Chapter Text
Seems like the world can only end in the luxurious bathroom of a world-famous model agency in 1982.
And he’s there, standing still.
Francesco is standing still, looking at himself in the mirror. He’s wearing only a white sleeveless Calvin Klein shirt, a pair of blue jeans, and polished shoes.
Messy, curly dark hair. Dark honey eyes emptied of life.
What he sees is a miserable man wrapped in clothes that don’t belong to him. A long tear streams from his eye while a notice letter remains pressed in his hand, which he decides to read again, out loud.
“Sub–subject…” starts Francesco, swallowing hard, trying to read again with little to no energy left. “Termination… of… contract.”
Dear Mr. Bagnaia,
Following the recent events that have affected our company’s reputation, we regret to inform you that your contract with the West Agency will be terminated with immediate effect.
While we appreciate your past contributions to several successful campaigns, the current circumstances make it impossible for us to continue representing you. Please return all items belonging to the agency within 48 hours.
We wish you the best in your future endeavors.
West Agency LLC,
Talent Relations Department.
His hands are shaking, wanting to tear apart the letter he just read. The sweat from his fingertips causes the ink from the cursed typewriter that wrote this terrible news to smudge.
Fuck, he needs to wash his hands.
The bar of soap rests in a shell-shaped dish; the scent is a mixture of gardenia and musk. The texture is like whipped cream; characteristics that remind Francesco that this soap is expensive, a luxury models allow themselves before a hard day’s work under the flashbulbs.
He clenches his jaw and scrubs his hands and fingers quickly but with brutal force, then dries them with a white fabric towel. Francesco grabs his black backpack from the floor, opens it, and stuffs the wet towel inside.
He leaves the bathroom.
He’s angry, so angry he makes no eye contact with anyone in the office. The sound of his steps are quick and heavy, which he hopes are disturbing them. Conversations die mid-sentence; heads turn.
“Hey!” he shouts, turning around and raising his hands to get the attention of the main secretary. “All the boxes are on your desk! But tell your boss I’m leaving with the Calvin Klein campaign outfit. Sue me, I don’t care!”
Everyone freezes in silence.
Leaving the operations office, he takes the stairs. In one of the corridors, he stops. His eyes catch a giant print.
A perfume campaign with his face and his body.
It’s a scaled copy of an ad he did for a men’s magazine; he can’t recall at the moment if it was for GQ or Esquire, but who cares.
In the picture, he’s sitting by a window, holding the product in one hand and a phone in the other, looking out at the big city. Black and white. Some details softened, others sharpened, the perfect and desired balance.
His mustache, his facial hair, his moles adorn his face. Black suit. Clear glasses. A Wall Street corporate concept, looking clean, elegant, like the perfect successful idea of a man.
He looks at him. He hates him.
Then flashes his middle finger at him. Himself.
Something breaks inside. They think they can use him and then throw him away.
Him. Me. Away.
He raises the other middle finger. Himself again.
It’s unfair. Francesco gave his best years to this company.
He traveled from Italy, leaving friends and family behind, chasing the promise of success in the Big Apple.
And this is what he gets.
A tear slides down his cheek. It was a trap all along. Not his fault; it was a damn trap.
He can’t. He can’t keep looking at himself. He glances left and right and of course there’s a security camera. But if he’s fast enough, he can tear this shit down and run.
The print is behind glass. Thin. Easy. His best friend back in Italy taught him how to do this kind of thing when they were kids, to survive.
He takes the still-damp towel from his backpack and wraps it around his right hand. One quick, straight punch will do the trick. The glass breaks. He lunges forward, tearing the print apart as fast as he can. It resists at first, but with effort, it gives in.
He cuts himself a little. It hurts. Blood drips, here and there; but nothing hurts more than being used and disposed of. Francesco rips one corner, then tears the paper diagonally.
It feels good.
He just ripped his face.
“Hey! You!” The security guard shouts.
Oh no.
He grabs his backpack with one hand and the torn piece of the print with the other, then runs.
He’s faster. Faster than these useless guards. He’s a model; he works out every day to look good. His cardio is top-notch.
The shoes are uncomfortable, but they’ll have to do.
His heart is pounding. Drops of blood fly through the air.
He finally reaches the lobby and passes the security gate. Those guards couldn’t catch him. He knew since his first day that security wasn’t great, so everything went as planned.
He keeps running through the streets. It’s a busy area, well, New York City is always busy, so he moves swiftly through the crowd until he reaches an alley after a long block.
He stops and stays in the shadows, hoping nobody follows him. After a minute or so, he turns his head to check the situation. Nobody on sight.
Good.
Still breathing heavily, Francesco looks down at his hands; the right one, of course, bleeding through the damp towel. Looks like he cut deeper than he thought.
Then he sees the piece of print he ripped. His face.
“Who are you?” he whispers to himself, trying to understand what he feels.
No success.
He decides to tear it again, cutting his printed face into more pieces.
Francesco feels a little less angry now, but it’s not enough. There’s a bin in the alley, a small one. He walks slowly toward it and throws the paper scraps inside.
He stands there for a while, still, trying to remember how it all ended like this.
The memory of a party night that went wrong.
He was in the wrong place, at the wrong time. The unluckiest man alive.
“Why did we have to go?” he murmurs. He reaches for a box of matches in his backpack. He takes one, lights it, and tosses it into the bin. “No, no…” he mutters, watching the fire burn.
Memories of that night invade him. He was there; at that party in the glamorous apartment of his boss, in the Upper East Side. Contemporary jazz music filled the air. A small gathering. Exclusive. Discreet.
He was there with other male models. But his boss had to fixate on him.
He remembers the talk. The gaze. The touch on his hand. How that hand brushed a couple of curls behind his ear.
The insinuation. The invitation. The kiss. The sex.
Someone took a picture. And his career ended.
Just like that.
The fire grows, consuming each piece of paper with his face on it. It might not be a big deal, but burning his own face feels good.
He releases a big sigh. Now that he’s blacklisted from major agencies; and after what he did today, he’ll probably be out of the industry for good. He needs to think about what’s going to happen next.
The problem is, he’s alone in NYC.
While he spirals in his thoughts, he decides to walk away from the alley and go home. He’s pretty far away, so he’ll have time to think.
Thinking back, he’s alone in NYC.
Money is limited, and soon he’ll need to find a way to pay rent and his debts. He can’t call anyone from his previous job; he left with no real contacts. He regrets not saying a proper goodbye to the people at the agency who were kind to him, even the ones who weren’t. Funny how now, with his head a bit colder, his sympathy is growing back.
But that’s who he really is. He’s grateful, and now he’s paying that, with remorse.
Francesco walks until he reaches a park and sits on the grass to rest. It’s summer, so the place is full of people hanging under the sun; kids playing near the fountains, old couples stretching, women and men taking their dogs for a walk everywhere.
Dear Lord, what’s wrong with him?
He did that. He can’t even recognize himself.
But it feels so unfair; he’s only twenty-eight. His career was going great. He still had years ahead of him.
His eyes fall to his wounded hand. Maybe he should go to a pharmacy, but he needs to think of a plan first. He feels uneasy without one.
Now that he’s calmer and trying to be rational, Francesco remembers the business cards in his wallet. He pulls it out and starts browsing through them, scanning the names and numbers.
“Okay… I guess I have to call these people first,” he mutters to himself. He stands and walks toward the nearest phone booth.
The phone booth is filthy, smells like piss; but this is urgent. He needs to start making calls. He’s got a handful of quarters and one long-distance card. He’ll save that one for a call to Italy later today.
Francesco starts dialing, but after the first two or three calls to agents, designers, editorials; the answers are all the same: polite excuses, too busy, no vacancies, already booked for autumn and winter. Others don’t answer at all. Secretaries tell him that their bosses are “out of town” or “unavailable.”
The idea of being blacklisted feels painfully real now.
It’s fucking tiring. Francesco stays in that booth for hours.
And he’s hungry as hell. It’s past noon.
He’s down to his last quarters and that long-distance phone card. Damn. If this last contact doesn’t answer, he’ll have to call Valentino Rossi, his mentor, all the way in Italy, six hours ahead, not knowing if he’s home, in a meeting, traveling, or…
No fucking way.
Francesco’s eyes open wide.
His last contact left is Marc Marquez.
Valentino’s not going to like this. But Francesco knows he has no other choice.
He decides to call Marc, crossing his fingers that he’ll pick up.
The phone rings. It takes a while. Finally, someone answers on the other end.
“Hello?” Marc’s voice slides through the receiver. Instrumental music hums softly in the background.
“Hey, Mr. Marquez,” Francesco answers, hesitantly. “Uh, first of all, thanks for taking my call. I’m Francesco Bagnaia; we’ve met before. How are you doing this afternoon?”
The line goes silent for a moment. Francesco’s nerves spike.
“Oh, Bagnaia,” Marquez finally replies, he sounds uncertain. “I’m… good, thank you.”
Francesco knows he needs to keep the conversation moving.
“That’s great! We met through Valentino Rossi; he introduced us a couple of years ago, at a fashion event here in New York,” he says, careful with his words.
Mentioning Valentino feels risky, but it’s his only reference.
“Ah, yeah, of course,” Marquez answers with a small laugh. “Francesco Bagnaia, the mentee, right?”
“Yeah, the mentee; that’s me,” Francesco replies, a bit relieved that Marquez sounds less confused. He needs to push forward; this is urgent. “So, I know this might sound intrusive, and I hope it’s not, but I was calling to offer my services.”
Marquez stays quiet, letting him speak.
“Not sure if you remember, but when Valentino introduced us that night, I mentioned I’m a model,” he says, looking down at Marquez’s old business card. “And I know you work as an art director and photographer, Mr. Márquez, eh, one of the best independent creatives. Valentino said that…”
Marquez pauses, briefly, then a short sigh comes in.
“Yeah, of course I remember,” Marc says, his tone deepening. “You were in a dark maroon jacket, right? Following Valentino like a duckling.” He laughs.
“Yeah!” Francesco joins in, grateful for the lighter tone. “Anyway, I just wanted to say I’m open to work. Maybe we could meet in person, talk about how I could help, be of service.”
Marquez goes quiet again.
“Mr. Marquez?” Francesco follows up.
Still nothing.
“Mr. Marquez, look, I’m sorry to insist,” Francesco says quickly. “I know about your history with my mentor, and I understand if that makes you hesitant, but please, just let me have a chat with you.”
Francesco’s foot starts bouncing, impatient.
“I’m not sure about this, Bagnaia,” Marquez finally says. The laughter is gone from his voice. “Do you still work with Vale, I mean, Valentino as your agent, or…”
“No, I don’t!” Francesco interrupts. “My last job was with a big agency, West Agency.”
Marquez whistles softly on the line.
“Yes! I did multiple projects, ads, editorials, runways. To sign with West, I had to resign from Valentino as my agent.”
“Makes sense. But what happened at West? Why aren’t you there anymore?” Marquez asks.
Francesco freezes.
“That’s… a good question,” he says, trying to hide the panic. He shifts the truth. Maybe Marquez hasn’t heard about the scandal. “Let’s just say I’m looking for other opportunities. Something less mainstream. I’m open to anything.”
“Yeah, the thing is, I don’t have anything for you right now, I’m busy with…”
“Mr. Marquez, I must insist!” Francesco cuts in. “I’ll be honest; I’m desperate. I need help. If you don’t want me as a model, I can do anything else. Just say the word. I’m flexible. I’ll learn whatever’s needed. I just need a job. I live alone in New York, I have no family, no one to help me.”
Oh no. He can hear the desperation in his own voice. Marquez probably does too.
“Can you help?”
A long sigh comes through the phone.
“Okay, Bagnaia. Sure,” Marquez finally says. “I might have something. But… you might be overqualified for it. Come to my studio tonight. We’ll talk.”
Francesco’s heart leaps. He got what he wanted.
“That’s amazing! Thank you! I actually still have your business card, it’s probably two or three years old. Is it still the same address?”
“Yeah, it is. I’ll wait for you,” Marquez replies.
“Perfect. See you later… and thank you so much, Mr. Marquez.”
They hang up.
Francesco exhales. It feels like his soul just returned to his body.
He gathers his things and steps out of the phone booth.