Reprise: A Story of Reincarnated Love

*** Galerie des Oeuvres Contemporaires, Ten minutes after Domi leaves LaRussa ***

Sean was all charm and suavitee as he escorted Mme. Triloux to the door. Not only was she one of his wealthiest clients, a serious reverencer of good contemporary art, and a generous patron of new and upcoming artists in her own right, but she was also one of the most stunningly beautiful women on the Continent. That conceit was not Sean's alone. It was shared by every other able-bodied, and even not-so-able-bodied, straight man in Paris society. Few gay men, in fact, would deny that the stateley, classic beauty of Mme. Triloux could be trumped by any other woman.

"Merci beaucoup," Sean fairly gushed as he took both her hands in a gesture of farewell. "The consignment should arrive week's end, and we will deliver it to the estate, oui?" She nodded her assent.

Being so close to her, touching her, certainly sparked some portion of his libido. It was rumored that she frequently took as her swains the young, sweet-faced artists whose work had caught her eye and garnered her financial patronization. Married to a wealthy financier well into his 70s in a union of economic power rather than lustful intent, she did whatever was required to keep her insides well polished.

Sean had never and would never consider a tryst with her. She was, first, a client. Beyond that, Sean had always found it difficult, for some reason, to engage women in more than the most cursory of relationships. There was always and forever, in the background, a sense of guilt or betrayal of some one unknown lover when he bedded a woman. It was his bane, it seemed.

As she departed, Sean saw the bobbing silvery hair tail of his good close colleague, LaRussa, approaching up the block. Angelo was very, very special to Sean. They had shared with each other the inner agonies that assail all artists, or aspiring artists. While Sean was not a practicing commercial artist, he could have been had he so chosen. As it was, his sketchings of Felicia constituted the whole of his artistic interest and experience.

Angelo appeared more so than usual a-bustle with some newly-stimulated energy as he broke into a lazy jog toward the shop. The man was truly a walking fireworks display. Around him, one always felt that a tornado was about to strike. When he was not focused on a sketch or painting project, his limbs were constantly in motion and his loquacious mouth gibbered away like a class IV rapids in the American west.

Angelo nearly bowled Sean over as he came careening through the door. "Angelo, what's the dither, mon ami?" Sean asked.

“I know your secret!” LaRussa exclaimed gleefully and without preamble as he tossed his easel into one of the guest chairs and motioned toward the sketch behind LeBeque’s desk. “I thought she must have been some poor fool’s dream girl; so you could have knocked me into the river with a feather when there she sat…” His voice dropped a bit and he held up a hand, pointing to the sky in mock admonishment. “Though out of jealousy, I have to say I think she is a might young for you. Could not be more than twenty-two if I am any judge.” He clearly would have gone on if LeBeque had not interrupted him.

"Angelo!" Sean interrupted. "Calm it, mon ami. Sacre bleu! Whatever are you prattling on about? Who? Who sat where? Explain yourself, man!"

“HER!” Angelo cried, emphatically pointing at the sketch. “And don’t play innocent. How many times have I asked you if you thought she would model for me, and all you ever do is get that wistful smile? BAH! Well, you can’t keep her for yourself any longer…” The aging artist had puffed out some, fumbling about in his pockets – pants first, then shirt – looking for his pipe and tobacco.

"Angelo?" Sean questioningly said to his friend. "Angelo? .... Whaaa ... what are you asking me? Telling me? What....who....what happened to you before you barged in here?"

For the first time since storming in, Angelo really looked at Sean. Was it possible he was not kidding? “Am I wrong in assuming that you drew that picture?” He stabbed at the portrait again with his pipe, the tin of pipe tobacco clunking onto the ornate desk under his left hand.

Sean eased his rump shakily onto the edge of the desk, now looking straight at his charcoal of Felicia. He felt slightly swarmy, as before a vision, and shook his head with a snap and began speaking to stem another vision spell. "Angelo, it is clear that I sketched that. It was from my own imaginings. I have never worked with any model. Now, can you tell me ... what this is all about?" His voice had dried as he spoke to raspy parchment. His heart raced and his legs tingled. He actually panicked in anticipation of his friend's reply.

With a grunt, Angelo admitted, “She was right down the street, sitting on a park bench as pretty as can be. She is here interviewing at the bank, studying to be an economist of all damn things.” His disgust with the idea was obvious. “Don’t know why she would want to fill her head with such gobbly-gook. Creature like that ought to be modeling or warming some rich man’s bed – which is what I thought she was doing until you started acting so peculiar.” He had leveraged the tin open and started packing his pipe.

Dams of both hope and denial burst inside Sean's head and heart. This was impossible. Could it be? Could it ever be? His "memories" of his past with the soul captured in his sketch seemed real, but he often considered that they were perhaps mere twitchings of the mind with no anchor in reality. Past lives? Certain, yet uncertain to Sean.

"Now, let me understand this, Angelo. Are you saying you saw a woman who looks like this charcoal down by the river? And you spoke with her? I know no such woman, Angelo. The sketch is from my head!"

As if truly believing him for the first time, Angelo clarified, “She’s really not your mistress then?” The idea clearly appealed to him. If she were unattached she would be fair game. Maybe he could lure her with money, though even as he thought it he realized what foolishness it was. She had been afraid of him in a crowd in broad daylight. He’d bet he could not offer her enough money to come to his studio alone.

"My mistress!" Sean exclaimed. "I have never seen this apparition of yours!" Some of him hoped it was indeed but a miscue of Angelo's part; some of him wished otherwise. Still trembling inside, he spoke with as measured a tone as he could in attempt to mask his true intent. "Alright, Angelo, we must now go find your young model to put this to rest. She cannot possibly be this woman," he insisted as he pointed to the charcoal. "I should see ... for myself."

The older man waved his hand dismissively. “There’s no sense in running after her – she’ll be in her interview in a moment.” LaRussa said soothingly, closing the tin and putting it away before patting himself down again looking for his light. “Give me a light, will you?” He interjected, “and we’ll walk over and I’ll tell you what I know and maybe we can catch her when she comes out.”

Sean absently picked up the ornate bronzed lighter from his desk and, holding Angelo's hand and pipe, bent it so that Angelo could suck the flame down into the pipe bowl. The tobacco ignited, and the soothingly deep sweet aroma of Angelo's smoke graced the room. "Right, then, take me there, mon ami."

Inhaling deeply, and blowing smoke rings out of habit, LaRussa led the way out the doors and toward the bank.