Those Days of Summer

06 - Better late than never

On Friday afternoon I drove the two of us to Castelnuovo. I tried not to show it, but the time spent in the narrow alleys of the old town was making my heart melt with joy. Each stop on our road that day was like a still frame composed of smells, textures, sounds, gusts of wind, transcribing themself into a string of vivid memories. The coarse pavement massaging the soles of our feet, the stone walls keeping us in their cold embrace, the scent of honeysuckle climbing up the gates. All those little things I wouldn't even notice on a usual summer afternoon were suddenly making me happy. Was it the weather? Was it the change of surroundings? Was it the warmth of Marcel's smile when he was merrily chattering about nothing?

A local wine shop was the first stop on our road that day. Marcel was thrilled to get to know local specialties and to pick a few bottles as gifts for his colleagues back home. The owner of the place kindly let us sample his finest selection. I passed on, but my companion went with the flow, listening to an endless tale of bouquets and the regions of grape gathering. Observing the poor boy's cheeks get more and more red with each little glass was quite amusing. But when the time came to leave, I had to carry the shopping and take his arm to make sure he wouldn't trip over his own feet.

"Let's sit here for a while, shall we?" I asked him when we finally left the store and neared a little wall fountain by the town walls.

I carefully placed the bag full of chianti bottles on the pavement. Marcel sat down with a deep sigh and leaned his head on the wall, gazing at me with his hazy eyes. That moony look on his face was making me uneasy.

"My God, you've got a wonderful jaw," he said out of the blue. "You would make a perfect model."

"You're drunk, Marcel." I laughed nervously, looking the other way to mask embarrassment.

"I'm just slightly lightheaded." He tilted his head and continued to pierce me with the dreamy stare. „But you... you are good-looking."

"Nonsense..."

I wasn't used to being complemented. Moreover, complemented by a guy. Was he even sincere, or was it just another way to embarrass me? Good looking... And it was a man in the body of an ancient god telling me this.

"Isn't it fun?" I asked after a while. "Modeling I mean. You travel, party, meet people you wouldn't ever think of seeing in person. Sounds like the best job in the world. Not entirely my cup of tea, but you seem to fit in."

Marcel's expression now changed. He laughed bitterly, covering his face with a hand. He looked at me, as if he wanted to say - you have no idea what you're talking about.

"Some moments you're on top of the world, yes. Other times you feel like shit. Financially... can be lucrative. It's a game of chance, but there are ways to succeed, sure." He paused, lowering his sight. "And each success comes with a price." He finished with a gloomy tone.

I only heard of the hardships of this industry. How difficult it can be to land a job, how you end up in debt if you don't get booked enough during fashion weeks, how long some shifts can be. And of course the sexual scandals. It seemed to get better since the internet became a thing, but they were still emerging from time to time. Making it to the headlines, keeping the public busy. I didn't know much about it all. I would say all workers at my mother's fashion house were treated equally well, but it wasn't the case everywhere. The fact that some companies considered models a property was an open secret. Did he have to deal a lot with those? Was he underpaid? Mobbed? Harassed?

"So... are you not happy? With your modeling life?" I asked timidly, not wanting to pressure him.

He looked at me all focused, wondering about the answer. As if he was trying to measure words. Carefully, not to say too much. The blush on his cheeks faded a little, and it seemed he was getting sober, going back to his normal self.