Fall From Grace

“The borrower is a slave to the lender, and the debtor to the creditor” – Benjamin Franklin

 

            Frowning in frustration, Arthur fumbled inside his jeans pocket for his last cigarette in his crumpled Marlboro pack. “Donatello is a world class designer,” he thought, “but the pockets on his jeans don’t even work.” By the time he finally got it lit, his fingers were cramped and Arthur was shivering. It was freezing in Paris and the wind chilled him down to his core, but he picked an outside seat despite the lively chatter inside the cafe. He wanted to be alone. Arthur slowly closed his eyes to shut out all the traces of light and raised the Marlboro to his mouth.

            “Excuse me, I can’t read my map. Can I use your lighter to see it better? ”

            He opened one eye casually and saw a small fat man in front of him. His bright Hawaiian shirt suggested he was a tourist.

            “Yeah, no problem.”

            As Arthur stood up with his lighter, the man exclaimed, “You’re the boy on the posters in the metro!”

            “...Pardon?”

            “Aren’t you the guy on the Dior posters?”

            He nodded and looked away. “Yes, I shot the campaign for them last week.”

            The man scanned his map for about a minute, passed the lighter back and headed toward the street. “Thanks. I should get going,” he called behind him, “my family is waiting for me back in the hotel.”

            Arthur saw the neon orange sunflower print start floating away into the night. He slumped back into his chair and took a full breath from the tip of his cigarette. The smoke entered his lungs and Arthur’s head became light with euphoria as he remembered the day he was discovered.

            With half of a stale croissant crammed into his mouth, Arthur hurriedly rushed down the street toward the metro station. “Crap,” he thought, “I have three minutes to get to the train before I’m late for work.” Arthur turned the corner and saw a man in his mid-fifties staring at him intensely. He was in a midnight black trench coat made of fur with a large collar and top hat on his head. His shoulder length grey hair was tied back and his eyes were covered with shades.

            As Arthur walked by, the stranger suddenly yelled “STOP!” and caused Arthur to nearly choked on his breakfast.

            “Yeah, great this is going to be good.”

            Arthur stared at him behind the black shades and the man asked, “Do you know who I am?”

            “A creepy weirdo?” Arthur furrowed his brow and responded, “No, but I’m really in a hurry, so-”

            “My name is Donatello van Cleve, creative director of Dior.” He raised an eyebrow, “I noticed you’re not in a school uniform, how old are you? What’s your name?”

            “What does he want from me?” He told Donatello his name was Arthur Gasquet and that he was 17. “I got kicked out of school because of focus issues.” He switched to a stuffy headmaster voice, “Arthur, never let your shadow darken the classrooms again!” He added on, “It’s totally fine though, I mean I get by... I have work at a factory for car parts.”

            “That’s a shame, what a waste of a boy like you,” Donatello mumbled, “Those factories barely pay minimum wage.” The man scanned his eyes across Arthur’s face and said, “I’m sorry I stopped you so abruptly, but I think you’ve got the look. How would you like to try modeling?”

            Arthur almost snorted. “That’s ridiculous, no way I would degrade myself to prance around in clothes and be a fricking Zoolander.” ...But then he thought of his family. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity. Maybe he could finally make enough money to get them out of the outskirts and bring them to a better life in the city.

            “You give me your face and I’ll give you a new life in return.” Donatello smiled and wrote down an address on the back of a card. “So what do you say?”

            3 days later, Arthur walked out of hair and makeup still in shock over how his world had flipped around. He didn’t have to settle for stale croissants from the day before anymore; there was a buffet table for the whole staff at the photo shoot with pastries still warm from the bakery, three different kinds of sausage and an assortment of freshly sliced fruit. He strolled onto set and smiled at his reflection in the mirror. Donatello had him in a black wool Dior suit with a slender dark tie. The quality of his shirt was unbelievable; the stitching, the embroidery...everything. Arthur was sure this one outfit could pay his rent for at least 4 months.

            A door opened and the photographer walked into the set. He was in a simple green t-shirt and shorts, but he was tall and broad shouldered with unruly dirty blond hair. Arthur guessed he was around his forties.

            “Hey mate, my name is Jordan, this is your first shoot yeah?”

            Arthur nodded and he felt his mind blanking as the photographer set up his tripod. He had no idea about what to do in a photo shoot.

            Jordan took a few pictures, looked up from his camera and said “You have no expression on your face at all... How about you try to squint a little and pretend you lost your wallet.”

            “What...? Is he being serious?”

            “Now turn a little and face me.”

            Click. Click. Click.

            After a few more pictures, the camera finally stopped going off. “Okay, I think we got our shot. Donatello will be with you shortly.” Jordan packed his camera up and left.

            5 minutes later, Arthur saw the familiar black trench coat and Donatello stepped in.

            “Perfect, my boy! I hope you don’t regret your choice of coming to work for me...”

            Arthur replied, “No, of course not everything has been amazing.” He laughed and said “I didn’t know working in fashion would be like this.”

            Donatello held up a check. 20,000 Euros. More money than a year’s wage in the factory. “Of course, you don’t think this all doesn’t come without a price yes?”

            Arthur was puzzled. “Sorry? I mean I did the photos, the photographer has them. Or is something wrong with my contract...?”

            Donatello ignored him. “You will become my muse,” he said as he stepped closer and closer. The black boots hit the ceramic floor ominously.

            He removed his shades for the first time and the murky eyes turned onto Arthur.

            He saw the eyes of a predator. The eyes of a butcher about to slaughter fresh meat.

            “Arthur you need this life.” The old man whispered as his hand reached down Arthur’s pants. Donatello’s cologne was intoxicating and engulfed him.

“You don’t want to go back to the factory with its low pay and have your poor family evicted and thrown onto the street right?” The fragrance went down his throat, through his nose and into his mind. It numbed his senses. Donatello held the boy by his collar against a wall and pressed up against him.

“I will make you a superstar.”

And then he exhaled. Arthur opened his eyes at the cafe and blinked. His cigarette was long gone and it was just a pile of ashes in his tray. He knew he had been duped. He should’ve known better than to hold onto the lion’s tail and follow it into the den. Arthur didn’t want to keep holding on, but now he couldn’t let go; he had no choice but to become a pawn in and be swallowed by the most cut throat industry in the world. He will always be in its debt no matter what.

A flash of light appeared on his table. His cellphone buzzed.

            “Be at the studio tomorrow. We’re shooting artistic nudes.”

-Jerry Huang