How It All Blew Up

by Arvin Ahmadi

  That was when I found him. One of the locations, a bar called Garbo, had an active Instagram story. I tapped through the story, which showed a crowded room with people reading at the front, and there he was. Amir, wearing a white T-shirt and khaki pants, his hair long and black and curly, talking in front of a group of Italian people. He looked so confident up there. He was glowing under the bright lights.

  Most of all, Amir looked happy—I could tell, even from that ten-second clip, that he was happier than I’d seen him in a long time.

  Did I really want to ruin that?

  Interrogation Room 38

  Roya Azadi

  GROWING UP, THERE was a boy who lived on my block in Tehran. His name was Payman. He fluttered around our little street like a butterfly, always smiling, singing—like there was a world of happiness in every step he took. The other girls and I liked him. He wasn’t threatening. But the boys constantly mocked him. Whenever we played with Payman, the boys would find us, and they would come over, cocky and stupid, just like most boys at that age, and they would tease Payman for no reason. Che mikoni, parvaneh? What are you doing, butterfly? They were so cruel to him.

  I haven’t thought about Payman in a long time. His family left Tehran for the countryside; I don’t know what happened to him, but later in life, I figured out why he was different. I figured out why those boys had teased him.

  I don’t want Amir to be different because I don’t want him to get hurt.

  Interrogation Room 39

  Afshin Azadi

  THE OTHER OFFICER told you Amir is gay? How is that relevant? We were simply arguing about … oh, something. Something else. A complete misunderstanding. It is complicated. But I don’t appreciate you saying things like that about my family.

  Nine Days Ago

  VALERIO HAD PROMISED to take me on another “epic date.” We were texting one morning, and he decided we would see the Sistine Chapel, because it was one of his favorite places in Rome, and apparently Goethe had written, “Until you have seen the Sistine Chapel, you can have no adequate conception of what man is capable of accomplishing.”

  “Never heard of this Goethe dude,” I replied, making a mental note to look him up on Wikipedia later. “But that does sound pretty epic.”

  Now I was standing in the grand foyer of the Vatican. The ceilings were curved, high, made of fine marble. Frescoes everywhere. I was at the center of the Catholic universe. As I waited for Valerio to buy our tickets, I realized that every little thing I had done that morning felt significant. It was like a Lonely Island song.

  I took a step—AT THE VATICAN.

  I drank some water—AT THE VATICAN.

  I took a shit—AT THE VATICAN.

  That last one might have actually been significant. It was technically the holiest shit of my life.

  Valerio returned with our tickets. He was looking amazing that day, wearing a tucked-in polo with jeans rolled just above the ankle. He smiled at me with those soft lips. I mean, who gave him the right?

  I suppose God.

  Right.

  A woman with rectangular glasses and dark red lipstick directed us outside, to a large terrace where tour groups and families seemed to be getting their start. The area had massive sculptures, which the guides were describing in animated detail.

  It was the hottest day since I had arrived in Rome. The sun was relentless. I decided to rest back against a ledge as Valerio took in the sculptures.

  He leaned next to me. “Tired already?”

  I smiled. Ledges seemed to be our thing. Valerio then nudged my waist and leaned deeper into my side.

  “Is this okay?” I whispered, looking around.

  Valerio pulled me in. “Do not let people tell you how to live your life, Amir.”

  “I just feel self-conscious, that’s all.”

  “It is all about how you present yourself,” Valerio said, smiling at a man wearing a fanny pack who was glaring at us. “If I was standing in front of the Pope and I said, ‘Oh, I am so sorry, Mr. Pope, I am gay,’ then of course he would be like, ‘Yeah, no. Not cool.’ But if I said, ‘Hey, I am gay,’ like it is my eye color, then the Pope would probably shrug and be like, ‘Okay, live your truth.’” Valerio jumped off the ledge and took a bow before me. “It is all about delivery.”

  I smiled. “Have you always been like this?”

  “Like what?”

  “Confident in yourself,” I said. “In talking to others. In putting yourself out there, in a place where, you know, yourself isn’t exactly welcome.”

  Valerio waved his hand. “It is not confidence. It is more like—what is the word in English? Ti costringi. You force it.” He scratched his head. “How do you say …”

  “Fake it till you make it?” I offered.

  “Yes. That.”

  Signs kept pointing to the Sistine Chapel, but it was nowhere in sight. There was always another glittering exhibit. Another statue. A courtyard. A bathtub. We hit a breezy courtyard, with the jankiest fountain at the center. It was almost laughable. It was just a shrub with a tiny spurt of water coming out on top. I figured it had to be a significant shrub—some chunk of holy land—but I kind of preferred not knowing.

  I noticed there were pennies in the fountain, so I tossed one in. Valerio popped up next to me.

  “So, where’s the Sistine Chapel?” I asked.

  “Is that the whole reason you are here? At the center of Catholicism, one of the most influential religions in the history of mankind?”

  I pointed at Bulbasaur the Shrub. “You’re calling that influential?”

  Valerio sighed. “Americans.”

  We moved over to a statue of a strong body with curly hair, twisted in the most intricate, impossible body contortions. A snake wrapped between that statue and other figures, their elbows and arms, linking them all together.

  Valerio explained the history of the sculpture—it was by three sculptors of Rhodes, it depicted a famous Trojan priest and his three sons being attacked by serpents, it was very famous—and I listened. I made sure to nod, but not too much. I wondered where Valerio was going with this. All of this. I wondered what exactly he was looking for, because even if some part of me was still traumatized from Jackson, how that had ended, I couldn’t deny that Valerio and I had chemistry. We were on a second date. Something was setting in, like the moment paint starts to dry.

  We moved on to the next exhibit, a hall of marble busts lined up around the circlular room. I moved down the line, inspecting their faces. They all looked so calm, so at peace. It was as if the marble busts were saying, “Don’t worry, Amir. Everything will be fine.”

  Easy for you to say, bust of Caesar. You didn’t worry and look where that got you. Stabbed by Brutus.

  Valerio whispered in my ear, “We should totally just stab Caesar.”

  My heart fluttered. “You’ve seen Mean Girls?”

  He looked at me with a confused expression. “Of course. It is a classic. I am from Puglia, Amir; I did not grow up under a rock.”

  I smiled.

  “So you’re telling me they have movies in Puglia.”

  “Oh, we had more than movies. We had scenes from the movies. The most beautiful coast in the world.” We exited the room of busts and followed another sign for Cappella Sistina, up a marble staircase. “It is still my favorite place. When I was younger, I would go and take a bag of plums—they were my favorite fruit—and sit and watch the ocean. Even when I was a teenager, I would leave my phone at home. I would go and think about life, how one day I would leave Italy.”

  “I don’t understand why anyone would ever leave Italy,” I said.

  Valerio looked at me and laughed. “Of course you do not. You are American. But for us, it is different. All my mother ever wanted was for me to leave Puglia and go somewhere like London, Copenhagen, New York. But now I do not think it is possible.”

  “Why not?”

  Valerio’s jaw tensed.

  “Do you remember at Rigatteria, wh
en you looked up my university on your phone,” he said, “and read that it was one of the best in Italy?”

  I nodded.

  “I got into a better university in England. One of the best ones in the world. But then my mother got sick. Ovarian cancer, a long, drawn-out bastard. That is why I am working so much this summer.”

  “Because the hospital bills are so bad?”

  “What? No.” Valerio looked at me like I was crazy. “Unlike in your country, we believe health care is a right. I am working because my mother cannot work in this condition. She wanted me to go to London, but with our finances, it would have been impossible. I have younger sisters in school, and there are bills to pay. I had to stay.”

  We approached a large door, entering what seemed like another courtyard flooded with sunlight.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Do not be,” Valerio said. We had entered an outdoor pathway connecting two chambers. No courtyard in sight. “In Italy, family is everything. It was my choice. Though maybe if I had gone to London, I would not have had cute boys falling asleep on me after a nice date.”

  I grinned like a fool. “How many times do I have to say it? Italian. Food. It’s just not suitable for dates. I don’t see how the words ‘romantic’ and ‘Italian dinner’ can ever be used together.”

  Valerio and I moved slowly across the walkway, soaking up that first moment of sunlight since we started our Vatican tour.

  “What about your family?” Valerio asked.

  I took a sharp breath. “I don’t really talk to them anymore,” I said shyly. “They’re not cool with the gay thing. So I guess they’re not cool with me.”

  Valerio grew silent. I looked over to read his expression when his eyes lit up. Suddenly, he glanced quickly over his shoulder, grabbed my arm, and tugged me forward.

  He pulled me behind a wooden door that was propped open at the end of the walkway, just before the next exhibit, into a little hiding spot in the corner. It was dark. I could hear the chatter of people, footsteps, behind the door. I opened my mouth to ask what the hell he was doing when Valerio leaned in and kissed me.

  I pulled back.

  “What are you doing?” I said, my eyes big and scared.

  Valerio held my face and whispered, “I am cool with the gay thing. Fuck everyone else.”

  “But we’re at the Vatican.”

  “So what?”

  “So, like, Catholicism.” I remembered how Jackson wore a silver cross around his neck that, when we were lying in his car with the seats reclined, would press into my arms and leave a mark. Sometimes I’d get anxious that that mark would give me away if my mom or dad ever noticed it.

  I checked over my shoulder. Wall. Door. Darkness. I looked at Valerio. Cute boy. Soft, full lips. Lips that were their own art form. That deserved an entire exhibit. This whole thing was crazy, I realized, but why should a place dictate where we can and can’t be ourselves? So I kissed him. Deliberately. No shame.

  Even if it turned out I would never see the Sistine Chapel, I would have experienced that kiss, and it felt just as important as all these statues and painted ceilings.

  Just as suddenly, Valerio pulled back and swooped around the door, tugging me with him into the next exhibit. “You tease,” I said, my heart racing. Another part of me throbbing. We were walking like fools. “You and this whole museum.”

  We approached a golden door at the end of the hall. This has to be it, I thought to myself. This has to be the Sistine Chapel.

  Bamboozled again. It was a darker, more crowded hall with tapestries on the wall. No one was stopping to appreciate the intricate maps of the old world sewn into these cloths; we were all just shuffling through, rushing to the main event. I felt kind of bad that all these exhibits weren’t getting any love.

  “This must be what it feels like to open for Beyoncé,” I said.

  “Worse,” Valerio said. “It is like if Beyoncé were opening for God.”

  Somehow, there was another long hall, this one with an even more spectacularly painted ceiling. But not spectacular enough, because it still wasn’t the Sistine Chapel. The Catholic Church was doing the most here.

  “This place needs a fast pass,” I grumbled.

  “It will all be worth it,” Valerio reassured. “Remember what Goethe said?”

  “Yeah, well, Goethe skipped a lot of steps.”

  Valerio shook his head. “You impatient Americans.”

  We sped through multiple chambers dedicated to Raphael, a contemporary art museum, the Hall of Animals. I imagined the marble zebras and lions coming to life, like the National Zoo gone wild. Maybe I was hallucinating; I hadn’t had any water in hours.

  Then I saw it. A big red sign at the top of a nondescript staircase: CAPPELLA SISTINA. This one was different from all the others. This one was real.

  “Valerio,” I whispered.

  Slowly, we shuffled toward the sign, and as we passed through the door, I was expecting some kind of earth-shifting change. After all that buildup, I was expecting fireworks, laser beams, an entire spectacle.

  It was a dark, cool room. It was crowded.

  Valerio nudged me. “Look up.”

  The first thing I saw was the iconic Michelangelo image: God and Adam, heavenly homies, with their hands reaching out, fingers barely touching.

  “Holy shit,” I said.

  “Holy shit, indeed,” Valerio said.

  My eyes pinged everywhere. These people, these painted figures, pale-skinned and bare and robed, holy, human, a collective fantasy, another world. High above. It all came to life before my eyes.

  It was the biggest party in the world.

  It was the most important room in the world.

  “Hey,” Valerio said. “What do you think?”

  My gaze swept around the room, all the layers, the levels of this world that Michelangelo created. “Like I finally have an adequate conception of what man is capable of accomplishing,” I said with a smile.

  Gazing up at Michelangelo’s masterpiece, I thought to myself: I wish I could talk to Amir from a month ago. The one who thought his life was over. I wish I could have told myself it was all going to be okay. Like, hey, Past Amir. Hey, buddy. You’re going to be fine. You’re going to make great friends in Rome, and you’ll sneak kisses with cute Italian boys in the Vatican, and everything will be okay.

  Valerio brushed his hand against mine, and for a few seconds, our pinkies linked. I looked up and took in the intricate design of the ceilings, the cool air of the room. I took one more look at the central image. Man and God. Adam, with his knee propped up, leaning back and leaning in at the same time.

  Valerio nudged my arm. “Pretty epic, right?”

  “Pretty epic,” I said.

  Interrogation Room 37

  Amir

  I DIDN’T MEAN to get into the specifics of my date with Valerio, but judging from your intense level of attention, you seemed to be okay with it. There’s something about you, Officer. It’s like you have a soft side.

  Unfortunately, this story is about to sour like a poorly made batch of limoncello. Limoncello? It’s a lemon digestif they make in Naples—digestif, it’s like an aperitif. Um. Wow, and I thought I was the teenager.

  Do you watch RuPaul’s Drag Race, sir? You’ve heard of it? You say you accidentally walked into a viewing party at a sports bar thinking it was a football game? I ask because it can get dramatic, in a way only the gays can, so buckle up.

  Viewer discretion is advised.

  Interrogation Room 38

  Soraya

  HALF OF ME wanted Amir to stay in Rome, to stay happy and live his life there. I thought I could just ignore what I had discovered. But the other half of me wanted my brother back in my life. I don’t get it. I don’t even like Amir that much. I’m pretty sure I like him a normal amount, for a little sister. I just wanted him back.

  Anyway, I was busy with Cats rehearsal—we had finally gotten to my part of the script—so that got in the
way, too. I can’t pretend it was just my internal debate. I’m not that good of a person. I was knee-deep in “Memory.” It had to be perfect. I had to hit a high C. I don’t know if you know music, but it’s very hard.

  I remember one night, I heard my parents talking in the kitchen. They didn’t know I was home; I think they thought I was at rehearsal. But I had that night off. I remember my mom asking, “Well, what? Would we rather have our son be gay, or would we rather not have him at all?” And I remember my dad was just silent.

  Eight Days Ago

  THE MORNING AFTER my date with Valerio, I had coffee with Jahan. We met at a café on the main Viale. There was one right underneath Jahan’s apartment, a narrow coffee bar where you stood and ordered—posso avere un caffè, per favore—but Jahan preferred the one on the Viale because it was owned by a butch lesbian Italian woman. Support your local queers, he liked to say.

  “So you’re in love,” he said.

  “With the Sistine Chapel, yes. She was beautiful. Even if she did play hard to get.”

  Jahan knocked back his coffee in one shot. Espresso. The Italians only drink espresso. “Ahh. All right, lover boy. So you’re seeing him today.”

  “I need to work today,” I said. I had promised two different people I would make their Wikipedia pages today. That was a whole month’s rent.

  “This weekend?”

  “He’s out of town. Visiting his family in Puglia.”

  “Oh, he’s from Puglia! Poor boy. It’s even hotter down there than it is here.” Jahan wiped a rivulet of sweat from his forehead. Even standing at the bar directly in front of a spinning fan, we were drowning in our own sweat. “Well, you know what I say about boys.”

  “I don’t think you’ve ever told me what you say about boys.”