by Jerry Cole
Max had never been happier.
It was later that morning, after Christine had called and arranged to have lunch with them, that Mario remembered the rather cryptic words Max had said regarding the “gala.” He swirled around, a toothbrush stuck in his mouth, and asked, “You didn’t buy that goddamn painting, really, did you?”
Max shrugged. “It’s Christine’s. It’s up to her to decide what we do with it.”
“It’s made her famous,” Mario whispered. “It’s become so much more than she is.”
“Do you think she likes that about it?” Max asked, arching his brow. He reached forward, gripping Mario’s toothbrush and tossing it back onto the counter. He kissed Mario’s toothpaste-filled mouth, making Mario quiver with laughter.
“No. No, I don’t think she does,” Mario finally offered, shrugging Max off. He scrubbed at his chin, tossing bits of toothpaste to the counter below. “Now that you bring it up.”
***
Max left it up to Christine, as he always should have. The evening of the gala, she asked that the painting be stretched just above the Seine River — with the gala attendees celebrating, drinking, and gabbing before it. From where he stood, Max regarded them like ants, swirling around whatever they deemed “important.” Whatever they deemed “worthy.”
In this case, the art world had told them of Christine’s worth two years before, the information delivered in the form of this painting.
Christine marched to the front of the crowd and brought her hands forward, generating attention. Max’s heart surged with love for her. Mario dropped his own arm around Max’s waist, blinking out across the sea of onlookers. Already, Max had heard several mentions of his name.
“He’s back. Look at him. He looks remarkable. So handsome.”
“Max Everett? Where the hell has he been all these years?”
“Greetings!” Christine cried, her eyes flashing. Only Max (and, assuredly, Mario) could tell she was anxious, that her voice vaguely shook. “I wanted to welcome you here tonight for a very important event. You see. Two years ago, I witnessed my father do something I’d never seen an artist do. He destroyed that which he loved the most. He admitted it wasn’t worthy of the world he wanted to live in. And he set fire to it.”
She paused for a long moment. Memories of the fire burst up behind Max’s eyes. He kept his eyes focused on Christine, despite their yearning to look anywhere else, out of shame.
“That night was the motivation for this creation’s title. VENICE IS BURNING,” Christine continued. “I’m here to tell you tonight that Venice is no longer burning. In fact, the fire went out several years ago. And the only thing that’s left is this wretched, idiotic painting, one that shows the passions of a much younger, much more silly girl.”
Christine faced the painting and pressed her palms against it. The crowd had begun to titter, growing anxious. Several people had begun to record the goings-on on their phones, seemingly not wanting to miss a perfect social media opportunity. Max continued to watch on, wondering what Amanda would make of all of this.
He knew that he, certainly, would feel only immense pride.
“I want to fight fire with water,” Christine uttered, her voice picking up in the mic. “I want to end this vicious cycle. And I want to do it today.”
She shoved the painting, so that it dropped back into the Seine in a kind of slow-motion. It looked very much like this heroin-chic version of Mario was spread-eagled, falling back from a balcony — perhaps committing a kind of suicide. Mario squeezed Max’s hand a bit too hard, watching the painting curl back into the water.
The splash rang out. Christine’s hands were clenched. The crowd was aghast, whispering in a variety of French, of Italian, of English.
“She ruined it. She completely destroyed it!” one man called out.
Several members of the gala crew had fallen into a panic. One member flung up toward the edge of the Riverwalk, preparing to leap into the Seine. Another reached for the first member’s shoulder, trying to yank her back.
Already, the current had brought the painting a bit further down, toward the Eiffel Tower on the other side of the river. Max swallowed hard, noting that Christine’s face was now full of heavy tears. He remembered how he’d felt when he’d first set fire to the building; how he’d felt he was ripping himself from any and all ties. It had taken him two years to get everything back, and he knew he was still in the reparation stages.
But Christine? She had done this with far more purpose than Max had done anything. Despite her youthful age, she’d seen tragedy. She’d seen loss. She’d watched her mother grow from a confident young artist to now, a loved woman, fulfilling her potential. And she’d further watched her father — perhaps a bit washed up, to be fair — finally agree to become himself.
There wasn’t another choice.
***
The newspapers rattled on endlessly about the “strange” decision by young artist Christine Everett to “toss her painting into the Seine.”
“A bit dramatic, even for an Everett,” one paper wrote.
“Imagine having the cash to dump two billion into the water, just like that!” another right-leaning paper offered.
Max was surprised at the level of freedom Christine lived with in the wake of this “murder,” this “drowning.” At dinner after the gala, they ate crepes and drank seemingly buckets of wine, all three of them free from the bonds of that painting. When asked about Peter Eclaire — from a journalist who just so happened to be at the restaurant with them — Christine uttered a brief, “I don’t know. Isn’t he already with someone new? Maybe you should interview her,” before returning to her meal.
***
Over the next months, Max moved into Mario’s flat. There wasn’t another option, as they spent almost literally every minute together (except the time they took to work separately on their own paintings, their own art—for an upcoming exhibition they planned to hold in the 10th arrondissement.
Max was surprised how easily he slipped into life in Paris. After nearly two years in upstate New York, he felt a vibrancy to life that he’d forgotten. Everywhere he looked, regardless of time or season, people sat outside, puffing cigarettes and watching, just watching. Dogs pranced about parks, and old men huffed across cobblestones, unprepared to ever be told to stay home. And he and Mario kissed and held hands and cuddled close, regardless of the situation, regardless of the time. They made a real point to kiss each time they attended the bakery near their flat, as it especially bothered the baker woman — and they liked seeing her shake with a strange mix of what they assumed was jealousy and fear (and intrigue).
Their love was everything. It was what they could return to, in the wake of any chaos. It made their Paris apartment a home, a place for Christine to hunker down in when she grew anxious about her artwork, about her future boyfriends, about her decisions in life. “You’re going to be great,” Mario and Max told her often. “You already are great. The entire world knows your name.”
Amanda visited frequently, bringing along her new husband and staying in the guest room. Max was surprised at how easy it was for them to remain friends. They bantered easily and occasionally held onto their bellies with laughter, while Mario and Christine and Amanda’s new husband rolled their eyes, muttering, “Why do they always get this way?”
Of Peter Eclaire, Max had learned that his next album was a complete best-seller, yanking him back to the rock star status he’d had a few years before. The album? Apparently, it was a break-up album, about Christine herself.
Of this, Christine hardly spoke. Though, when they heard Peter’s music about the city, on various afternoons out or at the occasional night club (which Max and Mario liked to attend with Christine and several other friends in the art community), Christine gave Max this perfect, delicious smirk, one that showed her arrogance. Of course, Max thought she deserved that arrogance. How could he not?
Sometimes, Max broke out in sweat, remembering the fire
. Always though, he turned toward a sleeping Mario — furrowed of brow, seemingly deep in some sort of dream-land world. Totally asleep. He knew that Mario and Christine didn’t think of Max’s horrors, of Max’s wretched decisions, as much as he did. He was on the very long path of one day, hopefully, forgiving himself. He hadn’t a clue when that would happen.
“I love you,” he whispered to a sleeping Mario, marveling at how easily it slid from his lips. “I will always love you. Thank you for giving me all you have. I would be nothing.”