The Neapolitans, by contrast, never volunteered the information that they were artists. People had to coax the fact out of them, unless they happened to catch the artist with easel and brushes in hand. They looked like any other Italians when they came into a café. Over their coffee, they preferred to talk about just about anything except the problems of the artist. They seemed to have learned the lesson that the artist’s true struggle is always with his material, and that no one but himself can help him to survive that ongoing battle.
I befriended a few of these regular customers of The Blue Cat, not all of whom were artists.
One evening as I stood on the quay finishing a small painting of some boats in the harbour, a young fisherman happened to walk past. He stopped and watched while I added a few last accents to the canvas. He leaned toward me, putting his hand on my arm, and asked very shyly if I would be interested in painting a portrait of his boat. It was not as big as the ones in my picture, and some of its colour was faded, but he could tell me exactly how it ought to be, how it would look when he did get around to having it repainted. There followed a detailed description of the colour scheme, from mast tip to water line, then a worried look came into his face. How much would I charge for such a commission? He asked.
It was an awkward question. He did not strike me as a young man who had money to burn. “I would be happy to do it for you as a gift,” I said. “Although you might be able to do me a favour in return. You could take me out on your boat with you some day, so I could paint views of the shore as seen from the sea.”
His eyes lit up. “Yes! We will have ourselves a fine time. Now, let me buy you an aperitivo.”
We went inside The Blue Cat, where we drank Prosecco.
My new acquaintance’s name was Donato. At our second meeting, he introduced me to his friend and fishing partner, Tomaso. They were both handsome young men, hardworking, soft-spoken. They were saving up their money, they told me, so that they could get married.
The three of us took the boat out early one morning and spent a glorious day on the water. The boat did need a new paint job, and every part of it seemed permeated by various fish smells. None of this bothered me. I painted several views of the shoreline, dispensing with an easel and holding my small canvases propped up in my lap, while the two fishermen worked their nets. At last, though, I took a break from my labours and joined in theirs. They gave me a crash course in fishing and in handling the boat. It had an engine, but they only used it mostly for emergencies or on days when there was no wind. However, the wind was blowing strongly the whole time I was on board, and when we wanted to change our position, we unfurled the sails and were carried along through the foaming waves.
Late in the afternoon, when we returned to shore, I hauled out my easel and started work on the picture of Donato’s boat, in a larger format. In the days that followed, I put in a good deal of time and effort on the painting and ended up with something that I had to admit wasn’t too bad. The finished product pleased Donato, too, and he carried it home in triumph.
I shall have more to tell about my two fishermen friends in due course. For now, let me say only that I assumed they were both straight, and that I adopted a strict “hands off” policy toward them, accordingly.
Chapter Six
Evening Air
After settling myself in San Floriano, I found myself turning into a bit of a night owl. The relaxed pace of life in this small town encouraged me to slow down and stop watching the clock. I ate when I was hungry and slept when I was tired. The warm evenings were so beautiful that I hated them to end and so, not unlike a stubborn child, I did everything in my power to delay going to bed.
Often, I stayed up late to send Geoff emails, bringing him up to date on my experiences. I told him about The Blue Cat, about Luigi, Donato and Tomaso. I described how I spent my days painting outdoors and of course, I told him all about Rick.
You’d like Rick, I typed on my laptop’s keyboard, in my room late one night. I think you and he have a lot in common. And no, I haven’t slept with him yet!
I hesitated, then I added. Do I want to? I have to admit, Geoff, that the thought’s crossed my mind. More than once, maybe. After all, you’re the one who insisted that we should both feel free to screw around. However, I’ve behaved myself on this trip, so far. You’re still the main man in my life, no matter who else may come along. I love you.
For a moment, I thought about deleting those last three words. I didn’t want to put any pressure on Geoff.
Nevertheless, I decided to let I love you stand. I added Goodnight. Take care of yourself.
I hit the send button. I consulted my wristwatch. I didn’t feel sleepy yet. I decided to go downstairs and treat myself to a grappa at The Blue Cat’s bar. The crowd was thinning out and the employees had begun tidying up, in anticipation of closing for the night.
Rick joined me. He had that winding-down look about him, the kind a man gets at the end of a long workday.
“How’s your drink?” he asked me.
“Fine.”
“Have another one, on the house. I sure as hell am going to join you.”
He refilled my glass with grappa. I thanked him and he prepared a stiff whiskey and soda for himself.
“So tell me,” he asked, after taking a slug of his drink. “Is everything here to your satisfaction so far?”
It was an incongruously formal-sounding inquiry coming from him, although it seemed softened somewhat by his characteristic American accent.
“I couldn’t be happier.”
“You’re a suspiciously undemanding guest,” he mock accused me. “You haven’t asked for anything out of the ordinary and you haven’t complained about anything. I distrust you.”
“Well, let me think of something to complain about, if that’ll put your mind at ease. I know. There are too many attractive men in this town. Including right here in this hotel, from the proprietor on down. It’s a distraction. It takes my mind off my work. You might have the decency to hire one or two homely men.”
“You haven’t met Giuseppe, the dude who does most of my janitorial work for me. He’s homely enough to satisfy you, I would think. Although he must have something going for him. His wife is a beautiful woman and she’s already given him five children and is pregnant with a sixth.”
“They probably make love with the lights out.”
“Probably. That isn’t my style. I like to see what—and whom—I’m doing. Don’t you?”
“Yes. It helps to avoid accidents, such as falling out of the bed.”
“Oh? Are you in the habit of indulging in the kind of activities that involve a risk of falling out of the bed?”
“I’ve been known to attempt the occasional acrobatic stunt, with the right partner.”
We were flirting with each other, in that casual, harmless way gay men have of teasing one another. It was light-hearted and essentially innocent, although there was always the possibility that it might lead to something else.
Luigi was making the rounds of the room with a tray, clearing the tables. I realized that I was the only customer left.
“We’ll be closing the bar for the night soon,” Rick said. “Would you like one last drink?”
“No, thanks. I’ll just finish this one.”
He nodded, then went about his business, exchanging a few words with his employees and puttering about behind the bar for a few minutes before he disappeared through one of the side doors. He returned through it a moment later, with a wide, shallow wicker basket slung over the crook of one arm and a pair of what looked to me like secateurs or garden clippers in his other hand.
I had finished my drink, so I carried my empty glass over to the bar.
“What on earth are you up to?” I asked Rick.
“Oh, I thought I’d do a little gardening before I went to bed.”
“Gardening? At this time of night?”
“Just deadheading the roses. It�
��s a clear night and the moon’s out. That’ll be enough light to see by. If you’re not in a big hurry to call it a night…maybe you’d like to keep me company?”
“I would. Can I help?”
“Sure, if you want to. Come on.”
He led me into the kitchen, where he rummaged about in a drawer and a cabinet and found a second pair of secateurs for me, along with, instead of another basket, a more prosaic plastic bucket. We went out a back door and I found myself at one end of the long narrow rectangular open area at the rear of the hotel.
I hadn’t paid much attention to this garden, although I’d passed by it during the day and had glimpsed it through the ground-floor windows. Red brick walls enclosed the garden and it had matching brick-paved walkways. There were neatly trimmed boxwood hedges and clumps of trees and shrubs, including some impressive umbrella pines and lemon trees growing in oversized terracotta pots. In the moonlight, I couldn’t fully appreciate the blooms in the flowerbeds we passed, but I could certainly detect their scent, which filled the still night air. Rick led me into the midst of what was obviously an extensive and old rose garden.
We got down to work. It wasn’t a complicated procedure. You identified any rose bloom that was past its best or already shriveled and you cut it off, allowing it to fall into your basket or, in my case, into my bucket. This deadheading encouraged the rosebushes to put their energy into producing new buds and blossoms, rather than rose hips.
It was an oddly peaceful and relaxing chore. This town seemed, for the most part, to go dark and to fall asleep at night. Except for the occasional faint insect noise, the only sounds seemed to be the repeated snip of our secateurs as we made our way from one bush to another. At one point, I did hear, coming from what seemed to be very far away, the high-pitched, penetrating drone of a ship’s steam whistle.
Every time I took a breath, the odour of the roses filled my nostrils, heavy and sweet. It was as though the night air was perfumed.
We had been working for several minutes and had made good progress, before Rick spoke.
“Tell me something about yourself,” he said.
“What would you like to know?”
“Well, I’ve already looked you up on the internet,” he admitted, with a candour that I found unusual and refreshing. “So tell me something about yourself that isn’t public knowledge.”
“There’s not so much to tell. I’m the product of a privileged background. But for some reason, I didn’t want to settle for being a spoiled brat. I wanted to try to make my own way in the world—however modestly.”
“And have you succeeded?”
“I’m reasonably independent. Reasonably content. Reasonably happy. Reasonably just about everything, in fact.”
“Only reasonably? Is that all you’re willing to accept? Wouldn’t you like to have at least one thing in your life be unreasonable…have it be wild, extravagant, irrational?”
“Sure. But sometimes that seems like too much to ask, here in the real world.”
“You’re pessimistic.”
“I’m cautious. There’s a difference. How about you? Are you an incurable optimist?”
“Um, I don’t think so. I’d describe myself as a fatalist. Which isn’t quite the same thing as being a pessimist.”
“But you seem happy.”
“I’m satisfied. Reasonably content with my lot in life, as you put it a moment ago. I enjoy life. Too many people really don’t. They just sort of blunder through existence, day after day.”
“You’ve been in love. You’ve had a lover.”
“Oh, many lovers. One partner. Again, there’s a difference.”
“Tell me about him, if you don’t mind talking about it.”
“I don’t mind talking about it at all. But you’re going to be disappointed if you expect some sort of big, dramatic revelation. Our story was pretty ordinary. We had a good run of it. We were together for five years even before we first came to Italy.”
“Did you two come from the same background or—”
“Oh, very different ones. His family is old money. Mine is lower middle class. Respectably so, but still definitely not listed in any social register. Jed never really had to work for a living. I’ve always had to, at one thing or another. Often in bars and restaurants, working for other people. That’s what must’ve given me the idea that, someday, I’d like to own and run my own place. But come on, now. Enough about me. I want to know more about you. You must be interested in other things besides painting?”
At first, I could not think of anything. Finally, after performing another series of floral decapitations, I ventured, inanely, “I do like football.”
“When you Englishmen say football, I assume you mean soccer? Me, too, although I didn’t develop any appreciation of it or enthusiasm for it until I moved here. Of course the Italians are all soccer-mad, too.”
“I like soccer players, in particular.”
“So do I. What’s not to like?”
I was feeling increasingly bold. “I like it when a man is all hot and sweaty and even his hair is wet with sweat. I don’t even mind it if he’s a little dirty.”
“Neither do I. How remarkable. You and I seem to have a lot in common. So tell me. Are you a top or a bottom?”
“I don’t feel any need to label myself. I like it either way. In fact, I especially like it when the other bloke and I flip-flop. You know, take turns?”
“Me, too. Damn. We’d better change the subject. I’m starting to spring a boner, just from talking about it.”
“No harm done, I’m sure.” I tried to keep my tone of voice casual, although I was feeling anything but.
“Speaking of soccer players…we’ve had some stay here at The Blue Cat, as a matter of fact. When they were traveling, in between matches or on vacation.”
“Really? Any names I might recognize?”
“Maybe. But my dear viscount, you must realize that I am the soul of discretion when it comes to my guests’ identities and their activities while they are under my roof. In other words, what goes on here in San Floriano stays in San Floriano. I will of course extend the same discretion to you,” he added, archly, “should you decide to amuse yourself during your stay in any way that might be considered potentially embarrassing. After all, we wouldn’t want your name and face to appear on the front page of one of those god-awful tabloid newspapers you have back home in England.”
I burst out laughing. “Fuck you and fuck your discretion.”
“Now you’re getting me all excited again. There’s something about an English accent that makes words like fuck sound dirtier, somehow.”
“I find that an American accent can be quite provocative, too.”
“Do you? You want to know something? I like you. I bet you can be a lot of fun.”
“You might just win that bet. Only one way to find out. Put it to the test.”
“I’m tempted to.”
We had reached the far end of the garden, where a surprise awaited the visitor who strolled this far. Here, the rosebushes ringed a small fountain. Its weathered stone basin was speckled with mosses and lichens, as was the piece of statuary that rose above the water. This was a triton, with the muscular upper body of a man, culminating in an enticingly fat bare rump. Below his groin, instead of legs, he had a weird-looking bifurcated fish tail, with which he was straddling a dolphin. The triton was blowing an upraised conch shell, and it was from this that a trickle of water dribbled down into the basin.
“He’s a charmer,” I remarked, as Rick and I made the rounds of the encircling rosebushes.
“Yes, isn’t he? He’s very old—eighteenth century, at least. He’s stood here on this spot for as long as anybody can remember, although we have upgraded his plumbing several times over the years. We let him spurt during the daytime, but we turn down the water pressure at night.” Rick laughed. “The opposite of what happens to most men.”
In one cor
ner of the garden, beside a storage shed, there was a compost heap, and it was there that we deposited our double load of spent roses.
“Good job,” Rick praised me.
“If you’re looking for a part-time gardener, I’d like to apply for the job.”
“You’re hired. But wait. You implied that I should only hire unattractive employees from now on. I’m afraid that disqualifies you.”
“Make an exception.”
“I’ll think about it. What are you prepared to do, to persuade me to take you on?”
“You might be surprised by how far I’d be willing to go.”
“I doubt it.”
We were back in our light, bantering mode. Back inside the hotel, we put our gardening things away. The building seemed eerily quiet. Not only the guests, but also the staff, seemed to have retired for the night.
“Want a nightcap?” Rick asked. “I’m going to have one.”
“Then I’ll join you.”
I expected him to take me into the now-deserted barroom, but instead he led me to the elevator. He hit the button for the fifth floor and I realized that he must be taking me to his private quarters.
There were guest rooms on this, the top floor of the building, but his door did not have a number, which distinguished it from the others.
His apartment had windows facing the sea. It was small, consisting of a living room, a bedroom, a kitchenette and a bathroom. He hadn’t resorted to the common trick of painting the walls in light colours in order to make the rooms seem larger. On the contrary, the walls and ceilings were dark olive green, dull charcoal grey and an earthy reddish brown. I wondered what they would look like during the daytime. In the isolated pools of artificial light provided by several small table lamps, the rooms had an intimate, mysterious quality.
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