“Let’s speak to Ashley about it,” Nicholas intoned, his eyes riveted to mine. Ashley Gray ran Brannigan’s gallery on Ventura Boulevard and knew the reclusive artist casually; some years before Nicholas and I moved to Southern California, Brannigan’s had hosted a Montivaldi showing. “Maybe he can…arrange something.”
“You’ve got my vote,” I whispered, sliding into his embrace.
Strangely enough, it was Ashley who approached us.
He cornered us on the subject when we were browsing through Brannigan’s late one Friday evening. Nicholas was wearing a ground sweeping black leather trench coat—the one I’d gotten for him last Christmas—and I was dressed in a black leather mini skirt with a matching black blouse and pumps. Ashley left his spot at the information desk when he saw us saunter in, and immediately ushered us into his private office in the rear of the gallery. “I don’t want to keep you here for very long, but I do have a proposition to make.” His gray eyes twinkled as his grin became merry, obviously thrilled about something that he just couldn’t wait to spill.
“Sure thing, Ashley,” Nicholas said, leaning on a chair. “What is it?”
“Well, I’m sure you’ve read that little tidbit in the latest Modern Art, haven’t you?”
We nodded.
“And I know that you,” Ashley nodded at Nicholas, who remained transfixed behind the chair, head cocked, expression pensive as he listened to Ashley’s monologue, “are very interested in Montivaldi’s work. Both of you.” He smiled a secret smile as his eyes worked from Nicholas to me. “I’m also aware of Nicholas’s growing collection of tattoos, yes?”
“Yes,” Nicholas said. The way his eyebrows were cocked gave away his curiosity. “That’s true. What do you have in mind?”
“I’m also aware that they aren’t just your normal, er, biker tattoos.” Ashley smiled, ignoring Nicholas’s question. “You’ve never seemed to be the type to walk into the neighborhood tattoo parlor and walk out with a naked bimbo etched on your arm to join the others.” Ashley’s grin revealed too many teeth for such a small man.
“What exactly are you trying to tell us Ashley?” I couldn’t contain it anymore.
“What I’m saying is that Geraldo Montivaldi’s going to be in town next week. His practice of body art has only been performed on one person since his recent interest in it: himself. He’d like to start branching out onto other…ah, canvases, so to speak.” Ashley smiled a wry smile.
Nicholas’s face boiled over in surprised shock and awe. “You mean…”
“Yes, Nicholas,” Ashley moved around the paper cluttered desk, stopping in front of Nicholas. Ashley was of medium height, five foot six or so, but a dwarf when put next to Nicholas. Ashley gazed up into Nicholas’s slowly dawning mug of joy, his own gray eyes a misty cloud of excitement. “Montivaldi wants to work on somebody, and he asked me to find him a suitable subject. And I immediately thought of you.”
“This is fantastic,” Nicholas whispered, still shocked by the news. Ashley nodded. Nicholas placed his hands on the smaller man’s shoulders, confirming his gratitude. I could have wept at the sight of Nicholas’s boyish features so lit up in such utter happiness. As it was, good vibes were lulling me, warming my being. I felt numb. Intoxicated with relief.
“When?” Nicholas whispered.
“Tuesday,” Ashley said, looking at us the way a dog will when it knows it has performed some good deed for its master and was waiting for the inevitable treat. He ushered us to the door. “Six p.m. And not a word to anybody, not even your mothers.”
Nicholas turned to Ashley. He clapped the smaller man’s shoulder. “Ashley, my man, I don’t know how to thank you.”
I leaned in close to Ashley and planted a kiss on his dimpled cheek. “Thank you, Ashley. You don’t know what this means to us.” Ashley blushed slightly, and bid us good evening.
* * *
When I first met Nicholas he was already graced with seven gorgeously rendered tattoos. A bat silhouetted against a blood red moon on his upper left bicep was his first, followed by a black rose entangled in cobwebs with blood dripping off the thorns on his right bicep. A serpentine dragon intertwining a mean looking dagger marked the underside of his left forearm, while a helter-skelter mirage of demons and skulls emblazoned in fire occupied the underside of his right forearm. A dozen ancient looking keys with Celtic symbols were engraved on his right chest. His right ankle bore a heart and a rose with an old girlfriend’s name. A pair of red lips were poised over his groin, as if some woman had given him a lingering kiss there. His most recent was a banner over the black rose on his right bicep with my name inside it. He got it four months after we met.
Unlike the black-inked dragons and scantily clad women that graced the skin of bikers and spike-haired punk rockers, Nicholas’s markings were etched out of utmost care. The designs were rendered with precision and skill; not some back alley tattoo parlors work here. Nicholas demanded the best in everything, and that included the markings he chose to decorate his body with. I knew he wanted to decorate his flesh with more than what he had, but full body tattoos often come out looking, at times, unattractive and unnatural. Only the most exquisite of designs would be allowed on Nicholas’s body. Of that I was certain.
Ashley’s proposal was both a solution and a godsend. With Montivaldi doing the honors of gracing Nicholas’s skin with his brilliant vision, the solution to our problems would be solved: owning a priceless Montivaldi original without the hefty price tag. Montivaldi was doing the honors for free, for the benefit of practice (I know that sounded scary at first, but Ashley showed us photographs of the work Montivaldi had performed on himself and they were brilliant). Wearing it on his skin would be an added bonus for Nicholas.
And because it was a secret session, it would go no further than the four of us. Being that Ashley and Montivaldi were lovers whenever the famed artist was in town confirmed our trust in him. Any friend of Ashley’s was a friend of ours.
And now we were finally realizing the fruits of our dreams: the chance to own a Montivaldi original in a highly original state. Not to mention meeting the Master himself.
We set off for the studio early on a Tuesday evening. The air was brisk and warm. A mild breeze blew in from the coast and as we walked along Ventura Boulevard hand in hand, I couldn’t help but marvel at the scores of couples and young lovers out walking the night as we were. The atmosphere was perfect. It felt like we were in the midst of some dark secret that only we would share.
Ashley ushered us inside and up the stairs to a small room that overlooked the main gallery. It resembled a waiting room or makeshift office. An oak desk, a couple of chairs, an end table with several magazines piled on top of it. Nothing fancy. Directly behind the desk was a door. I heard the click of a lock as Ashley went through it, telling us in that warm, effeminate way of his that he would be bringing us right in to meet Montivaldi shortly.
When Ashley emerged twelve minutes later, he beckoned us to come inside and we rose. I know Nicholas must have been shaking because I certainly was. We followed Ashley into the room beyond and there, seated primly on what resembled a dentist’s chair, was Geraldo Montivaldi.
Geraldo Montivaldi was tall, lanky, and very thin. He had a hard edge to him that sort of reminded me of Keith Richards, without the corpse-like appearance. His long black hair was speckled with gray, framing his sunken face. His eyes were encased in blackened pits of bony eye sockets. His skin was leathery, parched. His thin form was clothed in billowy slacks and a white, long sleeved shirt; the sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, showing a multitude of gorgeous designs on his left forearm. Evidence of his work. A single gold ring adorned the pinkie of his left hand.
Montivaldi’s kind, gray eyes rested on us, lingering longer on Nicholas. “Please. Come in.” His voice was strong and even. A commanding voice.
We sat together on a velvet sofa. Nicholas’s hand reached out and found mine. Our eyes were fixed on Montivaldi; a god in our midst.
Mont
ivaldi leaned forward, his eyes assessing Nicholas’s slim, muscular form. Sizing up the canvas before him. “Now, what precisely can I do for you?”
I didn’t think Nicholas would speak. For a moment I was afraid that he’d become so tongue-tied over the shock of being in the same room as his idol that he would remain frozen. I was halfway right. What I didn’t realize was that he was taking his time to properly explain to Montivaldi what he wanted done to him.
The wait wasn’t as eternally long as our wait in the outer office. When Nicholas began to speak, he did it slowly and carefully. Montivaldi nodded, stroking his chin as Nicholas spun his dreams.
* * *
The process in its entirety took almost eight months.
Once non-disclosure agreements and other paperwork were signed (as well as furnishing proof from a board-certified testing center that Nick was HIV free) Montivaldi completed the first session in a little less than four hours that first night. Using a high quality tattoo needle, he worked while the strains of Puccini filtered through the gallery’s stereo speakers. Nicholas sat in the dentist’s chair, nursing a ginger ale. He was shirtless, his right arm propped out for Montivaldi to work on. Nicholas kept quiet the first half-hour, his face giving away the awe he still felt, but soon giving in to idle relaxation. Ashley breezed in and out, more fluidly when the gallery closed for the evening. He brewed a pot of strong coffee for me and allowed Montivaldi one cup. “Wouldn’t want you too high strung,” was the explanation for his refusal of a second. Montivaldi sighed, the realization of his error flickering beneath hooded eyes.
Nicholas remained calm throughout the first session. The night passed rather slowly. Normally, tattooing is a pretty fluid procedure. A simple rose takes less than thirty minutes to complete. But the scope of the detail of Montivaldi’s work on himself, and on Nicholas, convinced me that if Nicholas ever decided to go all the way—a full body covering with Montivaldi as the artist—it could take several years. Such fine detail in art demanded time and precision.
When Montivaldi was finished for the evening he leaned back, surveyed his handiwork with a smile. “Ahh, yes. Beautiful. And I can make you so much more beautiful, yes?”
“You got it, my friend,” Nicholas said, rotating his arm, which now bore the elegant design of the major Arcana of the Tarot covering his entire right shoulder and upper arm. Montivaldi had tattooed the design over my banner. A slight jolt of jealousy erupted within me for a moment until Montivaldi soothed me with his calm voice.
“Don’t worry, my sweet,” he said as he began to pack up his equipment. “For you, I have big things in store. Many big things.”
Montivaldi patched the fresh tattoo in gauze and bandaged it up. “Saturday. You come in the back way, yes?”
“You can count on it.” Nicholas held out his hand, his features firm and strong. Montivaldi smiled and they shook hands. Ashley emerged from the back room and ushered Nicholas and I out into the night, chattering gaily as we said our good-byes. Their voices echoed after us on our walk home.
The next few months were filled with careful trepidation as we returned to the studio. Montivaldi was always calm, always charming. A perfect gentleman. During his sessions, as the electric hum of the tattoo needle stung the air he would rattle on about his life, his work. The sights he had seen from extensive traveling. The people he’d met, the experiences treasured. I know it held Nicholas in absolute fascination, for as Montivaldi’s skilled hands wove their intricate patterns across Nicholas’s arm I couldn’t detect a single flinch. Nicholas’s face was devoid of pain. Even when work was begun on the fleshy underside of his bicep, an area that is always tender, I caught no sign of discomfort. Instead I saw what might be pleasure. The work that was blossoming along Nicholas’s arm and chest was both a sight to behold and an intoxicant to the eye.
During the sessions we had some interesting conversations. One of the most interesting was Montivaldi’s interest in the occult.
The topic came up during a casual conversation on horror fiction. Nicholas mentioned Montivaldi’s rendition of “The Traveler” and Montivaldi nodded. “Yes. My only stab at tackling a Lovecraftian subject. You are aware of the story, yes?”
“Very much.” Nicholas said. The subject of the painting represented the main character in the story, who was obsessed with uncovering a race of people older than man, a race of people that, it was strongly suggested, were descendants of the Old Ones. They’d been living within the bowels of the earth and were waiting for “when the stars were right” to ascend to the surface to meet the Old Ones and, once again, rule the earth. One who is well versed in Lovecraft would recognize this as a familiar plot device. At the conclusion of the tale, the main character descends into a cavernous underworld in search of the eldritch dwellers. He sees something so horrifying that the mere sight of it renders him a blind, cataract-ridden mad thing doomed to spend eternity traveling the countryside in an attempt to stay one step ahead of the creatures he’d originally set out to discover.
“Lovecraftian concepts fascinate me,” Montivaldi continued. “Since discovering his work, and the work of his contemporaries, I have been fascinated by his cosmic landscapes. My rendering of ‘The Traveler’ was my first attempt at committing to canvas what my mind was trying to picture. I would like to be able to repeat the process using something of my own creation.”
“I think if you did, it would be a fantastic piece,” Nicholas said from his chair.
“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind if we try something with you?”
Nicholas grinned. “I’d be honored.”
And so it went. For the next few weeks as Montivaldi finished Nicholas’s arm, the two discussed plans for the Lovecraftian design. It would be something horrifying and fascinating. Something to plunge the viewer into a dizzying world of cosmic wonder and fear. As the conversation centered on Lovecraftian themes it eventually turned to the occult. “Thanks to the inspiration of Lovecraft, I’ve done much exploring in the realm of the occult and magic. I’ve discovered many sources of ancient lore, much of it so fascinating I could spend weeks talking to you about it. In fact, I’ve spent much of the last ten years scouring the globe, searching for lost texts and ancient manuscripts and books containing ancient wisdom. You’d be surprised to find that such things do exist. There are things Lovecraft merely hinted at that I am finding are turning out to be quite true.”
The conversation ended on that note as Montivaldi’s timer went off, signifying that the evening’s work was done. Since he had another appointment immediately after, neither Nicholas nor I could question him further on this. And during further sessions, whenever the topic came up again, Montivaldi never fully explained himself as to what he meant. Just that he’d done much exploring in the dark arts and that he was connecting things, that he was “getting messages from beyond.” These cryptic references caused Nicholas and I to wonder silently if our favorite artist wasn’t perhaps a full-fledged lunatic, but then Montivaldi would burst out laughing and change the subject drastically. The tone of his laughter suggested he was joking. But I wondered…
The days and weeks passed quickly into months. Through it all, Nicholas and I didn’t speak of what we were doing to anybody. We slipped past people on the sidewalk as silently as ghosts as we entered the rear of the gallery. From the serene expressions on the gallery’s patrons, I don’t think any of them were even aware that the master was in their presence.
When the first part of the process was finally finished on a late September evening, Montivaldi stepped back, wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his thin hand, and beamed down admiringly at his handiwork. A warm, pleasant sensation ebbed through me at the sight of it and I forced myself to erase the face splitting smile that wanted to erupt on my features. Some things are easier said than done.
Nicholas’s right arm, from just above the bony ridge of the wrist, all the way to the uppermost part of his shoulder, and then snaking down and blending over his right pectoral just above the nipp
le, sported the most glorious display of artwork I had ever seen. Carefully structured, blended, and color schemed, it was a never-ending river of pastels that portrayed the widest range of emotions: love, hate, mirth, rage, pity, fear. Save for the small circular area of bone at the elbow, there wasn’t a trace of skin on Nicholas’s right arm that had gone untouched. Everything was smooth and even. Wickedly beautiful.
Nicholas surveyed the final touches in a full-length mirror behind the dentist’s chair. The look on his face was of absolute joy.
“I can’t believe this,” he whispered. “I can’t believe this. It’s so…beautiful.”
Montivaldi clenched and unclenched his fingers, loosening the joints. His smile was one of content. “There is more where that came from, my friend. Much, much more.”
Nicholas turned to look at his idol. “You aren’t finished yet?”
“Far from it.” Montivaldi stepped toward Nicholas and laid a hand on his left shoulder. “When I am finished with you, you will be a living masterpiece. A rarity in the world of art.” His voice had reduced to a brittle whisper. It sounded like the rustling of drapes in a cold, empty room.
A look of rising excitement surged behind Nicholas’s green eyes. I’m sure the thought that was racing through his head was the same one that was making tracks in mine: You will be a living masterpiece.
The sense of thrill behind that voice didn’t sit well with my rising apprehension. “But suppose this leaks out?” I blurted, unable to contain my concerns and feelings anymore. “Suppose somebody finds out what you’ve done to him?” I moved to Nicholas and slipped my arms around his waist, hugging him. Nicholas held my hands, the two of us facing Montivaldi. I kissed his back, peering over Nicholas’s shoulder at Montivaldi. “I know and trust that you won’t say a word to anybody. And I know Ashley won’t let out a word as to what we’ve done.” My eyes flickered over to Ashley, who’d been observing mutely from his corner perch. His grave features seemed to match my feelings and he nodded. I turned back to Montivaldi, who seemed to be regarding us with calm interest. “Granted, I realize that Nicholas could probably walk shirtless down Venice beach and not a soul would recognize your style on his body, much less care. Even if the most crazed collector were to see Nicholas, I don’t think they would really see it. People don’t really see tattoos. They don’t see them for what they are…what they could be.”
The Summoning Page 2