Key Genius's Blog, page 96
May 17, 2017
Bassorilievo straordinario!
#milano...
Bassorilievo straordinario!
#milano #beyondthefleshsaga
#NelTempodiMezzo
May 13, 2017
Duomo #Milano con la luna piena.
#architecture #building...
Duomo #Milano con la luna piena.
#architecture #building #architexture #city #urban #design #minimal #cities #town #stree #architecturelovers #beautiful #archilovers #architectureporn #lookingup #style #archidaily #Duomo #fullMoon (presso Duomo di Milano - Duomo Cathedral)
#HeartOfFlesh cp 27 Controlled Disorder
With a Versace suit on, Andrea feels his testosterone
jump. He looks in the mirror, but doesn’t recognize himself. The
double-breasted jacket and pants are both white, the silk shirt patterned, and
the tie black, like the shoes.
The fabric is unbelievably smooth and caresses his
skin as only Susanna’s hands know how.
They have styled his hair and fixed it in place with a
gel that not even a tornado could mess up. And with that black mask, Andrea
finds it hard to believe that he really is the guy in the reflection.
The seamstress hands him a white coat and looks at
him, satisfied. “Sir, we’ve finished,” she says.
“Thank you,” he replies politely.
“Approved,” rules Ian, suddenly standing in
the doorway. “Great job, as always.”
“Thank you, Dorian,” says the seamstress.
As Andrea fixes his cuffs, Ian enters the room and
looks at him, amused, via the reflection. Ian is also wearing a white suit and is
holding another Borsalino fedora with a black band.
“So, how do you feel?”
Andrea doesn’t know what to say. “Great, to say
the least.”
Ian chuckles in a composed way and Andrea does the
same.
He’s so different to when they had met in Milan. Less
somber and cryptic, Ian seems to have left the tormented aura behind, in favor
of a more cheerful and jovial air. He looks really friendly now.
“You can feel the Versace effect taking over,
right?” he asks, grinning as he walks nearer. “I envy you. I’d like
to forget it and so relive your thrill.”
Andrea doesn’t feel uncomfortable, as in the bar
yesterday, now that they’re close and so well dressed.
He fluctuates between two worlds: the real one, that he
knows exists, and that of the stranger he sees before him in the mirror.
It’s surreal.
“Shall we go?” Maicol says loudly. He’s one
for being extreme and is only wearing a fur coat and white pants, even if it’s
less than fifty degrees outside. Statuesque, at more than six foot five, his skin
is so clear and smooth it seems that he has hired it.
Andrea sees him and is grateful to have the mask. With
it he can leave “Andrea Messi” behind and become the guy in
the reflection, displaying a subtle arrogance restrained by common sense.
The mask stirs an unusual unease in him again. It
erases the past and creates such fascinating, new expectations, that he feels
he only has to reach out his hand to make them his.
His heart beats and his breath is pronounced as he
strives to bring it back to normal.
“What should I call you, by the way? Mini Angel?”
laughs Maicol, with a smile that shows his pronounced canines. They have spoken
in the past hour; it had been Maicol to dash into the room to meet him, since
he had been the one to replace him on stage with Nicolle.
After that icy first impression, Maicol has proved to
be a nice guy, even if his narcissism and self-centeredness are at a maximum. And
he talks about himself in the third person; a little irritating, but bearable.
“Mini?” Andrea smiles. Since Maicol is Nicolle’s
official angel, and he looks small in comparison, the nickname actually makes
sense. “You decide,” he shrugs.
“No. You are Key,” says Ian.
Andrea freezes. They exchange glances in the mirror
and just for a moment a doubt brushes him. But it’s so faint that it slips away,
like the light from Ian’s eyes, who he loses sight of on turning around.
Why does he want me to use Susanna’s pseudonym? He would really like to know.
Maicol nods. “Can the great Maicol be seen with
the little Key?” He leans down to put his face close and, with a lion’s
smile, pounds his teeth into Andrea’s ear. “I’d say so.”
Eccentric to the bone.
“We have to go now,” says Ian at the door.
“You two are in the car with me. The others, as scheduled.”
Andrea and Maicol follow him and all the group heads
down the corridor to wait for the elevator. The agency becomes gradually more
silent as everybody slows down, but nobody leaves.
After the party, everyone will return here for the undressing.
All these professionals will await their return to take back the clothes and,
in Andrea’s case, take off the mask that is stuck to his face with a special
adhesive used in films.
He will return to reality. A bit like a Cinderella 2.
They take turns to go down and then gather in the entrance
hall.
He leaves the glass building, that saw him enter in
jeans, a sweatshirt and sneakers and now sees him exit as if it were that reflection
escaping, not really him. It’s not Andrea Messi that’s walking with six hundred
euro shoes on his feet.
And the whole entourage of nine women and eleven men,
all magnificent in their grace and elegance, are not made of flesh, but shining
crystal.
Ian walks ahead and gestures them to get inside the
black Mercedes that reflect their white clothes. Each car has a driver and the
windows are as black as night, wrapping them in anonymity.
When Andrea gets in, Ian wants him at his side, so
Maicol sits in the front.
The cars head off slowly in a line.
He recognizes the streets for a while, but at a
certain point loses his bearings. He touches the glass, bewildered, and his leg
starts swaying frenetically. His leg that is now dressed in an outfit he could
never afford.
“Don’t be so tense,” says Ian.
Andrea gasps; he had become accustomed to the engine’s
quiet rumble.
“It’s just a party,” Ian continues, without
looking at him. He stares out the window and brushes his chin with his index
finger.
“Yeah, but I’ve never worn seven thousand euros worth
of clothes. Not mine, above all.”
Ian smiles slightly. “Don’t worry. I won’t ask
you for a reimbursement if you spill a drink over yourself. That’s why I’m
insured.” He looks at him for a moment and then back at the road.
“Control your internal turmoil and use the mask as a barrier for your
fears.”
Internal turmoil? How does he always know how I feel? Am
I so transparent to him?
“Easy to say.”
“The first time I met you, you introduced
yourself as Key,” he says, throwing him a quick glance. “You were
playing a role. Do it again if it makes you feel calmer. That’s why I thought
of calling you that,” he says, moving his shoulders.
“I’ll try…” He would like to ask him how
he can explain that to Susanna, since it’s the same name. But Maicol would hear
him so he just nods.
“And remember not to answer the questions they ask
you. Mystery is the key to success,” he says, accentuating the word’s
double meaning and giving him a little smile.
“Alright.”
“The people you will meet tonight want to live a
fantasy,” he says, looking at him seriously. “They may know Andrea, because
he’s an ordinary guy.” He stops to sink back into the seat and rest his
shoulders. “Key, on the other hand, they don’t. Do you understand? It’s
just a game and just for tonight. Enjoy playing Key. If you have fun, you’ll be
more spontaneous. Understood?”
“Yes.”
Ian tilts his head back and closes his eyes. “Relax.
We’re not far now.”
“Are you playing a role too?”
Ian smiles without moving. “Everyone plays a part,
Andrea. I prefer to be myself, though. But I put up barriers. To everyone, I’m the
Count. To my staff, I’m Dorian. For some, I’m Ian, and for a few…” He
stops and looks at him intently. “You’re not among those few, so be happy
with Ian.” And Ian pulls out that ambiguous face he had hoped not to see again.
His eyes disappear into the shade of his hair and peer at him from an abyss.
“I already consider myself very lucky.”
“Trust me when I say that you’re right to.”
Ian looks away.
He had understood that he was complex, a little crazy
too, but would never have guessed that Ian had so many layers. And a doubt comes
to mind when he remembers Nicolle; she calls him Ian, too. So perhaps only his
relatives know his last layer. Or, maybe, it’s his darker side that he reveals
to only the few.
The car slows down, interrupting his thoughts.
“Here we are,” says Ian, sitting up straight.
He puts on his hat and takes a deep breath. “Let the show begin.” He
opens the door and camera flashes dazzle him.
Adoring voices call him and a crowd circles him.
“Come on, little Key.” Maicol turns and
smiles. “Excited girls can’t wait to tear you to pieces.” He imitates
a lion’s roar. Then he gets out and more flashes of light fly into the car.
Andrea grasps the door handle, trying to keep his
internal disorder under control. His skin sizzles as if on a grill and his
heart is bursting through his rib cage. His hand trembles so much that he can’t
even lower the simple lever.
One door separates him from the new world that he’s
about to enter. And he wonders why he’s doing it.
For the money?
Because Susanna is enthusiastic?
To glorify himself and his pride?
Out of curiosity?
He’s afraid of changing and perhaps Ian is right. The
only thing is to be yourself, but put up barriers. He had been Andrea, as
always, that afternoon in Clusone, but had placed Key in front as a layer to
protect his true essence. His true self.
Andrea thinks back to the image of his reflection. He
focuses, wraps himself in it, and feels that he can control the turmoil. His
breathing is regular.
Calm now, he lowers the handle.
He places a foot on the ground and steps out, as relaxed
as if among friends.
He’s bombarded by camera flashes and questions that
fly at him wildly, but smiles as soon as Ian and Maicol stand by his side.
“Good evening everyone. I’m Key,” he says
confidently.
And time stops in a glow of solomonic certainty: now
he knows who it was on stage with Nicolle.
