TS 2 Part VI Chapter 28

Chapter 28

May 30^th, 2012

Lille, France

The open magazine told Constantin nothing. He browsed through the pages bored out of himself. 'After having a real genius at home, these are simple doodles,' he thought sadly after carefully watching some reproductions in the “Newcomers” section. 'Don't they teach anything nowadays? Perhaps the best approach was Guntram's: learn with the masters and find your own voice much later.'

'Absolute rubbish,' Constantin thought and closed the magazine with a dry thud. His gaze travelled around the small book store-café, oddly reminding him the place he had seen Guntram for the first time. 'No, Lille is more elegant than Buenos Aires. There is no point of comparison at all.'

He watched the abandoned Arts magazine and suppressed a sigh. 'It's this or buying another book I will certainly not read. Even if he was driving me mad, I miss my angel and my baby.'

He stood up and chose a book on “Normandy House Interiors” thinking to purchase it if the illustrations could give him some inspiration. 'I'm a poor eccentric millionaire now,' he thought bitterly. 'Only 1.6 billion dollars left and no way to increase them. I'm officially retired now. In a small village on top. Nothing that could be compared to before.'

'Lintorff must be over 20 billion by now if not more,' he thought, his heart filling with a mix of fury and envy. 'And he has my son and angel.'

'I have no way of attacking him now. I should live the rest of my life keeping a low profile and enjoying only a few pleasures. At least, I'm in France and not among the savages and monkeys. Getting bullet in your head here is a hundred times more preferable than dying an old man in the company of brutes.'

'I will not renounce to my baby, but I can't do a thing now. I can wait a few years till I recover him. Lintorff will not rob me that too. My angel is as good as dead if he needs a heart transplant now.' Once more he opened his magazine and began to read an article about Lucian Freud's retrospective in Vienna.

“Monsieur, may I collect your bill now?” a soft voice took Constantin away from his magazine and he rose his eyes to see a young man, perhaps in his late mid twenties.

Constantin was speechless. The face had the same perfect symmetry that Guntram had, small nose and mouth with the same light brown hair. The eyes were of a velvety brown quality and they shone with a mix of mischievous and happiness, unlike Guntram's who were calm and always showing a hint of sadness. The young man was almost his size, a bit sturdy and his hands showed he was used to do manual works.

“I'm sorry to bother you,” the young waiter continued to speak, “but my father told me to charge the tables before we start the concert.”

“The concert?” was all what Constantin could utter in his shock. 'This one looks real good; must be the French blood,' he thought as he carefully inspected the unsuspecting youth, now greeting two middle age women sitting in one of the far away tables.

“It was announced,” the youth said and presented the bill to Constantin who only dropped some notes over the small dish without casting a glance to it.

“It's very small and only once per month. My father wouldn't let us frighten the clients more frequently,” he added with a contagious smile as he winked to a young woman walking toward the piano.

'Concert? As Rock music? Time to flee,' Constantin thought as he watched the boy count the change with a concentrated frown and leave the coins on the white porcelain dish. But Constantin didn't stand up as he watched enthralled the boy, taking care of other customers and amiably speaking with all of them, as if they were old friends. He noticed that no one was going away and some more people were entering in the bookstore and taking every available space, and many of them remained standing. Astonished, he contemplated how two old ladies sat at his table with only a “bonsoir”, almost crushing his open magazine with their heavy purses.

'The joys of being among commoners,' he thought and began to rise from his chair when he noticed two other boys and a young girl had over taken the old study piano, distributing scores all over it.

A quick look to the entrance convinced him that escaping without stamping over twenty people was impossible. 'I'm trapped like a rat,' he thought miserably and braced himself for an amateurs concert.

'Poor Handel; he didn't deserve this,' Constantin thought when he recognised the first musical chords of Lascia ch'io pianga. 'Probably the girl starts and drills our ears. Did no one tell them that this an aria for men? Didn't they watch the film?'

The boy took a step forward and began to sing.

Constantin was baffled. He had never heard a counter-tenor who could sing with such purity and strength at the same time. Although he still lacked some technique; his Italian was not excellent but understandable, he was really living the lyrics he was singing in all its sorrow.

'Like that first open skies landscape from my Guntram,' Constantin remembered. 'The same fierceness and love of life mixed with longing, sadness and infinite purity. A full palette of greys in a world that insists on showing everything in black and white.'

He discreetly applauded, hiding his growing interest for the slightly sturdy young man. 'No, he doesn't look like my angel at all,' Constantin realised. 'He looks more like Aliosha.' Once more, he did a supreme effort to hide his disgust when part of the audience whistled to show their appreciation.

The girl sang two arias and Constantin had to suppress his desire to shoot her in the head for her shameless destruction of Monteverdi and Pergolesi's music. Then another boy, maybe in his thirties sang with the girl three pieces more.

'Amateur singing... but of what? Certainly they're not loving the music,' Constantin thought bitterly as he watched his new object of desire, demurely sitting and carefully watching his companions. 'Why artists always cover each other their backs? He must know they sing terribly and yet, he copes with their screams. It's the same with painters. They fight like crazy for a wall in a gallery, but when you tell that one of them paints rubbish, they all become rogue trade unionists.”

When his patience was at an end, the blond rose from his chair and embraced the girl and both began the duet Pur ti miro, pur ti godo, where Nero and Poppea celebrated their triumph over their enemies and her rise to power. 'He really understood the role, Nero desires love and she only wants his power.' He carefully watched how the young man frolicked the singer and the air was somehow charged with an animal and sensuous passion that had nothing to do with the many camera renditions he had seen before.

'Not gay,' Constantin thought extremely disappointed. 'He definitively likes women.' He waited for the stampede toward the self made “stage” to congratulate the artists be over before he rose from his table and walked to the exit. 'Counter-tenor is not castrato and why should he be gay? This is such a common place!' he chastised himself.

He passed next to the group of people and artists and took one last glance at the young man. His eyes found the limpid brown ones and his heart stopped.

“Au revoir, Monsieur. “Perhaps we'll see each other again,” he said out of the blue to the retreating man and Constantin remained frozen in the spot, like a rabbit in front of a car lights. The youth briefly winked at him and returned his attention to a housewife praising his performance.

For the next days the question that will sear Constantin's soul would be: “did he wink at me or does he have a nervous tic?”

* * *

Eager like a teenager on his first date, Constantin stood once more in front of the tiny bookshop at Lille. Three days after the concert, he still couldn't forget the young man who had captivated him. 'I have a weak spot for young waiters. Guntram was a waiter -and a lousy one-, and here I am, making a fool out of myself in front of a singing waiter.'

A small rain finally decided to make him enter in the store and walk to the “Newly Arrived” section and feign some interest in a cheesy novel.

“You wouldn't like it,” a well known baritone voice said. “I finished it two days ago and it's very bad.”

Constantin rose his eyes from the book and saw the waiter, informally dressed with jeans and a squared shirt, hanging loose from the trousers and smiling at him earnestly. “Why do you think I wouldn't like it?” he challenged to hide his nervousness. 'At least, this one noticed me.'

“A man who buys our only copy of Notes d'Art will not read some ramblings disguised as modern philosophy,” he answered with a smile.

“Do you remember that?” Constantin asked.

“I think I know you,” the boy said with a smile and Constantin's back became very rigid. “Are you not the new inhabitant of the overpopulated Chalons sûr Mer?”

“How do you know that?”

“Easy, I also live there with my family. My brother Pierre is working in your garden. How is Monsieur de la Rochelle? It's been years since I saw him.”

'The brute that can't dig a simple hole is his brother?' Constantin realised but said nothing. “I'm afraid I know no Monsieur de la Rochelle.”

“That's impossible! He was the owner of St. Croix, the house you purchased! I played in that garden countless of times when I was a child. He moved to Paris five years ago and since then the house has been for sale.”

“I bought the house from a woman. Marie Blissard.”

“That's his daughter. Maybe he passed away and she inherited the property.”

“I can imagine that. The house has been abandoned for five years.”

“Yes, that's what my brother told me. My name is Alain Girard.” He offered his hand and Constantin shook it, wondering why he left it for so long in his.

“François Arseniev,” Constantin introduced himself. “But your brother must have told you my name to you.”

“No, he doesn't speak about his work. He was somehow upset with the garden pond.”

“He got a lecture on how to make a drainage without flooding everything,” Constantin replied dryly as he remembered one of the biggest incompetent construction workers he had seen in his life. “Someone should have explained the proper angles for installing a drainage. Otherwise, he works fine.”

“May I invite you a coffee? As a compensation for my brother's actions,” the boy said and Constantin was taken a bit aback as he was not expecting he would be so bold. It was a welcomed change.

“Yes, thank you,” he accepted and sat in one of the tables as the boy went to the coffee machine and accurately served him what he had that night. 'Maybe he was checking on me. I'm not that bad looking and I was quite successfully before I met Guntram. In fact, he was the only one who never noticed me. '

'Yes, and you had a large fortune behind,' his little inner voice reminded him. 'Useless in Guntram's case,' it chirped but he firmly shut it up.

“Are you Russian as everyone in town tells?” Alain asked taking the seat in front of him, but moving it slightly toward Constantin's place.

“I was born in France and lived here all my childhood. My family returned to Russia and I came back here after I was retired from a company that was sold to some Americans.”

“Are you retired? You can't be more than forty!” The boy laughed with a seductive tone.

“Looks can be deceiving. I'm officially retired and under a contract that forbids me to work in the oil industry for the next ten years. I'm a civil engineer.”

“That explains why my brother is so upset with you,” Alain chuckled. “He said you're almost all the time checking what he's doing!”

“I'm saving my garden from the next universal flood,” Constantin answered with a forced smile. “Also his team's plumbing skills leave a lot to be desired. I have no complaints about the electrical installation or the windows. I'm crossing my fingers before they attack my roof.”

The boy's laughter was a welcomed balm for Constantin's frayed nerves after having to share his life with fifteen construction workers... of the clueless and enthusiast kind. 'I need to build good relationships with the community. The more open you look, the sooner they forget about you.'

“Well, at least my brother recommended us,” he said with a kind smile that lit his eyes and a strange warmth washed over Constantin's heart.

'That only makes up for almost connecting the drainage to the artesian well,' inwardly sighed the Russian.

“The house lacked a good maintenance and a deep cleaning. I still don't know what to do with all the furniture left behind,” Constantin said fast, feeling a bit embarrassed that he was under such a close scrutiny. 'The Salvation Army would kick me out if I try to donate them,' he thought as a way to escape the strange, unusual shyness engulfing him. 'What's wrong with me?' he pondered.

“You can sell them. My mother liked a table that was at the foyer.”

“The pieces are in very bad shape and a restoration will cost much more than buying a good antiquity. Nothing was done in several years and the woods were very affected. The floors will be have to be changed. I have put all the furniture in the old stables. If your mother wants, she should come to the house and choose what she likes best,” Constantin said with a gentle voice. “If you know anyone in the village who needs anything, he should also come. I would hate to throw them away, but these pieces are not my style at all.”

“That's very generous of you. I will tell my mother. Maybe you already know her. She owns the cigar store.” Alain held Constantin's gaze and the Russian was forced to cast his eyes down, back to the coffee cup.

“Yes, I think I saw her,” Constantin said feigning a confident air. “I'm staying at a hotel here, in Lille while the house is being refurbished. I only go to the house to check the progresses,” he added without knowing the source of his sudden shyness and unexplainable self-restraint. Realisation hit him like a thunderbolt. 'Shit, I'm in love like a teenager! Exactly as I was with Guntram the first time I saw him!'

“Yes, my brother said you really check their work,” Alain chuckled once more.

“I'm an engineer. It's natural for me to do so. How about you? Are you a singer?” Constantin said very fast, hoping he could reverse the more than probably “sorry” image he was giving to the youth. 'Self confidence! That's the only rule when seducing someone!' he chastised himself.

“No, not at all. This is a hobby. I studied French Literature and have a job as high school teacher. It's just a few hours in the morning and then I help my father here.”

“I don't know much about classical music, but your voice is very good. When did you start to study?”

“I started to study with a teacher four years ago. Before I was the bassist in a heavy metal band.”

“You... In a heavy metal band?” Constantin asked trying to contain his laughter. “You're pulling my legs.”

“OK, a counter-tenor in a metal band doesn't sound good but I kept my mouth shut most of the times,” he answered with a chuckle. “Seriously, I'm originally a baritone; you have to learn to use your modal voice if you want to sing like an alto. It's not something you are born with; its the result of hard training. Coming back to the story, we were big fans of Nightwish but they broke up and the singer Tarja Turunen -she's from Finland- started to sing Edvard Grieg and this Russian opera Rusalka and we were left up in the air,” he chuckled and took a sip of his cappuccino.

“So we looked for inspiration in You Tube.” Constantin closed his eyes at the blasphemy. “And we thought, why not? Let's redo something from there.”

“I really don't want to know the results.”

“We tried with a couple of things from Handel or Bach at full speed, but it was not good at all,” Alain said with a giggle escaping from his lips.

“I wonder why,” Constantin ironically commented.

“It wasn't our greatest idea till one day by chance I saw this video of Philippe Jaroussky, and I only thought, I want to sing like that. It was a performance of Ombra mai fu and it blew my mind. I quitted Metal that day and started to download Handel, Vivaldi, Monteverdi and Porpora.”

“How did people take the change?” 'From Metal to Renaissance music? That is almost impossible! It shows that he as a real talent.'

“I found a good music teacher and he was very shocked to see me but he tried my voice and sent me to another who was specialised in Renaissance and Baroque chamber music who sent me to another in Paris who knew how to train a countertenor. I'm studying with him since two years and I still need a lot of practice and training.”

“Do you want to be an opera singer?”

“No, never. I have stage panic. I love to sing and to study but I can't stand to be in front of so many strangers and sing. Here I know most of the audience. I like my job and I'll run the store once my father retires. My brother has his own business and my sisters have their careers. One is a doctor in La Salpetrière and the other is a teacher in Brest.”

“Why do you study then?”

“Because I love music but I'm too shy to stand in a stage. I admire people who can do it, but it's not my case.”

“Your voice is good and is a pity you're wasting it in a small town,” Constantin asked testily.

“It's my hometown!” Alain protested emphatically. “And I have enough with travelling twice per week to Paris. I don't like big cities. Living here is much better. And you don't have to travel so much to meet interesting people,” he added with a seductive voice. “Would you like to go out some day? I could show you Lille.”

'Too perfect to be true,' Constantin bitterly thought. 'Talented like my angel but more sensible and rational than he ever was.'

“Do you come from a soundly constituted family? Constantin asked very kindly and the boy laughed at the absurd question.

“I guess so. My parents have been married for the past forty-two years. My mother baked that cake you had with you coffee. I still live with them.”

“Excellent,” Constantin answered with a smile. 'The worst that can happen here is a Sunday lunch with his family or that his brother wants to fix something at the house.'

“Before we go in a date, please answer me one single question; are you, by any chance affiliated with the Erasmus Program?” Alain's tone was very polite.

“I beg you pardon?” Constantin asked in utter astonishment.

“The international exchange program for university students and teachers.”

“I left school decades ago,” Constantin replied slowly trying to recover from his shock.

“Excellent,” Alain answered slightly mimicking Constantin's accent. “So you are not planning to move to Prague overnight without paying your share of the rent like my former boyfriend did?”

“Excuse me?”

“He got a scholarship to teach Proust in Prague and I was left heart-broken, indebted and homeless in less than 24 hours,” Alain told him with a shrug. “This is the last time I share rent with anyone.”

Unexpectedly, Alain sung and his voice filled the empty bookstore, dragging Constantin into a past and far away world.

Se fiamma d’amore già mai non sentì,

quel riggido core ch’il cor mi rapì.

Se nega pietate

la cruda beltate che l’alma invaghì,

ben fia che dolente,

pentita e languente, sospirimi un dì.

“What is that?” Constantin asked, unable to remove his eyes from the young man's lips, enchanted by the sweet melody and voice. “I don't understand a word of Italian.”

“A madrigal from Monteverdi; Si dolce è ´l tormento' or So sweet is the torment. An approximate translation would be “The hard heart that stole mine away has never felt love’s flame. The cruel beauty that charmed my soul withholds mercy, so let it suffer, repentant and languishing, and let it sigh one day for me,” Alain translated with a sad smile. “It's from the XVII century but very true, don't you think? The best curse for ex-lovers I've ever heard.”

Constantin was speechless and could only nod like a dummy, feeling as he had been enchanted by a cobra. Alain smiled seductively and whispered “but the previous part is better,” before he sung again.

Se colpo mortale,

con rigido strale, il cor m’impiagò,

cangiando mia sorte,

col dardo di morte, il cor sanerò. ¹

“If the mortal blow of an arrow’s dart pierced my heart, changing my destiny, with death’s barb, I shall heal my heart,” Alain translated. “That's very true, don't you think? You also look as if you were left homeless and heart-broken.”

“Some things remain true no matter the centuries,” he whispered in shock. The Russian looked at the young man who had just so easily read him and continued to smile knowingly. He gulped, feeling like a little boy in front of the teacher but decided to give himself another chance. Guntram was past. Only the instant was what mattered in the life of a survivor.

“I have my own house, very near to your parents' house,” Constantin told in one go without blinking. “I'm forty-seven years old already and come from a very complex relationship. I really don't want any more troubles in my life,” he said earnestly.

“I'm thirty-two by the way, Cancer and I don't smoke or like pets,” Alain enunciated with a radiant smile. “It's good to have things clear from the beginning even if it is not very romantic. Each one in his house and we share the tab fifty-fifty. Happy together.”

Alain enjoyed how Constantin gaped at him, his dark eyes reflecting so many emotions; sadness, longing and attraction for him. 'My mother was right, get a engineer or a lawyer and forget about all those crazy artists you like so much. They only cause trouble. I'm sick of people my age with no commitment or money, living me off while I ran from one school to the next so they can create,' Alain thought as he continued to smile at the dark haired man gaping at him like a child. 'Yes, engineers are not so creative or imaginative as artists but they are reliable and this one looks great.”

'Deliciously provincial but with a good dose of sensibility,' Constantin thought as he returned the bewitching smile. 'I had enough of old aristocracy and artists. Alain could be polished like Alexei was. Poor Aliosha was nothing but a good-looking-intelligent brute till I took him in. I had to teach him from zero how to be a gentleman.'

“Grandiose love declarations are worthless if you have to pick the pieces of your heart up two hours later,” Constantin enunciated with a testing voice.

“Exactly. You prove your love with your deeds and not with your words. Tomorrow at seven?”

“Yes, indeed. Why not?” Constantin replied, secretly glad that his new angel was so down to earth.

1Si dolce è ´l tormento. VI Book of Madrigals by Claudio Monteverdi (1632) Lyrics by Carlo Milanuzzi Text and translation can be found at: http://www.naxos.com/sungtext/PDF/8.555312-13_Monteverdi_lyrics.pdf