People did not stop by the studio anymore to have paintings done. He did not need the money, anyway. He was living on the money in his safe. He had paid dearly for that money, so Gastien decided to use it until it was gone. Hopefully, it would not run out before he died.
He had not heard from Tristan Michel since the horrible day that his son had told him to leave. Gastien had found out that Tristan Michel was working with a builder. A couple of times he had watched him working, staying back a good distance so that Tristan Michel would not know that his father had come to just look at him. He had tried twice to see his son at Odette’s. Tristan Michel always refused to come to the door. Finally, he gave up doing any of that. It simply hurt too much.
Gastien’s looks were now mostly gone. He was drinking hard, drugging harder, and his face showed it. In addition, his body had lost most of its muscle tone. In short, he looked like the chemical abuser that he was.
The women he brought home now were reflective of that. He no longer had his choice. Gastien would bring home anyone that would keep him sane through the night. Many times he woke up wondering if they had even completed the sex act. He could not remember anything from the night before. The women were always as bad off as he was, so they did not remember either. Thankfully, he did not have to listen to them complain about his performance or lack of it.
Mic still went out with him sometimes, but Mic would end up going home much sooner than Gastien. At times the two of them painted in Gastien’s studio, or sat and talked – if Gastien was capable of it. Once a week, Mic and Alice would have him to dinner.
It hurt Mic deeply to see his ami so far gone, but Mic knew there was not a thing he could do about it. Mic had tried a couple of times to get Gastien to give up opium, to stop drinking, and using hash so heavily. It seemed like he was incapable to doing so.
Gastien had simply given up on life. When Sophie left, all of Gastien’s joy left with her. Still, Mic never abandoned him. Mic knew that Gastien would remain his best ami until one of them died.
XIV
One Saturday, Gastien had just finished up painting for the day. He was getting ready to bathe and go out for the night. To his credit, he still cared about his hygiene. He may have lost his looks, but he was still clean. He also still kept his long hair in as good of shape as possible.
Hearing someone at the door, he went to see who it was.
There stood his son: much taller, with a mustache, and the handsome face that used to be Gastien’s. Gastien’s eyes filled with tears.
“Bonsoir, Son,” Gastien said softly.
Tristan Michel just looked at him with distaste.
“You are intoxicated, Father. Why am I not surprised? I will just go.”
He turned to walk away.
“Non! Wait, please don’t go. Please!” Gastien begged.
Tristan Michel stopped and turned around. “Are you ever sober anymore, Father? I heard you had gone from being the town lover to now being the town drunk. I had hoped that was not true, but I see it is.”
“I am not drunk! I am high,” said Gastien. “Please, come in. I have missed you so much! I have always hoped that you would come and see me.”
Tristan Michel entered. “It does not look like you have been in any shape to miss anyone.”
“What would you have me do? Should I have just sat here and waited two and a half years for you to show up?”
“Non, but you could have some respect for yourself!” snapped Tristan Michel.
“I lost that long ago. You help me lose that, remember?” Gastien was immediately sorry. “Forgive me. Let’s not fight. You must have had a reason to come here.”
“I just wanted to see how you were doing. In a way, it is a relief to know that I had you judged correctly. Now I don’t have to feel guilty. You always were only interested in pursuing pleasure.”
“My life has been anything but pleasurable since your mother died, Tristan Michel. There has not been one happy day since.”
“Good. It is funny to hear how much she meant to you, now that she is gone. It is too bad she did not mean more alive.”
“But she did, Son! She knew that. We had a lot of happy times. Here, come with me; I will show you something.”
Impatiently, Tristan Michel walked with Gastien to the storage on the side of his studio. Unlocking it, Gastien went in and motioned for his son to follow. He showed him canvas after canvas of paintings he had done of Sophie, from the time he first met her to when she was 34.
There had to be hundreds of paintings. Many of them showed her with Tristan Michel at various ages. Several paintings also showed Tristan Michel alone. Tristan Michel could not argue with the fact that they were poignantly beautiful paintings. He could see the love Gastien had felt for both him and his mother.
He would not let Gastien know it, though. This man had caused too much heartache, too much embarrassment in his young life. Once again, Tristan Michel hardened his heart.
“So you painted a lot of paintings of us. Big deal! We would have liked that time spent with you. Instead, you chose to sit in front of a canvas. Why show me these now?” he asked harshly.
Gastien died a little more in that moment.
“I thought it would help you understand. I guess it doesn’t.” He blinked back the tears. Once again, he was failing to make his son see how much he loved him. “I am sorry that I could not verbalize what I felt.”
Gastien reached for his favorite painting of all. It was a large oil of Sophie, nursing a newborn Tristan Michel. The colors were stunning, the facial expressions pure and heart piercing. There was so much love on that canvas that it seemed to flow out of the canvas and into the viewer’s heart.
“Here, I think this is the best painting I have ever done. I want you to have it.”
He moved it toward his son.
“I don’t want it!” declared Tristan Michel.
“It is yours anyway. Maybe someday you will find value in it. If not, maybe one of your children will. Please. Take it.”
Tristan Michel took it reluctantly, and they walked out.
Gastien asked him in to the studio, but Tristan Michel refused.
“You are in no shape to talk to me. Once again, you are too high. You would not be able to carry on a decent conversation. I should not have come at all. I am going now. Good-bye Father. Go have a drink, or whatever it is you do to get fucked up.”
“Oh, Tristan Michel,” Gastien said sadly.
Suddenly he realized that he could never make his son open his heart back up. He reached out and touched his son’s face tenderly.
“Je t’aime, Son. Always remember that.”
“Right. Sure, Father. You love me.”
Tristan Michel turned and walked away.
Gastien wanted to call out to him, ask him to turn around, but he knew his son would keep walking. Tristan Michel simply could not understand that he loved him. Gastien shut the door and walked over to the table, sitting down. His legs could not hold him anymore. After a while, he got up, got a bottle of absinthe, and drank until he passed out.
The next morning, head aching, he stumbled down the street toward the bakery to get a pastry for his coffee.
The oil painting of Sophie and Tristan Michel was lying in the gutter. It was all bent up and broken, ripped beyond repair. The only thought that came to Gastien’s mind was that now he knew how his father had felt when he had rejected the farm.
Life had come full circle.
XV
Gastien was now 43 years old. He felt like he had lived a thousand years. It was a struggle now to get ready in the mornings, so some days he simply sat and drank all day. Sometimes he would drink and smoke hash for two or three day’s straight, simply pissing in his pants while sitting at the table.
He was so poisoned by alcohol now that he did not always clean himself up. Most nights he did, but at least once a month he went on a solitary bender where he let himself completely go. Why he did not simply end it by taking op
ium and alcohol is unknown. Perhaps he felt it was wrong, after all, to do so.
During a lucid spell, he went and got Mic. He gave Mic the combination to his safe, in case he forgot it. He also wanted someone to be able to get in there should he die.
He also had Mic take him to an avocate where he willed his ruby ring to Giselle, the pocket watch to Tristan Michel, and granted the right to grow herbs on his land to Cassie and Vic for fifty years.
Then he had Mic agree to sign over the upstairs studio to Gastien. He himself signed over the ownership of his studio downstairs, and the storage space next to it, to Mic. Any money left would be divided between Mic, Cassie, and Vic. There would not be much. They would also divide what personal items they wanted, giving the rest to artists of Mic’s choosing. The painting supplies would go to Mic, of course.
He kept the right to live in the downstairs studio for the rest of his life.
Lastly, he willed the upstairs studio, and his paintings, to his son. Perhaps one day his son would start his own business.
Although Gastien never stopped loving his son, he never got to see him again.
Mic still stopped by every day, even though it hurt him terribly to see Gastien in such awful shape. There were times that he wished he could give up on Gastien; however, he simply couldn’t.
Mic loved him too much to ever cause his ami pain, so he kept the grief to himself. He sat and listened to Gastien tell the same stories over and over about Sophie and Tristan Michel. He must have heard each of those stories hundreds of times, but he never let on that he knew every detail. He could see how much Gastien enjoyed reliving them.
April 1899
Gastien blinked and shook his head. It was shaping up into a chilly spring day, very gloomy. Once again, he had lost track of time sorting through the past. How had it become almost noon? He could tell by the sun in the sky. And still he sat here without picking up a paintbrush! Had he really been lost in the past since before dawn?
He ought to try to paint again. He had not painted anything decent in so long!
Ahhh, God...he hurt so badly! All of a sudden, he realized that he hurt much, much worse than usual. MON DIEU! How much longer could he hurt like this and go on, he wondered. If only he could concentrate, try to fight this pain; get some painting done!
The pain increased.
Just when he thought he could stand no more, he realized that he no longer hurt.
Gastien felt nothing but peace. Strangely, there was no sound at all. Looking down, he saw that he was still seated at the painting table, but bent over it, head and chest lying prone on the table. His eyes were open, but lifeless. HIs mouth was slightly open, as if surprised by the sudden lack of pain. He looked so worn out and used up!
How could he see himself as if he was not in his body?
Then he knew. He had finally passed!
With a cry of happiness, his soul flew up into the tunnel. Gastien gladly let himself be taken far away from the world that had given him so very much pain. All was peaceful here in the tunnel; in the distance he saw the color. He was actually flying! Oh, oui, oui, he was being called home! Gastien went racing toward that place of peace.
Then, he suddenly heard her. Softly at first, but growing louder:
“Gastien!” she whispered.
And then a little louder, “Gastien!”
And, finally: “Gastien! You are here!”
Looking up, he saw the brightest of lights, the most vivid yellows and golds, like the energy he had so desperately tried to capture.
And there she was! There was Sophie!
She was young, and she was well, and she was smiling at him! He was right; she had not died after all. How he wished he had on his wedding outfit!
Then, looking down at himself, he realized that he did. He was young again, too; his body was strong and whole, without pain.
Sophie laughed. “I knew you would come soon! I have been waiting for you, darling.” She held out her arms.
“Sophie!” he cried. “OH, SOPHIE!”
He flew into her arms.
At long last, they once again merged. As their souls became all of the colors in existence they knew complete bliss. They were finally one with the color.
“We are home, Sophie, we are home!” Gastien cried happily.
“Je t’aime, love you, love you…..” their voices echoed repeatedly throughout the galaxies.
They danced together, two separate energies, fused together forever in love.
Epilogue
It had been ten years since Gastien had passed away. Mic had seen Gastien sitting at his window the morning of his death and thought he looked particularly brutal. He made a mental note to make sure that he came and checked on Gaz at lunchtime.
When he did, he found his ami dead, sprawled forward on the table, canvas and paints scattered on the floor. Mic’s eyes filled with tears, yet he felt relief and happiness for Gastien.
Kissing him, he looked into those beautiful, brown eyes for the last time.
“Goodbye, Gaz. At last you have found peace. Je t’aime, ami,” he whispered.
He then closed Gastien’s eyes, walking out to tell Cassie and Vic. Next, Mic went to get a doctor to proclaim Gastien dead.
The three planned the funeral, as Tristan Michel did not want to be involved. He did come to the funeral at the graveside. And, of course, he made sure he was present when Mic said there would be a reading of a will.
Mic and Alice had stayed together, moving into the bottom studio. Alice was finally at peace with Mic painting.
Plumbing and electricity had come to Montmartre over the last couple of years. Mic personally kind of missed the candlelight and lanterns.
Today, Tristan Michel had come downstairs and asked Mic to go to dinner with him. Mic wondered what the man could possibly want.
Over the years, he had gotten over his anger at Gastien’s son, at least enough to tolerate him. Still, he would never understand him.
The day after Gastien’s funeral was the reading of the will. When that was over, Mic had gone out for the day to paint, just to try to get a grip on his emotions. Tristan Michel had agreed to help move Mic and Alice downstairs in two days.
But when Mic returned later that evening, he found that Tristan Michel had gone into Gastien’s studio. He had destroyed all of his father’s paintings, sending them to the incinerators after slashing them up. The only one left was Azure. It still hung from the ceiling, too hard to get down.
Mic was so angry about Tristan Michel’s act of hatred and disrespect that it took every ounce of discipline in him not to kill him.
How could he destroy everything his father had worked so hard at? Gastien had been a fabulous painter! Oui, a lot of his work was unappreciated, but there were glimmers of things similar starting to happen with other artists.
Now, Gastien would simply be forgotten, except for the portraits that hung in various homes. That was not how Gastien would have wanted his talent to be remembered! At least there was Azure. Mic would keep that in remembrance of the greatness that had once been Gastien Beauchamp.
He and Tristan Michel went many years hardly speaking. Tristan Michel had opened up an architectural design firm upstairs, becoming a huge success. Mic knew Gastien would be proud of his son, in spite of everything that Tristan Michel had done to try to destroy all memory of his father.
Tristan Michel was now 29. He was married, with three children of his own. He owned a large home further into Paris, separate from his business location in Montmartre.
It was 1909 and the art world had been set on its ear with Pablo Picasso’s cubism. Many other artists were entering the world of the abstract. Gastien would have been one of the pioneers, finally knowing success.
Had Tristan Michel not acted so rashly when he destroyed his father’s paintings, he would have no doubt become even wealthier in a few years by selling them. Maybe it was just as well that they were destroyed. After the way he had treated his father, Mic would
have hated to see him reap the benefits of his father’s talent.
At seven o’clock, Tristan Michel came downstairs. He and Mic left in a cabriolet. To Mic’s surprise, they ended up at Le Procope, where he and Gastien had worked. Tristan Michel had reserved a table in a private area.
Once they were seated and had vin ordered, he looked across at Mic.
“Mic, I want you to know that I finally realize I made a horrible mistake,” confided Tristan Michel quietly.
“Oui. You could have made a fortune on your father’s paintings in a few years, couldn’t you?” Mic said mildly.
Tristan Michel shook his head, tears filling his eyes. “That is not what I am talking about. I mean I made a horrible mistake in my judgment of my father.”
“You certainly did,” Mic said softly. “He loved you to the very end, despite your treatment of him. You can be sure of that.”
They sat in silence for several minutes, each lost in thought. Finally Tristan Michel broke the silence.
“Mic, please tell me. Tell me all that you can remember about my father.”
Mic raised his glass to his lips and sipped. Thinking back, he remembered that night long ago. Mon Dieu, had it really been 35 years?
He had been in this very restaurant, showing off his latest painting to amis. Glancing out of the window, he had found himself gazing into the most beautiful pair of brown eyes he had ever seen. The owner of those eyes had stopped to look in wonder at the young group of artists gathered.
The young peasant had tried to look so casual, as he nodded his approval of Mic’s painting; however, Mic could see the fear, the naivety, and the longing of the young man with the farm clothes and large tarp strapped to his back.
As Mic had looked into those eyes, he had suddenly known that young man would be the best ami that he would ever have. He had known that he would love him and laugh with him, protect and plan with him, cry and commiserate with him. Most of all, he had realized that life would be richer having known him.
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