Davide

My friend Davide was found dead yesterday, the cause as of yet unknown. He lived in New York, and I don’t know any of his friends there, so details have trickled down to me through a meandering stream of distantly connected acquaintances and lovers. I met Davide in Paris in 2003. He was in his late-20s at the time, very much into skateboarder culture and the Scottish post-rock band Mogwai. He had the physical posture and world-weariness of someone significantly older, his head bobbing up and down as he spoke, shoulders slumped forward. We bonded instantly over the films of Harmony Korine and Larry Clark’s “Kids.”

He was born in Modena, Italy, “where balsamic vinegar comes from,” he told me, unironically, his own sweetly acerbic manner gradually revealed over the course of our friendship. I adored Davide. He didn’t know his father. His mother, with whom he had a very close relationship, committed suicide a few years ago. His depressing family history, the depressing emo pop culture he immersed himself in, his depressing demeanor, were all components of a very stylish and sophisticated character who would have starred alongside Monica Vitti in an early 60s Antonioni film.

When he moved to the States, he stayed with me for a few months, while he found work and a place to live. We shared an interest in the same type of guy: middle-aged, furry, bearded, husky. While I engaged with a few of these same guys in very complicated emotionally-draining exchanges, Davide bedded them all. I was in awe, he followed his desires with no dawdling between attraction and connection. He had a few more serious relationships, complicated and demanding in ways that his ephemeral connections were effortless.

I’ve seen Davide only a few times over the years since he moved to New York, and was looking forward to his visit here in February next year, to hear of his latest loves and frustrations, to talk about film and music and art. He was my Italian brother, someone with a shared experience and intimacy that bridged great gaps in time together. I speak a little Italian, far from fluent, but Davide would sometimes lapse into gusts of Italian, me looking at him with that deer-in-headlights look, the momentary lapse in communication indicative of a deeper understanding of how we were connected. Part of me has known that this was his destiny, that he just wouldn’t be here at some point, but as one of his great loves Tim said of his tenebrous facade, “It just seemed like part of his charm.” And now Davide’s gone, my sad little brother lost forever.