direction of the sound, to see the canvas flapping against a light pole. My heart skipped a beat, while I jumped and ran after it, the moment a whiff sent it flying. It was one of those I had painted at the factory, depicting the peeling paint of a formerly blue wall, a tiny plant growing out of a crack. The canvas was moister than I was, and wet on the top quadrant, probably from having lied in one of the several rain pools around the picnic tables. Scratched and ripped from the barbed wire hanging around the pole, that had at least prevented it from flying farther away, its damage was irreversible. Unless I cut it into a smaller canvas to save some of it.

Closing my eyes to everything around me, I still felt the wet canvas in my shaky hands. Bringing it to my chest, I could not avoid the tears. Abundant as they were, I cried silently. My head bent down, I confess that I expected my sincere tears to somehow restore my painting.

I was beginning to understand I had made a huge mistake.

Anything could have happened to Armand, I pondered. He might as well have been dead. I had crossed oceans, I had changed continents, and the only reference I had was this awkwardly named island that no one had ever heard of.

Like a sleepwalker, I slowly walked until the end of the wharf. Were it a road, I would have started my way back to Europe at once. But there was the sea. If it had seemed an obstacle seen from the heights of the magnificent ship, at the port it became my instant enemy.It stank to burnt oil and dead fish. Debris floated aimlessly around, speaking of losses and endings. Not exactly menacing, the sea seemed to turn its back on me, uncaring. Would I have to cross it again? Would Monsieur de Montbelle be a household name as good in the tropics, as to put me on a ship back to Italy, free of fare?

Otherwise, I would need to find work. The palms and other lush trees I saw around me announced my agricultural past wouldn't be of much use in an estranged natural environment. The natives wouldn't have sheep I could herd, would they? Could they need wall painters? The food stands on the other side of the street had been painted with bright colors -- a decade ago, at least. Was it lack of skilled hands, or did they testify an insistent carelessness about things decaying?

I sat heavily on the wet wooden boards,taking off my sandals, once I did not want to risk losing them, and let my feet dangle above the dirty water. A green bottle floated by, but it did not seem to carry any message. At least, not for me. And I finally asked myself -- Was I lost? Because I certainly was alone in a foreign land, with very little money and a bundle of things to drag around -- namely, my small backpack, the easel and a dozen rolled paintings -- one less, already. There should have been a roll of blank canvas, too, but I had forgotten it on the train.

I felt stupid. Either I had been expecting too much from life, or trying too hard to change my destiny. Weren't my best bets to simply continue the peasantry that had been my family history for centuries? The unrealistic dreams of becoming a professional painter had only led me thus far to an abandoned factory and next, to the hospital. All in Paris, but still... Finally, I found myself stranded on a foreign port.

"Carlo... Mon ami!"

I turned to distinguish Armand, gorgeously tanned, his beautiful blonde hair grown, calmly walking in my direction on the pier, like a king who owned everything around. And maybe he -- or his father -- really did. I was so deliriously happy to see my best friend that, barefoot like I was, I dashed towards him. To my eyes, his smile shone brighter than the tropical sun. 

"Buongiorno! Bienvenue..." We spoke our own dialect, that mixed French and Italian. "I'm so happy that you are here, mate!" Armand's affection overflowed through his words and warm embrace. His posture was so elegant, and naturally imposing, that I was always surprised to find out that he was actually shorter than me. In every other sense, he was taller, broader, bigger, better. "I've missed you so much, mon cher Carlo! I thought I was arriving early to meet you. When did you get here? I was informed your ship would call in today at 7 AM."

"I guess the ship was three weeks late... but twelve hours early! Ha-ha!" Now that Armand was before me, my desperation had immediately ceased, and I felt like making jokes.

"Where did you spend the night, mate?" He took off his sunglasses, and eyed me from from head to toe. His green eyes sparkled against the frame of his tanned face. As usual, he was impeccably shaved. "You look like a wreck, literally. Was it this night?" He glanced at the table were my backpack and the damaged canvas did look like an improvised bed. "Or life on the ship was that terrible?" Armand inquired, between amused and worried.

"Don't worry, Armand. The ship was fine. And last night was nothing compared to how I have been living."  I smiled, and shrugged, dismissing the memories of the toughest moments. "I'm so happy to be here, fratello mio!" Further down the docks, several small power boats and sailboats were engaged in a frantic activity. Between arrivals of fish-boats and departures of passengers' vessels, the island had suddenly become livelier. "When are we going to the Île du Blanchomme?" I pronounced it carefully, "Am I saying its name right? No one has ever heard of it, not even the locals!" My fears pacified, I was nevertheless intrigued.

Armand smiled mysteriously. "I guess they all know it by another name. Luckily, the boat that heads that direction leaves tonight. If you had arrived tomorrow morning, we would have to wait another week for the next boat! But then--"

"You mean..." In my confusion, I had unintentionally interrupted him. "There is only one boat a week going to your place?" I was still trying to figure out the situation I had gotten myself into. Maybe it was from having slept rough on my first tropical night, or having dropped meditation for so long, or feeling emotive at reuniting with my best friend, but I couldn't think quite clearly.

"Depending on the weather conditions, there is no boat at all!" Armand laughed. He was playing with his sunglasses, swaying it at the tip of his fingers, and that familiar gesture took me back to the Parisian boulevards for a moment. "But we are lucky!" He had continued, "We can spend the day in town, maybe do some shopping if you need anything... Do you need anything, Carlo? I took advantage of the days I waited for you to buy enough food for the next months, so that we don't need to come back here, any time soon. Or, at least, you won't have to. Where are your things? Is... that--" In dismay, he indicated with his chin my derelict pile, that more than one stray dog had already inspected, "all?"

"Apart from that--" I used his same tone of doubt, "I don't have anything, Armand. Just the small backpack, my easel and a dozen rolled canvases. And my painting supplies. The captain said wise travelers always travel light. I've taken his advice earnestly. Don't I look wise to you?" I winked, trying to look smart, but feeling rather foolish.

"Mate, you look like a bum!" Armand said, jokingly, and then he changed to a rather worried tone. "Are you serious? Don't you have any clothes other than these?"

"No I don't, Armand." I answered without hesitation, and it sounded quite defensive. Armand wasn't specially well dressed himself either, his leisure outfit looking simpler than anything I had ever seen him wearing before. But his princely manners and natural elegance would have turned rags into fashion, and anything and everything he dressed adorned his discreet beauty. "Is it a problem for the Île du Blanchomme?" Again, I pronounced it very carefully. It was hard to believe that a place unknown to all did exist somewhere over that ocean. And it was my destination. "I was hoping it would be barefoot elegance style..."

"Ha-ha, you're funny, Carlo." Armand stared at me, pensively. "It will be as you wish. Let's go into town, and if you think there's anything you like or need, just let me know. You are my guest on this part of the world!"

After so many months confined to the factory, where the only plants were weeds breaching the concrete and mold growing on the walls, the tropics seemed to give me a blast. Shamelessly colorful, flowers displayed sensuous forms and were strikingly perfumed, attracting insects that shone like gems and were chased by fancy birds I had never before heard nor seen. Flocks of gaudy parrots flew along the streets screaming at one another and competing for the best spots on trees, while dogs just yawned under the shades of leafy flamboyants. Singing on their way to school, children neatly dressed in uniforms waved at my friend and me, as street vendors warmed their voices in a commercial litany and, offering shells necklaces and hand-painted cloths, beckoned us. An incidental yet precious orchestration filled the clear air, as windows banging open and the sound of frying oil was dotted by the fine bells of bicycles lazily zigzagging and the trill of an occasional hummingbird. My nostrils dilated, seduced equally by bakeries and the fragrant frangipani -- to again contract, repulsed by the deadly smell of agonizing fish, caught and brought in that very morning. The sight of a basket full of them, wiggling and gasping for air, brought tears to my eyes. I sensed that all which seemed exotic to me was perfectly routine for everybody else -- even for Armand. The total absence of mountains or even cliffs where my heart could seek refuge made me more alert, and before the vast horizons where sea and sky blended in blue, my sense of perspective seemed distorted. For the first four or five hours I tripped repeatedly, unable to calculate the distances, under a white light that seemed to annihilate them.

During that whole day we spent in town, from morning until sunset, Armand introduced me to the local food and costumes. Men and women wore eyeliners equally, and their eyes were openings onto parallel universes. Both genres decorated their ears with flowers, too, so that vases were redundant and could be spotted nowhere. For the first time in my life, I tried seafood. Sizzling shrimps were brought to us on a hot tile, and they were tender like nothing I had tasted before. Fresh and fragrant oysters were so sensual to the palate that I blushed and felt embarrassed, as I slurped them.

With pleasure, Armand watched me feasting. "Enjoy it all, mon cher ami!" He would repeat,"We won't have any of that on the Île. Nor those, too"  He indicated the colorful crowd of passersby. "There won't really be anyone else on the island. Are you ready for the solitary life of a lost tropical island?" He patted me on the leg, and laughed, knowing I enjoyed solitude as much as he did. He urged me to try all fresh fruits from the market, since very few grew on the Île du Blanchomme. If I did not burst from drinking papaya juice with coconut water, and trying generous slices of ananas and other fruits I never learned the names of, it's only because I was again healthy, and in my early twenties. That afternoon, for dessert I must have eaten half a dozen mangoes. Ripened under the sun, they were as sweet as Armand's comforting presence.

Bittersweet, actually. 

There was an unexpected and sad, tragic note to our reunion. We had been walking on the wild side of the island, where the sea and the wind were rougher. Trees grew intricately bent and twisted, and rocks had been impossibly sculpted by centuries of waves crashing against them. The sounds of nature were so intense that we walked arm in arm, like we often had in the streets of Paris, speaking directly into the other's nearest ear.

"We'll sail tonight to the Île, mon cher Carlo." Armand hesitated, and his mouth twisted downward, indicating sadness. "But I have to be back here in a week, with the next boat. I'm leaving to France. My mother is seriously ill. I should have gone already, but I was waiting for your arrival, and I prayed..." He gulped, "to honor my appointment with life. That means you, my dear friend." His voice caught. "And the other one, too... With death." Armand's lips trembled. "I hope I can honor both."

I was taken aghast, and halted our march along the rugged coast. The ground shook as waves crashed in thunders, giving rise to curtains of spray that sometimes gently enveloped us. "I'm sorry to hear about your mother, Armand." I had to wait until a series of waves exploded, which allowed me time to take in another setback.  "I'm sorry for being late... And... I don't know what to say..." I gulped. Armand was so polite. But after years of friendship I had learned to read his intentions behind his tactful words -- and he was politely dismissing me. "I hadn't planned leaving so soon..." I had to be honest. I was disconcerted with that change of plans from my friend. Had I traveled so far and weeks long to spend just a single week on his island? "I don't think I have anywhere else to go..." And I knew I was finally lost.

Armand raised his left hand slightly, indicating he wanted to take the word. It was a very polite gesture, if still meant to interrupt me, and I immediately silenced. In Paris, that gesture coming from him had often avoided embarrassing situations I was about to get myself into. And recognizing his princely superiority, I had learned to better obey him.

"Why are you talking about leaving, Carlo?" Making sure he was going to be heard, he pressed his mouth almost directly against my head, and when he spoke, his tongue was almost licking my ear. His breath smelled like mine to the unsettling sensuality of oysters, and for a moment I did not know what to expect. "You have just arrived!" I sensed his lips curving into a smile. "I'm sorry to tell you these news so soon. But I pondered you ought to know." He was so close that the smell of his perfume, or was it his deodorant, was stronger than the salt in the water that washed over us. "I'm telling you just so we can really enjoy our short time together!" He squeezed my waist, as to reassure me of his intentions, that I had misunderstood. "And when I leave, I thought you could stay and run the house on your own until I come back." He paused, and meanwhile I felt his warm breath penetrating my ear. More than sensuous, it was peaceful, and I calmed down. "But we can discuss this later on." He grabbed my arm, urging me. "Let's get back to the port!" The distant sound of a siren was heard in between the waves. "Our boat should leave soon." And like when, in Paris, we had been late for a movie session, we ran -- boys chasing after the fading rainbow.

Armand raised his left hand slightly, indicating he wanted to take the word. It was a very polite gesture, if it still meant to interrupt me, and I immediately silenced. In Paris, that gesture from my friend had often avoided embarrassing situations I was about to get myself into. And recognizing his princely superiority, I had learned to better obey him.

"Why are you talking about leaving, Carlo? You have just arrived! I'm sorry to tell you these news so soon, but I pondered you ought to know. So that we can really enjoy our short time together! And when I leave, I thought you could stay and run the house on your own until I come back. But we can discuss this later on. Let's get back to the port, our boat should leave soon."

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