Gastien Pt 1

by Caddy Rowland

  As time passed, Gastien needed to go to the toilet. He called out for his father, but either Jean could not hear him or chose not to respond. He eventually had no choice but to piss his pants, and finally to shit them. When his father let him out he was forced to keep the dirtied clothes on until bedtime.

  The next day, Gastien did not break a single egg. Gastien was very careful to never break anything else around his father. Jean, however, would break his son’s heart many times over the years.

  Whenever Gastien had those nightmares he woke up bathed in sweat. He never mentioned them to anyone. He learned at an early age to never show any emotion. To do so opened a person up to being hurt. As the years went by, not only did he become skilled at not showing emotion, he learned to harden his heart around his father.

  He also promised himself that he would never let anyone get close to him if he could help it. To do so was a sign of weakness, and an opportunity for someone to hurt you. He had felt enough hurt to last him a lifetime before he was even five years old.

  III

  As the years passed and the cruelty continued, Gastien made it a game of wills. He was determined not to cry out or show pain to his father. He also became determined not to give up his forays into the woods to draw. What was another beating anyway? They were as routine as getting a drink of water.

  It went on and on like that, him sneaking away, sometimes not getting caught, but always disappointing his father. Because, of course, he did not get the amount of work done that he should have, had he not disappeared for as long as he dared. Gastien could not remember ever pleasing his father. He was never once complimented for doing a job well. After all, only sissies needed reassurance. If he managed to stay and work the whole time, his father would say that he should have also pushed his siblings to do more. It never stopped. Sometimes he wanted to take the shovel he was holding and slam it over his father’s head just to shut him up.

  Day after day he heard about how grateful he should be, how he didn’t measure up, how the city would take advantage of him once Gastien ran the farm unless he “manned up” and pushed his siblings and himself harder. Gastien despised his father and held no respect for him. Jean Beauchamp was a deceiver. Always the charmer in town, at home he beat his wife and children into submission.

  Marguerite loved Gastien, but obviously did not dare to stand up for any of them. She could not chance all of the children being hurt. She did, however, find a way to buy him paper and charcoal when they went into town. It infuriated his father, but at this she held her ground, saying that art was part of a well rounded education. She insisted that all of the children were to be given a small amount of time to draw each day. For some reason, his father believed her when she said it was part of a good education. Gastien cherished the time given each school day to draw.

  In addition, unknown to his father, she bought him quite a bit more paper and charcoal. He hid it in a special place only he knew about in the attic. Gastien would sneak up there after dark and draw by candlelight whenever he could. He knew if he got caught he would be beaten until he could barely crawl, because a fire could be started easily in the attic. In spite of that, he could not stop. It was in his bones, to deny that would be like denying his next breath.

  Marguerite also made sure to instill in Gastien a sense of worth whenever she could. Whenever Jean was not in earshot she praised her son, but not gratuitously, and told him how intelligent he really was. She explained that his father felt threatened by Gastien’s strong sense of self. She urged him to keep that and never be untrue to it. She repeatedly told him that the seeds of greatness were in him, and that he would accomplish whatever he set out to do, because he was destined for success. She told him often that she loved him. She also taught him how to read his father’s moods. Around her, he allowed himself to be open. He drank up her love, inwardly growing stronger and more resolved.

  IV

  When Gastien turned sixteen, his mother gave him some painting materials for making some watercolour paints along with a new kind of paper. He could not imagine how she managed to hide away the money for them. When he had opened the gift, it was the happiest moment of his life so far.

  That moment was cut short by his father’s roar. “I will NOT, WILL NOT, have my son painting flowers like some girl! Give me that garbage right now, Gastien! You will NOT become a homosexual in this household! You are, and always will be, a farmer. Beauchamp men are never sissies!”

  Gastien grabbed the supplies and ran fast, deep into the woods. His father could not even attempt to catch up with him. He had secret places in the woods, places all boys have to keep special treasures that they don’t want others to know about. He put his new supplies in one of those places. They would stay clean and dry. Most importantly, they would stay safe from his father.

  God, how he hated him! He was so tired of being called a woman. He would like to tell his father that he had started dreaming about women a few years ago, and that sometimes he wanted to see a girl naked so badly that his penis got hard and then erupted. He supposed that would be another reason for a beating, though, so he kept silent and let his father berate him as feminine.

  One thing he did know. Whenever he did get lucky enough to get between a girl’s legs, she would not scream in agony! He would make sure that having Gastien Beauchamp was a pleasure females sought after. He did not know yet how to go about pleasing one, but he was determined to eventually learn. He had enough of hearing his pig of a father rut like an animal while his mother cried out in pain. He would never be like his father!

  The one concern was that women always seemed to decide to have babies and those he did not want. That was not really his concern, he told himself. If women wanted babies that was their business. They just were not going to tie him down with that decision. He would give them what they wanted in bed. What they did with it afterwards was up to them. He wanted to paint, not listen to babies cry.

  Between fantasizing about the great lover Gastien Beauchamp, relieving himself (a habit that was becoming more frequent the last several months), and trying out his paints it was soon evening. When he came back, after dark, he knew he was walking into yet another beating. Gastien had no way of knowing, however, that this time would end up being much worse than any previous beating.

  His father was waiting for him inside the door with a wet, leather strap in his hand. Jean Beauchamp looked insane. He told Gastien to remove his shirt. Then Jean beat his son over and over again, raging that he would beat the foolishness out of him or kill him in the process. Gastien heard his father’s heavy breathing as he wound up and lashed him over and over again. He steeled himself against the blows, trying to ignore the cruel words about how worthless he was and his father’s threats to kill him.

  Gastien refused to cry out. He would not give his father the satisfaction of begging him to stop or hearing his pain. Instead, he bit down on the insides of his mouth until he bit through, swallowing blood. Still he kept silent. He could not stop the tears, but he would be damned if he would make a single noise. Gastien could see all of the blood on the floor. Dazed, he wondered if he really was going to die, after all. Mercifully, he finally passed out.

  The next morning, he woke up where he had fallen. There was blood all over the floor and his back was a sticky, raw mess that burned like fire. It was barely dawn. Gastien tried to stand up but found he could not. He had lost too much blood. He collapsed back down to the floor. That woke up his father who came out with his mother in tow.

  “See your son, Marguerite? See what a weak little conne your oldest son is? YOU have made him a girl. He can’t even take a man’s beating and get on with his life. I shudder to think of how he will end up! He will probably end up in Paris, getting it up the ass like he deserves! That is all he is good for.”

  His mother did not dare say a word. The tears slid down her cheeks, and she rushed forward to help Gastien up off of the floor.

  “That’s right!” his father spat. “Run
to him and baby him! All you are good for is spoiling our children. Get him out of my sight until he can work like a man! The sight of him has always made me sick!” With that his father went back into their bedroom.

  Gastien’s mother helped him to bed. He shared a bed with his brother Paul, who was pretending to be asleep. “Gastien, I am sorry, so sorry,” his mother whispered. “Don’t listen to him. Don’t let him get to you. He is not a man, he is an animal! You be the man, and someday you will stand up to him. Just try to stay out of trouble until then. There is greatness in you, Gastien! I know that without a doubt.”

  Gastien was too weak to even answer. She left, returning with water and soap, cleaning his back carefully. She then wrapped him in bandages. “I am sorry I can’t protect you. I am afraid he will kill all of us if I try!” She then went downstairs, returning with a broth that made him sleep for quite some time. He stayed in bed for a few days, finally getting up for longer and longer periods, regaining his strength. He returned to the vegetable fields and was back to shoveling dung within the week.

  He vowed he would do his best to please his father and try to work this farm until he was eighteen. Maybe if his father saw how hard he worked for the next two years, and how unhappy he still was, he would give him his blessing to go to Paris and attend Académie Julian. Académie Julian was a private art school, and Gastien knew it was expensive. If his father would give him a start he would work his way through. Surely if he worked hard enough and explained that he did not want the farm, his father would give him enough for a room while he worked to pay for school and food. He began to dream about when he would be eighteen and on his way to Paris.

  The days turned into weeks, then months, and finally a year. At last two years had passed. Gastien would turn eighteen in a month. He had swallowed his pride and his desires, only drawing by candlelight late at night, and always up at dawn to begin work on the farm. He shoveled more dung than his father, pulled more weeds, picked more vegetables. He managed his siblings, and found that many of them actually enjoyed the farm work. That made them easy to be managed. Although his father never said it, many times young Gastien would glance up and see admiration in his father’s eyes. He knew his father thought he was finally doing a good job.

  V

  He knew he could not wait any longer. It was unfair to his siblings to do so, because the next oldest should start to be groomed for running the farm. He did not care that he would lose that right. Mon Dieu, he wanted out of there, and would never look back! He hoped the fils de pute that called himself their father died while shoveling shit. Gastien did his best to not let those feelings show.

  Today he came in at mid-day for a break, deciding that this was the day. Instead of going back to work, he went to the river and washed himself up, putting on a clean set of clothes. He wanted to talk with his father, who had gone to Paris to sell vegetables and had left Gastien in charge. He should arrive home by late afternoon. Gastien wanted to catch him as soon as he arrived.

  Gastien knew the farm looked good. His father should be able to see that he had done a great job of managing and be more open to hearing what Gastien’s dreams were. Surely it would not matter if his brother Paul took over, as long as a Beauchamp kept the farm. He should also see that Gastien was not asking for a free ride. Once he explained his plans for getting a job at a restaurant to pay for food and tuition to the art school in Paris, his father should be willing to help him with a small room. Nothing much, but enough so that he would not have to live in the streets. Gastien had worked the last two years for no wages. He could have left at sixteen and been employed somewhere else. If his father was any man at all he would be fair to his eldest son. Gastien could hear the approaching wagon. He went to stand inside the door, ready to make his stand as a man.

  His father pulled up, yelling at Paul. “PAUL! GET OVER HERE, TAKE THE HORSES, AND BRUSH THEM DOWN! MUST YOU STAND THERE LOOKING LIKE AN IMBECILE?” As Paul approached the wagon, his father cuffed him in the head. “Where is that lazy Gastien? Out playing with himself in the woods again?” Jean laughed crudely.

  Suddenly Gastien knew this would not go the way he had dreamed about for two years. He once again saw his father for what he was, not what he wanted him to be. Regardless, he knew he still had to try to explain. If he did not get out now he would forever lose his dream. Without that dream, his life might as well end. He could not be a farmer with a washed out wife and a dozen wailing brats to feed. Non, he was going to take this chance if it killed him! Nothing, not even his father’s wrath, was going to stop him now.

  Gastien suddenly realized that he was finally bigger than his father, and Jean no longer scared him. His father only sickened him. As Jean approached, Gastien steeled himself to be civil. He concentrated on making his smile sincere as he asked:

  “How was your trip, Father? Did those Parisians once again try to take advantage of you?”

  “Never! They know better than to try to trick Jean Beauchamp,” his father bragged. “That will be your next lesson, before you can even think of taking over. I want you to start acting as the price negotiator next year. We will go into the city together, and I will stand back to see how you do. It is important to learn not to back down to their demands, but to appear charming. Quite honestly, I doubt if you have it in you, Gastien. It will surprise me if you are a quick enough thinker.”

  His father entered the front room and sat down to pull off his boots. “MARGUERITE! SOMETHING TO DRINK, FOR GOD’S SAKE! DON’T YOU HAVE A BRAIN IN YOUR HEAD? WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT ALL DAY WHILE I AM OUT BUSTING MY BALLS FOR THIS FAMILY?”

  “I am getting some lemonade poured, Jean. I will be out there with it in just a minute,” she called.

  “LEMONADE? LEMONADE??? IS THIS A LADIES ÉCARTE PARTY? GIVE ME SOMETHING A MAN DRINKS! BRING ME A WHISKEY, AND DON’T DILLY DALLY!” His father sighed and looked at Gastien. “Gastien, I hope you also learn to never let a woman have the upper hand. Honestly, I don’t think they have it in them to make a decision based on common sense. What man drinks lemonade after driving a wagon all day?”

  Marguerite hurried in with his drink and, hesitating, asked Gastien if he would like anything. Gastien would have loved some lemonade; it had been warm out in the fields. Still, he did not want to risk upsetting his father. He needed his father as calm as possible right now.

  “Non, Mother, merci. Father, I want to talk to you about something important.” Gastien concentrated on keeping his voice steady and calm.

  Jean rolled his eyes and sighed. “What went wrong while I was gone, or who didn’t pull their weight, and how much is it going to cost me to fix it? Can’t a man be gone a day or two without the whole farm coming down on his head?”

  “Father, nothing happened to your farm. There is no problem with it. The only problem is that your farm is not the life that I want for myself.” It was blurted out before Gastien could change his mind.

  For once, there was total silence with his father present. His father stared at him. Gastien could see the disbelief slowly turn, first to puzzlement, and then to scorn.

  “Boy, what in hell is wrong with you? Do you know how hard I have worked to keep this farm a profitable business for our family? And you, as my first born son who inherits the right to run it, you have the gall to tell me it is not good enough for you? Exactly who do you think you are??? You are too good for your old man now?”

  “I didn’t say that, Father. I know how hard you work. I know this is a successful farm, and one of the few this large to actually turn a decent profit. It is a business to be proud of. It is just not in my blood! Paul would be great at it, or several of the others, but not me. I simply don’t want to work it anymore.” Gastien tried to calm his heart rate down. He did not want to appear anxious or weak.

  His father had been standing open mouthed and now he snapped his mouth shut. Jean then downed his whiskey and moved closer to Gastien. “You don’t WANT it anymore? You just kick it to the side and me along with it? Do
you think you have so many choices with what you will do in life? You are lucky, LUCKY to have a business to take over. Do you want to starve in the streets, or what crazy notion do you have now?”

  “I want to paint, Father. I want to go to art school. It is all I have ever wanted to do with my life!” Gastien met his father’s eyes, refusing to be the first to look away. “I would work at a restaurant for the tuition and food. I was hoping that since I have been a good son working this farm the past two years that you would help me by paying for a small room, so that I could attend Académie Julian.”

  His father advanced on him quickly, raising his hand to slap him. Gastien stood his ground and grabbed his father’s hand before he could be hit.

  “Non! Not this time, father. You won’t touch me anymore! I am bigger than you now, and I will not be hit or beaten again. Never again!” Gastien held his father’s arm firmly and stared him in the face.

  His father’s face turned purple with rage. “You little bastard! Who do you think you are talking to? Are you out of your mind? I would never, NEVER give you money for a room so that you could lounge around painting at some la-di-da art school! That is no living! There is no pride in that. You would make the name Beauchamp a joke! Beauchamp’s are farmers. Damn good ones!” Jean then sneered, “Artists are libertines who play with paints like little girls.”

  “Then I will find a way on my own! I am giving you notice that I will leave at the end of November. That will get all winter vegetables in.”

  “Gastien, if you walk out this door to go paint I don’t want you to return. I will disown you. That is final! Do you understand?”

  Gastien blinked back his tears. “Oui, Father. I understand completely. And I am giving you notice.”

  His father leaped at him and screamed, “WOMAN! ENCULÉ! YOU ARE DESTINED TO BE A BUGGERING FOP, BEGGING PEOPLE FOR MONEY IN THE GUTTERS!”