Date: Wed, 8 Jun 2016 12:45:46 +0200
From: Julian Obedient <julian.obedient@gmail.com>
Subject: A Preliminary Invitation

A Preliminary Invitation          The Duchesse

Anna-Marie Brignole, in her black and bronze Chinese dressing gown, sat
drinking her morning coffee in her penthouse apartment, on the Ile
Saint-Louis, overlooking the Seine. She had not been able to clear her mind
of the image of the young man she had seen standing a little to the side,
in front of Gustave Caillebotte's 1875 painting, "The Floor Scrappers," the
day before, at the Musée d'Orsay, when she had stopped to look at some late
nineteenth-century paintings, after finishing the business she had with M.,
the director of the museum, which involved a sizeable donation.

     Taken by the young man's beauty, she stayed to listen to his spiel,
and was charmed, as she had not expected to be -- generally put off by
institutional or academic chatter about art -- by the way he saw the
painting and discussed it before a group of American tourists. When he
spoke, he made her understand how the spirit of nature, when permitted to
operate through the human consciousness of the ubiquitous presence of
nature, inherently informs the discipline of both manual labor and the
aesthetic of the fine arts and makes a bridge between the two. The way his
English was inflected and distorted by his French pronunciation gave the
beauty of his voice a deep coloring. His was a contralto voice that was
gentle, almost feminine in sweetness, but never inaudible.


     The duchess prided herself on her instinct for discovering protégées –
Imala, first and foremost, and Stéfan, for example, when she first met him
at the Musée Galliera with Luc Bastienne, the night that Luc spoke there.
Regarding this museum guide who had captivated her, there was more to him
than what appeared as he took people from picture to picture and
illuminated each one. She was sure of it.



     When the duchess was bothered by a gnawing curiosity, by a sense of
something only half-known or only partially understood, it was impossible
for her to rest until she had satisfied the need to have a full
understanding of what it was that was piquing her interest. This
intolerable sense of the incomplete drove her back to the museum on this
wet Thursday morning. She was not there to introduce herself to the young
man but to observe him some more, to watch him and listen to him, as one
watched and listened to a performance of a piece of music that had
bewitched one's senses, and her observation made her keen to see more of
him, but not only in this setting. She wanted him for herself, and she hit
upon the perfect ploy.



     "There is a delightful young man upstairs, a guide I saw discussing *The
Floor Sanders*. Who is he?" she asked M., stopping by his office to inquire.



     Without thinking, M. said, "Oh, that must be Janine."



     "Janine?" the duchess repeated simultaneously puzzled and enlightened.



     "Jean," M. quickly corrected himself, but not before the duchess
understood what it was that had intrigued her.



     "I do seem to have a sixth sense, do I not?" she said, quite pleased
with herself.



     "Your powers of penetration, your Grace, are legendary," M. said with
a smile that showed the perfection of his teeth and the fullness of his
lips, and with a courtly bow that showed the grace of his breeding and the
elegance of his figure.



     "I would like you to do something for me," Anna-Maria said. "Imala is
among the artists who will be exhibited at the fair that opens at the Grand
Palais tomorrow. I'd like it if you could give this `Jean' a pair of
tickets to the show. Don't say I gave them to you. I'd like him to see the
show, and I'd like to see him."



     When, that evening, the crowds had finally left the Musée d'Orsay, and
it was as empty as a railroad station at three in the morning, when all the
vendors' shops are shut, and the lowered portcullises are the most common
sight -- but here the magnificent paintings remain to be seen even when
there is no one to look at them -- M. texted Jean, who was changing his
shoes, and asked him if he would stop by his office before he left.



     "Oh, dear," Jean worried. "What have I done?" He reviewed the events
of the day, trying to recall if he had done anything that might have
offended or disturbed anyone, but there was nothing he could identify.



     "Silly girl," he chastised himself, "always imagining the worst before
anything has happened. I am hopeless, as Laurent keeps telling me."



      Pulling his head and torso back into the room, from the open window
overlooking the Seine, out of which he had been leaning, enjoying a few
surreptitious drags on a forbidden cigarette, when Jean entered, M. greeted
him saying,  "You have a secret admirer, and I am not at liberty to say
who." He smiled mischievously. "That's what makes it secret, my dear, but
I've been asked to give you these tickets to the opening tomorrow night of
an exhibition at the Grand Palais."







     Since her show at the "21" Imala Tamim's reputation in the Parisian
art world had blossomed, and now – with some influence peddling by
Anna-Maria -- she had been invited to participate in the annual group
exhibition at the Grand Palais. She had already sold the painting of Stéfan
in the posture of an odalisque that she had exhibited at the "21," and was
pleased when the purchaser, a manufacturer of leatherwear and crafted
silver, who lived in Barcelona, consented to lend it to her for this show.
Along with that painting were the two prototypes – complete paintings on
canvass – of "Scenes from the Book of Tobit," for the stain glass windows
that were being installed at Saint-Eustache, the triptych, "The Bois de
Boulogne at Night," and the collage, "An Accident on the Champs Elysees."


     Stéfan, her model for the odalisque and for the Tobit set, would be at
the opening, too, in a double capacity, as a participant whose series of
photographs, "Mothers Scolding Children" was on display, and as a
photographer of the event, commissioned by "Le Monde*,*" for the weekend
supplement. Stéfan had taken Imala's advice with regard to finding
something to do that engaged his active as well as his receptive
disposition, and taking pictures, he found, fascinated him, and he was good
at it.



     The duchess paced nervously inside the Grand Palais, within the
confines of the corner where Imala's paintings were hanging. Her
perturbation had less to do with anxiety about the successful reception of
her protégées' work and more regarding her fear that Jean would not show
up, and equally, if diametrically, that he would, for she was eager to see
what he would be like outside the Musée d'Orsay, how the others would
receive him, and if she really would be able take him under her wing, as
she hoped she would be able to do. She had a project in mind for him...if.



     She would have been much relieved to know that her anxiety regarding
Jean was unnecessary. He would be there, but she would have to wait.
Laurent arrived at Jean's place on time, on his motorcycle, and took the
elevator up to the two rooms Jean occupied on the seventh floor, in a
Haussmannian building, on the corner of the Boulevard de la Tour-Maubourg
and Rue de Grenelle.



     "You're not dressed yet."



     "I wanted you to see me like this first," Jean said, posing in only
heels and high-tops and lacy panties, a leather choker circling his neck.
"This is how I want you to see me every time you look at me tonight. Is
that crazy?"



     "It's beautiful, and that's the way I'll see you. But we'll be late,
so get into whatever you're actually going to wear."



     "We won't be that late," Janine objected. "But even so," she proceeded
with impeccable logic, "it's ok. Girls are supposed to be late. It enhances
your appeal when you keep people waiting. It adds to your mystery."



     "You want to be mysterious?"



     "The person who gave me these tickets is. And besides," he said coyly,
"I don't want you to get tired of me."



     "I'm not getting tired of you."



     "Prove it," Janine said, putting her arms around Laurent's neck and
rubbing her palms over his chest, teasing the fabric that puckered where
his nipples were. Laurent did not need to be asked twice. He surrendered
himself to Jean's seduction. That's why they were late to the Grand Palais.



     The duchess spotted Jean, who had wandered towards Imala's exhibit,
directed there by the attendant who took tickets at the entrance, who had
been instructed to do so.



     "Jean," she said approaching him. "I am so happy you could come."



      "Thank you," Jean said, "but..."



     "I am Anna-Maria Brignole. I saw you talking about the Caillebotte, at
the museum the other day, and I had to see you again." She introduced Jean
to Luc and Stéfan and Imala, and Jean introduced Laurent to the duchess,
but since she was on the board of directors of *Radio France*, they already
knew each other, and she introduced him to the others.



     Their affinity was immediately obvious. The duchess observed
everything with a keen eye and an inner delight. It would take. She could
go ahead with her plan.



     Seeing Imala's paintings and Stéfan's photographs brought out a part
of Jean that Laurent had not seen much of, despite suspecting it was there.
Jean's ability to see into the work and through it and around it when he
commented on it filled Laurent with pride, which he quickly became ashamed
of: Janine was her own person, not a piece of feminine property. Laurent's
pride, pride in ownership, as it were, did not disturb Janine at all. She
thrilled to the feeling of belonging to him -- it made her feel a delicate
swelling and stirring of sexual desire. That he should take pride in his
belongings invested her with a sense of her own value and delighted her –
enhanced her sense of femininity -- that she was found pleasing to him.



     Janine's expressions of enthusiasm for the paintings and photographs
confirmed what the duchess had expected when she decided to invite her to
see them, and it excited Stéfan with a sexual urgency he had felt, as far
as he knew, only for Luc and Imala to hear her speak, and to feel the way
she touched his arm as she pointed to a detail in one of his pictures.
Although Jean and Stéfan both were dressed as boys right now, it was clear
to both of them that that was not the all that encompassed them. They knew
it by each other's touch.



     Afterwards, when the Grand Palais was nearly deserted and its
cavernous vastness was almost oppressive, the duchess invited them for
drinks and a late night supper at the Café Franklin, across from the Grand
Palais. As is the case when a group of friends walk along the streets at
night, in a city, going from one place to another, they broke into pairs.
Anna-Maria and Imala took the lead, followed by Luc and Laurent, followed
by Stéfan and Jean, whose fascination with each other caused them to lag
far behind the others, who stopped from time to time so that they could
catch up. When they did, it was clear that they had revealed their
femininity to each other. They were holding hands.



       When they reached the café, the six stood outside, prevented from
entering by the volume of the techno-style music blasting from within, even
onto the street.



     "I have a better idea," said the duchess. "Let's get a cab and go back
to my place." Luckily, one of the large ones that could hold six was
approaching. Laurent saw its green light and hailed it.



     It was a crisp, clear night with a full moon that was inlaid within a
shimmering pale rose corona. The Seine, full from yesterday's rain, flowing
rapidly, shone in the moonlight. The duchess instructed Martin to tell cook
to grill enough salmon for six and to open several bottles of Bollinger in
celebration of... "so many things that are and are to come."



     What was to come was not to remain a mystery for long. It was the
actualization of an idea she had been toying with for a while but which
began to seem realizable when she saw Jean.



     "I'm going to open a gallery," she said, "and I would like to hire
Jean to run it, to be its curator. I will get in touch with my lawyer and
my accountant in the morning. I've had my eye on a place in the Marais."
Then she yawned and covered her mouth with the side of her fist. "You are
young," she said, "but I need my rest, especially if I must deal with money
and real estate matters in the morning. So I think it's time that we say
goodnight."



     "Do you need a cab, Imala?" Stèfan asked.



     "I will stay with Anna-Maria tonight," she said, kissing her cheek,
"but I'll call you in the morning when I'm ready and you can come over to
the studio."



     "They are all such wonderful boys, perhaps just because they refuse to
be boys," Anna-Maria said, once they were gone, taking Imala around the
waist, "and I am tired, my dear. You really ought to find someone your own
age."



     Imala kissed her. "Don't talk nonsense, she said, slipping her hands
around Anna-Maria's neck and unfastening the clasp of her necklace and then
unbuttoning her blouse. "I've seen so many girls who would die to have
breasts as lovely as yours."



     "Pshoo," the duchess dismissed her, but smiled nevertheless. "You are
in love with an idea."



     "I am in love with you," Imala answered and loosened her hair, which
she had pinned up. It fell in waves over her shoulders and covered her
ears. Anna-Marie pushed it back so that she could behold the fullness of
Imala's face. As part of the same gesture, she pressed her lips against
Imala's sensuous mouth and as she did she breathed in her special perfume.
Imala yielded, as she always did, and the rapture Anna-Maria felt radiating
from her increased her own.





2



      "You have no reason to be nervous," Laurent said, looking at himself
in the mirror as he dried himself with a scratchy white towel.



     "You can talk, you big lug. If I looked like you and had your
personality," Janine said, taking his handsome cock in her hands when he
let the towel fall, and squeezing it, "I would not be nervous either."



     She looked up into his eyes and kissed him. In her heels she was
nearly his height and she rubbed her chest against his. He ran his hand
over the bare flesh of her thighs above her sheer stockings.



     "The only time that I'm really sure of myself is when you make love to
me. Then I know who I am and I am sure of myself."



     "In my arms or wherever you are, whatever you're doing, whatever
you're wearing, you are beautiful and complete, and you amaze me when you
talk about art," Laurent said rather sternly, administering a lesson he
wanted her to get through her head.



     Janine kissed him and shuddered with pleasure. "There it goes again."



     He put his hand over her snatch, feeling the cock and balls pressed
underneath her panties. She groaned. "I can't be late on opening night."



     "No you can't," he said smiling gaily. He held her at arms length and
prevented her from getting her lips near enough his to kiss him.



     "You brute," Jean said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. She
unfastened the clasps of the ankle straps of her shiny red heels and kicked
the entirely strappy shoes off. She took the tuxedo trousers that were laid
out across the bed and slipped the trousers up her legs feeling the
electricity of worsted wool sliding over nylon, and put her heels back on.
She wore taupe lipstick, nail polish, and eye shadow, and got into the
tuxedo jacket, black with narrow and pointed lapels.



      Being wise in the ways of young lovers, and herself still lecherous
even at an age that was for many beyond lechery, Anna-Marie sent a cab for
them, and directed the chauffeur to be late. Similarly she scheduled the
opening for half hour later than she had told Janine. As far as she was
concerned, everything was going perfectly. She could not have been happier
with the way the gallery turned out or with the workers who redid the
space, which was very badly set up previously, she told Luc and Stefan. Nor
could she be happier with Jean who was proving himself to be every bit as
extraordinary as the duchess had intuited when she saw him standing before
paintings at the Musee d'Orsay and explain them. She was particularly
pleased with Jean's text in the catalogue for the exhibit:



      "In Imala Tamim's paintings we are made aware that we are no longer
concerned with the cubist fragmentation of the visual surface, where all
the planes vie for prominence, pushing and shoving their way around the
canvas, and none of them attains it. The cubism of the early twentieth
century shows its practitioners' anxiety about democracy:  Just as one
constellation starts to emerge, another breaks through and destroys any
integrity, any order, that the picture might be starting to have for the
viewer. Additionally, cubism challenged the hierarchy of perceptual fields
inherent in perspective. Nor is cubism interested in richness of
expression, intimate or epic: Rembrandt or Delacroix. Tamim is. And she
seeks to reflect subjective interior apprehension as it presents itself as
an apparently objective, but voluptuous, surface, at once entirely
fraudulent and completely real."



     Anna-Maria and Imala arrived at the gallery early. They walked through
it making sure everything was in place. The buffet table was set and the
caterers were furnishing it. There was plenty of good champagne, and it was
cold.



      Both canvases devoted to the book of Tobit were on display as well as
"The Bois de Boulogne at Night," and the collage, "An Accident on the
Champs Elysees." Several other things were being exhibited for the first
time. Watching the artist craftsmen fabricating the actual stain glass
rendering of the Tobit pictures, Imala want to do it herself. The result
was "Jeremiah and the Holy Spirit in the Hills above Jerusalem as the City
Is Being Destroyed."  It took up the gallery's entire front window, where
it had been installed two feet away from the actual window glass, so that
spotlights could be in place behind it to illuminate it.



     Stèfan's pictures, "Mothers Scolding Children," were also being
exhibited, as well as the new work, "Butte-Chaumant*," *and a photo essay.
"Rolls" showed his subjects not only as themselves but as they fit
themselves into roles, or, in some cases, as roles took hold of them.



     Imala had no doubt about Stèfan's work. She admired it and took
special pride in it, having made it happen by her suggestion that he take
up photography, but she was attuned so much to him that she experienced the
pre-opening jitters that she knew he must be having.



     Stèfan, in fact, was not plagued by pre-opening jitters. His head was
thrown way back, nearly off the bed. His legs were spread, stretched in the
air, and resting on Luc's shoulders. He was skittering in bliss as Luc
penetrated him and withdrew and penetrated him again and withdrew and
penetrated him again.