The Blue Cat

by Roland Graeme

  Walking on the sunbaked earth, I found it hard to imagine this had ever been swampland. The arid soil supported mostly dry grasses along with scrubby vegetation, and brightly coloured lizards darted about.

  The three temples dominated all else. Around them were the foundations of altars and fountains, the pillars of a forum, the tiers of seats in an arena, the road paving stones of sacred ways, fragments of statues, of cornices and mouldings. Flowering shrubs that burst from every cranny often obscured these strewn about crumbs of stone.

  When archaeologists first unearthed the monuments, they gave them names. Although these labels are still in common use, they are now considered erroneous. The one to the south is the oldest of the three, dating from the middle of the sixth century B.C. Eighteenth-century archaeologists dubbed it the Basilica, because they mistakenly believed it to be a Roman building. A basilica in Roman times was a structure intended for civic rather than religious use. In fact, like its more imposing neighbour, the Temple of Neptune, the so-called Basilica was dedicated to Hera, the goddess of fertility—a fact proven by the inscriptions on fragments of vases found during modern excavations. Likewise, heads and other pieces of small statuettes indicate that the Temple of Ceres was in fact raised in honour of Athena, the goddess of wisdom and protectress of agriculture, who invented the rake and the bridle and taught mortals how to yoke oxen to the plow. Appropriately, thick stands of wild wheat and barley now grew around her shrine.

  The Temple of Neptune, of massive dignity and grace, is the largest of the three sanctuaries. Almost two hundred feet in length and eighty feet wide, its fifty-eight columns, as convex as muscles swelling under strain, have mellowed to the tints of saffron and cinnamon, and when the full strength of the sunlight fell upon it, the building seemed to glow from within.

  Our foursome had divided itself into pairs, Will and Hervey going off exploring in one direction, Rick and I walking side by side in another. We strolled through the remains of the forum, then went to look at those of the amphitheatre. For a moment, I could not say anything. The beauty all around us entranced me.

  “What are you thinking?” Rick asked me.

  “That those ancient people were right when they chose this to be a sacred place. There’s something mysterious about it, even now. Think of all those generations of men and women, worshipping here, centuries ago.”

  “I’m disappointed, though, to read in the guidebook that the big temple wasn’t really dedicated to Neptune. It seems like a fitting place for him, somehow. You can almost imagine him rising out of the sea and taking possession of it.”

  “Well,” I said. “Maybe Neptune was never worshipped here. But he has his own temple, back in San Floriano. Namely, Le Terme di Nettuno.”

  “Yeah,” Rick agreed. “It’s a center of phallic worship.”

  “To which I became a convert long ago.”

  “You and me both.”

  “We’d have made good ancient Greeks or Romans. We’re both pagans at heart. They were hedonists, and they certainly didn’t see anything wrong with man-to-man love. Imagine, thousands of years ago, maybe right here where we’re standing now…two guys may have met for the very first time. They watched the gladiators fighting in the arena. They worshipped in one of the temples, then they went home to bed together and before they knew it, they fell in love.”

  “It sounds like they had a busy day. You’re an incorrigible romantic,” Rick said. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

  As Rick spoke, we saw Hervey and Will strolling back toward us. They were walking hand in hand, talking to each other, sharing some intimate thought.

  Rick nudged me. “Look at those two lovebirds.”

  His tone was jocular, but affectionate as well, in an almost paternalistic way.

  “Don’t knock it, Rick. I think they’re sweet. It must be wonderful to be young and in love and vacationing together in a place like this.”

  Rick seemed struck by a sudden thought. “It was. I mean, it is. I mean…it must be. For them.”

  It wasn’t like him to fumble for words. My curiosity got the better of me.

  “I know you don’t like to talk about yourself—” I said.

  “Don’t I? Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “Well, you don’t talk much about yourself, and I get the impression you don’t care much for personal questions.”

  “I didn’t know I was sending out that particular vibe. But let’s face it. My life is pretty transparent. What you see is what you get. I’m not harboring any deep, dark secrets.” He looked at me. “Is all this leading up to some personal question in particular that you want to ask me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ask away, then.”

  “I can’t help being curious about you and Jed. Why you split up.”

  “We didn’t split up. Not in the kind of dramatic sense you’re probably thinking of. Jed and I were pretty young when we met. Looking back, maybe it wasn’t such a smart move to make a serious commitment at that age. But we had a good run together. God knows we lasted longer than a lot of hetero marriages.”

  “So how’d the two of you fall out of love?”

  “That’s an interesting way of putting it. And probably accurate. It happened gradually, so much so that I didn’t notice anything was wrong at first. You see, the first few years after we bought The Blue Cat were tough. We weren’t sure we could make a go of it. Every cent we made went right back into the place. We were afraid to spend anything on ourselves. We worked seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year. We never took any time off. We told ourselves we couldn’t afford to. But living somewhere off the beaten track like here, owning a place like The Blue Cat, working for ourselves—that was our dream, when we first hooked up. And when we finally started to turn a little profit and could relax a bit, I thought our dream had come true and that it would be smooth sailing from then on. I took it for granted that nothing would ever change. But Jed changed. The routine of running a business, the penny-pinching, began to wear him down. When his father died, he had to go back home anyway, to take care of things there and be with his mother. We told each other it would be just a temporary absence. But I think even then, part of me knew he wasn’t going to come back. You see, now he had an excuse to break free of the drudgery and start all over again.”

  “What’s he doing now? For a living, I mean?”

  “He really doesn’t have to work for a living, because of the money his old man left him. But now he runs the family business—which is a chain of retail stores, by the way. It’s a lot less stressful than running a hotel, because Jed’s at the top of the corporate ladder and has all these people working under him, to whom he can delegate a lot of the responsibility. But it’s the kind of job that would bore me to death. He and I are different that way.”

  “You two seem to have handled the whole thing like adults.”

  “Why not? There wasn’t any point in being childish or petty about it. Which doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt, especially during those first few months. God, how I hated going up to the apartment alone at night. Of course, I wasn’t always alone. I whored around a lot. Still do, as you’ve no doubt observed. I think they call it rebound sex.”

  “It must’ve been an adjustment, being single again.”

  “You’ve always been single, haven’t you? Never lived with anybody, never pooled your resources and worked together toward some goal you both wanted? I bet you’ve always been free to do as you pleased, without having to take anybody else’s wants or needs into consideration.”

  “Ouch. You make me sound awfully selfish.”

  “That’s not how I meant it at all. It’s my turn to ask the personal question, that’s all. If anything, I admire you. It must take a certain amount of guts to go it alone.”

  “Maybe. But maybe I’ve had enough of that way of life and I’m ready to try something different.”

  “With somebody like Geoff?”


  “You’re a good guesser.”

  “I don’t think I deserve a prize for coming to that conclusion. Your feelings for him are pretty obvious.”

  “So are Will and Hervey’s feelings for each other,” I observed, as they rejoined us, still walking hand in hand and smiling at us with looks of blissful goofiness on their handsome young faces.

  “Young people today,” Rick said, making sure he spoke loudly enough for them to hear. “No self-control.”

  “I think self-control is highly overrated, myself.” I protested.

  “You would!”

  We had dinner in a trattoria in the modern town of Paestum, which is located north of the archaeological site and is a popular beach resort. During the drive back, our conversation was lively. It was an ideal end to a perfect day.

  It was quite late when we got back to San Floriano. Will and Hervey excused themselves and went to their room and Rick and I retired to his apartment.

  Rick let out a sigh. “God, I’m dead beat. Absolutely exhausted.”

  “And you have to get up in the morning.”

  “Don’t remind me. But don’t get me wrong. I needed to do something like this, to remind me that there’s more to life than bookkeeping. I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.”

  “Yes, Hervey and Will are very nice, aren’t they? Too bad they aren’t staying here longer.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of them. I was thinking about you.”

  He had caught me off guard. “Me?” I asked.

  “None other. You made the day special. You’re special.”

  “You’re embarrassing me, Rick.”

  “You don’t like compliments, do you? They make you feel uncomfortable.”

  “A little. Maybe it’s because I think I don’t deserve them.”

  He took a step toward me and touched me, on the arm. He ran his hand up and down, from my elbow to my shoulder and back again. “Why don’t you give in and let yourself deserve them, for once.”

  “You are so sweet.”

  “And you’re so hot. But don’t expect anything in the way of heroic lovemaking tonight. I already feel asleep on my feet.”

  “Let’s go to bed, then. We can just cuddle.”

  “I’d like that. It doesn’t always have to be a porn marathon, you know. Sometimes it’s nice to just…be with the other guy.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  An Invasion of Saracens

  I was sorry to see Will and Hervey go. They really were a nice couple, and they further endeared themselves to me when they insisted on buying one of my paintings and having it shipped home as a souvenir. It was, if I may be so immodest, one of the better things I’d done in San Floriano—a large picture, showing the town as seen from the waterfront, with The Blue Cat prominent among the other buildings.

  The townspeople were preparing for the August 14th celebration and there was a sense of anticipation in the air.

  Rick and I had an early dinner on the big day. Afterward, Rick excused himself, saying that he had to go and get ready for the show, as he put it, along with Donato and Tomaso and the others.

  “I’ll see you on the quay later on,” he said. “And make sure you wear something suitable for a boat ride, okay?”

  “Okay.” So they had invited me to join the private partying, on board the boats, after all. I was elated.

  The celebration began at dusk. The shops, restaurants and bars remained open, and a crowd made up of locals and tourists milled about the main piazza and the quay. Vendors had set up booths or wheeled their carts along, hawking fast foods, refreshments and other wares. Near The Blue Cat, a platform had been set up for a brass band, which blared away lustily. Its repertory incorporated everything from opera melodies to pop tunes. The bus line, I noticed, had scheduled extra runs, to bring outsiders in for the occasion.

  The crowd thickened in anticipation of the attack on the town, which the organizers had scheduled to begin at ten in the evening. Nevertheless, no one expected the Saracens to be on time. It was in fact almost half past ten when a succession of signal flares burst in the sky, far out to sea. These pirates were unusually considerate and were warning the town of their approach.

  The town’s church bell tolled, in counterpoint to the band’s playing. The crowd began to shift toward the quay and people looked out to sea, eager for their first glimpse of the boats.

  “I see them!” someone called out, at last. “There, on the horizon!”

  A man whom I recognized as one of the local fishermen jumped up onto the bandstand. He was carrying a bullhorn, which he raised to his lips.

  “The Saracens are coming! The Saracens are coming!” this Italian Paul Revere shouted. “Run for your lives! Hide your wives and daughters! The Saracens are coming!”

  The revellers, far from being alarmed, stood their ground. The band whipped itself into a frenzy. The church bell continued its measured tolling. There were cheers and applause as the boats drew nearer to the harbour and one by one, docked at the piers.

  Pennants, flower garlands and old, worn-out bed sheets dyed in bright colours draped over their rigging and their sides tricked out the vessels. It was a simple yet effective way of lending them an exotic look.

  I had not yet met the mayor of San Floriano, but now some of onlookers near me pointed him out to me, as he circulated through the crowd. He was a distinguished-looked older gentleman and he now stepped forward to confront the pirates, accompanied by a group of other municipal officials, who carried the picnic baskets in their arms. The crowd pressed forward to observe the encounter, as the pirates disembarked, assembled and marched across the quay. The band, somewhat incongruously, seemed to welcome the invaders, by striking up a march to accompany their progress.

  The pirates presented a colourful spectacle—colourful in the most literal sense.

  These Saracens wore a variety of baggy pants, reaching from their waists to the knees and crudely cut and crudely sewn together from gauzy fabrics such as cheesecloth. Otherwise, they were for all practical purposes naked, and strutted about barefoot and bare-chested. Rick had explained to me that no one would think of renting an elaborate pre-assembled costume for this occasion. Part of the fun was improvising a getup as inexpensively as possible out of whatever materials were at hand. The pirates had also blacked up themselves, although this wasn’t as politically incorrect as one might think. From the town’s art supply store, they’d obtained the kind of cheap nontoxic bulk paints that children use, and they’d daubed these pigments over all of the visible parts of their bodies. Some of the Saracens were indeed coal black as a result, but others were blue, green, yellow and red, and one had whitewash from head to foot. He must’ve been an albino.

  They had all accessorized themselves, with considerable ingenuity. Their pants had multicolour sashes holding them up—precariously in some cases. They wore equally flashy turbans wrapped tightly around their heads, with chicken and turkey feathers stuck into the folds. Jewellery, made from scrap materials—such things as seashells, pierced bottle caps, scraps of metal and cheap glass and plastic beads, all strung on lengths of brightly coloured yarn or rope, adorned their necks, wrists, biceps and ankles. Some were bedecked with chains, which I couldn’t help thinking gave them a vaguely BDSM look. With his red-painted skin, one muscular lad looked quite spectacularly decorated with necklaces, bracelets and anklets made entirely from fish skulls and another looked barbaric indeed with his red-painted skin.

  The Saracens glowered at the crowd and made threatening gestures, including much shaking of fists. Perhaps they were annoyed at having their pictures taken, as the crowd aimed cameras and mobile phones at them and flashed. No one seemed frightened by these intruders. On the contrary, people crowded around them to get a better look. There was a good deal of merriment as the townspeople recognized their neighbours, despite their disguises.

  “Make way!” the pirates shouted. “Make way for Birbantio, our invincible general
!”

  The pirates parted…there stood Birbantio, impersonated by none other than Rick, who in deference to his status as commander had a particularly lavish crop of feathers sprouting from his turban as well as bearing a genuine, if rusty, cutlass. He was one of the guys who had painted himself black, with a few contrasting white stripes here and there and his jewellery prominently featured cowbells, which rattled and tinkled every time he made a move. He looked weird and slightly scary, but also extremely sexy, and I could feel my cock stirring at the sight of him.

  “Tremble, you Christian dogs!” the Saracens bellowed. “Tremble before the great Birbantio! Fear him! Fear his might!”

  The pirates now performed a triumphant dance—with the band once again supplying the music. It was a foot-stomping, arm-waving, hip-swinging affair, which suggested that the Saracens had invented not only the male striptease, but also 1970s disco. They punctuated their gyrations with further cries of Trema and just plain war whoops.

  The cacophony ceased as the church bell and the band both fell silent.

  It was now time for the townspeople, represented by the mayor, to negotiate with the pirates. I gathered that the dialogue followed a basic traditional script with which all the participants were familiar, but was largely improvised, and thus the exact wording varied from year to year.

  Evidently, Birbantio was too exalted a personage to engage the townspeople directly in conversation. With flamboyant, operatic gestures, he mutely selected Tomaso as his spokesman and thrust him forward. Birbantio stood back and watched the proceedings, leaning on his sword, with a disdainful look on his blackened face.

  “Godless infidels,” the mayor said, addressing Tomaso. “What brings you to our peaceful town?”

  “The fortunes of war and our quest for booty.”

  “What is your intent?”

  “We will burn your town to the ground and slaughter every one of you, man, woman and child,” Tomaso blustered, “unless you placate us.”

  “Cruel men! Have you no pity?”