"Dear Gigi," Alex whispered, so no one but the Maestro could hear, "I'm distracting you. Your show requires your full attention. Yet you keep staring at me." In four days, Alex had barely left the creator's side as the man worked 16 hours a day with his design, creative, management, media and advertising teams.
The Italian reached down and touched the young man's cheek, caressing the smooth skin on the bone and slight stubble below, looking into his muse's serious brown eyes. "Entertain me, Sasha darling. Entertain everyone. I love you when you practice your martial arts with such beautiful precision, so you scare my security team with your deadly grace and skill." The Italian liked the idea of this contradiction of a creative and deadly companion by his side, when most ignored his muse as simply a clothes horse.
The movement director had seen several companions come and go, who had a close relationship with the designer acting as his muse. On this hectic day, he had watched the young man sit on the floor by the director's legs scribbling in his journal. The Maestro often distracted, touched this poet's face and hair with soft caresses. Pierre Marchand was used to prima donnas and last minute changes, he had just heard there was another ten minute delay, due to a mix up back stage. He narrowed his eyes as the young man was whispering with the Maestro and his face lit up with a angelic smile. Maybe this normally emotionless pretty young thing was more than he seemed.
The PA came in with a box and handed it to the young man with a stern face "Just sown, the material printed last night. They better fit."
Alex did not bother with the changing room, but striped in full view of the electricians, carpenters and set dressers. The lithe young man pulled out a pair of silk pyjama bottoms from the box, the subtle stripes were words in cyrillic and english. Lines from Alex's poems made into art. "Maestro, you have immortalised my scribbles."
"You in turn have immortalised me in your verse. I am your muse and you are mine. Equals, friends, the truest of love between us." In all his years, this was the first muse to see beyond his own mask of master of all, to see their similarities. Many years ago, a teenage street rat had been renamed Gigi, when he had found and lost love with a fabulous mentor. Most dismissed the Italian as an aloof, vane, controlling maker of exorbitant tat for the super rich. From the slums to a multimillion euro empire that was expanding east to exploit vast untapped markets. He could see this young man was much more than a victim. Most only saw his mistakes not his strength and his amazing skill at observation.
The silk was light and sat close to Alex's toned legs, oh so different from the clothes they were mimicking, the rough cotton from his ransom video. He then jumped up on the catwalk, standing at the end of the stage. Alex then took three sharp intakes of breath and one slow exhale, in the perfect stance before immersing himself into his mind/body calm of his mixed martial art workout. The Maestro, director and PA discussed the show as the movement director watched the young poet who moved with the grace of a professional fighter. Alex used a full mix of moves from the variety of martial arts taught to him by Yassen. Karate had shown him the basics, but now he practiced moves honed by a deadly assassin.
The Maestro then clapped his hands and the waiting DJ started the music selected. The lighting for this end of the stage became bright for full contrast of the blond young man concentrating on his exercise. The movement of muscles under the harsh made the scars will stand out. Not even the best stage makeup to cover buckled, ridges of flesh; only mask the finer lines and flat burns. The models started their runs, turning at the mark. The movement director then understood why the stage had been extended by three metres and why accessories of handprinted silk scarves, ribbons and handkerchiefs had been added. These were poems written by this strange young man.
…..
Close combat practice, incorporated all types of defensive and offensive moves from a wide variety of sources. Cossack was skilled enough to kill with the smallest of moves, a flick of fingers to crush a windpipe, a twist in his grip to snap a neck, a well placed punch causing a massive brain injury. Katas became more than the fourteen year old had learned at his Karate lessons and his few hours on the mat in Wales. Alex could have watched Yassen move all day, the easy grace, the body was as strong and as flexible as a ballet dancer. Watch and copy, then spars to put the moves into practice. Combinations and feigns to leave and opening for the kill shot. Those first few weeks with Yassen had been perfection, student and master. Before the games began, before Alex paid the price for his bid at revenge.
Control was everything, the hardest part not to strike the killer blow when angry, cornered or afraid. Alex had taken on bullies at school before Ian died, an unlucky mugger in Paris four years ago had been easily stopped in his tracks and this spring he taught a brutal lesson to three drunk football fans intent on queer bashing. He was a weapon, despite everything he still practiced the lessons taught by the assassin. Yassen would approve of this demonstration. After six years, not a move wrong, absolute perfection and control in the puppet, who had long ago cut his strings.
Olga walked forward dressed in damask and chiffon like a robot, perfectly balanced on six inch clear plastic heels. She could see the sheen of sweat on Alex's back, he flipped and kicked within inches of her mark, but she did not stumble, showed no reaction, her face impassive as she stopped, turned and sneered at the audience. After forty minutes, the stage cleared, the lights cut and plunged the room into darkness. The cue for the Alex to silently exit, with stealth and breath held. Olga now dressed in white leather, PVC and lace with blood red trimmings. More goddess of chaos, death and destruction than bride as her blond hair was matched with smudged eye makeup and crimson lips, a loose bouquet of white roses. Alex's trousers were matched with a tie and jacket in the same material, no shirt as he became a barefoot groom. In three weeks, the Maestro had changed his collection with subtle additions, hard core music and the influence of rebellion not conformity.
The man himself, happy with the dress rehearsal said simply "Yes, that will do."
…..
The Vogue shoot next morning was long, tedious and meticulous as the Maestro argued with Michael to get his own vision across. Alex was happy to sit nude, positioned carefully to keep the shots artistic, not pornographic. Olga, Trixie, Helene and Sylvie worked their their asses off as Alex got the occasional touch up on his simple make-up. He was asked to move slightly, look moody, pained, distant or hurt. No smiles on camera but jokes and laughter to Michael's mix of sarcastic gripes and snide jokes. The photos a retake of shots for the issue about to go to press, but now obsolete by the change in the show's accessories and focus.
Alex stood and stretched after the shoot finished, alone the designer had gone on to another critical media event. He had a few hours away from the circus to sightsee and collect his thoughts. After the shows he was off to Cuba to stay with Alexei, a holiday of sorts. To read the seven poetry books he'd bought here, to expand beyond just English and Russian. Maybe he should learn more Hebrew or Yiddish. He had three addresses, the shop and apartments where his great-grandparents and great-uncles with their families had lived as exiles near the Cours de Vincennes, after the Revolution, before being deported in 1942.
With Olga, Michael and Gigi busy, Alex took the Metro and walked around the 12th Arrondissement. No sign of violence or plaques to the tragedy, when his grandmother's family had been arrested and sent to their deaths. Apartment blocks replaced by more modern buildings, no trace of his family there. The shop was a small retail unit in a large apartment building built in Hausmannian style, currently selling cameras and telephones; with a larger bakery next door. Alex wondered if his grandmother had eaten ice cream here, bought bread, played hopscotch? He had told Gigi his great grandfather had sold cloth, ribbons, buttons and sewing machines, taken in mending to make a living here in the twenties and thirties. His children educated, independent, secular and successful. His grandmother had lost her husband then her entire family, then followed the dream of a homeland to Israel only to leave and marry an English academic. Alex had often wondered on her life, he only knew snippets, no journals, thought or feeling survived. Had his mother made this pilgrimage to see her families past. Maybe he should travel to St. Petersburg as well? He sat and ordered coffee and a cream filed eclair. He, at 21, had left a larger mark on the world than any of his family. He lifted his coffee cup and pondered what Ian would have thought of him. Probably not a lot, he was enjoying his flirtation with hedonism, but his path had been the antithesis of all that Ian had planned. Alex Rider wrote poetry, whereas Alex Beckett was a wanderer, a man with no loyalties to politics or state. At home in Paris, London, Berlin and Madrid. Ian's attempts to create the perfect spy had made his nephew stateless, without roots and a bad habit of not keeping up with his friends.
He ate the cake and photo of the shop on his phone. On his to do list was to try and reconnect with Jamie Sprintz and Tom Harris. Life was too short to be a stranger. He may never settle anywhere for very long, he was a rolling stone; he just needed to stop thinking he was alone.
Alexei Sarov read the email from his young friend, who was coming to visit the exile, who had lived in Cuba for nearly twenty years. His flight booked for the 2nd of October. Alex busy working until then. The retired general was a rich man, blood money from the sales of arms after the breakup of the Soviet Union. His ill gotten gains then investing in oil, gas, diamonds, stocks and bonds and real estate. He did not care that he was friends with dictators, terrorists or gangsters. There were real skeletons in his cupboard, but no one had come looking for the CIA agents nor Conrad, even Cuban State Security had not investigated their disappearances. He had been saved from his momentary insanity by his friend Boris, who had believed Russia had lost its way, but had faith their homeland would be strong again. What was ten or twenty years to a country that had been a rural backwater in the nineteenth century, one that had become a world power through the will of one man alone, one still feared. What had been lost, economics would rebuilt. They had to play the capitalist game and win, turning the tables on all their enemies. Sarov had to accept his time was past. He till kept fit, did not drink and helped fund those likeminded individuals, who also wanted Russia strong again.
He went to his bookshelf and pulled off the fourth volume of poems written by Alex Rider. A short print run of 200 copies, only sold abroad due to its explicit content. His copy signed with love to the General from the fellow football enthusiast, AR. He turned to his favourite poem short and abrupt, about masturbating and guilt over homosexuality, wishing to be normal, but realising that the greater evil was lying to yourself. He pondered these words again and his deep love for the young man who had written those words. A different type of bravery, being oneself and defying all others to be free from their expectations and concepts of acceptability.