chapter Three, continued

to read from the FIRST CHAPTER

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EPISODE 6

The next morning, during my meditation session, I thought I had dozed off when, impossible as it was, I suddenly saw someone standing on the beach. But arousing my attention I realized I hadn't slept, I was not dreaming -- there was in fact someone standing in front of the sun, in a cloud of light!

I was terrified. I felt icy chills up my spine, my heart tightened and I had to jump to my feet.

It was enough for the creature to disappear, leaving me afraid and feeling cold under the tropical sun.

I found Armand in the kitchen, cooking a recipe he had learned in the Himalayas, some kind of vegetarian dumplings he would add to a buttery soup.

He told me more of his adventures while he cooked, but as fascinating as they were, portraiting the people and the costumes of the high Asian Steppes, I hardly listened. I was still scared, and I kept that vision before my eyes, trying to bring into focus the shapeless figure that was barely distinguishable in a blinding cloud of light -- and each time I tried, I shivered with goose bumps, and I felt cold, as if that frightening apparition was laying icy hands on my skin -- or deeper, onto my soul.

As much as it was funny to see Armand joyfully cooking, it was weird to watch my ex-roommate going about in his underwear only. In two days I had seen more of his body than in the five years we had shared a room in Paris. He had always seemed to live sheltered in his politeness and discreetness, which did not match nakedness. Now there was a new freedom about his presence that was contagious -- a liberty that made me rethink my own concept of freedom, that ideal which I had turned into a cruel, personal form of slavery. Freedom and slavery had been the same to me, just like I had been master and slave of myself -- on how to kill them both at once, I was learning from Armand.

'What is it with you today, mon cher Carlo? You've been staring into the horizon mesmerized all morning long... Where have you been while I was telling you about Tibet and Nepal?' -- Armand did not hide his disappointment -- 'Not here... Is your house empty today? Are you sun stroke?' -- he touched my forehead, and I shivered at his gentle touch.

'I'm ok.' -- I didn't feel like talking about this morning's apparition to him. Armand was much less skeptical than he used to be, India having opened both his mind and heart while giving rise to his soul, but my own budding spirituality did not contain ghosts nor wandering spirits. Had his ghost stories about the Île du Blanchomme influenced that apparition? I did not know what I had seen, nor if I had actually seen something. 

'I guess I'm just trying too hard to have a nicer suntan than you, mon cher Armand, haha!' -- maybe he was right, I might be sunstroke. The tropical sun was completely new to me.

'Well, I guess you already have a nicer suntan... from birth, mon cher Carlo, haha! Are you sure you dont't want me to apply that coconut lotion on you? It should help...' -- he caressed my skin, so much rougher than his, and leaving his hand on my forearm, he changed the subject -- 'It looks good... I mean, it smells good, already. Should be ready in a moment... Are you hungry?'

His dumplings were delicious, a Tibetan delicacy he had adapted to the ingredients available in the house, though the soup had come out too salty and inedible. The meal was delightful, a feast of unpredictable tastes, all new to me, just like my old friend seemed new to me... his new skills, his new looks, his new goals for the future, his new easiness, even the nakedness.

I had always thought of Armand as conservative, and thus his transformation impressed me the greater. And in comparison to him, my identity and attitudes seemed sadly crystallized.

'Armand, I have to say how much I admire you! You are so brave! You have reinvented yourself, and I'm rediscovering you... I mean, you always were my best friend, but now it seems I'm getting a new best friend... on top of the same best friend I've kept over the years... Do you know what I mean?'

Finally, we did the tour of the island together, and Armand showed me all he had discovered about Herr Weismann's schemes to make life possible on that small circle of sand slightly rising above the ocean. The Île du Blanchomme must have been part of a greater atoll in the past, that had vanished after successive tsunamis had swept that region, leaving just that stretch of land for a Portal Island. Armand had discovered a lot of things reading Herr Weismann's journals, but because they were in German, my friend had not always understood everything. There were some technical details that remained a mystery to him, and he expected me to dig deeper into them in the next months.

He also shared his restoration plans, and how he envisioned the new property -- surely without the forest of weeds and the dry brambles that had taken over the years of abandonment.

'I don't know why, but I haven't yet seen many flowers on this island, apart from those that turn into fruits... And therefore not many insects, and rarely ever a bird. Le Île du Blanchomme has its mysteries... And I thought that you, with your agricultural knowledge, Carlo, could tend the garden... Wouldn't it be lovely to have flowers to decorate the rooms, and fresh vegetables for cooking?' -- Armand's voice had almost turned into a song, as he happily shared his plans for the island.

'The workers I hired did fix the electrical part and the plumbing system in the house, but they had just started with the painting when they decided to leave. I wanted to have everything inside the house painted white... The light is kind of strong here on this part of the world, but somehow the rooms are dark... I thought we could bring some light into the interior of the house, and also honor Herr Weissmann (weiss being the word for white in German). Would you be into this other kind of painting, Carlo?' -- Armand knew I had taken up a few jobs as a wall painter during the École. Just because I needed the money, and I'd rather do this than work part time in a shop or an office -- 'I mean, you don't have to do it alone, that can wait until I'm back and we can do it together...'

'I'll be delighted to paint the interiors of the house and illuminate them...' -- I thought this was a very meaningful activity, very symbolic of my own spiritual needs -- 'Don't worry, fratello mio...' -- for I knew Armand was trying to be tactful and slowly introducing the jobs he expected me to perform in his absence --' the house will be shining white when you come back!'

Those were days of being happily lazy.

In the first hours of the afternoon, when the heat was greatest, we took a nap, right on the floor of the master room, that had been placed at the breeziest corner of the house.

We had been excitedly talking about the plans for the house all day long, and I think so much excitement had drained our energy, and we feel asleep on the floor, side by side as we had been conversing, where I dreamed...

Dreamed the apparition.

But it was not a remembrance from that morning.

It was a new apparition. Or the same apparition, but more clear, and closer.

And in my sleep I was not so afraid.

Because I was able to distinguish that at the center of the pool of light stood a boy, beautiful like a cherub.

And suddenly, as the apparition took features of something closer to a revelation, my feelings in relation to it radically changed, and I felt it soothing me.

I woke up feeling peaceful, to discover it was about time for our "movie session".

The sunset was one of our few daily appointments, and I knew Armand did not want to lose it, so I woke him up with a gentle whistle, like I used to, in Paris. 

'Oh, mon cher Carlo!' -- Armand always woke up in a good mood, looking restored and refreshed -- 'I missed you so much! I missed everything about you... Even your snoring... Yes, you were snoring when you fell asleep this afternoon.' -- I was astonished, for Armand had never commented on my snoring before, he had always been too polite to do so! -- 'And this whistle... I missed it so much!'

'I missed it too, Armand, I haven't done it in such a long time! But now let's go down to the beach... Nothing can stop that sun from leaving us...'

I was an only child. My parents had died in a boat accident, and I had been raised by my grandfather, who was a widower. I guess this somehow explains why I've always been a loner, or  "reclusive", to use the art critic's term.

And Armand had also been an only child... Well, in face of the new events recently unfolding in his life, he had actually just been brought up as an only child, unaware of his half sister's existence.

Our brotherhood, always so strong over the years, had grown stronger and deeper in the couple of the days spent in that paradise to the point of redemption -- redemption of all past suffering, all past expectations and frustrations.

Finally it seemed like I was living in the here and the now, where there was me and Armand as the only witnesses to the sun, the moon, and the stars.

'Carlo... Mi scusi...' -- my voice sounded like a crash, and I was sorry to interrupt my father's narration and drag him from the past where he was so happily dwelling, but my intention was to help him feel at ease -- 'To make a long story short...' -- he had brought up the subject of my sexuality in first place... maybe as an introduction? I thought I had finally figured out the point in his telling me stories about his closest friend, when in my mind we should be talking about ourselves and trying to reestablish connections. Suddenly, I had devised this quite unexpected link between my father and me -- 'Were you and Armand lovers?'

'Gentlemen, may I interrupt you?' -- another crash, and it was Gabriel, the angel who doubled as a barman in that lounge perched high in the sky -- 'The chef wishes to inform you that our buffet has just been served.'

'Si, che buono! Let's get something to eat, Laurent. I've been talking about starving in that abandoned factory some 30 years ago, then recalling Armand's delicious exotic meals, and that has made me actually hungry! Aren't you hungry, son? We can continue later!'

I had never known why my father had left home. One day, when I was thirteen years old, I came back from school and he was not is his atelier as usual, nor to be found anywhere else in the house. 

Nor was Catherine, who had gone somewhere to give an interview to some journalist about her latest novel. When she returned, I asked where my dad was. "Gone" she answered without any trace of emotion "Forever". "WHAT?!?" -- I had screamed -- "WHY???" But Catherine hadn't answered me.

She had once said something intriguing about Carlo's departure. "It was more than time he left. He never belonged here. He had to go live his own kind of life, which did not include us." Was Armand de Montbelle the reason why my father had left? Were they lovers? I had always struggled with that "WHY?" and I had wanted an answer, needed an answer, and I was trying to interpret and shape Carlo's narration into this answer. Maybe I was forcing it into an answer that could also fit my own private, personal questions, like those about my sexuality and commitment issues.

'Sir... Won't you eat sir?' -- I heard Gabriel's question addressed at me and realized I had followed my father up to the buffet, completely unaware -- 'The buffet was specially prepared for you...' -- he added, lowering his voice so that my father would not hear him -- 'Is there any problem, sir?' -- and I realized he still wouldn't call me Laurent.

'Oh no, everything is just perfect.' -- my father had already served himself, and taken a table without waiting for me... Was he avoiding me now? -- 'I'd like to meet the chef later and personally thank him. And in advance I'm thanking you, Gabriel, for being here on your free day... Thank you for helping me.'

'I'm glad you like it, sir. And I'm happy to help...' -- he had a lovely smile, if a bit fake, like... too beautiful -- 'I'll invite the chef to come to the dining room before he leaves.'

And I'll invite you to my atelier, Gabriel -- I thought. Such a beauty deserved to be honored.

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