The artist rolls up the sketch and Aleksey's hesitates to accept it. He considers just leaving empty-handed or asking the man why he made such a cruel impression of his likeness. Aleksey grasps the paper with only two fingers, as if the mere act of touching it is offensive, and traipses away with a sneer.
Finding a secluded site under a tree atop the knoll, Aleksey unravels the drawing and places rocks on the corners to keep it displayed. He moves back a few feet and squints his eyes, yet still finds it galling. His dark blond hair, slicked back over his head, looks contrived and silly. His pleasant facial features appear too soft and boyish to belong to a security guard twenty-five years of age. His bomber jacket, portrayed accurately, seems ill-suited to his character.
The portrait is of a man more like a clown than a brute. Aleksey shakes his head in revulsion. A bodyguard cannot look so sensitive and fragile.
However, there is something that keeps him from tearing the paper to shreds. Aleksey has doubts that the artist deliberately intended mischief.
Aleksey photographs the sketch with his phone and sends it to Rafael Pena, his boyfriend. Seconds later, his phone rings.
"It's awesome, babe," Rafael says. "Will you give it to me when you are back from your trip?"
"You are kidding, right?" Aleksey replies.
"No. What's wrong?"
"I don't look anything like this. I hate it."
"I disagree. Who painted you?"
"Some hippie-like dude here at a half-ass art fair. It is only a drawing. But I thought he was being a jerk."
"Be nice. He did a good job. I hope you give the drawing to me, Aleksey."
"So, you are telling me that this is what I look like to you?" Aleksey asks. "A teenage pop star?"
"Call me tonight, babe," Rafael says, disconnecting the call.
Aleksey sits on the knoll and stares at the errant ripples on the water in the bay. The breezes and winds push the liquid around at will, but only on the surface. Aleksey thumbs through his saved photographs, certain he can be reassured that the sketch holds no truth. But he now sees himself through the eyes of the artist and he is appalled. His hairstyle, in particular, earns most of his scorn.
Aleksey rips the portrait in half, discards it in the park's nearest trash can, walks south on Tiburon Boulevard, and finds a unisex hair salon in the commercial district near the southern end of the peninsula.
"What are we doing today?" the stylist asks, combing her lithe fingers through his fine hair.
"Starting fresh," Aleksey answers, shrugging his shoulders and taking a deep breath.
"All right. What does that mean? A new style?"
"Please cut it off."
"All of it?"
"Every single strand."
3
Hideaway
Zachary, standing on Nathaniel's second story terrace, realizes his friend's art purchase complements his personal sanctuary. The sculpture's rusty colors, lines, and textures contrast well with the dense foliage that nearly encompasses the home. From this angle, the poles appear abstract, rising from a ground-level garden, not interfering with Nathaniel's resplendent views of the bay. Oriented toward the southeast, all of the rooms face the distant Treasure Island and San Francisco - Oakland Bay Bridge. Closer, and to the left, is Angel Island, Belvedere Island, and Tiburon. To the right, Alcatraz Island and the North Beach neighborhood of San Francisco.
"I had my doubts seeing it by the lagoon," Zachary says, "but it belongs up here. The piece is a good fit, apart from even knowing the private meaning it must have for you."
"As always, I appreciate your candor," Nathaniel replies. "I think the meaning is apparent enough that I don't need to verbalize it. This place is my home base. My refuge for healing. My quiet retreat."
"You probably violated a hundred state and local codes having the helicopter deliver it."
"Ah, who cares? It was the quickest and most efficient way to transport it. Nobody could find me and give me a ticket even if they tried."
Zachary agrees with his friend's assertion. Nathaniel's home, tightly burrowed in the trees and foliage, exists like an optical illusion to any neighbors. While most of the other hillside homes are near the streets, Nathaniel's entry is a nondescript driveway that slithers around a bend and out of view. Anyone entering would be startled to suddenly come upon an iron gate attached to a hut where two armed guards are stationed with a console of security cameras.
"What about your own oasis?" Nathaniel asks. "You have to make a change."
"I know I do," Zachary answers. "What are your thoughts?"
Zachary follows Nathaniel down to a deck Nathaniel uses for lazy reading or secret discussions. Its base and walls are weathered planks from a ship that sunk off the Sausalito coast a century ago. The men lean back on lounge chairs and hear nothing but the creaking of old wood, the rustle of leaves, and the pleasant rhythms of birds and insects in the forest-like perimeter.
"Get out of Phoenix entirely," Nathaniel says. "No matter how much you love the city, you will always be looking over your shoulder. Your assumption should be that all of my enemies could be trying to find you there."
"I am leaning toward that," Zachary responds, concurring that he can no longer feel safe in the Scottsdale condominium that was recently exposed to Nathaniel's primary nemesis.
"Don't lean. Do it."
"Nowhere else feels like home. It's a big decision for me and I don't want to continuously move between rental homes."
"Buy one of these houses up here," Nathaniel says. "Be my neighbor."
"These estates are a fortune," Zachary replies.
"You can afford it."
"I enjoy visiting San Francisco and the bay area, Nate. Who wouldn't love waking up every day to the view you have, whether sunny, like today, or shrouded in fog? I know this is your paradise. But it would not feel like home to me."
"All right, go back to warmer temperatures, but you are slashing your options down unnecessarily."
"For fights, press, and media, it is best to be near Las Vegas anyway," Zachary says.
"As long as you remain out west," Nathaniel responds, "everything is close to Vegas. Just a one-hour plane ride or so away. You have to stretch your horizons. Like Phoenix, living in Palm Springs or the outskirts of Las Vegas, like I used to, would have similar problems for you with our enemies and opponents."
"Look at your home, Nate. I think you prove that a sanctuary can be hidden anywhere."
"No, an asylum can be hidden anywhere. There is a big difference between a sanctuary and an asylum. You have to remember our world, our fighting subculture, is a mental contest. Acquiring a sense of security is a vital requirement."
"I agree. You know I do."
"You can become the world middleweight champion, Zach," Nathaniel states. "It is not one fight. It is a series of clever decisions and lifestyle choices, in tandem with exact mental conditioning-you must never waver from your hunger to win-and unexpected physicality."
"If anyone knows what it takes, you do," Zachary replies.
Nathaniel fiddles with the ends of his mustache, twists his leg inward, and reaches his fingers inside his leg cast to scratch an acute itch.
"I have healed from so many injuries, both major and minor, but something is different this time," Nathaniel says. "For the first time in my life, I am consumed with a different type of longing."
"You have always been a horny bastard," Zachary laughs.
"The longing is not for sex. It's for a partner. Someone to share all of this with. I find myself daydreaming about a guy-someone who has nothing whatsoever to do with fighting or sports or media-and building a relationship with him."
"You are lonely? With all of these bodyguards?"
"It's not the same," Nathaniel counters. "Not even close."
"True," Zachary agrees. "But there will be plenty of time for true love and all that syrupy stuff once your career is over."
"You don't think I can fall in love with someone and maintain the required mental acumen to regaining my title belt?"
"No, Nate. You just reminded me about staying desperately hungry for victory. If you fall head over heels for some dude, you are going to get all soft and smoochy, gain weight, descend into jealous tantrums, and lose your focus. That's the real truth."
"I am not convinced you are right," Nathaniel responds.
"You are considering early retirement?" Zachary asks.
"Hell no."
"Then don't confuse your desire for sexual conquests with fantasies about melodramatic romance."
"I won't argue with you," Nathaniel says. "Each man, each person, must make an individual choice. We have previously debated your notions about the benefits of promiscuity. I am not in your life to change you. I appreciate you as an unconditional friend. I never want to lose that. Continue hooking up with guys, if that is what you must do for yourself. But fair warning that your best friend here might be tangled up in a love match-all squishy and sappy, as you speculated-and I will want your continuing support, not your disapproval."
4
Studio
While ambling to his studio, Gustavo Vila Nova is lost in his thoughts, ignoring his surroundings and the warmth of sunshine on his face.