Just the sight of it, the embossed golden letters on the spine, caused a horrible mixture of emotions to rise and coat every inch of my skin in cold and trembling memories.
A few months shy of eighteen, still under the impression I was going to grow up and become a Renaissance painter, I’d spent almost every waking moment at the museum, studying and sketching the work of the masters, fabricating as I did the long and illustrious career of the great artisteDemetrio.A name my father had invented for the ring, but that I was going to elevate to the halls of classical culture.
One afternoon, as I sat tracing and retracing an angel-and saint-studded archway, a soft and silky voice had drawn me gently but decidedly out of myself:
“My, my, your fingers must have been blessed by the goddess Athena, my child.”
I’d looked up from my scribbling to see that one of the subjects had stepped forth from their painting—his hair hadn’t been as long then, and he still dressed a bit like an unemployed mime—but he was very much the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen in my short, vapid life.
I’d replied with something nonsensical, and he’d sat down beside me, slender shoulder brushing against mine.His white fingers hovered lingeringly over my drawing as he extolled its virtues in rumbling French tones, and he smelled of sex and mint.
We began meeting there daily, and Jean had provided me with a classical education the likes of which are almost no longer to be found—mixing astute analysis of themes and techniques with juicy gossip hundreds of years old.
“As I’m sure you are aware, my little student of dead men’s lives, Michelangelo and da Vinci hated each other with a great and fiery passion,” Jean whispered to me one day, as he pressed me against the marble wall, his eyes glinting in the shadows of the pillar we’d hidden behind.“Leonardo was so full of fire—machines that flew in his mind, full of songs and philosophy, beautiful boys and mysterious women ...”
He traced one long finger down my cheek, and grinned at the shudder this produced.“And Michelangelo, the man of marble—he spent so much time in the cold and icy mountains, choosing his materials so very carefully and dragging them step by step to his workshop, where he slaved away over cold stone.Can you imagine—” his hand had left my cheek and traveled down to softly finger the collar of my jumper “—those two men simply meeting on the street?So much fire and so much ice ...”
For my eighteenth birthday, he’d presented me with that book, weighing at least four and a half kilos and the cost completely unimaginable:The Definitive Biography and Works of Leonardo da Vinci.
Jean had made it clear which of the elements he wanted me to become.
As my life spun further and further off course, Jean’s gifts grew more and more extravagant: a silver chain with the image of Terpsichore, the Greek muse of dancers, when I started at the DOL House.A conciliatory trip to the Louvre when the university informed me I was on academic probation due to absence and failing grades.My very first bump on the anniversary of our first kiss.
Three years later, I found myself staring at Sam in confusion when they asked me what I was working on.I hadn’t worked on anything in longer than I could remember, because if I wasn’t exhausted from work, or Jean, my hands were far too shaky to draw.
It took five years and my friends’ combined forces to physically remove Jean from my life.I was far too weak to do it on my own and went back to him more than once.But each time was shorter than the last, and eventually I was strong enough to withstand his visits to the clubs where I danced.I’d moved out of his penthouse and lived with Sam and Craig, but Jean still came to every show.
He sat in the front row, never making any trouble, hands folded in his lap.Smiling.
I tried to return all the gifts he’d given me, but of course he wouldn’t take them.Instead, I distributed them among my friends or charity organizations, since I couldn’t bring myself to sell them, no matter how badly I needed the money.
But the book I kept.
There was too much beauty and too much sadness and too much lost promise in it for me to let go.
A bright future squandered.
I leaned back in defeat, my body hollowed, my head knocking softly against the horribly solid and beautiful drafting table.In the morning, I was going to take that book and donate it to a library—or a school, or something—and hope someone else found it and loved it.
Though not as much as I had.
Lucas Fails to Outrun His Feelings
November 24
After two hours on my regular treadmill at The Hench Bench, I was still trapped in my own body.I cranked up the incline another five percent, waiting for my brain to finally disengage from the rest of me.I’d barely slept last night, and it wasn’t like Mom was pressuring me to talk, but after I’d told her Armand and I had fought, she was alittletoo present, like I was a powder keg about to explode.
Part of me had hoped that things would look different in the light of day, but I remained gutted, pushing my muscles into an electric burn to escape the devastation on Armand’s face, and the ever-present gremlin in my mind that cackled about how I’d been so completely oblivious.I couldn’t be trusted with his secret, I was as stupid and gullible as ever, nothing had changed after all.
Endorphins carried me away in a euphoric tingle—why should I care about any of that when I was floating, flying away?—my skin buzzing as I pushed harder, faster—
My vision blipped.
The flickers of cold meant I was finally lightheaded enough to stop, so I gradually slowed, gripping the machine’s handles as my whole body yawned, pulling away from me as I stepped onto solid ground.Just a quick cool down walk, and—
My legs crumpled, and I was blinking dazedly at the gym’s abrasive fluorescent lights.
“Whoa!You all right, mate?”
