Andrea Philippe Regard
Born - 16 March 1965 – Sao Paulo
Died – 13 May 1991 – Ward Six, Hove General Hospital
Andrea Philippe Regard was a young talented Brazilian florist who worked at and lived above Jane Greenwoods on Gardner Street. Always a lover of convenience in any shape or form, when my café opened to replace the tool shop opposite, he was overjoyed. Andrea had little need for power tools, unless attached to someone suitably swarthy, but he loved a good coffee. And so it was that after a few trips across the street, he was part of the furniture and a day rarely passed without his presence.
Andrea would generally sashay in at around 10am, order a double espresso and then sit at his customary table. He’d stir in six or more sugar cubes, fingers spread like a cockatoo crest, and then announce his presence by calling down the kitchen stairs in a Zsa Zsa Gabor burr. I’d join him for his tales of our city, which usually began in the Bulldog and ended with his legs in the air somewhere in the area. He had a big appetite for large men; the rougher the better - ‘straight’ tradesmen a speciality. They couldn’t get enough of his boyish good looks, big brown eyes and one-liners and nor could I. One day, he came in looking particularly worse for wear, but still smiling as always. My ‘what happened to you’ was met with a wry smile as he recounted a gymnastic session with a plumber from Bath who’d been working away from home and wife. Jack was lean, muscular and six foot two - bingo. After last orders, Jack had lured Andrea back to a nearby derelict building where he was staying and working. They’d fucked like the world was ending, but after a grunting climax, Jack’s face flooded with guilt so Andrea made his excuses and left. Hungry drunk when he arrived home, Andrea decided on a Fray Bentos steak pie which he plunged into a pan of water and set to boil. An hour or so later just as dawn was breaking, he was jolted awake by the exploding pie which had turned the kitchen into an insane scatological Jackson Pollock with added shrapnel, but he didn’t care. ‘It’s a new look darling, they’ll all want it.’
Glitter ball
Andrea loved a party, and his 25th birthday was a great excuse to throw one. At the time the cafe was on a roll and the queer place to hang so it seemed a natural choice for a venue. Plans were made and invitations sent out in embossed bespoke envelopes.
On the day, we closed early and laboured to transform the space into a palace befitting a queen. It wasn’t quite Versailles, but we did a fine job trying to recreate it with miles of ribbon, sumptuous fabrics, arum lilies and balloons. We hung, draped, squeezed and pinned into every available space. The food had to match the flamboyance, so canapés mimicking the blooms in Andrea’s florist were made – Arum lilies of curled calamari with stamen of sweet pepper, roses of salami and chorizo and devilled egg daisies amongst others. Local shops were stripped of their Champagne and spirit supplies, glasses polished and ice crushed. This was to be the party of the year and everyone invited came - there were no excuses. Shoulder pads, evening gowns and the loudest shirts in Christendom jockeyed to congratulate and adore Andrea. There was a wonderful infectious exuberance in the room, thanks to North Laine traders and the gay scene out for a good time. Before long, hips were shaking to the finest indie, funk and crowd pleasers, as Andrea flitted resplendent in a bespoke Katherine Hamnett suit of black bejewelled fabric that glittered like a night sky.
Hindsight explains the weight loss since his measurements were taken. The suit was meant to be roomy and flowing, but I noticed that it hung from him. At the time he would have brushed this off with some excuse about a new diet, but then he was always ‘feeling fat’ and on some diet or another. Of course, looking back now, it’s clear that he was already ill but perhaps unaware. Knowing might have helped him change aspects of his lifestyle, but there was no medication then. Knowledge of your status was not the power to take control it is today, it simply signposted a death sentence, and there was nothing positive about it. He was buried in that suit, no doubt to make a good impression when flirting with St Peter. ‘Lovely wings darling.’
There is a light that never goes out
Andrea ate much of his food at the café and usually I’d rustle up something he fancied to order from the supplies at hand. If memory serves, his favourite dish was a steaming plate of pasta with a creamy mushroom and bacon sauce, covered with an inch of parmesan cheese. But a half portion, because he was on a diet, naturally. I first remember concerns circling like black crows when Andrea started to lose his ravenous appetite and more of the little weight he carried on his slight frame. The boyish good looks and olive skin seemed to be fading like fabric left out in the sun. When we spoke about it, he brushed my concerns aside and always seemed to have a perfectly reasonable explanation. I remember him looking me square in the eye and saying there was absolutely nothing to worry about. But a dark anxiety and paranoia raged amongst gay men in those days and even a bad cold would have people jumping to conclusions. I was happy to believe what he told me for my own reasons of denial.
Some time passed and I began to notice a swelling on the left side of Andrea’s neck. This time it was an infection that was being treated he said, nothing to worry about, but my fears were back. At the time I was working as a volunteer for the Sussex AIDS Centre and Helpline and could not help but fear the worst. When the swelling grew to the size of an orange, cocking his head to the right I had to share my fears, but any mention of the virus was smothered, the idea dismissed and the subject quickly changed. In hindsight I wish I had done more, but realistically it was already too late. Perhaps I saw, or feared, something in his face that I had already seen before.
Very late one night my telephone rang and it was Andrea. He was clearly deeply upset and requested that I come over to see him. I dressed quickly and crossed the empty street as a fox slunk into the shadows. Andrea opened the door in tears and I followed him up the stairs to a kitchen still stained by the Fray Bentos Pollock. We sat at a table holding hands and he confirmed my worst fears. All I remember are three words delivered in a terrified yelp, ‘I have AIDS’ - I moved to cradle his dwindling form in my arms and whispered ‘you’ll be OK’ as our tears soaked my shirt.
Beaches
Andrea never came back to the café or worked again. He was admitted to Ward 6 at the Hove General Hospital, a place few managed to leave in the early 1990s. The ward was isolated from the rest of the hospital at the very top of the building, hidden away from a public fearful of the ‘gay plague’, but also to protect those staying there. Andrea was popular so there was always someone to visit, and I spent Sundays with him when the café was closed. Whenever he talked about his death, I would try to change the subject because I didn’t want to believe it. Andrea though was reconciled to his fate thanks to a Catholic faith which made him fearless and accepting, but also comforted him like a warm blanket on a cold night. It was his time to go and there was nothing that could be done. We would spend time watching movies together, gossiping, and planning visits to Sao Paolo to see the boys, bars and beaches when he ‘got better.’ Andrea would humour the plans, adding detail and anecdotes from his youth. ‘One day we’ll stroll Rua Oscar Freire looking at the boys’ I’d say, but he knew this would never happen.
Over the course of two months Andrea disappeared as the virus asset stripped his body. Each visit would see part of him shaved away and his suffering increased. On good days, when light would break through the clouds of his pain, he would tie up loose ends and sell his belongings so that every available penny could be sent home to his family. ‘How much for this do you think? It’s Paul Smith darling. He sounds so boring, but he makes lovely clothes.’ His resolve was iron and my love and admiration for him grew stronger with each day. When awake he was tenacious but always smiling or trying to make me smile. ‘What do think of my new diet? I wanted to lose weight darling, but this is ridiculous!’
I continued to visit Andrea wrapped in a shroud of denial. No one in my life had died and I couldn’t process the situation or imagine him gone so I avoided thinking about it. It felt impossible and ridiculous that he would not get better, he was only 26 for Christ’s sake.
One day Andrea requested the movie ‘Beaches’ which I hadn’t seen. All I knew was that it starred Bette Midler, so I expected something lightweight and funny. As the story of terminal illness and friendship flowed from the screen, I began to sob uncontrollably. Andrea held my hand with a rosary squeezed in between and consoled me. ‘I will die soon, because I’m almost ready. Do you believe in angels?’ I replied that I didn’t, ‘well you must,’ he said, ‘because soon I’ll be watching over you.’ Andrea slipped into a coma and died on the 13th May 1991. He was just 26 years old.
I think of Andrea often and it’s natural for me to look up to the sky to say hello. He is the kestrel hovering by the roadside, the jet trail hexagram, the crescent moon.
13 May 2021 - 30 years
The wind is strong and sharp today, tumbling clouds across the sky like toddlers running a sack race. But the sun shines through to give the blue greens of the hills and sea a flickering vitality. When its warmth glances against my cheek, it’s as reassuring and welcome as a hand caressing my face. I imagine it’s your hand Andrea and that gives me great comfort. Your grave is covered in grass with sprays of daisies and buttercups. There’s no headstone, but after all these years I find you easily enough, almost by instinct – number LAF265. I crouch down and push my finger into the green, feeling the chill of the ceramic plaque I made for you. A nest of ants has made their home here too, and they climb my arm as I carefully claw at the grass to reveal an outline. I pour water from a flask to wash away the mud and watch the past trickle away. These days the piece is chipped and cracked but the colour is still bright and the arum lily still visible. Despite the efforts of the gardeners and their tractor mowers it holds together, only the yellow stamen has gone. But the damage really doesn’t matter, if anything it’s given the piece the charm of a relic. I carefully wipe it clean and trim the grass with scissors to give a sharp edge, then I frame the plaque with the wild flowers that pepper the lawn. It’s been thirty years Andrea, thank you for watching over me and for keeping me safe.
