The Critic

@gabrieldesilva

There had been something Jack was supposed to attend. There were always things Jack was supposed to attend. Art openings, motion picture premiers, birthday parties, weddings, funerals. The social scene among the Paris bohemians had begun to exhaust him of late, in ways that Jack was unable to articulate. His dwindling fame, his dwindling creativity, both had an immediate effect on his reclusiveness. 

So, though the invitation in the junk pile beside his door remained unforgotten, Jack was, instead, on his eleventh cigarette and his fourth glass of gin. Or, that was his best guess. He had long since abandoned his glass for the bottle itself. And the cloud of smoke that settled over his entire flat occasionally made a panic bubble in his chest and sent him right back to the floor of that nightclub inferno. Sometimes his lungs ached in protest, but he ignored them. Instead, his fingers punched away at typewriter keys all through the night as if he weren’t missing out on a single thing in the world. This type of focus was rare of Jack, whose work came in fits and starts during episodes of manic hysteria or drug fueled visions of all the ghosts who haunted him. 

Unfortunately, his name was being forgotten too quickly for him to wait around for an episode that would leave him with an unintelligible script and a feeling of dread so deep in his bones that he would spend weeks dreaming of opening every vein in his body.

Jack hadn’t looked at the clock for what must have been hours, maybe days. Page after page of what felt like nothing were haphazardly stacked on the floor at his feet. A knock on his door–pounding and frantic–popped the bubble of his concentration and Jack was equally frustrated and relieved. “Hang on, hang on,” he said, barely able to imagine who might be disrupting him.

Was it possible to drown on land, or has his heart has finally decided to give up? Gabriel de Silva sped down the narrow roads of Paris, driving his yellow sports car erratically, after fleeing the disastrous encounter with one Monsieur Bhari Sinclair. The critic had managed to put on a brave face in front of his former friend though no sooner than he left, did he feel like demanding the writer to reconsider  everything. The man was like a brother to him, and despite his protestations, have unknowingly clung to the man in the couple of years that they have known each other.

And now it has come to an end.

So where to go? To the golden-haired songstress whom he promised to meet once the critic’s affairs had concluded? But she wouldn’t understand, not quite like him, and before Gabriel knew, he was making a turn past the little apartments, to the houses of different stages of decay, and like the very man himself who for Gabriel embodied everything that vile and rotten in his life, the Spaniard came knocking.

While Drake was almost always dressed in his best (save the occasions when he was undressed), theatre premieres always required something extra. A bit of elevation – something like a Sunday best, but doubled. No one cast judgemental eyes like society, and you could be seen wearing something to an opera premiere that you’d been seen at a dinner party in two months before.

Cunningham takes a moment to straighten his jacket as the tray of glasses approaches, only narrowly escaping having the whole lot poured down his shirt when the waiter is jostled by someone being startled. 

“I have yet to meet a journalist of any kind who doesn’t seem skittish,” Drake muses in greeting as he bring his glass to his lips. It’s too bubbly, too light for his tastes but one glass is always polite on the night of an opening.

“Afraid someone will look into your little notebook of secrets?”

“They’re not secrets if they’ll be published in the papers anyway,“ Gabriel countered choosing to ignore the part where the pompous nobleman called him skittish. The notebook is tucked away and the critic takes a sip of his drink, and while his face was obscured, the Spaniard takes a moment to observe Drake Cunningham.

Excessive, if there was a way to describe the man and his tastes, and while the man certainly dressed not just to impress (the society pages called Cunningham’s style as ‘worthy of worship’), it was his arrogant nature that was off-putting. Perhaps Gabriel simply did not like nobility, despite the Spaniard’s own entitled upbringing.

The wince that occurred the moment his old persona, that ghost, was brought back was hidden in the upturned collar of his coat as Arturo looked away from the critic. The look of surprise he found in the other’s face when he turned his attention back bewildered him. 

Many people looked at him with a similar surprise these days, but for the most part, he was able to read their expressions to know if they were a fan or foe. Those days he’d been met with more of the former. It made those few moments when he encountered an old fan (ideally someone who did not frequently read the papers) that much better. 

“Sí. You are a fan of jazz?” 

“My uncle, he used to bring me to see your shows,” the critic explained, and the harsh lines on his face softened as they always do whenever he talked of Sebastián de Silva. “I did not live in Paris then.”

Gabriel looked over his shoulder to check the ongoing party as though he should make his way back inside soon, instead, he took out a cigarette case (the very same one that Bhari had mailed back to him) and he offered it to Arturo.

“It can get exhausting,” Gabriel remarked pertaining to the gathering. “It’s the same mindless chatter-- only the location changes.” Sometimes, not even the alcohol can help.

Elliot shrank slightly in posture at Gabriel’s words. He was right, of course. If it came out, would people even care? If he acted differently on stage than in person, would it matter? Maybe not to the public, but still, he worried they would all lose interest as soon as they realized how mundane he truly was, and how much pain there was behind the voice they spoke of.

He waited in silence for several moments before speaking again, knowing that arguing with him likely wouldn’t work. It wouldn’t matter to him. “Have I done something to offend you?” He finally asked, exhaustion clear in his expression. “You were so kind, at the store. What did I do that changed that?”

He froze at the question, and for a moment it seemed as though the critic would reveal the crooner’s presumed offense; how does one explain the sickening jealousy he felt, and the shame of even feeling it all because of something Elliot could not control? No, it was Jack who’s to blame, and Gabriel already dealt with him.

“Who told you I was kind?” The Spaniard asked with a raised brow. “You lied to me, boy, when I asked you if we’ve met and now you ask me what you’ve done to offend me?“ The misdirection was done convincingly for Gabriel’s irritation was real, and the critic scoffed before taking another hit from the cheap cigarette. 

Watching Gabriel was like watching something come fully undone. As though his very form was decaying right before his eyes, sped up. Seven hundred frames per second. Even when the critic came to him looking like a trapped beast baring his teeth, spitting his venom, Jack felt something for him. And as he watched him decay in the middle of his flat, Jack wasn’t sure what was love and what was pity and what was bitterness. 

The Gordian Knot that was his relationship with Gabriel remained twisted around his throat.

“She doesn’t have to believe me,” he said, his words coated in sweet cruelty that lingered on his tongue. “But you and I both know she would begin to doubt you. And once she’s gone, who will you have left, Marco?” Only me. Jack left that unsaid. Barely able to bring to his imagination the thought of peeling Gabriel away from his life as a means to stick him into his own.

Jack rounded the bar to come face to face with Gabriel. His dark eyes meeting soft browns, bloodshot from too much alcohol and too little sleep. “Fortunate for you,” he said, placing his hands on either of the man’s slumped shoulders, “I have kept your secret. From your friends, from your loved ones, from your colleagues. I’m the only person in all of Paris who truly knows you and I’ve never uttered the truth to a soul.” There was something broken about them both. Two men so bent on destroying their own lives by any means necessary. Two sides of the same coin, indeed. 

“I left you alone because you wanted nothing to do with me. I’ve lived because you wanted me to live. I’ve done everything you’ve asked and everything you’ve wanted because I know that I deserve some of your ire. And yet, here you are. Full of fire and fury because I slept with someone. Meanwhile, someone I care deeply for has no idea that the man she is with is in my living room.” Jack’s hands dropped to Gabriel’s forearms, fingers gripped tighter than he’d meant to.

“The singer,” he said, the heat gone from his voice as he looked away from Gabriel to the floor beneath his feet. “He’s older than…ahem. He’s older than you or I were when we met.” Older than Jack was when he became the object of an eccentric artist’s passionate affections. “But please know that I don’t owe you that explanation.”

It felt as though the wind was knocked out of him, and color drained from the critic’s face as Jack painted a picture for him, one that was dangerously close to reality, and Gabriel leaned his weight against the counter in fear of collapsing on the floor. Each word uttered was a knife sunk into his chest that Jack plunged deeper and twisted with glee. Only the man wasn’t smiling, and Gabriel hated how, despite the power that Jack held over him, he still looked upon the critic with sadness and affection...even pity.

Gabriel flinched when Jack stepped closer, cold hands resting  on his shoulders and sliding down his arms, the grip although it wasn’t the other man’s intention, almost felt reassuring. Brown eyes stared at Jean-Baptiste’s hands as he listened, half-expecting the man to tell him that the boy was insignificant; but the moment did not come, instead, a brief clarification was given before reminding the critic that he had no right to the cinephile’s life. 

“It does not make it better to prey on someone innocent,” he murmured, and Gabriel pursed his lips as he looked up to study on the sleep-deprived features of his former lover. The disagreement with Bhari had left him vulnerable to his insecurities and the lies he told, and the critic desperately wanted to lean in and seek comfort in the other man’s touch. But he didn’t, and he slowly disentangled himself from Jack, as that familiar heat from self-loathing aided him to make his escape.

@gabrieldesilva ❃ closed. location: beneath the marquee of Cinema du Pantheon, late afternoon

“Coño carajo.”

The squish of his shoes played a double-time rhythm against the sidewalk as Arturo ran to the Cinema du Pantheon to escape the afternoon downpour, uttering swears the entire way. Once free from the rain, he pat at the lapels of his jacket and dug through his pockets to see if the worst had not happened. Alas, the final cigarette he had foolishly tucked away without a case had been a casualty of bad weather. 

“Joder esta vida y la siguiente…”

Arturo turned to face the street, but realized he was not alone beneath the cinema’s facade. Through the stained glass doors of the theatre, he could see the many guests of some type of event going on inside; and he could only assume that man beside him had taken a moment to escape. What he would have given to feel the need to escape an event again… It wasn’t often that the old maestro was invited to the types of parties he would frequent back when he was somebody. 

He turned to the man, soggy cigarette in hand as evidence to help his desperate case. Arturo was about to ask if the man had another, but was then caught by the familiarity of the other’s face.

“Ah. I know you. You are the one from the papers, oui? The one with the sharp pen.” 

They swarmed him like flies, and Gabriel swatted away each and every one of them but still they attacked. Empty flattery, fake concern, with some not even bothering to hide the morbid curiosity about the critic who almost died; in the men’s room, he could hear them jest, that it was a pity that he had not gone up in flames only for them to fall silent upon realizing he was there. He took it all in stride, like water off a duck’s back, but Gabriel would not let them see him struggle pathetically with a piece of cigarette.

He inhaled deeply, and the smoke filled his lungs as Gabriel relished the calm. The afternoon rain gave Paris a distinct smell and the sound of water hitting the ground like the static of a radio. it drowned out everything. Well, almost everything.

“Ah. I know you. You are the one from the papers, oui? The one with the sharp pen.”

Gabriel opened his eyes and found himself with company. “Sí,” the critic nodded and he let his gaze wander on the man’s features. A spark of recognition and mild surprise flashed on the Spaniard’s face upon realizing who it was he was talking to.

“Adagio,“ he remarked. “You’re the pianist.”

Elliot wanted nothing more than to return inside and go to sleep. Actually, if he was wishing for things, he would have wished several things away. He wished he wouldn’t have gone to Le Ciel, and subsequently L’Enfer. He wished he would never have slept with Jack, or even agreed to leave Étoile with the offer of powder. He wished he had never created Phillip at all, so this would never be a situation he would have to be in, and so he never had to put on the mask. 

He sat with the critic, only with the intention of killing time before he could go back inside. If someone was making their rounds, it would be a few minutes at least before it would be alright to go back inside. He just needed to kill a few minutes, and then he could try and sleep - not that he would be able to with the bomb Gabriel had just dropped on his life. 

“It gets worse every time. It’s hardly unpredictable.” Elliot muttered, despite him fully aware that the older man was mocking him. Glancing up at him again, the Crooner paused, considering how to answer his second question. “It would change everything.” His voice was quiet, dejected. He was already imagining how things would change - and it wasn’t a nice image. 

“You say it as though your presence carries weight,“ Gabriel couldn’t help but point out, and he taps the ash on his cigarette. “As if you’re significant.” Perhaps now, yes, Elliot commanded attention for his youth, beauty and a decent voice, but the critic knew all too well that those never last. There would always be someone younger, prettier and more talented.

She gave him a quick little nod of her head. At least that made things easier, only one button to press, and then she could make a mad dash for the exit as soon as the elevator doors opened.

The silence that followed was painful. He’d been at the elevator when she ran off from the receptionist, so he’d probably heard something, if not everything. He probably thinks I’m some nasty little witch who yells at nice, friendly receptionists… though she’s not friendly in the least. When he opened his mouth, asking about the spectacle, she knew she had some explaining to do to this stranger, Her shoulders slumped a little bit and she let go of a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry you heard all that- really, I’m not usually like that. I’ve been coming here for weeks- maybe even months, trying to get something back that’s mine. I don’t know how it got here, but I thought it was lost forever, and then I read the newspaper and… there a little piece of it was, listed under anonymous. The receptionist has hated me ever since the first time I came asking because I unintentionally made her late for some date with her friends…”

His feigned interest turned into genuine curiosity as the young woman told Gabriel of her troubles, he did not care for her argument with the receptionist but her reason for coming back for weeks, if not months now. Yes, that’s where the critic had seen her before, months prior, arguing with the same receptionist, then at the restaurant. Surely it couldn’t be this easy to have the sought-after author land on his lap?

“Yes, Roberta tends to be unforgiving when it comes to her disrupted social events,” Gabriel offered in consolation. “She’s related to the publisher which is why she gets away with doing a piss poor job manning the front desk.”

The elevator doors opened and just before they could step out, Gabriel opened his mouth.

“Would you like to join me?” came the critic’s unexpected offer, “You look like you could use some company. I’m heading to this cafe, I was told that their pastry is something to look forward to.”

The newest edition of Le Journal was nearly crumbled in Mona’s hands. Dry, uninspired, repetition, lackluster. Each word was a slap to the face, and they came at the unfortunate time on the unfortunate day when Mona was stuck in her apartment, struggling to complete a painting. And as she read those words, written by the very critic that had once praised her, she threw it to the ground, cursing from frustration and anger. 

Mona didn’t count the cigarettes, nor did she admit her eyes welled up in tears during her breakdown. No, the critic’s words weren’t worth it. And she will make sure he knows it. Mona marched to the offices of Le Journal, a shot of vodka in her system, cigarettes in her pocket and a few choice words for the critic.

Of course, she was stuck before his door while a woman wailed inside. It only confirmed Mona’s conclusion- Gabriel de Silva was a fucking bitch. She tapped her foot on the ground, tap tap tap, and then, impatient and irked, knocked on the door.

“Any day now!”

The actress’ rendition of a dying whale was interrupted with a knock on the door, followed by a voice demanding to be let in. Gabriel frowned, recognizing who it was and his hand flew to pinch the bridge of his nose. The critic could already feel his blood pressure rising. 

“You’ll have to take it with your director, madame,” Gabriel spoke in an attempt to wrap things up. He stood up and went over to where the actress sat, hands on the backrest of her chair so he could pull it for her departure.

“It was he who let you go on that stage to look like a bobbing chicken. Had I known beforehand, I would have stopped the entire production and save you the trouble. I believe there’s nothing more I can do for you.”

Maybe this is taking things too far, Vivienne couldn’t help but think as she eyed the door of the cafe. Is it? I mean, you’re not here for tea, not really.

But what else could she do? It was just concern, that was all.

A mixture of trepidation, curiosity and annoyance bubbled forth in her again, and she pushed open the door into the cafe.

She was unable to keep from scanning the room for familiar patrons as she stood in line. Almost immediately, she spied her target hanging his head in his hands. God, he really is looking awful.

“Madame?” A soft, thin voice suddenly sounded in her ear. “Can I …can I help you with something, madame?”

“Sorry, sorry!” Vivienne’s attention was duly turned to the man behind the counter, his face scrunched in slight irritation at her.  “Tea please. Milk, one sugar.” She paused slightly. She was beginning to regret that this meeting had to take place too early in the day for a bit of liquid fortification first.  Perhaps she’d need something else to bolster her nerve then. “And – and an eclair as well! Why not, right?” 

The man did not return the slightly over-emphatic laugh with which she ended her request.

With her goods in hand, Vivienne attempted to make her way over to Gabriel. “Well, look who it is!” she called. “Gabriel!” she said, perhaps too brightly, as she landed by his table.  “Do you mind some company? Been a while hasn’t it?”

Before she could stop herself, the pleasantries evaporated and, “Do– do you really think you should be out?” popped straight out of her mouth.

Gabriel didn’t have the time to hide the ashtray and pack of cigarettes he had lying about, though the critic gave no indication that he had been meaning to put them away and keep them out of her sight. He smiled back at Vivienne, the strain in the corners of his mouth too obvious to look like he was glad to have her company. 

“Have you been talking to my physician, Vivi?” He replied in jest despite the flat delivery and Gabriel moved his things to give her some room on his supposed work table. “I’m fine, I don’t need you to mother me. You should take care of yourself though, you’re not getting any younger.”

It was a Monday, one of Gabriel’s least favorite days of the week aside from Thursday, so it was unclear to those who knew that about him why the notorious critic of Le Journal would schedule consultations and visits during those days. Some would argue that this was a strategy, with Gabriel’s mood being excessively foul during the said period, that those who had complaints (and they always had complaints) about his published critiques would be disheartened to even attempt to have a word with him. 

Most people were not Nathalie Mooren, however, and the critic was sure to find the eccentric artist without fail outside of his office even when his reviews of her work were favorable. This time, however, the visit was warranted, with the way he had called her latest exhibit 

‘dry and uninspired,’

                  ‘a repetition of her more celebrated works,’

and how ‘her latest exhibit failed to convince us that she is still relevant.’  

But she would have to wait, as a disgruntled actress from last week’s Romeo and Juliet wailed in front of him, her make-up running from all the tears and leaving her looking like a distressed raccoon. Gabriel couldn’t even be bothered to look sympathetic.

After a string of delays, Maximillian Huber’s vision of Tristan and Isolde finally saw the light of day, and despite the opera having only finished its first act, the production was received with much fanfare. It was a tried and tested formula, the director was wise enough to employ Anais Veilleux opposite the dashing Antoine Duris and the chemistry between the two stars was palpable. No one could deny their talents. Gabriel knew another reason, he was present during one rehearsal after all and had it not been for his pride, the critic would have succumbed to pettiness and obliterated Monsieur Duris in a separate article. He was still considering it months later.

From his peripheral, he saw a waiter about to pass him by with a tray of champagne and Gabriel, too absorbed in reviewing the notes that he scribbled in haste in the dim lighting of Palais Garnier was unable to notice that the random glass he’d chosen was already spoken for. So the feeling of someone’s skin brush against his hand almost made him jump. His head shot up, brows knitted in a deep crease for a second before he realized who it was. 

“Lord Cunningham,“ Gabriel greeted with a curt nod while his frown merely softened a fraction. “Please, help yourself,“ the critic conceded as he quickly picked up another glass.