Memoirs of a Gigolo

by Margaret Buffano

  ***

  On McDougal Street, in Greenwich Village, just a few blocks from Washington Square Park is a tiny food stand that sells Falafel sandwiches. If you don’t know what Falafel is, it’s a middle-eastern dish. A vegetable paste of some sort, deep-fried and placed in a pocket bread. To me, it was never anything I would call….say…food. But some people like it; people like Chi who ate two of them, while we waited for Harold.

  “You boys been waiting long?” asked a smiling Harold.

  Neither one of us answered. Chi chomped on his sandwich, and I just nodded my greeting.

  I’m sure you deduced by now, our connection with Harold was all business, mixed with coldness and caution.

  Harold held up his briefcase and pointing to it, “Let’s go somewhere we can talk.”

  We made our way to Washington Square Park. Being a cold winter’s day, we had the park mostly all our own – just a couple of winos and a few people walking their dogs.

  There is a small isolated section in the park where there are permanent cement tables with chessboards on them for public use. We followed Harold to one of the tables; he placed his briefcase down on it. Of course, there was no one playing chess that day; the entire area was ours alone.

  “Gentleman,” Harold said as he opened the briefcase and placed photos and bio down in front of us, “Gentlemen, this will be a seduction case. It should be very profitable; I know these people, and they have money.”

  My face flushed and my head pounded from the extra blood that raced into my brain caused by my excelled heart rate when I saw the photo of the wife who was to be the target for seduction. I bet you can guess who it was. Oh…go on, try! Yeah…of course…you guessed right…I mean…who else would it be?

  Harold continued to relay the intricate details of the job.

  “The husband is a prominent banker, all the money is his. His wife comes from a wealthy family, but they cut her off years ago. The husband wants a divorce, but he doesn’t want to share any more of his money than he has to.

  “The couple has been estranged for many years. They lived separated for a year; the husband taking a position with his bank in the orient. The absence did not make anyone’s heart grow fonder. When he returned, nothing changed.

  “They live in the same home, but live separate lives, and sleep in separate bedrooms. Except for social functions, where a wife is needed, she is never by his side. There is mutual respect for each other, and they always speak civil to each other; there is never any static between them.

  “But now, something has changed; there’s a third-party involved. It seems the husband has fallen in love with a woman from work, and he wants his freedom, at a price. Only, he has nothing on his wife. Far as he knows, and I tend to agree with him, the wife has never cheated on him. Even when he was away in the orient and she was on her own in the big, cold, lonely city, she never strayed from her wedding vows. She’s not the type; it’s just not in her. That’s where we come in.”

  “I want this job! This job is mine!” I interrupted, almost shouting.

  “Why, Alex,” smiled Harold, “I’ve never seen you get so emotional; one would think you were turning human on us. Now, I’d be glad to let you have this job, but we do have our colleague, Chi here. What do you think, Chi?”

  “Fine with me…it’s just another scrawny rich bitch. If Alex wants her, he can have her.”

  Harold turned his attention back to me. “Now, Alex, what makes this one so important?”

  “I know this woman. I’ve already got my foot in the door.”

  “And how do you know her?”

  “I did some artwork for her a while back, in her home. I felt there was a connection between the two of us at the time, but I never went for it. I think I could do this one with little to no effort.”

  “And what was the nature of the work?”

  “I painted a portrait of her daughter using only old photos. Her daughter killed herself years ago…suicide.”

  Harold burst into a laughter that echoed throughout the park.

  “Is that what she told you? It’s the very core of this couples marital problems. True, her daughter did jump out of her bedroom window, in an attempt to kill herself, but she never died.”

  “She didn’t?”

  “No! Let me give you the full story. When the daughter tried to kill herself, the two parents blamed each other; thus the conflicts…end of marriage.

  “The wife would have left years ago, but the daughter is in some ultra expensive private hospital upstate on life-support. She can’t afford it on her own, and she’s afraid if she leaves her husband he’ll have the life-support turned off…so, she stays.”

  “What a waste of money! I say pull the frigging plug!” remarked Chi.

  “That’s what I like about you, Chi,” said Harold, “your warmth.”

  “Screw you, old man,” Chi gunned back.

  Harold scooped up the pictures and bio and handed them to me.

  “Well, Alex, it looks like this is your baby.”

  “One other thing,” I said, “I need time with this one…maybe, six months or more.”

  “I don’t know,” Harold shook his head.

  “Don’t worry…trust me…I know I can make it pay,” I assured them both.

  “Very well,” said Harold, “six months or more, it’ll be hard keeping the husband at bay, but if you think it’s worth it…”

  Harold closed his briefcase and proceeded in a direction away from us.

  “Gentleman, I wish you both a happy and prosperous new year.”

  When he was gone, Chi turned to me.

  “So, what do you want to do? Let’s get something to eat.”

  “You already had two of those middle-eastern cow-pie sandwiches” I commented.

  “Yeah, but I’m still hungry. Vegetables never fill me up.”

  “Well, I promised my parents I’d have dinner with them. I’m afraid I have to go.”

  “Yeah…I understand,” he said sadly, “Well…I guess I won’t see you for awhile. Here…Merry Christmas.”

  He handed me a small colorfully wrapped gift. Before I could say another word, he headed off toward the subway station.

  I stood there, alone in the cold. I tore the wrapping from the small package. It was a ring box. I opened it. It was a ruby pinky ring – just my size. I took it out of the box and put it on.

  Sure, probably, it was a gift to him from one of his clients, but hey…isn’t it the thought that counts?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “The heart has its own mind”

  For the past fifty years, the Abbey de San Claire in the Languedoc-Roussillon region in the south of France was known for its wines. “Rich, spicy, full body, and fruity” were just mere words used to describe the indescribable.

  King Louis of France was their biggest customer with never less than fifty gallons of the nectar in his wine cellar.

  The monks of the Abbey all helped in someway. Some in the vineyards, some in the winery, and others simply did the bottling. But it was a known fact the winery was a success mostly because of the skill and knowledge of one monk. His name was Father Antoine. They called him The Purple Monk because of his expertise in grape growing and wine making.

  One day, a letter from Rome arrived at the Abbey. It seemed the Holy Mother Church had acquired a sizable amount of land in the same region – some seventy-five miles from the Abbey. There was hope another winery could be set up there; and of course, Father Antoine’s talents would be needed. But, what Rome failed to consider was the age of Father Antoine. He had just turned seventy-two; for him it would not be an easy journey.

  The monks decided one of the young novitiates should go with him, Brother Beal. All agreed Brother Beal would someday make a fine priest; though he was a bit rough around the edges; they believed some time alone with the old monk might smooth them.

  They were given two of the best donkeys at the Abbey, two weeks supplies, and everyone’s prayers; and a
fter morning mass they headed out.

  It was slow going; Brother Beal remained patient with the old monk and his unhurried pace. What should have been a three to four day journey elapsed into a full week; and they had twenty-five miles left to travel.

  What was hardest on Brother Beal was the old monk was no company at all; he rarely spoke, save for “We need more wood” or “Are there anymore beans?”

  On the night of the eight day it began to rain. Brother Beal made a makeshift tent out of a large piece of material. They huddled together next to a tree under the cloth; the old monk fell into a deep sleep immediately and snored all night long into Brother Beal’s ear; the young man got little to no sleep at all.

  Following day, they came on a quick moving stream, swollen from the previous night’s rain. On the bank of the stream stood a beautiful young woman dressed in fine clothes; she was crying.

  “Why are you crying?” asked the old monk.

  “I’m on my way to attend the wedding of my best friend,” she sniveled. “Normally, I can cross this stream with no trouble, but last night’s rain has caused it to rise. I’m sure to get soaked; and this is my best dress. I don’t know what to do!”

  “We can help,” said the old monk, dismounting his donkey. “You can ride across on the back of my donkey.”

  But a woman is a strange and frightening creature to a donkey that has lived its entire life in an Abbey of only men; when she approached; the donkey backed off and started to kick up its hind legs. They tried Brother Beal’s donkey, but the results were the same. The young woman began to shed tears of hopelessness.

  “There…there…don’t cry, young woman” said the old monk, “I guess, there is only one thing left to do; I will carry you across.”

  Before anyone could say another word, the old monk swooped up in his arms the young woman and headed into the stream. Brother Beal followed close behind with the donkeys.

  When they got to the other shore, the old monk gently put her down onto her feet; she was dry from head to toe.

  “Oh, thank you, Father, thank you!” She reached over, hugged the old man and kissed his cheek.

  “God bless you, my child,” said the old monk. They watched her scurry off.

  Brother Beal stood there in shock, motionless, and speechless. The order they belonged to was one of poverty and chastity. Just speaking with a woman was to be avoided; but holding one in your arms and to be kissed on the cheek – that was inconceivable.

  “Come Brother; we must be on our way,” said the old monk as he mounted his donkey.

  The entire day, thoughts of what happened at the stream haunted Brother Beal,

  How can the old monk be so shameless! he thought.

  That night, after they finished eating, the old monk opened his prayer book and read silently. Brother Beal, still having uneasy feelings, decided it a good time to speak up.

  “Father Antoine…today at the stream…that young woman,” Brother Beal sounded confused.

  “What about her?” asked the old monk, without looking up from his prayer book.

  “Well, forgive me Father, but I don’t understand. She was so young and beautiful, and you held her in your arms…and she kissed you!”

  The old monk closed his prayer book and looked the young man in the eye.

  “My dear, young Brother, I left that woman on the banks of the stream. You, my son, have carried her all day long and have yet to place the burden of her down.”

  ***

  I never let go of the belief one day Justine and I would cross paths again; but I anticipated it with fear and trepidation. Why I felt this way, I wasn’t sure; perhaps, it was because she knew what I did for a living, the real me, my sins. Such restricted information, combined with my having placed her on such a high pedestal, and owning up to such strong and powerful feelings for her, she was the only one able to bring shame upon me.

  When I returned home from my meeting with Chi and Harold in the park, I thumbed through the photos and notes on Justine. In the folder, I also found two invitations to the opening of an art show…a show paid for and hosted by Mrs. Jack Hutchinson…that being Justine. There had been no need for Harold to get the invitations for me; I already received one in the mail from the showing artist.

  His name was Andrew Vandenberg; I had known him during my short stint at collage. His artistic talents were no greater than my own, mediocre at best. Surely, what he had to offer the art world was not worth a showing at such a celebrated, high-status gallery as the one the showing was to be held.

  Why had Justine arranged for his showcase? A twinge of jealousy came over me. Perhaps…it was Justine and Andrew? No…Justine could never be so easily swayed; I knew that. It was going to take all to win her over. And besides, Andrew wasn’t her type. Andrew was nobody’s type.

  ***

  Evening of Andrew’s showing, I prepared for it like a matador would for a bullfight. I was meticulous with every detail of my look…my clothes…my hair. I wanted so much to impress Justine; it was all I could think about.

  Had I become obsessed with this woman? I don't know; all the information in my mind seemed jumbled. Was I misinterpreting what in reality was? Was my heart speaking too loud for my mind to hear? In my business that is the beginning of the end…a terrible end to be sure!

  Maybe, she wasn’t the angel of my heart. Could it be she was like everyone else, and it was my perception that differed? Either way, to me, she was like no other.

  Before I entered the gallery, I paused to take a deep breath and compose myself. I had to be the one in control.

  The gallery was wall-to-wall people. I recognized some of the faces; but thankfully, there was no one I knew or who knew me. The room was dark, save for the lights that shown on all of Andrew’s work, dozens of paintings covered the walls. I took my time to inspect a few of them in detail; like I said – nothing to write home about.

  A strolling waiter offered me a glass of champagne from off his tray; I declined, and made my way to the bar for a scotch. I turned to find myself confronted with Andrew himself.

  “Defy…good to see you! Glad you could make it! Thanks for coming!”

  Obviously, all the excitement and attention pumped up Andrew’s adrenaline; he spoke in quick spurts and most of it was just dribble.

  “I want you to meet my benefactor,” he said turning aside, “Mrs. Hutchinson…this is Alex Defy. Defy…this is Mrs. Hutchinson.”

  “Alex, it’s good to see you, again,” Justine said, holding out her hand in friendship.

  “Justine…” I said, taking her hand.

  “Well…?” said Andrew, “I see you two already know each other. Oh…please, excuse me…I see someone I need to talk with.” Off he went to kiss-up to another potential customer.

  The moment I took her hand, the instant we touched, I felt the softness that was her. A feeling of knowing for certain came over me; a feeling her eyes told me she was also experiencing.

  “It’s been a long time,” she said sadly, “I called…I wrote…tell me why you never answered me.”

  “I’ve just been so busy and…”

  “Alex…please,” she cut me short, “Don’t let us start off this way. I’m not one of your customers, and I never will be.”

  I sighed heavily and let out the bad air.

  “Truthfully, I’ve missed you,” I said.

  “And, I’ve missed you,” she smiled slightly. “See, isn’t that better…honesty between two friends.”

  “Friends…?” I asked, “You haven’t let go of my hand since I offered it; you haven’t stopped looking into my eyes since we were introduced. We both know we can never be… just friends!”

  She quickly let go of my hand, and looked around the room.

  “So…what do think of the showcase?” she asked.

  “I think it’s rubbish!”

  “Oh…that’s a shame,” she replied. “I think Andrew’s remarkably gifted and has much to offer to the art world.”

&nb
sp; “I think he’s a shallow monkey,” I spouted, “and you know it, too. You just need something to do, something to keep your mind off your real life.”

  “There’s no need to be cruel,” she sighed.

  “I thought you wanted honesty?” I darted back.

  She stopped for a moment to gain composure.

  “If you’d like, I can put together a showcase like this for you?”

  “Now, who’s playing the game?” I whispered angrily, “I thought you said you’d never be a customer? My artwork is as bad as Andrews. The only reason you would take the time and the money to put together a showcase for me is so you can be with me…to spend time with me. That’s what you want! But you’re afraid to admit it! You’ve lived so long without love; you’ve forgotten how to love!”

  I immediately felt a strong urge to take back what I just said; but it was too late. Tears began to appear in the corners of her eyes. Before they were able to be shed and before anyone around us could suspect anything was wrong, she pushed her way through the crowd, across the room and out the door.

  Earlier, I warned myself I must remain the one in control; running after a fleeing woman in tears would be surrendering that control.

  Against my better judgment, I rudely began to push people aside, making my way toward the door.

  Outside, the streets were dark. I looked in all directions, and saw no one.

  She couldn’t have gone too far, I thought. I had to decide; on an impulse, I turned to my right and began to run. I hadn’t gone far when the sound of sobbing stopped me. There she was, pressed into the corner of a doorway. She looked up at me, her face flushed and wet with tears.

  I approached her slowly. “Justine…I’m so sorry,” I said, reaching out to her.

  “Please, don’t touch me,” she sighed as she backed up against the stone wall. “I want so much for you to touch me; but you mustn’t!”