Tales from the Bottom of My Sole

by David Kingston Yeh

  Nadia caught my eye and pointed outside. On the far corner across the street, I could see David waiting for me. I got up and walked out.

  Fiery leaves swirled across the sidewalk. The sky glowed, a cool blue expanse, streaked with gold and pink. Jack-o-lanterns flickered in alcoves and in front windows all along the wide avenue. David had said he’d be working late at the shop. Except now I could see the real reason he’d stayed behind. A streetcar rumbled past. I crossed the intersection.

  “I see you finally finished it,” I said.

  “Yep, I did. Finally.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah.”

  Awkwardly, we stood facing each other. “Your costume,” I said, “looks great, by the way.”

  “Yeah, I’m happy how it turned out.” David adjusted his shoulder straps. “Anne helped me make my wings. It’s all that cosplay she’s into.”

  “Is she coming too?”

  “Naw, she’s off to some house party. But Gee’s already on Church Street and says he’ll meet up with us.”

  I studied the man before me. “The nail polish is a nice touch.” I remembered how the first time I met David, he’d been wearing nail polish.

  “Thanks.”

  “Well, you look great.”

  “So do you.”

  “Parker did my hair. I think he might’ve used too much glitter.”

  “You can never have too much glitter.”

  “That’s what Parker said.”

  “Is he coming with us?”

  “He’s on his way to some dance on Ward’s Island.”

  “Okay.”

  A bat skittered overhead. Stars glinted in the deepening sky. “So look, Marcus is going to be the new manager for Three Dog Run.”

  “Marcus? No fucking way. When did that happen?”

  I folded my arms. “Pat just told us.”

  “Did he talk to you first about it?”

  “What do you think? Hell no. But that’s Pat for you.”

  “So, like, how are you feeling about this?”

  “I dunno. Shocked, I guess. But okay.” I rested my hands on my hips and sighed. “Actually, I’m surprisingly okay.”

  “Surprisingly okay?”

  “Yeah. I mean, life goes on, right? We just have to deal with it. If you and I get to sleep with Marcus’s stage manager, I suppose Marcus gets to manage my brother’s band.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess we’re all just one big happy extended family.”

  I drew a deep breath. “Sure.” That David would even suggest that Marcus was a part of our family was frightening and magical. I could smell wood smoke on the air. Peals of laughter rang out in the distance.

  “So, when’s Karen moving back to Toronto?”

  “She hasn’t decided yet. She won’t be making any decision until the new year. Liam just broke up with that police constable.”

  “Really? What happened?”

  “They were just too different.”

  “Detective Joan, right? I thought those two had tons in common.”

  “Well, Liam said her family said some pretty stupid things over Thanksgiving and she didn’t disagree with them. One thing led to another. And, well, that was that.”

  “What kind of stupid things?”

  Gingerly, I shook the glitter from my hair. “Homophobic stuff.”

  “Really?” David squinted at me. “That’s why Liam broke up with her?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Wow. Okay. Well, that’s too bad. Her loss. How’s Liam?”

  “I dunno. With Liam, it’s always hard to tell.”

  “Are you worried about him?”

  “I used to be, all the time. But no. Not anymore. I think he’s going to be okay.”

  David glanced at Sneaky Dee’s. “Hey, is Luke here already?”

  “Yeah, he and Ai Chang were the first to arrive. Why?”

  “He said they had something really important to ask me. Did they mention anything to you?”

  “Nope.”

  “I guess I’ll find out.”

  I observed David’s face, strange in his make-up. But his eyes were the same, steadfast and bright. I could feel the weight of his gaze upon me. “Have you eaten?” I asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, we’re just having a few drinks. You’re right on time.”

  “I was thinking,” David said, “you and I could go for a ride first.” He stood holding the handlebars to his tandem bike: sleek and gleaming, freshly painted. Since he’d taken it into the shop last spring, I hadn’t given it a thought.

  “I didn’t know you were actually still working on this thing.”

  “Yeah, well. I wanted to surprise you.” David extended his arm. “Surprise.”

  “I’m surprised. Congratulations.”

  “The rear wheel bracket was too low and I had to refit the whole frame. That was my problem. Arthur helped. I got it fixed now.”

  “Alright.”

  “I think she’s magnificent.”

  “She’s a beauty.”

  “Rocambolesco.”

  “She is rocambolesco. She’s a girl?”

  “Definitely,” David said, “although I haven’t named her yet. I thought we could do that together. I still have to take her for a road test. I walked her here from the shop. So, mister, how about a spin around the block?”

  “Right now?”

  “Yeah, right now. You up for a ride, Daniel Garneau?”

  “David Gallucci. You want me to go for a ride, right now, with you?”

  “I do. Now check this out.” David flicked a switch and the whole bike lit up, sparkling with white fairy lights.

  “No ways.” I laughed out loud, despite myself.

  David flashed his lopsided grin. “Pretty neat, eh?”

  By now my vision had adjusted to the dark. I gazed past him, across the smoky cityscape, brimming with shadows, thresholds, and a thousand undiscovered avenues. Of course, Tadasana was everything and just the beginning.

  “Alright, then.” I looked my lover in the eye. “Let’s do this.”

  EPILOGUE

  Golden Hour

  On a rainy Sunday autumn afternoon, in the mountainside village of Torretta in the province of Palermo, on a small side street named Via Maiorana just off Piazza Vitorio Emanuele III, down the block from Maria Concetta’s cake shop Di Maggio and steps from the Speciale Filomena tobacco shop, Isabella de Luca opened her art gallery.

  Her husband Nicoli had completed all the renovations an entire day ahead of schedule, calling in every favour he could. No detail was too small or insignificant: from the Gessi bathroom faucets to the lovingly handcrafted olive wood sign, to the selection of elegant stationery font. This was, after all, the extraordinary wedding gift Nicoli Badalamenti had promised: that he would build Isabella De Luca an art gallery if she were to ever move to Sicily and marry him. How could he otherwise entice her? As her fourth husband, he was also wise enough to insist that she keep her maiden name.

  Because this woman had received the Order of Canada for her lifetime contribution to the arts, her repatriation had not gone unnoticed. At the urging of friends, colleagues and her publisher, Isabella crafted a two-part article documenting her return: beginning with an excerpt from an Emily Carr biopic she’d screened during her transatlantic flight and ending with philosophical reflections on the Greco-Roman archaeological site of Rosa-Columbrina. In response, her editor at the Globe and Mail suggested she expand her essay to a twelve-part series.

  That suggestion, Isabella replied, would have to wait. Since the wedding in May, all her efforts had been poured into preparations for this grande apertura. Her eldest child Luke Moretti (a furbo if there ever was one), had spent the summer assisting. It was critical her first exhibition exclusively showcase local artists. For months, she and Luke had scoured the countryside, visiting the surrounding villages of Cavallaro, Orioles, Bellolampo, and the town of Carini. They were not disappointed. The influences of Sicily’s
florid history were unmistakable: European, Greek, Arabian and African forms, colours and motifs revealed themselves before her discerning eye. In the end, she settled on five artists: two potters, a ninety-year-old jeweller, a blacksmith who sculpted the most intricate ironwork, and a photographer.

  The photographer was closest to home. It was in fact her twenty-three-year-old nephew, Antonio Badalamenti. Entirely self-taught, the boy had been documenting his world ever since his sister died. “She is no longer with us,” he said. “She has no eyes to see. I shall see the world for her. Every photo I take is a love letter I am sending to her.”

  His work, of course, was immature, even childlike. It focused on the corporeal: faces and hands, skin and scars, moisture, and sexuality. He had spent years photographing the humanity of the rural working-class around him, including his employers on the De Luca farm, Isabella’s own family. After some weeks of conversations, Antonio shyly shared with his new aunt a series of self-portraits depicting his own burned and dismembered body. In these raw images, Isabella saw the numinous aura of artistic genius.

  The boy was uneducated with no insight whatsoever into his own talent. Years ago, he’d saved enough to acquire a vintage DSLR Nikon D1. Isabella insisted she pay for his first photography lessons in Palermo, and purchased him a far superior, more durable Nikon D2H. “Consider it an advance,” she said. “I expect you will be making some money for the both of us.”

  Isabella De Luca was not wrong. With Carina as her assistant, she had invited dealers and journalists from Palermo (and one writer friend from as far as Rome) to a private view a week before the public opening. All five artists were present, even the scarred blacksmith Carollo in a suit that likely dated to the Second World War. The guests found the pottery charming, the jewellery intriguing, and the ironwork dazzling. One critic complained Isabella had packed too much into the little space. Her sisters Bianca and Romy catered the event. Thank God the gallery boasted a small courtyard out back, where patrons might enjoy a glass of wine and a cigarette.

  Everyone wanted to meet Antonio Badalamenti.

  Of the hundreds of images he’d shown her, Isabella De Luca had eventually selected seventeen to exhibit. Four were self-portraits, twelve others were of family, neighbours and friends. The last was a photograph of Isabella’s own son David Gallucci and his companion Daniel Garneau.

  This particular image was shot at a high shutter speed with a wide-open aperture, capturing an instant just as the two were about to embrace. The color rendition was slightly off, its depth of field thin. But the figures themselves were mesmerizing.

  Ever careful of nepotism, Isabella initially passed over this photo in her long-list of selections. But days later she returned to it. She studied it closely. All her other selections were shot in Sicily: Toretta, Palermo, Balestrate. This one was taken at the arrivals gate of the Toronto Pearson Airport. Daniel’s back was turned, compelling the viewer to focus fully on David’s face: his exuberant smile and chipped front tooth, the unruly facial hair (so fashionable among young men these days), the musculature of his (too thin) bare arms. The sheer joy and vibrancy in his body was palpable. David’s expectant embrace of Daniel was Italy’s embrace of the world. This image was more than Italian, she concluded. It was lightning in a bottle.

  One afternoon, three weeks after the grand opening, a Canadian couple arrived at the De Luca Gallery. The girl was pretty with long colourful hair. She carried a magazine in her hand and asked (as had so many others) about “David e Amico.” If only the young lady had called in advance, she might have saved herself a trip. Unfortunately, the limited edition 27x40 platinum prints were sold out; the one remaining on the gallery wall was an artist’s proof and not for sale. The girl explained she’d come all the way from Mexico, and tomorrow she’d be travelling on to Germany. Was the gallery certain it couldn’t part with this one copy? By way of a reply, Isabella showed a nude self-portrait of the artist (then aged nineteen) with his three-legged puppy Pepi in his lap. The girl was more than enamoured. Immediately, she had her husband settle the transaction as she signed the guestbook. He gave an address in California where the piece could be shipped. “But you are both Canadian?” Isabella asked.

  “Yes.” The young man glanced at his wife. “She also has her French citizenship. But yes, we are.”

  After the couple departed, Isabella checked the guest-book. As suspected, she recognized the name. The buyer had left behind her magazine, opened to an English-language review of the De Luca Gallery. It featured a wide-angle photo of Isabella leaning against the entranceway, arms folded, a cigarette in hand. The article began: “On a Sunday afternoon, not far from Palermo in the rolling foothills of Mount Canalicchi, on the feast day of Sergius and Bacchus, an extraordinary event took place in the village of Torretta.”

  The writer went on to extol the virtues of the countryside and its history, and the quality of the eclectic pieces assembled for display.

  “Of course, the two stars of the exhibit were the gallerist De Luca herself, and the photographer Antonio Badalamenti. While not the centrepiece of Badalamenti’s work, the insouciant sensuality of ‘David e Amico’ (the gold cornicello dangling suggestively about the young subject’s neck) tested most the imagination, captured in the liminal space of a Canadian airport, daring the viewer to cross a threshold into the 21st century where same-sex love was celebrated as it had once been centuries past. De Luca was to be applauded for her contemporary vision. Her curatorial statement was a gauntlet laid down, a challenge to the old regime.”

  Isabella smoothed the creased pages of the magazine. She had already read this review many times over since its publication. She had, in fact, posted a carefully composed letter thanking its author, a famous colleague of her friend in Rome. She closed and set the magazine aside, jotting down a note to include it in the shipment to California.

  After that, she made herself an espresso and retired with her laptop to the courtyard. Her London editor had requested a review of a new biography of Johann Joachim Winckelmann. The deadline was close at hand and Isabella prided herself on her punctuality. She settled in her Carollo chair, observing the computer screen, and lit a cigarette.

  Smoke curled. Ivy wreathed the little stone fountain in the corner (a wedding gift from the Sabatinis). The sound of flowing water always soothed her senses. But on this occasion, she could not concentrate. The great German master Winckelmann had spent the last thirteen years of his life in Italy, studying the homoerotic in classical art. How had she herself not seen it in this single photograph of her son?

  She rose and left the courtyard, returning to the gallery to stand before “David e Amico.”

  When she confronted Luke, he confessed he’d known for years that David was gay. Very little ruffled Isabella’s composure (her world had been turned upside-down long ago; life was an opera buffa), but this was news she never imagined. She had always assumed one day she would have grandchildren. That, Luke declared, was still a possibility. In fact, he assured her, it was something he and Ai Chang were working on. Then Isabella wondered if this was all the influence of yet another Sicilian curse. She had dealt with so many over the years. She considered her own tumultuous life: born a bastard, self-exiled overseas, three husbands buried. She considered the Chinese girl Ai Chang Cho, and the French boy Daniel Garneau.

  “At least your sons,” Tony said, “have taste in lovers.”

  “Hush,” Isabella said.

  Tony shrugged. “All the early Roman emperors kept male lovers.”

  “Not Claudius.” Her second husband Michele chuckled. “That one slept only with women.”

  “Strange man,” Tony said.

  “Isabella, mi amore,” Michele said, “your children and your family are healthy and happy. That is all that matters.”

  Isabella nodded, gathering her resolve. As usual, her first husband said nothing but hovered at a distance, ephemeral light over the fountain basin.

  She herself had known a great many me
n in her time. Nicoli had been her first. She recalled their inexpert fumblings forty-five years ago in the shadow of Carini Castle (where, in 1563, the Baroness of Carini and her lover were infamously murdered after being discovered in the throes of passion). To his credit, Nicoli was far more skilled now than he had been then; certainly his stamina was much improved. Now almost every day at the lunch hour, he would come down from the farm to visit her. Then she would close the gallery, and they would retire to her apartments above, where they would make love with the windows wide open. Then each evening they would repeat the ritual.

  Fuck the classical Greeks and their tiny phalluses.

  How little did they know.

  The truth was, of all the men in her life, Nicoli was always the one she had loved the most. Still, if he were to drop dead tomorrow, she could not promise he would be the last.

  Isabella De Luca reached out, resting her fingertips upon the cornicello about David’s neck. The gold wedding ring glinted upon her own hand.

  She bowed her head, and began to laugh.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This book was written on the traditional lands of the Haudenosaunee, the Anishinaabe, and the Huron-Wendat, and on the treaty territory of the Mississaugas of the Credit.

  I’d like to acknowledge use of the following Canadian song titles as chapter titles: “Somewhere Down the Crazy River” by Robbie Robertson; “The Limit to Your Love” by Feist; “Magic Carpet Ride” by Steppenwolf; “Lovers in a Dangerous Time” by Bruce Cockburn; “The Spirit of Radio” by Rush; “The Grand Optimist” by City and Colour; “Where Have All the Good People Gone?” by Sam Roberts; “You Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet” by Bachman-Turner Overdrive; “Miasmal Smoke and the Yellow-Bellied Freaks” by Wintersleep; “Superman is Dead” by Pouya; “Taking Care of Business” by Bachman-Turner Overdrive; “Queen of the Broken Hearts” by Loverboy, “Wondering Where the Lions Are” by Bruce Cockburn; “I Will Give You Everything” by Skydiggers; “Life is a Carnival” by The Band; “Boy Inside the Man” by Tom Cochrane; and “Golden Hour” by Sam Roberts Band.