From Dream to Destiny

by Caddy Rowland

  VIII

  When Gastien got inside, he realized that he had left without cleaning up his brushes or chamber pot. He quickly brought that outside to the privy. He rinsed the pot at the well, using some soap. The brushes had to be done, too. He did not want them sitting any longer with paint dried on them.

  Entering, Mic saw that Gastien had his usual mess of brushes and paint that he always had after a painting trance.

  “Looks like you could use some help, ami. Let’s take these brushes to the side room and clean them. That way we don’t have to smell turpentine while we play cards.”

  “You don’t have to help me, Mic. I left the mess. You do plenty of your own clean up. Give me about a half hour and come back down.”

  “Tell you what, you go clean the brushes; I will straighten things up here for you. That way, you won’t have a mess the next time you start to paint. It is no big deal. I am used to taking care of you by now.”

  “Very funny, but merci. I will accept.”

  “Gastien, you know I straighten you out quite often. Don’t be offended by it. You just seem to always be thinking about painting to the detriment of everyday life.”

  “Oui. I will try to concentrate better.” Gastien looked embarrassed.

  “I don’t think you can.” Mic put his hand on Gastien’s shoulder. “It is fine. Go clean your brushes.”

  “I will, but tell me – how do you benefit from me? I sometimes wonder why you bother.”

  Mic could see that Gastien was down on himself after the Tristan Michel fiasco.

  “I get an ami who is fun, witty, and full of passion; one who makes me laugh more than anyone else ever can hope to, and listens when I am down. You also inspire me to do better in my art.”

  Mic stopped for a minute and then continued. ”I remember two years ago I was complaining that I was not selling paintings as often as I used to. You told me that, while my technique was great, I had gotten predictable. You said that somehow I had allowed myself to not feel excitement for art; that I needed to show people something new. I was very hurt, and it made me quite angry.”

  “However, it made me think, and it challenged me. I painted with a renewed passion just to prove you wrong. And guess what? I sold more. Because, of course, you had been right. The passion had been missing. I was painting easy. I started to push it, and things came alive again.”

  Mic stopped and then laughed. “You can keep up with me drinking and getting high, and I get to feel all superior because you can seem so scattered at times. That makes me feel like I am a responsible person, even though I hear all the time from Alice that I am not. We just fit each other well. To this day, it also amazes me that you gave me my own studio! The generosity of that stuns me. Anyone that crazy needs my help!”

  Gastien laughed. “Fair enough. I don’t really know what I would do without you, Mic. I really don’t.”

  “I feel the same.”

  They both suddenly felt awkward. Gastien finally broke the silence.

  “Now I feel all soft and womanish. I am quite embarrassed. I am going to go clean brushes. Don’t drink all the vin!”

  A half hour later, things were cleaned up. Gastien was popping corn, after making very sure he scrubbed his hands well. He did not want turpentine on his hands while he held a popcorn basket over the heat!

  “Should I make a double batch?” he asked.

  “We just ate! How hungry can you be?” Then Mic remembered that Gaz had not eaten for a few days. “Oh, wait, you did not eat for almost four days. Double batch. Extra butter!”

  “I will make a whole lot. I don’t care if there is some left over. It will still be good tomorrow; you can take it home with you.”

  Soon they were playing bezique, drinking vin, and eating salty popcorn full of butter. As they played they talked of amis, art trends, and things going on in the neighborhood.

  After a couple of games and a bottle of vin, Gastien switched to water. He did not want to take any chances of somehow displeasing Sophie tomorrow.

  At about midnight they decided to call it a night. Mic knew Gastien was worried about being late tomorrow, and he personally had been out way too late for the past couple of nights. He was looking forward to some sleep.

  IX

  Gastien was up in time to bathe, shave, and make sure he wore nothing that would cause his son embarrassment. Well, almost. He did wear his gold earring. He just could not stand being completely bland.

  He grabbed the new books and found a cabriolet, arriving several minutes early. As he walked up the steps he was surprised by how nervous he was. Instead of a man coming to see his family, he felt like a young boy on his first date.

  He shook his head as if to clear it. His boy would be eleven soon! That was hard to believe. He knocked on the door, and Sophie called out.

  “Come in, Gastien.”

  No one was there to greet him when he entered. His son appeared in the doorway to the main living area. He somberly looked at Gastien; Gastien stood staring back at him.

  Suddenly, sobbing, Tristan Michel threw himself into his father’s arms. Gastien picked him up and held him close. Soon Gastien was crying, too. He held the boy’s head close to his, kissing his hair. Then he kissed his sons nose, cheeks, and lips.

  “Je t’aime, Tristan Michel. I really do. I am so sorry for what happened. I am just sick about it! Oh, Tristan Michel, please forgive me! Je t’aime!”

  “Mois aussie je t’aime, father. But how could you forget me? How?” he implored. The boy’s big wet brown eyes looked up at him.

  Sophie appeared in the doorway. “I see my two strong men are in tears this morning. It seems they love each other after all.”

  Gastien put out an arm to her. “Oui. Come, Sophie. I am so very sorry that I disappointed and hurt all of us.”

  Sophie came over and the three of them held each other tightly. Finally Gastien set Tristan Michel down. “I think it is time for me to have a talk with my son about what makes me how I am today. Will you excuse us, Sophie, while we have a homme to homme chat in Tristan Michel’s room?”

  “Of course.” She ruffled her son’s hair. “Don’t be too hard on your father. It is hard for him to talk about these things.”

  “What things?”

  “Let’s go talk, Son.”

  Gastien sat down on the bed with his son. “I know it is hard for you to understand why I can’t be like other fathers. First of all, those other fathers are not as perfect as they seem because none of us are. What you see when you look at a family out in public may be quite different from what goes on at home.”

  “Secondly, oui, I am odd compared to most people. I am an artist, Tristan Michel, and almost all artists are odd. That is because we see and feel things more intensely than others. Some people say artistic talent is a blessing, but in many ways it is a curse. It consumes you, demands your total dedication, and that takes you away from the people you love.”

  “Yet, if an artist does not pursue his art it eats him up, making him even more unhappy. It can even make him want to not live. If you are an artist, you have the constant struggle of wanting to be immersed in your art, but wanting to love and be loved. Artists are humans, too, and so they want to love.”

  His son asked, “Is that why you paint for days without sleeping? Because you are consumed by art?”

  “Oui. It is. I can ignore the call to paint like that for awhile, but eventually I need to submit to it or be driven crazy by the call. It is simply who I am, how I was created. So, while I love you and your mother as deeply as I am capable of, the color will always be my greatest love. That is not fair to either of you, but it is the truth. I won’t lie about it. The color is why I am here. I was born to it.”

  “I have the additional problem of not having a clue how a father is supposed to treat his child. I did not have a father who showed me any love; nor was he interested in anything I cared about. He ridiculed me about my interest in art, beating me for it many times.”

&n
bsp; “The only reason my father had children was so that he would have workers for the farm. All he cared about was how much work I could do in a day. Anything else was not only unimportant, but a hindrance to his goal. Therefore, he felt it was a valid reason to hurt me.”

  “Anytime he caught me in the woods thinking about color and art, drawing or painting with crushed berries, he beat me. He kicked me into the ground; he kept kicking until I could barely stand. When I did stand, many times I would be slapped and punched until I fell again.” Tristan Michel’s eyes got huge. “Your grandfather, my father, is an extremely cruel man.”

  Gastien rubbed his temples. It was always painful to remember the past. “People at church saw a great business man who ran a successful farm; who was charming to them. Paris merchants and restaurateurs never guessed how he treated his children or his wife. He tricked my mother into marrying him, promising her a beautiful life of peace. She never had one moment of peace. That is why I say you can’t judge how a father really is from what you see in public.”

  “How many times did he beat you, father? How come you did not die?” Tristan Michel asked fearfully.

  “I have no idea why I did not die. I lost track of the number of times I was slugged, slapped, or kicked by the time I was your age. Much worse than the physical beatings were the words he said to me every chance he got. Several times daily I would hear how I did not measure up, how I was no good, what a disappointment I was, how I would never make it in the world, and much worse. Some of it you are too young to know about right now. He had me convinced that I was an ugly, worthless person. The first time someone told me that I was good looking, I thought they were making fun of me.”

  “But, you are handsome, father! You wear your hair funny, but you are very handsome!”

  “Well, many have said so anyway. It was quite a surprise to me, though.” Gastien paused and then began again. “On my sixteenth birthday, my mother bought me some watercolour paper and some paints. My father was livid! He tried to take them from me, but I ran to the woods and hid them. I stayed out there until dark, daydreaming and painting.

  When I came back, he gave me the worst beating I had endured yet. He made me remove my shirt. Then, he took a leather strap and beat me until I lost consciousness. He left me on the floor to live or die. My mother was not allowed out of their bedroom to see to me.”

  Tristan Michel was crying. Gastien reached out and wiped his tears.

  “When I came to, it was dawn. I tried to stand, but could not stay up. I had lost too much blood. It was all over the floor, and my back was a mess of raw, open flesh. There would be scars for the rest of my life.”

  Gastien turned and lifted his shirt. Tristan Michel gasped. Then he gingerly reached out and traced a scar with his finger.

  “Oh, Father! How could he do that do you? How could he?”

  “I don’t know. I know I could never do that to you. My mother was allowed to come to me then, but we were both verbally abused while she helped me upstairs. I spent several days in bed. When I came out, I had vowed to myself to give him two good years of hard work; then I would ask for help to go to art school. For some crazy reason, I thought that if I pleased him for two solid years he would be appreciative and help his eldest son.”

  “Do the scars hurt? They look like they hurt.”

  “Non. Not anymore. Those scars have not hurt for years. They were bright red, until my early twenties, finally turning white. Other parts of my body have always hurt, though. I have no doubt it is from the abuse. That is one reason you see me with hashish. I do use it at times to get high, which is legal for an adult, but I also use it because it takes away pain. When I smoke here, it is for that reason. Most mornings I have a little hash, so that I don’t hurt all day.”

  “I am sorry you hurt. I don’t want you to hurt!” Tristan Michel cried.

  “Oh, don’t you worry about that. I am not telling you this to make you feel sorry for me or to upset you. I am sharing my life so that you understand why I struggle so at being a father. I simply don’t know how father’s act. I didn’t have a role model. I never even had an ami until I met Mic in Paris. My mother was a teacher, so she taught us all at home. I had no outside amis to tell me about their family life.”

  “I always vowed to never hit or verbally abuse any wife or a child of mine, although I never thought I would fall in love and have a child to call my own. When that did happen, I felt that by not hitting or beating you; not making you do manual labor and telling you I loved you, I was doing all I was supposed to be doing.”

  “I am in totally unknown territory when it comes to how husbands and fathers are supposed to interact with people they love. Additionally, I am not good at sports like many other fathers probably are because I never played, so I have never been much good at playing with you.”

  “Except for fencing. You could beat anyone at fencing!”

  Gastien laughed. “We do have fun fencing, don’t we? I sure I would not beat everyone, but I could hold my own. My father allowed us to fence an hour every day because it made us stronger for work. Also, I suspect he liked seeing one getting beaten by another. We did not hurt each other, but he would have liked us to. He was always calling us girls when we fenced.”

  “I don’t want to ever meet him. I would hate him!” declared Tristan Michel.

  “You won’t ever have to meet him. He disowned me at eighteen, when I said I wanted to come to Paris and be an artist. I am not allowed back on the property. I am sure he would not hesitate to shoot me if I tried to come back.”

  “Your own father would shoot you?”

  “Oui. So, you see, I had no choice but to leave. I gathered a few belongings and left on foot. I slept in the woods that night in an abandoned building. A farmer gave me a ride all the way to Paris the next day. The second night, I slept in Notre Dame. I stayed there nights until I was caught and asked to leave.”

  “I had met Mic by then, and he was teaching me how to paint. Once I was kicked out of the church, I had to live on the streets. I sold drawings for food money, but many times went hungry. I slept in filthy, dangerous alleys. People constantly tried to steal my few belongings. I had knives pulled on me, dirty slop water poured on me; finally I was covered with lice from head to toe. I stunk badly and was close to death.

  Tristan Michel just stared. He had no idea his father had been through this. “Why didn’t you get a job?”

  “I tried every restaurant, but no one needed me because of all the art students in the area. I was too late for a job. One night a restaurant worker had pity and gave me a lot of hot stew. I ate it too fast and vomited. I was so weak that I knew I would die that night, unless I kept some food down. And so, I forced myself to eat the vomit.”

  “You didn’t! I couldn’t!”

  “Oui, you could. Until you are starving, you have no idea what you could do to survive. I wanted to live because I knew I had been born to paint. I just kept my focus on my dream to paint and own a studio.

  The next night, a man was robbed and stabbed to death. As he lay dying in the alley, I scared the robber by yelling, ‘Police’. The dying man told me to take the money he had won in cards from the robber, along with his ring, and his watch. I did not want to, but he convinced me. That ring is on my hand today and always.”

  “Your ruby!”

  “Oui. My ruby. I wear it because that man saved my life. There was enough money to get cleaned up, get a room in a boarding house, and get a job. Mic had trained me to be a waiter for when an opening came up at Le Procope. He was already working there. You know of that restaurant. We both thought I would never get the chance, as I had become so dirty and smelly. Because of that man’s money I could now get cleaned up and try to land the job.”

  “I was hired. I served there, and my boss allowed me to show my paintings there. Once people saw them, some hired me to paint portraits. Often I would go to their homes and stay a short time to do the paintings. One man hired me to do several paintings.
I lived in a cottage on his property for a year. That is who I got my studio from.”

  “Why did he give you a studio? Didn’t he pay you?”

  Gastien was silent a minute.

  Finally, he said quietly, “Oui, he paid me, too. The studio was part of the agreement.”

  “He was a very nice man!”

  “Well, he was a very wealthy man. Let’s say that. The studio was only one of many properties that he owned.”

  “Father, you are very brave! You also were very determined. I did not know all of that.”

  “Well, now you do. So, when people tease you about me, please remember that their fathers are not perfect. You can tell them that I am not good at being a father, but I do my best. Remind them that I work very hard at my art.”

  “You can also tell them that I dress funny because I am creative. I can’t stand to be just like everyone else. My clothing is also art for me. Tell them that I said being strong enough to be who you are, even if it means people think you are odd, is a very courageous thing to do.”

  “But, Father, what will I tell them about yesterday? I had told everyone that we were spending the day together! They will say that they told me you could not be counted on because you are a bohemian.”

  “Tell them the truth. That is best. Tell them that I painted for three days straight and slept for fifteen hours, waking up to think it was Friday. Admit that you know they have probably heard about my painting trances, when I paint two or three days in a row. Admit that we both know people walk by to look at the crazy man. Because, oui, I know they think I look crazy then.”

  “I simply don’t care. I want the light during the day, so I keep the shutters open. Those people walking by who think I am crazy, they are nothing in my life. Nothing. But the light means everything to me, so the shutters are open. Tell them they can laugh. If their lives are so dull that I am all they have to laugh about, then I am glad I have provided them with some poor form of entertainment.”

  “My amis will think you don’t care.”