Chrysalis Part 3-Chapter 10
This story is about a young man's quest to fix a major birth defect--he was born without a penis. On his quest he meets challenges, his soul mate and many other soon to be friends.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and events are the product of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any real person is coincidental.
The story depicts procedures and practices common for gender reassignment; however, this story does not claim to be a medical treatise, and information is primarily for the purpose of the story and not medical advice. This story is written for adults with adult themes. If you are underage or live in a location where references to gay relationships or transgender people is forbidden, please log out of the story or move.
This work is copyrighted by Boethiuscell@gmail.com © 2023
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Chapter 10--Chilly Paris
Chris struggled out of bed when room service brought cappuccino and brioche. Tom was up, dressed, and singing "Frere Jacques" in mutilated French. Chris threw a pillow at him, falling short by several feet.
Chris grumbled, pulled himself out of bed to shower quickly and dress in a pair of forest green jeans Leo made for him. He finished it off with a bulky cream sweater. His hair was a mess, but he didn't care. He was going to be on a train for only eight hours.
Tom manhandled Chris into the cab, while the cabbie put the luggage into the trunk. Chris snuggling next to Tom, he barely paid attention to the city as it swept by. "We are here," Tom tucked Chris out of the cab.
Chris looked around. The train station was an imposing edifice, much like Grand Central Station--a little smaller and architecturally eclectic. Chris looked at Tom curious. "I thought it might be nice to take time to see the countryside. We have the time before we need to be in Paris. And we need a break. Milan was hectic."
"I've never traveled by train. Is it nice?"
"European trains are first class. We can have breakfast on the train, go to the observation deck or snuggle in our compartment."
"You mean like in `Murder on the Orient Express'?"
"Like that without the murder." Tom pulled Chris close, showed the porter their tickets and the three with the baggage went to the waiting room. They waited about ten minutes before the call to departure. Their passports and tickets where checked and they were directed to the first class section.
The reclining seats were comfortable with electric ports, laptop tables and ample leg room. Chris scurried into the seat closest to the window; his phone out to take pictures. He must have already sent several hundred to family and friends. "What is our itinerary?" Chris looked briefly at Tom then at all the people at the train station--organized chaos. Chris was more excited about the train trip than he was the first time he flew to England. Chris suspected that the train was more human. People and places were to scale, while in an airplane all the world was diminished to dots.
"After we depart we will go to the dining car for breakfast." Chris nodded barely paying attention. "We will travers the Alps; you need to have your phone ready." Chris's head pivoted toward Tom like lightening to the ground. "Our route to Paris will be through Switzerland. We will need to change trains in Basil."
Chris leaned over and kissed Tom squarely on the lips. Several other passengers saw but only smiled. "Did I tell you how much I love you?"
Tom leaned over to kiss Chris. "Gentlemen," a portly conductor with a German accent interrupted them. "tickets and passports." He looked over the documents and handed them back. With a sly smile he said, "Please, continue with what you are doing." Tom gave Chris on luscious lip lock. "Danke, for reminding me to do that to my wife more often." He moved on to the next set of passengers.
"Mr. Greenwood, Mr. Wentworth, welcome on EuroCity. My name is Lys. If you need anything, let me know. Would you like café and breakfast?"
Tom studied Lys. She was a young blond, Chris's age, attractive in a Heide way. "Thank you for the offer but we will eat in the dining car."
She tapped on a tablet. "You now have a reservation for two on the vista side of the car."
Chris was disturbed. "How did you know our names?"
"When we have people of," she fluttered her hands looking for a word, "distinction on board, we like to give more personal service."
Chris looked at Tom and burst out laughing. "Me, a skid kid, a person of distinction." He looked at Lys's confused frown. "Tom and I thank you for your service. I just think of myself as average like." He was going to point to the other passengers around him and stopped. He was in first class where the rich rode. These were also people of distinction too? "Lys, you must understand that just a few months ago I was on the lowest rung of society. I met my fiancé, Tom, and my life has changed drastically. I am not accustom to being important, or famous or distinguished, which makes me sound old." Chris held on to Tom's hand. "If I ever act like I deserve more just because I am a person of distinction, slap me down to ground level."
Lys smiled at Chris like she wanted to take him home to mother. "Chris, the rumors are true. You a very kind and sensible young man. I'll be back later to see if you need anything."
"That was interesting," Tom grinned at Chris, "Mr. Person of Distinction." Chris slugged Tom in the shoulder. Not as hard as he wanted, but the point was given. "Let's have something to eat." Tom stood and helped Chris stand.
After a nice breakfast, Tom and Chris returned to their seats. Tom did work on his laptop while Chris sent pictures home, oblivious to the time differences. Chris loved the feel of the mountains staring down at him, their shadows wary eyebrows. He had flown over the Rockies several times; he knew the size of mountains, but being in them was humbling. Lys stopped by with fresh Italian coffee and strudel. Despite the coffee and the scenery, the steady motion of the train lulled Chris to sleep.
"Chris, my love. Time to wake up. We're about 30 minutes from Basil." Chris groaned, stretched, and glanced out the window to see nothing but railroad tracks and highway. This was not the old town, but a busy metropolis like Chicago. He sighed and stretched some more.
It was a short walk to the connecting train. A porter towing the luggage behind them. They waited maybe twenty minutes until they could board. "I'm hungry." Chris whined, knowing that he was annoying.
"We will have a nice lunch in less than two hours." Chris gave Tom a dubious look "Trust me." Chris said always and found their seat, again in first class. Alert and hungry Chris watched the vineyards of Burgundy. Harvesters were in the vineyards cutting grapes by hand and placing them gently into large buckets and then into large oval wicker baskets. These were not like the vineyards of California, which had acres to a vineyard. Outside the train window were smaller plots next to the larger plots. Each had its own grape varietal growing. Could he do the same at home? Soon fields gave way to scattered homes on narrow roads. The scattered homes became clusters. "What city are we going through?" Chris asked.
"Dijon," Tom smiled.
"It is very ... French country." Chris finally said.
The train came to a stop, jostling Chris from looking out the window. Tom stood. "We get out here."
"This is Paris?"
"No, we are stopping for lunch and a little shopping before we catch a train to Paris. Chris's eyes widened as he understood what Tom was saying. "It will be nice to stretch our legs. And we have reservations in 20 minutes."
They exited the train, arranged to have their luggage stored, and walked, or rather Tom pulling Chris, as he stopped to study the buildings, the shops, and the cathedral, to the Restaurant--William Frachot. It was Michelin stared and very good, but too much for a lunch; however, Chris did not complain because he appreciated the effort Tom went through to obtain a reservation.
"How much time before we need to be back at the train station?" Chris asked as he walked out of the restaurant to the façade of Eglise Saint Philibert. He insisted on a tour of the of Saint Benigne de Dijon, then inside a brocanteur, where he bought a set of Charles Ahrenfeldt Limoges with highly intricate and ornate raised gold enamel encrusted borders Limoges dinnerware for 12, that the owner said was from 1850. It was not Chris's taste, but his mother would love it, and for his sister a stunning Art Nouveau poster of Sarah Bernhart by Alfred Mucha--all to be shipped. Tom dragged Chris from the shop to a men's clothing store, where they were the attractions. Chris and Tom both agreed finally on a pastisserie they had passed earlier in their walk. They left with three bags each of confections. Laughing and giggling with a bottle of wine, from a wineshop they stopped in, buying twelve cases to be divided and shipped: Louis and Ollie--one case red and one case white, Chris's father--one case mixed red and white, and Tom's father--four case two red and two white, and divided between L.A. and N.Y the remaining cases. The made it to the train station with 20 minutes to spare.
"Thank you Tom. This was fun." He kissed Tom unafraid of any reaction from others, and got none. "Everything so far has been so intense that I forgot that you are my intended and the most important person in my life." Chris sat back, slightly drunk from the wine; he offered the almost empty bottle to Tom to finish. "Did I spend over to 5,000 euros?"
"Do you have the money? Yes. Will you not be able to pay bill? Yes. Do you regret your purchases?" Chris sat back and gave Tom a sloppy grin. "No. not one centieme." Chris sat back closed his eyes and then smiled.
"What are you smiling about?" Tom asked, the affection in his voice shook Chris to his core, and he smiled broader. "Don't look but that older couple by the pillar hopes their son finds as loving relationship as ours." Chris kissed Tom's hands. "What good karma have I done to deserve you?"
The train came and they boarded, only two hours until Paris. The food, the shopping, and mostly the wine sapped Chris's energy, and he slept until Tom woke him as they pulled into the Gare de Lyon just as the city lights were coming on.
"We are here." Tom gently shook Chris. "The City of Lights." Chris, struggling to gain footing followed Tom into a frenzy of people. The porter help with the bags to a cab and Tom gave the address of their hotel, Hotel du Collectionneur. The cabby nodded and they were off. Chris pinched himself as he saw the Eiffel Tower lit up like he had only seen in movies. He hummed to himself "I love Paris", which made Tom pull him closer. The cabby joined in with a lush baritone.
"J'aime Paris au printemps,
J'aime Paris à l'automne,
J'aime Paris l'été quand ça grésille,
J'aime Paris l'hiver quand il pleut."
He glanced in his rearview mirror and smiled at Chris. Chris finished with
"I love Paris every moment
Every moment of the year
I love Paris,
Why oh why do I love Paris
Because my love is here."
They pulled into the guest drop off, where a doorman called a porter to gather the luggage from the trunk. The cabby spoke to Chris, offering him a card for exclusive service while in Paris. Chris smiled and said, "merci."
The lobby was quintessential Art Deco with the lights and mural on the ceiling. Tom checked them in, and they were led by the bellboy to their room. For some reason, Helga had again booked them into a suite with a balcony facing the Eiffel Tower. It was a large suite with a conference table. Perhaps, Helga figured a repeat of Milan. Chris hoped not. Although it was chilly, Chris was drawn to the balcony and Paris at night. This was a dream he thought would never happen. The whole last few months were a dream. Tom's arms surrounded Chris, chasing off the chill. He leaned back into Tom's chest. The slight wind wafted car fumes into Chris's nostrils; he did not care this was Paris. Tom whispered into Chris's ear. "This is perfect: Paris and you in my arms. Now let's eat."
They went downstairs to the restaurant in the hotel, Salvaje. Chris went up to the maître'd, a thin man with a thin mustache, requesting a table for two. "Peut-être dans un mois. [Maybe in a month.]" He then turned to seat an older couple, but before he could leave with them an older man in an expensive suit whispered in his ear. "Messieurs, veuillez me suivre. [Gentlemen, please follow me.]"
"We need to follow him." Chris said to Tom. They were led to a table that, although was in the middle of the room, was off to the side. The restaurant was African themes with animal print upholstery, hanging African fabrics, and sculptures. The subdued lighting and the overall use of browns and blacks made the room cozy even though it was crowded. Two servers were at their side immediately; one handing out the menus and the second pouring water.
The man who spoke to the Maître'd presented himself at their table. "I am Oscar, the General Manager of this property. I apologize gentlemen for the misunderstanding at the front." He spoke with only the slightest French accent. "He did not realize that you are important guests at the hotel. The menu is not your traditional menu for France. We emphasize Japanese fusion cooking. If you would like I could order for you, along with appropriate wines."
"We would appreciate your assistance, but we had a larger lunch in Dijon and would like something lighter than a full meal."
"Then you are at the correct establishment. You will see that most of the selections are petite assiettes. Is there anything that you do not like or are allergic to?" He waited. "Bien, If you have no objections a sampler of our sushi, fried rice, and our lobster dumplings to share."
"C'est parfait." Chris said. Oscar nodded at Chris, but left without comment. "I need to not speak French here. In Italy, they are happy that you try; in France they are happy only if you are perfect." Tom laughed.
One of the waiters returned with wine glasses; another man followed with a bottle of wine. "This, gentlemen, is my recommendation for your meal a 2014 Figuière Confidentielle Rosé from Côtes de Provence La Londe." He poured a sample for Chris, which Chris thought humorous. The wine was like drinking chilled rubies. He then pour Tom's glass and returned to finish pouring Chris's. He left the bottle on the table.
"You must be the important person." Tom laughed as he tasted the wine. "That means that you are paying." Plates were placed in front of them and then a small plater of 12 items was set in the middle. It was delicious as it looked. The progressed, each serving was delectable. Oscar came by too often to check on the duo. Two hours later, filled and floating, the made their way to their room, where was a bottle of Dom waiting, complements of Helga.
Chris and Tom were at Palais de Chaillot for the first show. The actual walk would be in the afternoon, but the morning was for fittings and a rehearsal. Most of the 20 or so models were female, but six were male. Although Milan's models were cold, these were hostile. Chris heard comment: "Je vais te défoncer" [I am going to destroy you]; "Espèce de rate" [Loser]; "Fraude américan" [American fraud]; "Pas de look, pas de talent sauf pour sucer la bite [No looks, no talent except to suck dick]. Chris ignored the comments like he did not know French, went to the young man, thin like he was anorexic and lips puckered like he lived on lemons. "Hi, I am Chris. I am so pleased to be here at this show with you. It is so difficult for me, as an American, to understand French and how to walk here. Milan was so easy, but here. And your welcome was so refreshing that I knew we could be friends." Chris's smile was so sincere, warn and genuine that the young man did not know how to react. Tom stepped back to watch Chris. "I know I don't have your looks or talent, but perhaps you can show me?"
The man looked at Chris like he was an idiot. "I am Henri." He turned and walked away. Chris smiled at Tom as the designer, Fabio, found them and started to gush like they were royalty. He English was limited, but Chris understood what he wanted and they followed him to a dressing room. The designs were very haute, so haute they were almost comical. But it was the job. After the fitting in the dressing room, which only Tom, Chris, the designer and a seamstress were privy to, they were dismissed until the show at 2:00 PM.
Since they had almost four hours until they were needed to be back at the Palais de Chaillot, which was across the Seine from the Eiffel Tower, they killed time, had lunch in the Tower restaurant, and walked the Champ de Mars.
Returning to the Palais, they were escorted again to the fitting room and dressed in their first design: Tom's was tight red vinyl pants and red silk shirt. The pants had cut outs down the side with lavender silk pulled through and then puffed. The sleeves of the silk shirts were the same. Chris's was the opposite with lavender vinyl and red silk. What made these out of the ordinary was there was no fly. The pants zipped up on both sides with large gold rings. The shirts were asymmetrical with one side to one knee. Tom's on the right side and Chris's on the left. They were to walk together, side by side, with the long side on the outside. The finished the ensemble off with knee high patent leather boots with four inch soles. Heavy makeup was applied and their hair spiked. Fabio was giddy as he looked at the two instructing them how he wanted to strut down the catwalk. A knock on the door said it was time. They exited to a bright yellow silk wall that quickly surrounded them that no one could see them. They carefully walked not being able to see further ahead than their feet. Once behind the stage, they waited for their cue. The stepped out, still hidden to be unveiled. Chris took Tom's arm in his and together the stepped forward with regal aloofness to the flash of cameras. Back behind the stage the reception was dry ice cold, but envy was also in many eyes.
The next change had Tom and Chris walking separately. Tom first and Chris last. The attire was more conventional if you liked Kandinsky, not only in design but also in construction. Colors and fabrics were layered cutouts. Again, this was well received.
The end of the show was Tom and Chris together in leather strips for both shirt and pants. The leather was high quality and flowed like silk. The movement was like watching water flow. Chris though he might wear this in public, with clothes underneath.
The final call met with great enthusiasm from the crowd. Cameras were everywhere, but mostly on Fabio, who was crying, and then on Chris and Tom, who were the shoulders for Fabio's tears. Several fashion magazines asked for quick comments. Chris pulled Henri in to answer most of the questions, which confused him as to motive.
Exhausted, but satisfied, they returned to their room. Several bouquets of flowers were placed throughout the suite. One was from Dreamweavers, another from Nicolo, which was sweet, a third was from Fabio with his gratitude. But three others were from admirers requesting meetings or dinning. Tom immediately called Stu. Soon he, Helga, Dorn, Cynthia and Adam were on a conference call. The first was from a reporter for L'Officiel, which was an important French fashion magazine. Helga would call and find out what the reporter wanted and then schedule time. The second was from a Monsieur Le Grande inviting Tom and Chris to an exclusive party. Adam said the name was a pseudonym and the party was sex and drugs. A polite no would be sent. The third was from Florence du Orleans. Her card mentioned that Nicolo suggested they meet. Tom would contact her.
It was late and they needed to eat. The concierge suggested a bistro a few blocks from the hotel. They stepped outside the hotel to the flash of cameras and three photographers following them, until a burly man intercepted and sent the three running. "Parasites," he said and walked back into his building. Chris and Tom found the quaint bistro and had a quiet meal with a few stares. Most likely because they were not locals.
They returned to the hotel to find Henri waiting for them in the lobby. "Tom, Chris," he stood, shifting from foot to foot and looking at his feet. "I have come to presenter des excuses."
"Why do you need to apologize for saying that I have no looks, and no talent except to suck dick." Henri blushed as he realized that Chris understood French. "My fiancé, Tom," he grabbed Tom's wrist, "would agree that my dick sucking is exceptional."
Henri looked at Chris, then Tom, and burst out laughing. "Tu retournes très joliment les insultes [You return insults very nicely]. Very nice, very nice."
"Would you like to join us for a drink in the lounge?" Tom asked before Chris could.
Henri looked at Tom and Chris and nodded, "Certainement."
Henri's English was more than passible. He was definitely interested in Dreamweavers--Europe. They checked schedules. They were free Thursday. Henri and his boyfriend Claude, who performed in a club in Montmartre, they would show them the real Paris. After the second drink Henri bid them good night.
Up in the room, Tom hugged Chris. "Starting to build clients?"
Chris gave a devilish grin and stripped all his clothes off. "I need to demonstrate my excellent skills." Tom could not say more.
They awoke early as they had separate appointments for rehearsals at 8:30. Breakfast was delivered with a local paper open to them with Fabio prominent. Tom laughed. "Less than 24 hours and you are in the paper." Chris translated the article for Tom; the gist was that Fabio was a designer to watch and two Americans are showing the French how to rule the runway." More harassment Chris commented to Tom, who shrugged and shoved a croissant in his mouth.
Tom made it back to the hotel at 9:00 pm, about 25 minutes after Chris. "Food and then sleep." Chris said. He was already in pajama pants and a T-shirt, sipping a glass of wine.
While Tom changed, food arrived. It was too cold to sit out on the balcony, so the waiter set up a table by the window. Chris loved the view of Paris. Midway through the meal, Stu, Helga, Cynthia, and Adam sent a message about a Skype call in 30 minutes.
"Boys," Stu was beaming. "you make us so proud of you. Newspaper coverage, an interview with the most prestigious French fashion magazine, and an invitation to a soiree with the crème ala crème of Paris society."
Chris turned to Tom, "I know about the newspaper, but the other two?"
"I haven't had time to tell you; you are meeting Pauline Estele from L'Officiel at 8:30 tomorrow night. But the other is new to me." Chris huffed in exasperation and exhaustion.
"Yes, on Saturday, at 9:00 PM you are invited by Florence d'Orleans to a gathering. I confirmed it about an hour ago. She is a member of the L'Academie Francaise and an actor/writer. She says it will be a small group of about 45 people."
"We appreciate that your social life in Paris is good," Adam gave a sardonic grin. "But have you done any work."
Chris turned red with anger. "I WILL HAVE YOU KNOW, SIR, that we worked 13 hours today. And I have five or six potential clients for the Europe Dreamweavers. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"
Adam's chuckle turned into a laugh. "Thank you Chris, I knew my comment would set you off. I just needed to know that the old you had not adopted too fancy of manners." You said five or six possible new clients for Europe, plus the seven from Milan. I am astounded. Excellent work Chris." He paused. "And what do you have Tom?"
"I have eleven people that need to meet Chris for a quick review: four models, two set designer, a lighting expert, a media consultant, and three I am not sure about."
"Shit, Tom. I bow to your dedication to Dreamweavers. It means we need to move faster to set Europe up."
Helga pipped up. "My dearest boys, do not over work yourselves. You have both done more to promote Dreamweavers than a team of 20 people." She looked at paper on her desk. "You need to have time to process everything and have fun."
"Friday, we have a breakfast show, but are free the rest of the day. A friend we made here, with his boyfriend, is showing us Paris that afternoon."
"Wonderful," Helga smiled. "Enjoy. I will cancel you for that morning show. And have you only do one show Friday and Saturday. Sunday, you still have two shows because they are major events." She scribbled notes to herself. "You both look like sidewalk dog shit that has been stepped on. Get your rest." The computer went blank as she logged everyone out whether they were done or not.
"Got to love Helga." Tom said as he grabbed the fruit tarte they had not finished from supper. After a big bite, he leaned against Chris. "Love you my Superman." "Love you too, my Superboy," They leaned against each other holding the other up like an arch sipping the wine. Chris jerked as he fell asleep. "Bed now in our Bat Cave." Chris wanted to correct Tom but had no energy.
Tom and Chris stepped out of the cab outside Semilla, where they were to meet Pauline Estele. The outside was nice, but nothing special. They stepped inside; it was small, crowded, and far from elegant. Chris had looked the place up on the Internet, saw the reviews, the menu, and the prices and expected an atmosphere to complement it. Here the food was master not the setting like most American classy eateries. They stood looking around unsure what Pauline Estele looked like. A hand rose from a table at the far end of the restaurant. It was attached to a middle aged woman, dressed well, but comfortable. They walked toward her.
"Ms. Estele?" Tom said with a bow.
"Oh, please. No formalities. Call me Pauline. I know Americans are more comfortable with casual meetings. Please sit." She had a charming hint of her French accent.
"We are curious why you wanted to meet with us. Although Tom has been to Paris fashion week before, this is my first trip, and I am too new to create a name for myself." The waiter put a menu in front of Chris.
Pauline smiled, her white teeth blinding under the vibrant red lipstick. "Very true Chris. But I have been a fashion reporter for over thirty years. I keep my ear to the ground and in the wind. Rumors hit me about Dreamweavers and the very high talent they were acquiring. Yours and Tom's name figured prominently. One of the young associates, when I mentioned Dreamweavers, did an Internet search. I saw your performances at the burlesque club, then your walk at the New York show. And then I saw that you and Tom were a couple, congratulations on your pending nuptials. He has a talent for finding opportunities for growth for Dreamweavers: New York, Los Angeles, and I hear London." Pauline ordered wine. "You are both so young, but astoundingly talented. I had to see the future of fashion while it was in its nascent form."
"Chris and I are humbled by your complement, but believe us when we say we are winging it. We have no master plan, not Machiavellian designs to rule the fashion world. It is just important that we are part of something growing. It is very new, but it is growing. And we are a part of it." Pauline nodded, but did not interrupt. Silence prodded people to talk. "Chris and I are very much a team." He handed Pauline his business card, which cause Chris to hand his.
"'Acquisitions'," Pauline said as she looked at Tom. Then she turned to Chris. "'Talent Development'?" She tucked the cards into her cleavage. "Definitely not just pretty faces." The waiter returned and took their order. Tom and Chris allowed Pauline to order for both since she knew the menu. She took a sip of wine and studied Chris and Tom. "You are both so young. I mean no offence but you are both barely 20. What do you know about talent Chris?"
Tom's laugh caught Pauline off guard. "Chris has the uncanny knack of spotting talent in its many forms. The first time we went to Jazzabel's, we had an invitation. Chris saw two young men standing in line. He pulled them out of the line to join us. From that encounter they are on their way to being the great new chief in New York. In Los Angeles, he heard an unknown singer. She will be releasing her first album in December. The buzz from people who have seen the music video is that she will be bigger than Celine Dione. He has an innate sense that years would not give." Tom watched Pauline's reaction.
"Pardon me if I am doubtful and say that your observation is based on love." Pauline was smiling and not critical.
Chris smiled back. "Our waiter is a writer of novels and poetry." He turned to Tom. "We have not branched into publishing, but we should get Gil signed before he goes to a company that will not nurture his talent."
The waiter returned with the first course: a carpaccio of scallops with citrus fruit. "Gil, êtes-vous sur le point de terminer votre roman? [are you about to finish your novel?]"
Gil blinked at Chris a look of terror on his face. "Je l'ai terminé aujourd'hui. comment saviez-vous? [I finished it today. how did you know?]" Pauline looked at Gil and then Chris. "Je vous connais? Étais-je au club et en ai-je parlé? [Do I know you? Was I at the club and talked about it?]"
Chris looked Gil in the eyes to reassure him. "Non, je ne veux pas vous effrayer. Vous ressemblez à un romancier. Et je voudrais vous aider à le publier. [No, I don't want to scare you. You look like a novelist. And I would like to help you publish it.] Dreamweavers would like to help you get it published." He handed Gil his card. "I will be in Paris only a few days. You can send me your draft, if you like. And if you don't, that is fine too."
"Thank you for the offer. I have not decided what to do." Gil's English was better than expected. He turned and went back to the kitchen.
"I want to say that this was a set up, but there is no way you could plan this ahead." Pauline sighed and cut a portion of scallops, took a sip of wine. The conversation turned to Dreamweavers as a company, plans for Europe. Gil brought the second course of pan seared salmon. Carefully eying Chris and Tom. After he served dessert of brest, Gil turned to Pauline. "Dois-je lui faire confiance? [Should I trust him?]"
Pauline looked at Chris and Tom, hesitating. "Yes, you can trust them. I do." Gil nodded and left. "I don't know why, but I believe that you can help him." Gil returned with the bill, which Pauline paid. "Now gentlemen, thank you for an enjoyable and illuminating evening. You are both far more than I expected. We will be in contact." They stood and left. Outside, while waiting for cabs, Pauline kissed both their checks. "Expect an article in my magazine within the next month." Two photographers stepped out of the dark and street was illuminated. "I never get used to it."
Back at the hotel room, they quickly dressed for bed and awaited the call from Stu and gang. A bottle of cognac with two glassed was in the room. Tom pour both of them a snifter. Chris looked at Tom as he started to giggle and laugh and finally a raucous guffaw. "What until Stu learns that he is now in the publishing business."
Chris folded his arms across his chest. "We went from a model clearinghouse to acting and music agents in Los Angeles. We do talent acquisition and promotion. Gil has talent; we have acquired him."
Tom received a text on his phone. "Time to tell Stu this."
The first order of business was how the day went ,and then how the meeting with Pauline Estele went. "Stu," Tom said when they finished that business, "Chris has something to tell you. A business deal he made." Tom grinned at Chris ready for reactions.
"Stu, Helga, Cynthia, and Adam, over the past few months we have been expanding our services beyond just modeling. Cecelie is a good example how this expansion will help grow our company and produce revenue." Stu was frowning while Helga hid a smirk. "We met a young man tonight, who is very talented and will make Dreamweavers name more formidable. I sort of promise Gil, the young man, that we would help him publish his novel."
"What!," Stu exploded. "Why in the fuck would you do that?"
Helga patted Stu's arm and calmed him down. "I see the logic in your thinking that talent is talent and needs to be successfully promoted. Is his writing good?"
Chris looked at Tom for support, but found nothing but humor. "Yes, but I have not read it yet. He just finished his novel today. And it is in French, which I am weak in."
Stu was about to blow again, but Cynthia broke in. "Let me get this right, your gut tells you that this is worth the risk. Did you sign a contract or talk money?"
"Yes, I feel it is worth the risk and no contract or money. That is not my area of expertise. I acquire and you sign."
"If you say we need to pursue this we will." Adam joined the conversation. "We trust your judgement, though it is hard sometimes when it comes to French novelists. I know some people in publishing. Get me a copy, and then we will go from there. Do you have contact information?"
"No, we were at diner, and it felt inappropriate. He has my contact information. If he is interested, he will contact me, and we can go from there."
Stu was now chuckling to himself. "We need to find someone that can evaluate manuscripts and then send the crème to an appropriate publisher."
"Thank you Tom and Chris for your hard work." Helga took control of the meeting. "Enjoy your day off." She crooked a smile. "It may be the last for a while." Everyone said goodnight and left the meeting.
"That went well," Chris said. He wanted to grin in triumph but was too tired. "I need my sleep. Don't wake me early."
When Tom awoke he saw Chris standing on the balcony that overlooked the heart of Paris with a view of the Arc du Triomphe, the Eiffel Tower, and the twin towers of Notre Dame du Paris. Tom snuck up behind Chris, although snuck was too strong since Chris was engrossed in his own thoughts. He pull his arms around Chris and pulled Chris's back to his chest. "Good morning love. What has you so in thought?"
"I don't know why, but I feel history more here than I do in London or did in Milan. Paris is a survivor. It has gone from an obscure island in a modest river to become one of the great cities of the world. It was not an easy or peaceful transformation. The streets below me have known their share of blood. But Paris still survives and flaunts its heady beauty like an aging prima donna. It gives me courage to face my life and all its changes."
"Paris has always been independent and determined to follow its own path, much like you." He kissed Chris on the neck causing Chris to shiver, not from the cold morning air. "We need to clean and dress. We are to meet Henri and his boyfriend Claude in the lobby."
"Do you mind if we insist on paying for everything today? We will call it payment for their being our guides."
"No, I think that is perfect. Now dress." As Chris walked by Tom could not resist but to smack Chris on his firm butt. Chris turned and grinned at Tom and scampered off to the bathroom.
The two boys were sitting in the lobby, nervously waiting when Chris and Tom found them. Henri introduced Claude to Tom and Chris. While Henri was thin, almost to gaunt, Claude was solid muscle on a barrel chest. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, which reminded Chris of the tough in a French Apache Dance. But his personality was light and fresh. "We have not had breakfast; would you like to eat here or elsewhere?" Chris asked.
"Since you are both so kind as to give up your day off to guide us around Paris. Chris and I would like to pick up the costs for food and other sundries." Henri and Claude looked at Tom and Chris ready to object, then looked at each other. Relived they agreed.
"No," Claude said, shaking his head vigorously. "We will show you our Paris. We know the perfect place for breakfast." Claude winked at Henri. "Le Cochon Rouge." They said together with a laugh and wide smile. "It is not too far from here, if you do not mind walking." Thus started a giddy day of laughter, banter, and budding friendships. They took them to quint shops where Chris bought gifts to send back to the States. They ate at bistros where no tourist ever set foot. Claude steadily guided them to Montmarte where they lived. After an evening meal in Montmartre, Claude led them to a lively side street. They passed a pair of ladies of the night, who insisted that they dance with them.
"I need to work tonight, but you are welcome to join me." Chris and Tom were uncertain. "I have a second job as an entertainer at a small club--Les Sept Soeurs." When neither Chris nor Tom had any reaction. Claude looked at Henri, then said. "It is a drag club." He quickly added. "If you do not want to, Henri can take you elsewhere."
Both Tom and Chris burst out laughing. Tom pulled out his phone, found the clip and showed it to Henri and Claude. "Putain, Chris, tu es un homme aux nombreux talents cachés.[ Damn, Chris, you are a man of many hidden talents.]" Claude said as he handed the phone back to Tom. "It is the angelic ones who hide the best vices." He grabbed Chris and gave him a solid kiss on each cheek. "Mon frere."
The club was cozy with about a fifteen small tables and a bar in the back. An older woman, in a slinky black bead gown, a red ostrich plume and high coifed hair dyed black , held out a black gloved hand as Claude introduced Chris in Tom. "This is Josephine la Reine, the owner of this establishment. She does not speak English." Claude said.
"Madame, c'est une supplique d'être dans votre cosy établissement. [Madam, it's a pleasure to be in your cozy establishment.]" Chris said as he bent to kiss the underside of her wrist. She nodded at Chris and spoke; her voice was deep and raspy from decades of smoking Gauloises cigarettes. Claude quickly translated for Tom that she is delighted to have fellow artists in her establishments.
While Josephine, Tom and Claude talked on the way to a table. Henri pulled Chris aside. "You speak French?" Chris acknowledged that he spoke some. "Then you knew what I and everyone else said this morning?"
"Yes, but I do not take it personally. I am an interloper, in one of the oldest fashion capitals of the world. I did not expect to be received with open arms. And, if I had responded in anger, would we be friends now?"
"Thank you Chris." Henri pulled out a chair for Chris to sit and then sat next to him. "We need to talk about the agency you work for. They must pay you well to be able to afford this."
"Yes, we need to talk about Dreamweavers. They will be opening offices in London next year." He handed Henri his business card. Henri looked it over, then looked at the card, then looked again at Chris. He stuck it in his shirt pocket.
"Sorry, friends, I need to work." Claude walked to the front of the club and climbed up on the stage. "Bonsoir, mesdames et messieurs, et messieurs qui veulent être des dames. Bienvenue dans notre émission. Nos reines sont habillées, et comme des chevaux de course, prêtes à galoper pour votre divertissement. [Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and gentlemen who want to be ladies. Welcome to our show. Our queens are dressed, and like racehorses, ready to gallop for your entertainment.]" He walked over to the side of the stage where there were two other people: one with a trumpet and another on drums. Claude pulled out a saxophone. "Bienvenue, sur la scène Reine Victoria." A young woman of about eighteen walked onto the stage, a little nervous. She did three songs in a passable falsetto, bowed and left the stage. "La reine Victoria est notre nouvelle reine. C'était sa première soirée à jouer seule. S'il te plaît, souhaite-lui la bienvenue pour une autre chanson. [Queen Victoria is our new queen. It was her first night performing alone. Please welcome her back for another song" She came back out, to wilder applause and sang the sweet French song "Gentil Coquelicot". She bowed again; a few flowers landed at her feet. She blushed and rushed from the stage. After performances by Reine Teresa and Reine Giselle, Claude produced a guitar and sang. Chris was in awe of his smooth baritone voice, and the way he wove the lyrics and music together. The audience was appreciative too. "Merci pour votre aimable accueil. [Thank you for your kind reception.]" Claude paused and looked directly at Chris. "Nous avons deux invités avec nous ce soir d'Amérique. L'un d'eux est un artiste très talentueux à New York. Avec des applaudissements, nous pourrions le persuader de jouer pour nous. [We have two guests with us this evening from America. One of them is a very talented artist in New York. With applause we could persuade him to play for us.]" He held out his arm pointing to Chris. "Chris?" Tom shoved Chris out of his seat. Chris grabbed his glass of absinthe. He had not seen it appear at their table; he took a drink; Henri added more. Chris bowed to the audience and found a piano waiting for him.
To the delight of everyone Chris started with Charles Aznavour's song La Bohème first in French then in English
Je vous parle d'un temps que les moins de vingt ans
Ne peuvent pas connaître
Montmartre en ce temps-là
Montmartre at that time
Accrochait ses lilas
Hung it's lilacs
Jusque sous nos fenêtres
Even under our windows
After songs by Jacque Brel, Cole Porter, Noir Desir, which was an audience participation, a solo by Claude, Queen, and a duet with Claude, they finished with a duet of Edi Piaf classic "Ni, Je ne Regrette Rein". The audience went wild. Several cell phones were out recording the entire performance. Chris returned to his seat while Claude calmed the audience, "Merci Chris d'avoir rendu cette soirée spéciale pour moi et les patrions de sept sœurs. Veuillez montrer votre appréciation par des applaudissements." [Thank you Chris for making tonight special for me and the patrons of Seven Sisters. Please show your appreciation with applause.] The crowd went wild both inside the establishment and the gathered group outside. The crowd chanted "Encore, un de plus." Claude looked at Chris, with a wide grin, and did a vamp introduction on a saxophone. Chris stood and did a quick bow to the ensembled people.
Des yeux qui font baisser les miens
[A gaze that make me lower my own]
Un rire qui se perd sur sa bouche
[A laugh that is lost on his lips -]
Voila le portrait sans retouches
[That is the un-retouched portrait]
De l'homme auquel j'appartiens
[Of the man to whom I belong.]
Il me dit des mots d'amour
[He speaks words of love to me]
Des mots de tous les jours
[They are every day words]
Et ça m' fait quelque chose
[And they do something to me]
l est entré dans mon coeur
[He has entered into my heart]
Une part de bonheur
[A bit of happiness]
Dont je connais la cause
[That I know the cause of]
C'est lui pour moi
[It's only him for me]
Moi pour lui dans la vie
[And me for him, for life]
Il me l'a dit, l'a jure pour la vie
[He told me, he swore to me, for life]
Et, dès que je l'aperçois
[As soon as I notice him]
Alors je sens en moi
[I feel inside me]
Mon coeur qui bat
[My heart beating]
Des nuits d'amour à plus en finir
[Endless nights of love]
Un grand bonheur qui prend sa place
[Bring great happiness]
Les ennuis, les chagrins, s'effacent
[The pain and insults fade away]
Heureux, heureux à mourir
[Happy, so happy I could die]
Quand il me prend dans ses bras
[When he takes me into his arms]
Il me parle tout bas
[He speaks to me softly]
Je vois la vie en rose
[And I see life through rose-colored glasses]
Il me dit des mots d'amour
[He speaks words of love to me]
Des mots de tout les jours
[They are every day words]
Et ça m' fait quelque chose
[And they do something to me[
Il est entré dans mon coeur
[He has entered into my heart]
Une part de bonheur
[A bit of happiness]
Dont je connais la cause
[That I know the cause of]
C'est lui pour moi
[It's only him for me]
Moi pour lui dans la vie
[And me for him, for life]
Il me l'a dit, l'a jure pour la vie
[He told me, he swore to me, for life]
Et, dès que je l'apercois
[As soon as I notice him]
Alors je sens en moi
[I feel inside me]
Mon coeur qui bat
[My heart beating]
Lalalala, lalalala
[La, la, la, la]
The entire song Chris's eyes never left Tom. The club was silent, feeling privileged to share this moment of love. Many patrons were openly crying. Yes, Paris was the City of Love. Tom stood and swept Chris into his arms as Claude did a coda on the saxophone. The kiss was worthy of Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh. Then the room and street erupted in wild applause, whistles, and "merveilleux, doux, insprirant."
They broke their kiss to Chris blushing and Tom doing a bow. Josephine la Reine, whipping tears from her eyes, "My dear friends, you have made this night so very special. Not only with your splendid performance but for reminding us what is important in life." She said in French.
Tom looked at Chris and then his wrist; it was after midnight. "Je regrette, comme Isabelle avec Guleesh, je dois fuir avec mon homme. Nous avons des choses à faire." [I regret, like Isabella with Guleesh, I must flee with my man. We have things to do.] Chris and Tom left with many slaps on the back, lude comments, and two bottle of champagne.
At the hotel, Chris collapsed on the bed while Tom did the nightly call to Stu, Helga and the others from Dreamweavers. Chris pulled himself over to sit next to Tom, leaning his head on his shoulder. "We have two new people we need to sign." Chris broke into the conversation, too tired to care about politeness. Henri, will be a great model for use. His boyfriend, Claude, can become a European and International singer." Chris pulled away from Tom and promptly fell asleep. His snores heard over the video line.
"Chris was amazing, more so than his usual amazing. He will be the talk of Paris by tomorrow." Tom yawned and Helga closed the meeting until the next night.
Chris and Tom had separate venues for the day. After breakfast in their room, Chris headed toward his appointment near the Place Vendome. Chris walked into the elegant building and was ushered to second floor--a beautiful neoclassical ballroom. He expected the hostile treatment again, but was greeted with tentative smiles. A few people actually waved. He waved back with a smile. The mistress of the wardrobe found Chris and led him to the changing room for fittings. He had six changes; he was originally told there would be only three. The designs were more classic than Fabios, more conservative tailoring and richer fabrics. It was a pleasant change. Maurice D'angles, the designer for House Chanel, was a florid man of modest height, but an impeccable eye for color and texture. "You do well with showing the latest fades, but now we will test your metal with classic French design." His English was slightly accented, but his tone was condescending.
The wardrobe mistress, Mime, Chris learned, took him back to the dressing rooms. She reminded Chris of Miriam, short, focused, no nonsense, and slyly subversive. "Do not mind Maurice." She said in French. "He is a first class cretin, a very talented cretin." She pulled out the six pieced Chris was to wear: one casual, one business casual, one casual evening, two business suites, and a tuxedo. "The order I pulled is the order you are to wear them. You will have approximately 20 minutes to change. You walk; you return; you change. I will make sure hair and makeup are ready for you. I will have final approval." She walked Chris to a dressing room he would share with two other men. The room was functional with well-lit mirrors, and swivel chairs in front of the mirrors. "You will share with Pierre and Francois. The third chair is yours." The two men at the other chairs turned to look at Chris. The appraisal was neither friendly or unfriendly, but it was judgmental. "You have 25 minutes to change into the first garment. And then present yourself in the main hall." She turned and left.
"My name is Chris, and it is a pleasure to walk with you," he said in French. The two looked askance at Chris.
"We have heard about you." The taller dark-hard man said. "I am Pierre."
"I am Francois," said the younger and shorter man with a flawless face under a mop of reddish-blond hair. "I would like to say that we hate you because you are an American charming Paris, which should be us. But instead, we are envious. I have seen clips of Fabio's show and you walk like you own the runway. And then the Internet is awash with your show last night at Seven Sisters. You made me cry, when you sang to your boyfriend."
"How do you do it?" Pierre asked as he stripped to his underwear. "You have such confidence. And you are younger than me."
"It is not so much confidence, because I am scared every time I walk the runway. My approach to the job, which the agency I work for encourages, is to think of the clothes as mine. I am not just a hanger for the clothes. I am a representative of what the clothes can do for a man. It is not like I am trying to project my personality on the clothes. I want to project the personality of the clothes on me." The two nodded in understanding. "Fabios clothes are bold, daring, and in your face. I tried to project that, Today, the clothes are more conservative, but they are not timid. They are the clothes of a person who knows his place in society; his value in the social system; expects respect because of his social standing."
Pierre looked at Francois. "He has a point. I wish our agency felt the same way."
Francois pouted his cheeks. "I am not sure that Maurice will agree with Chris's approach."
Chris laughed softly as he changed into the first outfit, sure that his back was to the two men. "He hired me knowing what I bring. I will give him what he is paying for, even if it is not what he thinks he wants." Makeup and hair appeared and finished the ensemble
Mimi called the three for a walk through. Maurice was not present, so the rehearsal went fast. The garments were hung and a team of seamstresses and tailors made last minute adjustments, while the models were free for lunch. Pierre and Francois asked Chris to join them at a nearby bistro. Two female models requested to join. Chris said yes before Pierre and Francois could respond. Madeleine introduced herself. She said she was from Ethiopia and has lived in France for 20 years. She was a tall, dark skinned beauty with a hauteur to match. Chris quickly realized that the attitude was defensive for a warn caring person. The other woman joining was Gigi. She was a straw yellow blonde, bleached, on a vivacious airhead, until she felt comfortable with the people around her.
The bistro was a simple, family run affair. The proprietress, Madam Clemenceau, was the fifth generation to run the bistro. It's claim to fame was as a meeting place for the Parisian resistance during WW II, and Charles Du Gaul ate there once. The food was comfort food washed down with vin du pays. The conversation, as Chris expected, centered on him and by extension Dreamweavers. Chris paid for the meals, which caused a few glances his way. After a fresh fruit tart, they headed back to the venue for the afternoon show.
Chris's first walk almost had Maurice run up to the runway and pull Chris off, until he heard the applause and the comments on how fine the clothes were. With Chris's generous reception by the audience, Pierre and Francois tried to copy Chris's confidence. The audience was appreciative, more of Francois than Pierre, but Maurice did not scold them.
Chris was to walk second to last, before Madeleine. He wore this classic black silk tuxedo with a mauve silk shirt. Maurice at the last second exchanged the burgundy tie for batik scarf Madeleine was to wear and their order; Chris would walk last. The music was Offenbach's Bacarole. This was not the music from rehearsal. This was more sensuous and statelier. Chris's first step was soft like a ballet step. His second step was interrupted by a young girl of about 14, who climbed on to the runway. "S'il vous plaît monsieur, dansez avec moi." Chris smiled at her. "It would be my pleasure to dance with you." After two steps, Chris was certain that she was classically trained. They danced as a couple, holding hands, but not as lovers, close to each other. During the dance, he made sure the audience never lost sight of the tuxedo. As they neared the end of the runway, the lass removed her hand from Chris's. She curtsied. "Merci, monsieur, vous êtes très charmant et accompli." Chris bowed to her and then she fled into the crowd.
Chris looked out where the young girl fled and sighed. "Ah, ma très chère Cendrillon, étais-tu plus amoureuse de moi que de ce que je porte?" [Ah, my dearest Cinderella, were you more enamored of me or what I wear?] The audience burst into laughter and then applause as Chris sauntered to the curtain at the exit to the runway.
Maurice met Chris as he exited behind the stage. "You are a genius," Maurice glowed. "I apologize for the stunt at the end, but a mutual friend said to trust you. We will be the talk of fashion week." The rest of the models mobbed Chris before the final walk. It was a standing ovation when Maurice came last holding Chris's hand. After the show, Chanel had arranged a catered meal with excellent wine. Louis Jean Predieu, a representative of Chanel cornered Chris about being a spokesperson for a new men's fragrance they would be launching in eight months. Chris gave the representative Stu's card.
Chris worked the crowd, praising how well everyone did. He found out that Mimi knew Miriam. By 6:30 he needed to beg off an invitation to hit Paris night life with Maurice, his wife, a couple of people associated with Chanel. When he mentioned that he was invited to a gathering hosted by Florence D'Orleans, they acted like he was invited to a private audience with the Pope.
When Chris arrived back at the hotel, Tom was already there, dressed in a long sleeve T-shirt and sweats. Chris wanted to pounce on that delectable man. "Rumor has it that you had an eventful day," Tom said languidly as he sipped a glass of wine. "As Cesar said of all of Gaul, you can say of Paris. `I came, I saw, I conquered.'" Tom laughed as Chris bounded toward him with a pillow, stolen from a chair, in his hand ready to pummel him. "Chris, I have wine in my hand. No stains on the Aubusson rug."
Chris tossed the pillow on the floor by Tom and knelt. "Love of my life. I do not come to abuse you but to worship you. I kneel at your feet in humble submission." Chris bowed so low that his forehead touched the rug--the very soft plush rug.
Chris held that position until Tom's burst of laughter broke the mood. "Chris, you will never submit to me. You are too damned stubborn to every submit to anyone. And that is why I love you so much." Tom pulled Chris to his feet and then onto the sofa. They snuggled and gave small kissed like swans to their mates. Chris felt Tom's love and gave back in return. Tom pushed Chris up until Chris was sitting facing Tom. "As much as I would love to continue, we need to eat and then dress. A car will be here at 8:30 to pick us up." Tom glanced at his watch. We have less than two hours.."
Chris sulked but stood, pulling Tom up from the sofa. "Room service or out for supper." Tom suggested a small bistro a few blocks away. They had passed it in the cab, and the sign was a fish.
The restaurant was small, but charming, and as advertised, they specialized in seafood. The proprietor, Guillaume, greeted Chris and Tom warmly and offered them a seat next to a window overlooking the interior courtyard. Chris asked Guillaume what he recommended. He suggested the matelote Normande. The rich fish soup made with hard cider instead of wine was a welcome treat for the chilly night. It came with a mixed green salad and crusty baguette. Without asking, they were served a 2005 Morgan wine, as if any other choice would be a crime. From the first taste with the stew, Tom nodded approval to Guillaume, who smiled broadly.
Chris and Tom relaxed into the comfort food, talked about family, friends, and home. As they ate, two young men entered and found a vacant seat. Chris smiled pleasantly at them as they were obviously a couple, then returned his attention to Tom.
A shadow covered their food. Both looked up to see one of the young men standing next to the table, which his boyfriend behind him. "Excusez-moi de vous interrompre, êtes-vous Chris et Tom?" He hesitated and then pulled out his phone and showed a video from last night of Chris singing to Tom. "S'il vous plaît, puis-je avoir vos deux autographes ? Je l'ai montré à ma mère hier soir. Elle a vu l'amour et accepte maintenant son amant, Giles. [Please can I have both of your autographs? I showed it to my mother last night. She has seen love and now accepts her lover, Giles.]"
Chris turned to Tom. "He wants our autographs. He showed a video of my song to you last night, and it convinced his mother that she would accept that he was gay and has a boyfriend." Tom smiled at the two, then was struck that they were his age or older. He nodded.
Chris took the paper and pen out of the one boy's hand. "Nous serions heureux de vous donner un autographe. Quel est ton nom? [We would be happy to give you an autograph. What is your name?]"
Chris wrote, "Arthur and Giles. Love should never be taken for granted. It must be earned each day, renewed each day, and cherished each day. We wish that each day may grow into years between you. Chris and Tom. L'amour ne doit jamais être pris pour acquis. Il doit être mérité chaque jour, renouvelé chaque jour et chéri chaque jour. Nous souhaitons que chaque jour puisse devenir des années entre vous. Chris et Tom."
Guillaume wandered over ready to evict the couple disturbing his guests eating. Arthur quickly explained and showed Guillaume the video. He wiped tears from his eyes as he looked at Chris and Tom. "Ton amour est si beau." He turned and walked away. The two boys returned to their seat, soon lost in each other's eyes.
Chris asked for the check, but Guillaume refused saying that it was his pleasure to serve such generous people. Chris wanted to argue the point, but Tom put his hand on Chris's, which quieted Chris. Chris thanked Guillaume for an excellent meal, while Tom slipped a 100 Euro note under the plate. They said their goodbyes to Arthur and Giles and returned to the hotel to shower and dress.
"Can we turn around and leave?" Chris whispered to Tom as they stood at the entrance of the Académie of Music ballroom. Before them was a sea of black: black tuxedos and black full length gowns, worn by people twenty years older than them. A hundred pair of eyes looked back at them, snobbery building a mountain. They did not fit in: they were too young, they had not distinguished themselves, they wore clothes that were not black.
"Too late." Tom whispered back.
"Oh, I am so happy that you made it." Florence gushed as she rushed toward them, he black beaded gown throwing off darts of black light.
Tom took the back of her wrist and gently kissed it. "How could we not. Your company is addicting." She giggles like a school girl. Chris wanted to roll his eyes but forbore.
"Florence, we are honored to be invited to be included, but also curious as to why." Chris kissed her cheeks.
She gave Chris a smug smile. "Because you are young, talented, articulate, intelligent, and modern." She turned Chris so he could see behind her into the room. "What do you see?" She did not expect an answer. "I see a study in black so smug in their success that they do not see the perils of tomorrow." She took a step back to study Chris and Tom. "You both look so elegant. And not in black." So true.
Leo rushed over from the States two new tuxedos for this very night. Tom was in a classic tuxedo, with the jacket double breasted and to mid-thigh. Except it was not black; it was a rich dark burgundy georgette made of vicuna wool and silk. The very pale pink textured shirt contrasted well with the suit. He did not wear a bowtie but ascot with a large amethyst stick pin that match his cufflinks. Chris was complementary in a dark mahogany brown silk that picked up the burgundy in Tom's tuxedo. The pants were loose but stiff so they moved as a whole when he walked. The jacket was soft and flowing, like leaves on a breeze. At first Chris thought the jacket was too feminine but combined with the slacks it felt organic. Chris's very pale yellow shirt, also of silk, fit tight. Chris wore a patterned bowtie of pale yellow, dark brown, with hints of deep burgundy. One look at the two would immediately identify them as a matched set. Chris wore a broach on his lapel of a large center amethyst surrounded by yellow diamonds. No, they were not wearing black.
"Come," Florence positioned herself between Tom and Chris, taking both their arms. "Time to assault the Bastille." Tom looked at Chris, ready at a nod, for both to run to the doors. Chris only whispered an "I love you" and marched forward with Florence.
For the first forty minutes Florence, like a tug boat, guided Tom and Chris from one dock of people to another. Then she was called away, leaving Chris and Tom on their own. "Seems like it is just the two of us." Chris gave Tom a tentative smile. "We have youth on our side. They will likely bore each other to death before we succumb."
Hand in hand they marched off to the first knot of people. But first they grabbed a glass of excellent champagne. "To victory." Tom whispered. "To victory," Chris repeated.
The first group was clustered around a single man who was pontificating on the beauty of Proust. He looked at Chris and Tom like interlopers at Olympus. Chris smiled. "I must agree that the beauty of Proust's sentences are sublime." The man nodded in agreement, pleased to have an admirer. "I have read the complete In Search of Lost Time twice. English and French." The man again nodded, warming to Chris. "His depiction, in elegant detail, of the declining aristocracy and the rising middle class is a lesson about how the world changes around us without us being aware." Chris looked directly at the people around him. A couple shuffled uncomfortably; most missed his point. The man started to pronounce again on how correct Chris was about the themes in Proust's works, but Chris turned to Tom. "We need to move on and meet others. Although I admire Proust's prose, I do find him tediously boring." Tom and Chris turned and left, leaving the man blustering about philistines. Three people from that group followed behind Tom and Chris.
An older woman following behind Chris and Tom said, "That was fun. That pompous ass needs to be put down more."
"We are all pompous asses," replied a man walking with the woman.
"Speaking of asses. I don't mind watching those two," add the third person in the group. "I haven't been this fascinated in derrieres since I saw Nureyev dance.
Tom gave Chris a grin. Chris pulled Tom to an abrupt halt like trying to decide which way to go. The group following did not stop as fast and merged around Chris and Tom. "If you would like to join us in our peregrinations, you would be welcome. You know these people better than we do."
The older woman who had spoken first while following said, "I appreciate the offer and your company would be most delightful, but I prefer to be in the audience than part of the show. You are a pin in a balloon factory. I just love to watch egos pop."
Chris looked at the woman. She was likely in her sixties, short silver hair and too much lipstick. "We all have egos, madam, that we protect with vigor, even if it means self-delusion. Do you want me to start being a prick with you?" Chris stared at the woman.
"No, young man. Your point is well made, and I am being petty and vindictive. I am Heloise, and my friends are Lance and Ana Maria. We would be happy to join you."
The rest of the evening was delightful as the three were knowledgeable, funny, and personable. Somehow during the evening Chris and Tom separated. Chris gravitating to the groups discussing art, music, and literature and Tom to those discussing business, politics, and real estate. Chris smiled to himself. Tom's granddad did an excellent job training Tom to maneuver in the daily world without Tom knowing it. Together he understood that they completed each other: Tom on the business side, Chris on the social arts side.
By midnight people were starting to leave. Chris wandered around, chatting, until he found Tom. Together they found Florence to say good night. She was reluctant to let them leave, but she knew that they had early morning commitments. As they were saying good night to Florence, several other people stopped to say how pleased they were to meet the two. It took another half-hour until all the well wishes were done, and they escaped to the waiting car.
Morning began with its usual flourish of rushed coffee and breakfast. Dashing to the venue, rehearsal and then an afternoon show. For once Chris arrived back at the hotel before Tom. It was already well after 6:00 PM. It would be their last night in Paris. Tomorrow they would fly back to New York for two days, then Chicago for two day, and then finally home for over a week.
Tonight, like each night, a bottle of wine was waiting to be opened. Tonight, it was a white resting on ice. After removing the cork, he poured himself a glass; it was a strangely reassuring action since wine at home was only for major holidays. He sat quietly in a comfortable chair looking out the window at Paris as it slowly lit up the night. He felt twinges of guilt as he overlooked the bustling city. He was warm, well-fed, and sheltered. So many people did not have that, how could he accept that he did? He thought of Hank and Dion in cold Chicago, but they were there in the cold by choice. Did he want to go back to that? No. Never. Nor did he want to give up Tom, or the life he was now living. He could influence people. He could change perceptions about gender identity. If his parents could change couldn't others. But how without preaching or being in-your-face? His phone beeped. It was his sister.
Chris: "Hey, Brit, what's up that you are calling so early?"
Brit: "Not early almost noon. Thinking of you, miss you, and wanted to chat."
Chris: "Me, sitting in my hotel room alone. Tom is not back from his assignment yet. I'm watching the sun set over Paris and the city lights come on. It all feels so unreal. Who would have thought that I would be in Paris. I am not sure I recognize myself anymore. The only clothing that touches my body is now designer. Last night Tom and I went to the very exclusive party at the Académie Francaise. Everybody was in black tie or black gown. Tom and I show up in designer tuxedos that were not close to black. At first it felt awkward, but Florence, who invited us, said that the place needed color. It ended up being a good time."
Brit: "My poor, poor brother wear clothes custom made for him, hobnobbing with the Paris elite. No crocodile tears on my part. Sixty percent of my school is envious of me because of you. Twenty percent pretend to be my friend to meet you. The other twenty are troglodytes. Mom is so into you and the pictures you send. People at her work are ignoring her. Dad has not changed except he mumbles more about managing your taxes."
Chris: "I will take all of that just to have you and them in my life. You would think spending time in Europe would be full of sightseeing. But I am exhausted and have seen very little of Paris."
Brit: "Send me more pictures. Got to run." Chris said his good byes.
Tom entered the room as Chris finished with Britney. "Is all good there?"
Chris laughed as he related how his mother was being ostracized at work. "This is our last night in Paris, and I have seen so little of it."
"I have an idea," Tom leaned in close to Chris. "Why don't we go to the Ile Cite, see Notre Dame, walk the quays, and have a late supper?"
Chris thought, deciding if the effort was worth the exhaustion. Effort won. "That is perfect. We will hold hands and walk along the quay like new lovers."
Tom laughed. "We are new lovers." Chris laughed too.
They ordered a charcuterie board from room service. Although the temperature was in the mid 50's they ate outside on the balcony, wrapped in blankets. By 7:30 they had a cab to the Place de la Concorde, then walked through the Tuileries Garden, past the Louvre, crossed to the Pont Neuf to the Ile de la Cite. They stopped in front of Notre Dame. Chris trembled, not from the cold but the awe. They walked inside to the lost world of the Middle Ages. It was after 8:30. Tom hurried Chris along because he was getting hungry. As they crossed the Pont au Double Chris commented on all the boats doing cruises of the Seine, if only they had time.
"It would be romantic," Tom consoled Chris, "to glide along the river, to music, fine food, and majestic sites. I love you so much. And I want romance in our lives, even when we have little time. So." Tom turned Chris to face a boat boarding passengers. "We have reservations." Chris almost climbed Tom with excitement.
At the sidewalk Tom approached the man confirming reservation. "Mr. Greenwood, party of two."
The man smiled at Chris, who was clinging to Tom. "Yes, I have you here. Your table is ready. When you board the bateau the waiter will seat you. Enjoy."
Once inside, they were seated at a table toward the front of the boat with 180 degree views. The waiter offered champagne and a mise en bouche. Chris was grasping Tom's hand tightly, but Tom did not complain. The waiter came by to say that the boat was leaving the dock and to remain seating until they were in the river. The lights dimmed inside the boat and the boat moved with the grace of a swan. A small string trio moved around the boat playing Debussy, Faure, and Delius. The food came and went. The sights of Paris slide by in slow procession. And Tom, his wonderful, thoughtful, Tom, never let go of his hand.
"Chris, the boat has docked. Time to head back to the hotel. We have an 8:30 AM flight to catch at Du Gaul Airport." Chris nodded, following Tom still in a trance.
They decided on a night cap in the hotel's lounge. "Thank you Tom. Tonight was the perfect way to leave this city." He kissed Tom gently. "And I know that we will be back many times to do all the things that we missed. But the first time will always be special."