ANGELOS RASMANIS LET his pencil roll lifelessly over the sheet of paper with the half-finished design. He brought his hand to his head and ran his fingers through his hair, which had begun to thin dangerously. He leaned back in the comfortable chair and looked into the mirror directly in front of him. His reflection sent him discouraging messages. The relentless passage of time had been too harsh on his once handsome face. He thought of Argyris. He hadn’t called him in about two weeks. For the past year, since he had met him, Argyris had been coming and going to his house almost daily. He had seen him one afternoon in Kolonaki Square, and from that moment, it seemed, all his interest focused on that face. It wasn’t difficult to approach him. Rasmanis was one of the most well-known fashion designers for the last thirty years. There wasn’t a magazine that didn’t feature his creations, a show that didn’t mention his name. Since he first started, almost as a child, success had always followed him.
In those years, the names in the fashion world were few. But besides his innate talent, he was also lucky. He entered the scene powerfully, with pioneering designs, used bright colors, and the industry shone with something new. He quickly rose, and within the next ten years, he emerged as a leading name. He gained power, money, and connections, frequented the most glamorous salons, and mingled with the most famous names. He acquired everything. Everything except love. Angelos had his weaknesses too. When he fell in love, he lost all reason. He gave himself passionately to people who didn’t deserve even a glance from him. He was attracted to young boys from the provinces or the more remote parts of Athens, who had no education, no culture, no morals, and, of course, no money.