The Blue Cat

by Roland Graeme

  Things proceeded without mishap until the final scene of the opera. Nabucco, after suffering a bout of divinely-induced insanity, recovers his wits and renounces the worship of the Babylonian god Baal in favour of Jehovah. Evil Abigaille is planning a mass execution of the Hebrew captives, but Nabucco comes to their aid. Sure enough, with all of those hunky extras still on salary, the director wasn’t about to let them go to waste. He pressed them into service again, as executioners. Wearing little black masks and brandishing axes, they looked like a Tom of Finland BDSM fantasy come to life. I must confess I was a bit disappointed when the executions didn’t actually come off.

  An enormous statue of Baal dominated the set for the final scene, and in this production the god was one ugly motherfucker.

  If you looked closely, you could see wires attached to various parts of the statue’s anatomy. I’d done my homework, I knew that at the opera’s climax Nabucco and his soldiers were going to storm in and stop the executions. Nabucco would declare that henceforth the Babylonians must worship Jehovah as the one true god. He then orders his soldiers to destroy the image of the false god Baal, but before they can do so, there is another instance of divine intervention. The statue of Baal breaks into pieces and topples of its own accord.

  I suspected that those wires had something to do with the idol shattering and I was right.

  Nabucco issued his command. With threatening gestures, the soldiers moved toward the statue. There was a flash of lightning and a big bang, all the wires tightened, and Baal’s head detached from his shoulders and flew up out of sight. His legs separated and fell down, his arms and torso broke apart, stagehands yanked them offstage to either side. It was a very striking piece of stagecraft—except that it didn’t go quite right. Half of the torso and the corresponding arm swung away and disappeared into the wings, all right, but then they swung right back on. They gained momentum in the process, and the stray chunks of Baal smacked Zaccaria right in the kisser. He screamed like a girl—I couldn’t believe that a bloke with such a deep bass voice could emit such a high-pitched squeal—and he toppled over, nursing his cheek. Obviously, the Babylonian god wasn’t giving up without a fight. Nabucco came to his fallen colleague’s rescue and helped him to get back up, returning the favour he had given him in Act One.

  Meanwhile, the body parts continued to swing back and forth, like a pendulum. The audience burst into laughter—and sarcastic applause. Once again, those muscle-bound extras earned every euro of their pay. Two of Nabucco’s soldiers drew their swords and hacked away at the suspended body parts, until they broke free of the wires and fell down on the stage. The audience responded with more applause and cheers.

  After that, the last minutes of the opera were somewhat anticlimactic. During the curtain calls, the baritone received a lot of applause, which he deserved. The soprano was once again both booed and cheered. She lost it and shook her fist in the direction of a group of the loudest booers. This turned the tide, because the Italians love a display of temperament. The applauders redoubled their efforts and they carried the day. Now the soprano was all modesty and smiles as, with her hand held to her heart, she knelt down on the stage and picked up a bouquet of flowers that some fan had hurled across the orchestra pit.

  After all the soloists had taken their bows, the curtain came down, only to go up again to reveal the chorus, lined up in a row. Applause filled the auditorium. The curtain fell and rose again. This time the extras lined up on the stage.

  I decided that there was no need for me to exercise Anglo-Saxon restraint, not in this audience and after this performance. I stood up and shouted “Bravissimi!” at the top of my lungs and Rick followed my example. So did many members of the audience. The extras looked delighted and the two dudes who had completed the demolition of the idol stepped forward and took quick solo bows!

  Rick and I left the theatre and stopped at a sidewalk café, for a late night coffee and some people watching. We agreed that we’d undeniably gotten our money’s worth. To our astonishment, the two audience members who had nearly gotten into a fistfight during the performance sat down at the table next to ours. They were still arguing about whether the Russian soprano was a gifted artist handicapped by a flawed voice or a just plain lousy singer who ought to be sent back to Siberia in disgrace. They ordered stiff drinks, which at least seemed to keep the discussion civil. They were still going at it when Rick and I paid our bill and left.

  To cap off the evening, Rick took me to a gay bar in Naples, called Depot. It was a lively place. Somehow, I wasn’t too surprised when some of the well-build extras from the San Carlo showed up. We bought them a round of drinks and complimented them on their performance, but we went back to our hotel alone.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Farewells and a Homecoming

  My time in San Floriano was drawing toward its end.

  I offered Rick his choice of my paintings to add to The Blue Cat’s gallery. He liked a view I’d done of the triton fountain in the hotel’s rose garden, so I gave him that one. I proceeded to the art supply shop to arrange to have all the other paintings I’d done in San Floriano packed up and shipped to London.

  At last, the day came when I could procrastinate no longer. I had to make my travel arrangements.

  “Must you go so soon?” Rick asked me.

  “I have to be there when Geoff gets home.”

  “Of course. Don’t mind me. I was just being selfish.”

  “I’m the one who’s been selfish. I’ve never enjoyed the kind of hospitality I’ve received here. From everybody—but especially from you, of course.”

  “It’s been wonderful having you here. I should’ve known it’d be too much to ask—for it to be any kind of a permanent arrangement, I mean.”

  “Is that what you want? A permanent arrangement?”

  “Permanent is a loaded word. Let’s just say a long-term one. Longer than just a summer. All of this screwing around—it’s okay when you’re young and irresponsible and don’t think about the future. But now I’m at the stage in my life where I want more. I want what I had with Jed.” He smiled at me. “Give me your honest opinion. Can you see me getting into a relationship with another guy and being reasonably faithful to him?”

  “Since you’re self-aware enough to say reasonably…yes, I can. Someday a guy will get off the bus and walk into The Blue Cat and you and he will fall in love. He’ll be a tourist, here for a visit or some sexy Italian man, applying for a job. Once you see him, something inside you will click and he’ll get the job.”

  “He might get the job, but he won’t necessarily get me. I might fuck around with an employee, but I’m not about to enter into a serious relationship with a guy who works for me. That’s not good business sense.”

  “Still, once I get back home, I intend to tell every attractive man I meet all about The Blue Cat and recommend that he come here for his vacation. Lightning is sure to strike, sooner or later.”

  “I’ll hold you to that.”

  * * * *

  Rick and his employees gave me a rousing farewell party in the hotel’s dining room on my last night. All of my friends were invited—Rupert, Vittorio, Donato, Tomaso, Manrico. The owner of the art supply shop showed up, along with many of the local artists. The mayor made an appearance to have a drink with us, shake my hand, and wish me a safe journey, which took me by surprise.

  Afterward, of course, Rick and I went upstairs, to bed.

  Our lust for one another was unabated, but this time, there seemed to be a special tenderness and poignancy to our lovemaking. As though by some prearranged mutual agreement, we didn’t talk much about our feelings for each other. We let our bodies and our kisses do the talking for us. When we did speak, we kept the tone light and jocular.

  I enjoyed a last breakfast at The Blue Cat, with the ever-vigilant Luigi waiting on me. I slipped him a final tip, an envelope stuffed with euros, in return for his services. I realized, somewhat to my surpr
ise, that none of these services had been sexual. Luigi was just about the only attractive man in San Floriano with whom I hadn’t tricked!

  I shared this thought with him. Luigi was amused.

  “Next time, signore,” he promised. “The next time you come here and stay with us, you must give me my chance to please you in bed. I promise you, you will not be disappointed!”

  “Fuck off, Luigi,” Rick warned his grinning employee. “I saw him first and I’m pulling rank!”

  Rick helped me carry my things across the quay to the bus stop. He also had a parcel, wrapped in brown paper and string.

  “What’s that you’ve got there?” I asked, as we waited for the bus to arrive.

  “Oh, just a couple of those sandwiches Francesca knows you like so much. In case you get hungry later on.”

  The parcel seemed too bulky to contain only sandwiches. However, the bus was coming, so I didn’t pursue the issue. I realized I could now measure my time with Rick in minutes.

  He didn’t hesitate to kiss me goodbye, in front of the driver and the other passengers.

  “Come back to me some day,” he whispered, as we prolonged our hug. “Soon, if you can and bring your Geoff with you…I would so like to meet him.”

  I had to get on the bus and the bus had to take off. Rick stood there, waving to me, until the bus gained speed and he and San Floriano disappeared from my view.

  I sat in my seat lost in thought for some time, looking out at the window at the passing landscape without really seeing it. I remembered Rick’s parting gift. Curiosity got the better of me. I took the parcel down from the overhead rack and opened it.

  There were the sandwiches, all right, carefully wrapped and looking tempting indeed. But tucked in next to them was one of the plush toy cats, with its electric blue fur, that was offered for sale among the other items in Il Gato Blu’s little gift stand. The sight of the feline, with his staring eyes, made me smile.

  Under him was a postcard with a photo of the hotel’s façade. I turned the card over and read what Rick had written on the back.

  Here’s your very own blue cat, a little souvenir of your visit. Take him with you to London, where he will remind you of all the friends you have here.

  I’ve also told him to remind you that…ti amo. Ti amo sempre.

  * * * *

  It was foggy at the airport when Geoff’s plane descended, which gave me a few anxious moments. But nothing could dampen our enthusiasm at our reunion. He was in uniform, and when he saw me, he tossed aside his duffel bag and caught me up in a bear hug, lifting me off my feet. I thought he would squeeze the breath right out of me!

  “Notice anything different?” he asked me.

  “Only that you’re even more handsome than I remembered.”

  “Thanks. But for an artist, you aren’t terribly observant. Look.” He pointed to his shoulder. I was clueless. He laughed and shook his head. “Oh, you civilians! I can see I’m going to have to spell it out for you. There were two stripes there before. Now there are three. It’s yes, Sergeant, sir! when you address me from now on.”

  “Congratulations. Now we have two things to celebrate.”

  And celebrate we did. Geoff wanted to stop off at his flat, to make sure it was still there, as he put it and to change into his civvies. After that, he promised me, “I’ll be all yours, for the night.”

  I took him out to dinner. We talked nonstop. He told me about his adventures abroad, which were no longer a secret from the general public and I brought him up to speed on my working vacation in Italy.

  “God, it sounds as though you’ve had fun,” he said. “I’d love to go there some day.”

  “And I’d love to take you.”

  “It’s a date.” He smiled at me, in that way he had that had first won my heart. “So…you’ve had your summer fling in a nice warm climate. And with a lot of nice warm men, from the sound of it. Now that you’ve gotten some of that out of your system, are you ready to settle down? And maybe even give the unthinkable a try—by which I mean, confine most of your attention to just one other man?”

  “Yes. Yes, on both counts.”

  He seemed surprised by the quickness of my answer. “I was teasing you. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. You can take all the time you need to think it over.”

  “Well, I’m not joking. And I don’t need any time to think it over. I am ready to settle down. With you. If you’ll have me,” I added, hoping I didn’t sound too needy.

  He left me in suspense for a moment. “I do want you,” he said, quietly. “More than anything. I decided that a long time ago, while I was away.”

  “So now we have three things to celebrate. Your homecoming, your promotion and our future together.”

  “Oh, not so fast, mister.” He was back in his bantering mode. “We have a few loose ends to tie up, first. What about this bloke Rick?”

  “What about him?”

  “I’m a little jealous—I admit it.”

  “There’s no need for you to be. Rick is Rick. You’re you. Now I know it’s possible to love two men, but in different ways. If I had to choose between the two of you, it’d be you, no question, and Rick knows that.”

  “When I retire from the service, I can grow my hair long like your buddy Rick’s, if you think that’ll help.”

  “Um, I’m not sure that would suit you.”

  “Of course, since I intend to make the military a career, by the time I do retire, your Rick will be an old geezer, with snow-white hair.”

  “He’s not that much older than you and me,” I protested. “And now that you mention it, I’m rather looking forward to the prospect of the two of us becoming old geezers together. Sexy old geezers,” I specified.

  “Are you still going to want me to model for you, when I’m old and grey and my muscles have gone to fat?” Geoff asked.

  “Yes. Of course, if you let yourself go too much, I may have to do a bit of retouching, here and there.”

  “You bitch!” he exclaimed, but laughed. Then he turned quasi-serious again. “Let me ask you something. A question that’s been bothering me.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Suppose—just for the sake of argument—that you and I were married. Legally married, I mean, as opposed to a civil partnership?”

  “Um. I have to admit, I rather like the sound of that.”

  “So do I. Would I be a viscountess?”

  “Yes. But only if you had a sex change operation, first. And I couldn’t bear the thought of that.”

  “So what would your husband’s title be, if he was another man who still had a functioning penis?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t think Debrett’s has an entry that covers that situation. We might have to come up with a title especially for you. First Gentleman of the Bedchamber, maybe, or Knight of the Indefatigable Erection.”

  “Very funny. Let’s go a step farther. Suppose we were married and we adopted children. A boy and girl, minimum, to start off with. Would the boy inherit your title?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how would you feel about that?”

  “I’d be delighted.” Part of my delight, I had to admit, was a perverse pleasure at the thought of how some members of my family would react to any such development. George and his wife, for starters, would throw a fit. “How about you, Geoff? Do you want to have children?”

  “Yes, I think I do. Some day. And you?”

  “I’d be willing to give the idea some serious thought.”

  “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

  “I try to be. I don’t want you to become bored with me.”

  Geoff grinned. “Not bloody likely.”

  I took Geoff back to my place. He took note of the changes that I had made during his absence—the paintings and drawings of him on display, Sergei’s bronze of him set on the table beside my favourite chair.

  “I thought we’d agreed you weren�
��t going to turn this place into a shrine,” Geoff complained.

  “Oh, you’re a big enough man to allow yourself to be worshipped, just a little.” I could see that he was flattered and pleased, no matter what he said.

  His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of a quite recent addition to my collection. Rupert and I had exchanged paintings, rather in the way other men might exchange their business cards. He’d done some painting in my studio during his stay in London and when he returned to San Floriano, he told me that he’d left one of these pictures in my house, as a gesture of appreciation for my having put him up. He thought I would like it, he’d told me, with a sly smile. Despite his protests, I reciprocated by giving him a painting of mine which he’d admired. It showed Donato and Tomaso, both shirtless, working on their boat. It was definitely homoerotic, but in a subtle way and as a result it could be displayed in mixed company, if Rupert so desired.

  Rupert’s painting, by contrast, was one of his trademark outrageously pornographic works. It showed two men lying on a bed—recognizably my own bed, right there upstairs in this very house!—making love with intense fervour. They were both well-built young numbers. One lay on his back with his knees bent slightly and his butt exposed. He was using both hands to hold his buttocks wide open, spreading apart his sphincter ring with the tips of his middle fingers. He had his back arched, his head thrown back and he had a look of pure ecstasy on his face. No wonder, the second man was kneeling on the bed over him, sucking him off while jerking his own thick hard cock.

  “You didn’t paint this,” Geoff declared. “I may not know all that much about art yet, but I can tell it’s not quite your style.”