Chapter 8
EIGHT
Charles is at ease, waiting in front of the green door in broad daylight. Muffled in his parka coat, his beanie pulled down to his reading glasses, he could be anyone. Besides, he’s not carrying alcohol today, as Loris is working afterwards. Charles is showing up empty-handed and light-hearted.
He’s having a great day. He played a bit of piano, reorganised his book shelves and managed to avoid his parents. Later, he will go for an inspired nocturnal saunter on the Heath, with the views of the city all to himself.
When Loris opens the door, wearing a black drawstring shirt and a welcoming smile six times more efficient than the autumnal sun, Charles’ chest fills up with an emotion he can’t name.
It sounds like gulls circling in the sky and smells like sunscreen on the tip of his nose. It tastes like the iced grenadine he can’t finish before Fred drags him away from the restaurant’s terrace. It feels like sand swallowing his feet as they run towards the ocean.
It’s an elating sensation, like a safe risk, and Charles is already so much more clear-minded than usual, and so grateful for it, he pulls Loris against him.
‘Hi.’
‘Hey…’ Loris hugs him back, a hint of surprise in his voice, a touch of honey in his shampoo.
‘Sorry I’m late.’
Charles releases him, instantly embarrassed about his impulse, but Loris shakes his head to signify it doesn’t matter, and hopefully that goes for the hug too.
The flat smells like toast, clean laundry and a home Charles would long to get back to after years of travelling. Loris has pushed the sofa closer to the bed, freeing up a wider space for the easel. The natural light coming through the window now hits the pillows.
For the first time since his request, Charles imagines himself posing. And exposed.
‘Coffee?’
‘Please. Black, no sugar.’ Charles stretches his back to get rid of the uneasiness creeping in and points at the portfolio lying on the desk. ‘Can I?’
‘Sure. But I barely touched it after I took the picture.’
Charles lifts the cardboard flap. With added contrast, the finish of his hair and eyes is truly incredible. But from the bridge of his nose down, his face is still a colourless sketch in the shards of glass.
‘Too psyched about your new idea?’
‘No, but I had to see you again and make sure my memory wasn’t enhancing that abnormal mouth of yours.’
‘What’s wrong with my mouth?’
‘Nothing.’ Loris approaches, holding a Keep Calm and Rugby On mug. ‘That’s the point. It’s like Pavel painted it with the brushes he used for the Krakow skyline.’
‘I don’t get it.’
‘They’re flawless. Your lips. That glossy shade of raspberry and the way they’re so precisely outlined.
How they fit in the frame of your face also, as if they’ve been added as a final touch.
Unreal. I mean, they’re real, because you are, but I needed to double-check.
Here, careful, it’s strong and piping hot. ’
‘Thank you…’
Loris steps aside and Charles gulps a sip he hasn’t taken yet.
He’s used to laudatory comments on his looks.
Flirty remarks from Elsy and praise from George, meant to boost his self-esteem.
Or fawning flattery from his parents’ entourage – when Milton wants his son’s accomplishments to be acknowledged, and Alice is well aware she mothered beautiful children.
Charles usually takes those shallow compliments serenely.
They don’t make him feel like a fraud, unlike the ones expected by Milton.
Loris’ earnest words were an artistic observation and should leave him just as indifferent. But they came with a gaze, intense and burning like the coffee. If Charles couldn’t breathe properly while he was subjected to it, he now wishes he had revelled in it.
Two reactions that make no sense.
He shakes his brain.
‘You’ll have to multi-draw, then?’
‘Yeah, it’s exciting.’
‘And the reading? Exciting too?’
Loris groans with an exaggerated shiver that brings Charles back to the safer side of the risk.
‘I’m not sure I should pose yet.’
‘I agreed to read it, not to love it. And Pavel didn’t help your case, starting with a complete distortion of Sofia. Because Sofia owns my artist’s heart. Those details. With a brush! That is witchcraft!’
‘Sofia…’ Charles hides a satisfied smile behind his mug. ‘I see.’
‘Anyway, what are you wearing under that black jumper?’
‘A black t-shirt. You didn’t give me any directives.’
‘Yeah, my bad. Can I lend you something? I need your complexion emphasised with a warmer colour.’
‘Alright.’
Loris opens his wardrobe, and Charles puts the mug onto the desk to remove his glasses and jumper. He’s getting increasingly curious about Loris’ concept and less comfortable by the second now that the posing is imminent.
‘Would you wear this?’
Charles emerges from wool and static cling with a grimace that morphs into a repelled wince. ‘I’d rather go on live TV to criticise The Mind of Wonders. What’s that thing doing here?’
Loris rolls his eyes and folds back an Arsenal t-shirt. ‘Gift from my friend Phoebe. You met her at the pub. She’s trying to convert me.’
‘Successfully? Because that’d be a deal breaker.’
‘I religiously don’t care about football. But why? You’re a Chelsea fan?’
Charles clasps the back of the chair with a retching noise. ‘Help.’
‘Spurs! Of course! Hugo Lloris!’
‘Yes, because of him and him only.’
‘Why Tottenham?’
‘It’s… a family thing.’
It was a Fred thing, a passion he had developed at school.
It’s the primary reason why Charles stopped believing in Father Christmas, after he unwrapped a children’s Spurs kit flocked with his name. Father Christmas wouldn’t have dared flout Milton’s rigid rules and contempt for football. But Fred would have.
Fred did. Fred always did.
Charles hides under his t-shirt while he cements this staggering certainty. When he surfaces, Loris is right next to him, staring at the pendant swinging in front of his bare skin.
‘Is that Pavel’s coat of arms? That’s so cool! Where did you get it?’
‘It was bespoke made, as a present…’
Another Christmas. The last one with Fred. And a fight.
An umpteenth fight.
‘Don’t you dare! After everything I have done for—’
‘Spare me the guilt-tripping, Father. And the threats. I don’t give a rat’s arse anymore!’
‘Are you still with me?’ Loris’ piercing look flicks between the pendant, Charles’ lips and his eyes that he can draw from memory. ‘Charles?’
‘Yes, I’m… I’m here.’
‘Okay…’
Loris hands him a polo shirt striped red and white. Charles clenches his fist around the raised cotton as a realisation settles in.
Fred was at war with Milton a few weeks before his accident.
Charles puts on the shirt, grabs his mug with a shaky hand and takes his place on the sofa.
‘So what’s your concept?’ he asks, his voice a bit hoarse.
‘I’m gonna try to glitch you. I’m picturing a motion card stuck halfway between both frames. I’m not sure it’s doable, I’m experimenting more than anything.’
‘Do you need me to switch expressions back and forth?’
‘No, but feel free to move.’
‘Can I question you?’
‘About the book?’
‘Let’s keep that discussion for when you’re done and convinced.’
Loris sneers, fixing a sheet of paper onto the plank. ‘What sort of questions, then?’
‘Random ones. Like, where in France are you from?’
‘Ah. I was expecting a spicier investigation.’
‘We’ll get there…’
Charles needs to be careful playing this game. He can’t risk a ‘What about you?’ on topics he would rather keep outside the flat.
‘Andrésy, in the Parisian suburbs.’
‘What is it like?’
Charles nestles against the mismatched pillows and takes a few sips of coffee, enjoying its peanutty aftertaste.
Gazing through the window at the sparse clouds in the whitening sky, he lets his mind drift towards Loris’ hometown, by the Seine River.
It sounds peaceful, if not really eventful. Loris’ favourite place is an island, only accessible by boat, that hosts a sculpture exhibition every year. Charles would love to see that. And he would love to stroll along the quays where Loris used to sketch barges and market scenes.
The more Charles learns about Andrésy, the more he pictures it like an Olwinski painting, imagining himself in this Land of Loris.
A safe harbour, away from his golden world.
A golden world he’s growing convinced his brother was dying to escape.
‘S’il te pla?t!’
‘No. It’s a mess of a draft for now.’ Loris slips the drawing into his portfolio. ‘I’m not gonna show you until it takes real shape.’
Charles scowls but surrenders, still unwilling to play his trump card. He’s confident he doesn’t need it to consolidate Loris’ interest, and it’s revivifying to feel this confident.
He changes back into his clothes while Loris scrambles to get ready for his shift.
His preparation includes running his hands through his hair in front of the wardrobe mirror.
Such technique would make Charles look like he wedged his fingers into a wall socket, but Loris pulls off the dishevelled style.
‘What do you do with your art?’
‘I post my completed pieces on Instagram. Not really to show them, but to move on to the next. Otherwise I’d try to perfect them forever.’
‘And what’s the goal?’
‘To challenge myself.’
‘And then?’
Loris frowns, lacing his trainers. ‘That’s not enough?’
‘Yes. Yes, it is.’
Charles bites his cheek, tempted to bash himself with the easel.
Focusing on endgames and profits is an awful Ledwell habit. He would hate to give the impression that he thinks Loris is unambitious.
‘What’s your account?’
‘Shades of coloris, all one word. And yeah, I had to go American for the pun to work.’
‘Unforgivable…’
Charles smiles and follows Loris down the staircase, where a logical conclusion hits him and has the corners of his lips drop a bit more with each step.
‘Will you upload the drawings I’m in?’
‘Only if you consent.’
‘Can I think about it?’
‘Of course. No rush. And no pressure!’
‘Thank you.’
The idea and its consequences will give rise to some squabbling with his inner voices, and Charles doesn’t want to ruin his mood by launching the argument now.
‘You seemed nervous at first, but it wasn’t too bad, right?’ Loris asks as they exit the building.
‘It didn’t completely register that I was posing. You’re quite good at distracting me from all the noise in Charland. That’s what I call my brain.’
‘I’m gonna try to keep that up. You coming for a drink?’
‘No, I’m going to the park.’
‘Really? It’s gonna get spooky soon.’
‘I’m used to it and I love spooky.’
As great as he feels in Loris’ company, Charles needs to organise his memories of Fred into storylines before the clouds darken. Before the aura of his home and the narratives of his parents turn his brother back into the perfect son he wasn’t.
‘And you’re fine with being propositioned by men?’
‘Sorry?’
Loris shrugs with an intrigued smile. ‘If you’re a regular in the park when it’s dark, you can’t tell me you’ve never been approached and offered to have casual sex in a bush?’
‘No, I… I have…’
It’s common knowledge that Hampstead Heath becomes a gay cruising ground at night.
When Charles goes for a hike in the woods past sundown, he tries to avoid the areas where he’s more likely to be stopped.
He prefers not to be interrupted during a rush of inspiration in the one place where they last longer than a couple of minutes.
‘I politely decline and go on my way.’
‘You’re not into that?’
‘No.’ Charles scoffs. ‘Why? Are you?’
‘Not really. I mean… It’s the thought of being disturbed by an army of bats. It’s a bit of a turnoff.’
‘Bats are cool! I wish they approached me more often.’
‘Right… You’re definitely weird. Anyway, I’ve got to go, I can sense Patty’s impatience from here. Enjoy your walk. Don’t get lost!’
‘Thank you.’
Charles will get lost, in order to find himself, but this information is too revealing of his internal chaos to be disclosed.
In the park, he takes a path towards the pastel sunset, striped by the coal-black shapes of the trees. Loris and Pavel Olwinski would make transcendent artworks of this unearthly vision. Charles doesn’t have their gift, but he can try to give it a part in the tale of freedom he wants to write.