28. In Your Care
28
IN YOUR CARE
I t was thirty-five minutes in, and Alberto hadn’t said more than good morning.
Doctor Roland took his silence as arrogance; it was obvious from the way he was looking at him. Alberto thought him a patronising old fart, so at the very least, the dislike was mutual. He was perfectly fine allowing the both of them to sit here in silence. In any case, Doctor Roland was being paid handsomely for his time, and Alberto believed his mother’s money was best spent in silence.
“I hear you’ve had some… difficulties,” Doctor Roland said, lightly shifting in his large chair. His face, framed by a grey beard, carried a strict countenance. “Your mother said you stopped taking your medication. Do you want to tell me why you did that?”
Though the drugs were clouding his judgment, Alberto chose not to answer. The fact that Mamma had talked to him annoyed him. He shrunk back in his chair.
Doctor Roland glanced at his watch. “The first time you came here, you didn’t want to speak either. I can’t help you if you don’t want to help yourself.” His eyes were cold when they met Alberto’s. “Is it help you want, or a place to hide?”
A place to hide sounded about right. When he first met Doctor Roland years ago, Alberto already knew this man couldn’t help him. He couldn’t take the risk of having his secrets repeated to his mother. Alberto had always worried about his mother. The thought lingered in his mind, turning almost bitter.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he said, and a silence ensued.
“And why do you think you’re here, Alberto?” Doctor Roland asked.
Alberto gave a shrug.
Roland pointed his pen at his face.“You’re here because you lost control, and you hurt someone.” He glanced down at his notes. “Your stepsister.”
Through the large windows overlooking the park, Alberto could glimpse the early strollers, seeking comfort from an elusive sun.Spring was only two weeks away, but the past few days had been so warm, the trees in the park were already showing signs of budding. He knew in another fifteen minutes he’d be out there on his favourite bench, listening to the sparrows’ song, his thoughts lost to a medicated fog.
“You don’t get it,” he said. “That’s not what I meant.”
“What did you mean, then?”
Even through the closed windows, Alberto could make out the song of the sparrows already. Fourteen minutes now. He could do this. He leaned back and settled in his chair. “Napoli lost to Ternana on September 11th, 2002. Two-nil.” Alberto gave a thin smile. “When Papà came home that night, he was in a terrible mood. I’ll never forget it. It was the ninth month of the year; I was nine years old; I was in a coma for nine days.”
The law of three. His lip twitched, and the smile turned into a grimace before vanishing altogether. “Believe it or not, I was a different child after that.”
Buried in his massive chair, Doctor Roland wasn’t moving. Outside, the sparrows were singing.
“The meek, frightened sort, you know the type. A doormat, a fool, a perpetual loser. The sort who makes his mother cry…” Alberto arched an eyebrow. “Did you know I was homeschooled for years? Papà kept us locked away, and I never questioned why. When I woke up and Mamma bought our freedom, we rode the train out of Italy, and she said, ‘We’ll get to see the world now,’ and I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to see the world at all. What was there to see, honestly? Do you think people are better in France than in Italy? What about London? San Francisco? I was nine years old, and I wanted to hide in her arms forever.” Alberto’s jaw clenched. He was eager for a cigarette.
Doctor Roland’s eyes darted between him and his notebook, his pen scratching over the smooth surface of paper in an even, mechanical rhythm.
“Mamma is always worried. Worried about me getting hurt, worried about me turning weird. Once we moved to London, she really tried her best to make me open up. She got me the best tutors in London… Not that I could remember much of what they were trying to teach me. Through one of them, she met Martin. They were married within three months.” Alberto paused, attempting to recall the image of his handsome stepfather. “He was okay, really. Young. Younger than Mamma anyway. He exercised a lot, and he let me borrow his horror movies. He said it’d be our secret, but Mamma found out anyway. She gave him an earful, but he laughed it off, and even though I knew she worried about me watching this stuff, I kept doing it in secret.”
Catharsis .
“Eventually, I was deemed ready, and I was sent to school. The first time I saw the other kids, I had a fit. All those people overcrowding me. Just like before… Such a beautiful boy, so much like his mother. ”
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
“Do you know what it’s like, believing your resemblance to your mother is the reason your father can’t stand the sight of you? Do you know how hard it is not to start resenting it? It made it tough to look in the mirror, you know—for years. But little by little, I got better at handling it, I really did. Perhaps I was too reserved, for a kid, and not particularly great at school, but I was doing fine. Better to have a few headaches than to cause them.”
Alberto slowly twisted his neck to check the clock hanging over the door behind him. “Unfortunately, with such looks…” Not long now. A few more minutes. “It would have been a waste not to try.”
Soon there would be the park. The bench. The swallows.
“Mamma wanted me to go on a shoot. She was certain modelling would save me. But no matter how I looked, nobody really cared. I was fourteen years old; there were lots of kids more beautiful than me. I looked a little bit too much like a girl, in my opinion. But Mamma wouldn’t give up; she asked everyone she knew. She told me she called in a favour from an old friend, but I heard a different tale. I heard she begged.” Alberto let out a sigh. “Whatever she did worked, because he said he’d see me. Mamma was over the moon. He was world famous. A genius, really. ”
He’s my life , she told him, while Alberto stood behind her, his gaze on his feet. I leave him in your care.
The soft chime of the clock announcing eleven o’clock didn’t startle him. Alberto looked up, stared into the good doctor’s face — with full-on dead eyes — and he waited.
“Your time’s up,” Roland said, a sharp hint of judgment in his tone. “Another fifty minutes spent in silence. Suit yourself, Alberto, you’re an adult.” He added under his breath, “And I’m being paid the same.”
Not my fault you’re not a mind reader. Alberto resisted the urge to smirk, picked up his coat, and, with a muffled goodbye, he shuffled out the door. You’re like everyone else: you want me to say it out loud, but I don’t owe it to you.
Located at the edge of the woods of Meudon, The Clinique du Parc Fleuri was a beautiful place, a manor rehabilitated into a private mental health centre a century ago by some bored heiress with a heart. Visitors were allowed three days a week, but not on Wednesdays, so Alberto had the rest of the day to himself, without having to stare at his mother’s tear-streaked face. He dragged himself to the entrance, and after an accidental encounter with a potted plant, he gave the woman at reception an awkward smile that she returned with kindness. Outside, his favourite bench was free, so he stretched out right in the middle and, at last, released a breath.
Alone; that’s what he liked. He ignored the knot in his stomach and fished in his pocket for his pack of cigarettes. Perhaps the smallest part of him wished his long monologue had actually passed his lips. Perhaps it would have been more freeing than letting the same old thoughts bounce against the walls of his mind. Stupid, stupid carousel.
He really was beyond help. What he wanted now was, indeed, a place to hide.
Berko arrived then. He stood behind Alberto’s bench with his own pack of smokes, and watching him struggle to find his, he leaned forward and offered him one. His skin was so dark, the cigarette looked white as snow in his hand, and Alberto’s fingers when he plucked it, looked cadaveric in contrast. Berko didn’t seem to mind; he was smiling.
“So,” he said, lighting Alberto’s cigarette, “I have a question for you.” He edged close enough that Alberto could smell mint on his breath. “I’ve been thinking about it all morning.”
“Okay,” Alberto said. “I think I know what you want to ask. ”
Berko flashed him a dangerous grin. “When you’re in session, do you use the divan or the chair?”
This time, Alberto was slightly surprised. Since they’d met shortly after his arrival, Berko had done nothing but hit on him in a brazen, almost ridiculous way.
“Goodness,” he said, blinking. “A real question.”
Berko’s grin widened. “I aim to surprise you until you fall for me.”
“Obviously.” Alberto was more amused than annoyed. “What do you think?”
“I’m thinking divan. So you can look like a Renaissance painting, and I can think about you looking like a Renaissance painting when I fall asleep tonight—no, before I fall asleep.”
Alberto scoffed at the implication. “You have no shame, and you’re wrong. I always pick the chair.”
Berko clutched his chest as though Alberto had stabbed him in the heart. “No! I was so sure of myself. I always use the divan. How come you don’t?”
Alberto studied the burning end of his cigarette with a wan smile. “I try to avoid lying down on old men’s divans. As a rule,” he added with forced enthusiasm.
The carousel’s gears hiccuped and whined. What’s wrong with me? The question fluttered in his mind until his forehead creased.
Berko peered at him through clever eyes. “Not a bad tip, if you’re not into older men, but I am. It’s not bad, you should try it sometime.”
Alberto replied with a grimace, but again, he wasn’t annoyed.
Berko and Alberto were cut from the same cloth. Like Alberto, Berko was a model. The supermodel kind, top of the top. He was also fucked up, or he wouldn’t be here, looking gorgeous and hitting on Alberto despite his lack of reaction. He had a minor quirk—as he called it—which along with his addiction to a particular kind of narcotics, consisted in being extremely promiscuous. He was shagging everything that moved, as long as it had a dick. He had favourites, he had types, he had dares. And Alberto, being a model, Italian, and fucked up, was what he called his trifecta: his favourite patient here, his type, and a good dare. Though he was an adult and voluntarily signed himself up every year, Berko did not take therapy seriously; he really was cut from the same cloth as Alberto. And Alberto therefore couldn’t help feeling a kinship toward him, so they’d spent a lot of time together since his arrival. In any case, Berko’s relentless attempts at convincing him to have sex were a better distraction than day time TV in the break room.
“Roland isn’t so bad,” Berko said. “But he is a homophobe.”
“Someone should tell him he chose the wrong profession.”
“You’d be surprised.”
Would I, would I.
Berko got tired of leaning over the bench and slipped in the space beside Alberto. He put his hand over his. “Did you know the first time I saw you, I thought to myself, ‘Who is this gorgeous Wolfman?’”
“Wolfman?”
“Because of your badass ring and your bloodshot eyes, you looked like a wild animal. Then I thought no way, he’s too sweet to be a predator. And now, look at you: a ruthless tease.”
Alberto glanced down at the ring with a dry laugh. “That ugly old thing…”
“You don’t like it?” Berko asked.
“Not really, no. I don’t know.”
“If you don’t like it, give it to me.” Berko stretched his hand toward the ring. “It’s a Denizon. I can sell it for two thousand, at least. Then we can leave this place for a night; I’ll treat you like a king.”
Alberto quickly hid his hand in his pocket. “No.”
Berko laughed at him. “Why are you wearing it if you think it’s ugly?”
Alberto didn’t reply. It was a reminder; he knew it now. A reminder not to remember. And it was no longer working. Next to him, Berko was becoming restless.
“Alberto, throw me a bone, will you? I couldn’t even focus when I was doing that guy last night.”
“I can see therapy’s going well for you.”
“I know, right? Just wait, I’ll get you one day, I know it.” Berko patted his hand a few times, then released it. “And you’re going to love it. You’ll ask me to marry you, and I’ll say no, because you made me wait for weeks.”
Again, Alberto didn’t reply. His attention was drawn to a sparrow feeding its young in the tree right across the path. There was only one of them, its beak open in a grotesque manner.
“What are you thinking about?” Berko asked, unnerved by his silence.
“My mother. ”
“Therapy doesn’t agree with you. Don’t let Roland fix you too fast. He’s only got three cars; he needs us to finance the next one.”
“I’m glad to know our misery makes for a lucrative business.”
“Hey, didn’t I tell you not to overthink things? It’s a waste of time and energy.” Berko flicked the butt of his cigarette and leaned closer to him. “Think about that instead: you, me, the most attractive fuck ups in this place, both single at the same time and brought together by fate. To not take advantage of it, that would be truly devastating… and… and… you spaced out again, amore .” He clicked his fingers under Alberto’s nose. “One day, I’m going to take advantage and kiss you.”
Alberto gently pushed his hand away. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“No, I wouldn’t. But let me ask you a question.”
“Go ahead.”
“You’d like me on top, wouldn’t you?”
Alberto snorted smoke through his nose and went into a fit of coughing. “That was your question?”
“I just wanted to see you blush.”
“Did I?”
“No. Seriously, what do they have you on?”
Alberto searched his pockets for his prescription. Berko read it and returned it with a frown. “Has anyone ever told you you’re overmedicated?”
“Yeah, I thought so. I mean, it’s starting to make sense.”
“Why don’t you ask them to change it?”
“Every time I saw Roland, he just increased the dosage. Eventually, I stopped feeling anything, so I figured it was working.”
Berko turned morose. Alberto didn’t like it. He nudged his new friend with his little finger until his enthusiasm returned.
“I know your secret now: you’re overmedicated! Somehow, that’s a relief. For a minute, I thought you were bored.”
“Both can be possible, you know.”
“Ouch!”
Alberto apologised by offering him one of his own cigarettes. They were crumpled, of course, since he had forgotten they were in his back pocket, and he had sat on them all morning. Berko took this poor offering with a delighted smile.
“With that shit in your system, can you even get it up?”
Alberto taunted him with a quirked eyebrow.
“You’re not for real. How is that even possible? ”
“I don’t know. Maybe that’s why I like it rough. I can really feel it, you know. Deep inside.”
Berko gave him a smouldering look. “You like it rough.”
“I really do.”
He couldn’t help it. There were times when down on his face on Mathias’s bed, taking it from behind, the red sheets clutched in his fists, a savage pleasure lit up his spine and shot through him just at the thought of how debauched he was, what everyone would think if they could see him now. Would they still find him gorgeous with bitten lips, his skin sleek with sweat, tears seeping from the corners of his eyes? Would they still act like they knew everything about him? In those precious moments, his body was his—his to do as he pleased. And so, he wanted to hurt it, bend it, break it, turn it inside out until there was nothing to think—or worse—to forget about.
It was almost similar to the wild ideas which popped through his mind when he was staring down at train tracks. One of these days, one of these days… See who’d dare call him irresistible after that.
Letting a silence settle over them, Alberto lit another cigarette. Berko scooted closer and asked softly, “ Amore?… ”
“ Sì ?”
“You’re a sad, sad boy.”
“Would I be here if I weren’t?”
Berko clicked his tongue. “You and I are so different. How did you end up here?”
Alberto shook his head in resignation.
“Come on, you can tell me! It’s always the same thing, really. Trust me.” Berko spoke with confidence. “Your daddy didn’t like you, or your mother’s a bitch, or both. Or maybe you had a drunk uncle?—”
Alberto held up his hand to silence him. “My daddy didn’t like me.”
“That’s it?” Berko pursed his lips. “And I thought you were different.”
“God, no.”
“And Mom? Is she a bitch?”
“No.” Alberto’s heart lurched, his stomach twisting. “I…” His voice failed him for a second. “I love my mother.” Something occurred to him, something he couldn’t grasp fully yet. “I’m tired, Berko, really tired. I think I should lie down, forget about it.”
Berko patted his hand a few more times then got to his feet. “Can I see you tonight? ”
“Of course.”
“Can I see you, see you?” He gave him a pointed look.
Alberto blinked at him, unsure.
Berko let out a theatrical sigh. “ Amore mio ! How can you be so insensitive? I worship you.” He plastered a hand over his chest. “And still, you reject me. Tell me, your majesty, what does a guy have to do to sleep with you?”
A heavy, impossible sadness suddenly fell on Alberto’s shoulders, the weight of it nailing him to the bench. He looked up. “You really want to know?”
“Yes.” Berko eagerly resumed his seat.
Alberto put his cigarette to his lips, and when he exhaled, the words came out in a cloud of smoke. “Give me a glass of wine, tell me I’m irresistible. A beautiful boy.” He blew the smoke away; his breath caught in his throat. “Move fast. And don’t forget to hold me down, before I realise what’s going on.”
In a blurry flash, Alberto remembered the way he felt afterwards, standing in front of his mirror at home, depleted. And then, catching sight of it, right there, red, unmissable, on the back of his thigh. It was all he could see, then. Truth, in the shape of a handprint. Then, he remembered thinking he must have liked it, or he wouldn’t have let it happen, so fast and so quietly. Alberto had turned his back to the mirror from that day onward. And not just to the mirror; he had disguised his shame in a deep part of his mind, wrapped a little bow on it, labelled it with a slur. All so that he wouldn’t remember something quite not right had happened under the neon-lights in that cold white office. He felt all of sudden the weight of Berko’s arms around him.
“What are you do?—”
“I’m holding you until you stop crying.”
“I’m not crying.”
Berko swiped his thumb under Alberto’s eye and showed him the glistening pearl coating it.
“Have you ever told anyone?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because…” Alberto whispered, before quiet sobs took over. “I love my mother.”
If he had told her, it would have destroyed her.