The Sun Goes Down

by James Lear

  “Have you finished your unpacking?”

  “No, but…”

  “I told you to put all your things away,” said the mother. Some holiday they were going to have. “Perhaps tomorrow you may bathe.”

  I dressed quickly and went down to the lobby. Martin Dear was leaning on the front desk, greeting the guests as they came and went.

  “Drinks at seven, Dr. Mitchell,” he said, flashing a smile. Were it not for his glamorous blonde wife I’d be putting my host right at the top of my hit list. “Do hope you’ll join us.”

  “Sure. Just thought I’d take a little stroll first. Get the lay of the land. Which way would you recommend?”

  “Follow the prom round to the left,” he said. “Skirts the bay and climbs up to the salt pans, which are worth a look. Lots of good places to swim as well.”

  “Where do you go?”

  “There’s an inlet about four, five hundred yards along that way, if you can climb down the rocks. Some of the local kids jump straight in. The water’s deep, and there’s a lot of fish. Jellyfish too, sometimes, so you need to look before you leap.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind. Don’t want to get stung.”

  “If you’re a strong swimmer you can go right across the bay to the caves and rocks on the other side. Not many people go. It’s very private.”

  “You go over there?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “With your wife?”

  “God, no. She won’t go anywhere near the water. Terrified of it, if you want the truth. I mean, she says it’s bad for the skin and the hair and so on, but really she’s frightened. Won’t even paddle in the bay with the children. Just one of those things.”

  “Seems strange that she works in a hotel by the sea, then.”

  Martin laughed, throwing back his head; he had one of those thick, strong necks that I always want to bite. “That’s what I say to the old girl! You must be the only seaside landlady who’s terrified of water!”

  “You’re not, though.”

  “Not me.” He made a few breast stroke moves. “I like a dip. Keeps me in shape.”

  “So I see. Perhaps you’ll show me those caves some time.”

  “How long are you with us, Dr. Mitchell?”

  “Three weeks for starters. Maybe longer. And please—call me Mitch.”

  “Mitch.” We shook hands. “Martin.”

  “Okay, Martin. Drinks in half an hour.”

  I trotted down the stone steps from the Continental courtyard to the promenade. The light was fading, but the path was busy with tourists and locals taking the evening air—the delightful Mediterranean tradition of passeggiata,1 that little break between work and dinner for seeing and being seen. A trio of handsome black-haired youths were sitting on the wall that ran alongside the promenade, smoking and picking their teeth and watching the girls go by. This could be a happy hunting ground for me, with a hard dick and a wallet full of Aunt Dinah’s dollars.

  “Ah, Dr. Mitchell!” It was Claire Sutherland of course, in a blue evening dress, wearing diamonds around her neck. “I wonder if you would be so kind?” Without waiting for a reply she put her arm through mine. “I’m not old-fashioned—far from it—but really, an unaccompanied woman simply isn’t safe here! The way they look at me!” She glanced back at the three young men, who were staring with great interest at a blonde teenage girl. “Positively carnivorous! And I’m sure I understand enough Maltese to get the gist of what they were saying. Quite unrepeatable!” She leaned into me, squeezing my arm. “So what brings you here, if I may ask?”

  “Just a holiday. An old colleague works over in…”

  “I come every year, or as often as my career allows.” Miss Sutherland was obviously not one of life’s listeners. “It’s absolutely marvelous. It was, anyway. We shall see what the new people make of it. Haven’t managed to muck it up too much, by the look of things, but time will tell.”

  “How long have they been here?”

  “This is only their second summer. They were very wet behind the ears last year, and one made allowances of course, but I do hope things go smoothly this summer. One simply wants to relax and just be, don’t you think? To allow oneself to live.”

  “Who ran the Continental before Martin and Tilly Dear?”

  “Oh, the most wonderful couple, the Andersons. Couldn’t have been more devoted to me. They had seen me on the stage many years…a few years ago, and were most insistent that I should come as their guest, you see. Their way of saying thank you, I suppose. The tributes of audiences, really.” She put one hand to her breast. “So humbling. And I repaid their loyalty by coming back again and again. As I’ve said, it’s quite a second home to me. Perhaps when I retire I shall make the move permanently.” She sighed. “Not that that’s going to happen for years and years yet. As long as audiences want me, I shall continue to give.”

  “Of course.”

  “But not the Andersons. They simply threw in the towel.” She sounded bitter. “Just like that. Out of the blue. Sold up. Took the money and ran. I suppose it’s up to them, but really, one did feel just a little disappointed.”

  “Perhaps they had personal reasons.”

  “None that I knew of,” said Claire, as if somehow their decision should have been run by her first. “But of course these people have lives of their own about which we know nothing. I know all too well what it is to have one’s private life scrutinized. The price one pays for success, they tell me, all that press and gossip, but really…” She sighed. “I don’t see the need. One is simply an actress. A devotee of the craft.”

  “You don’t get that in my profession, fortunately.”

  “Well, no, of course not. Let us give the new proprietors the benefit of the doubt,” she said, switching subjects abruptly. “There’s no denying they’ve made some wonderful improvements. The new plumbing is a joy—all that lovely hot water, and so clean! My goodness, they’ve spent a pretty penny on the old place. One rather misses the old ways, but I say progress! Youth at the helm! The Continental is a good deal smarter than it was. And the clientele too. Not the ragtag bohemians we used to be—now it’s doctors and professional types. I hope it doesn’t become too smart, though. Wealthy people are so dull. Are you wealthy, Dr. Mitchell?”

  “Not terribly.”

  Her grip slackened a little. “Well of course in the old days we got all sorts here. I mean, the Andersons were broad minded. Very tolerant. That’s why they loved artists. There were many painters in the old days, bearded types, you know, and their models, shall we call them. Writers too. Somewhat irregular lives, but the Andersons never minded. Liberty Hall, as long as one was discreet. Oh, I’ve seen them all coming and going. Clergymen, bluestockings, really some of the most unlikely combinations, but love knows no laws.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I remember last summer—no, it must have been the summer before last, the Andersons were still here—there was one young woman here who was just the most mousy little thing you can imagine. Stringy brown hair; awful, shabby clothes and, my dear, she was as flat as a pancake, no sex appeal at all that I could see. But there she was, carrying on with a gorgeous young man—a priest, would you believe! A dog collar and everything, quite blatant. There was talk of course, but the Andersons didn’t mind one bit. Treated them the same as the rest of us, not that she ever was one of us. Nasty, stuck-up little piece she was.”

  I sniffed the jealousy of the older woman, whose amours were, perhaps, more mercenary. Claire adjusted her smile and continued.

  “Never any scandal though. Discretion above all. I do so hope that the Dears will keep up the tradition.”

  We walked in silence both, I suspect, looking out for likely male companions. I saw a couple of men in uniform, which was encouraging. Perhaps the soldier from the ferry was nearby…

  “Oh, but really, these people.” Claire jerked to a halt and whispered in my ear. “My heart sank like a stone when I saw them on the ferry. Just the type w
e don’t want.”

  The English parents descended the Continental steps; their son was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he’d slipped the leash.

  “I mean, what are they? Missionaries or something? They come back year after year, and I swear they never even speak to me. Absolutely cut me dead. That poor boy of theirs.”

  “You know them?”

  “Only by name. A Mr. and Mrs. Jessop. The son is Henry.”

  “What are they doing here? They look very out of place.”

  “I know, darling. They belong in Margate rather than Malta. Perhaps they’re international jewel thieves in cunning disguise. They send the boy climbing over the rooftops and then sell their ill-gotten gains to some shady lascar over in Valetta! For all I know he could be rifling through my things as we speak! Oh, my imagination! That’s the thing about the artistic temperament, you see. One has these marvelous flights. Well, well.” Her attention was wandering towards an unattached gentleman in a navy-blue blazer with a carnation in its buttonhole. He had passed us a couple of times and now bowed slightly in greeting. Claire smiled back and withdrew her arm from mine. “Perhaps I shall see you at dinner, Dr. Mitchell,” she said, and moved off without a backward glance.

  It was too dark now to explore the eastern path that led, according to Martin, up to the salt pans, and I had no intention of starting my holiday with a broken leg, so instead I turned to the bright lights of the waterfront cafes and bars. One of them, at the farthest corner where the fishing boats were tethered for the night, seemed popular with the locals, and it was here that I decided to slake my thirst with a beer. It had the advantage of commanding a good view of the whole promenade, in case Henry or other prey appeared.

  I took a seat and waited to be served.

  “Yes sir, what would you like?”

  A gray-haired, weather-beaten old man—although, like Ralph, he could have been in his forties—was wiping his hands on an apron. The great advantage of Malta, I reflected, is that everyone speaks English.

  “A beer, please.”

  “American?”

  “Me, or the beer?”

  He laughed as if this was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “You, sir—our beer is Maltese! Best beer in the world.” Then he shouted over to the three handsome young men I’d noticed earlier, sitting on the harbor wall watching the girls go by. “Hey! Joseph! Come! We are busy!” As he turned back to me, he shrugged as he said, “My son. Lazy, lazy fellow. He is supposed to be working tonight but he thinks he is too good for work.”

  The shirker in question loped across to the bar, chewing on a toothpick. His shirt was unbuttoned to his chest, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was confident in his good looks, and he treated his father with a sort of affectionate disdain.

  “Papa.”

  A tirade of incomprehensible Maltese followed, but Joseph simply smiled, flicked his toothpick into the water and ambled off towards the bar.

  “No wonder my hair is gray. That I should have such a lazy, good-for-nothing…I’m sorry, sir. These are not your troubles.”

  “Mitchell,” I said, extending a hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Thank you, sir, thank you.” He wiped his hands again. “Anthony Vella at your service. Joseph!” he roared. “Where is the beer!”

  He bustled off in search of his errant son, and I looked around me. Vella’s place was little more than a cave hollowed out of the rock, a few tables and chairs and a wooden bar with, I hoped, some way of keeping the beer cold. I may have lived in Britain for a long time, but I’ve never accustomed myself to warm beer.

  My fellow customers were a mixed lot—certainly not the smart clientele that would soon be gathering for aperitifs at the Continental. A few fishermen, deeply tanned, bearded after days and nights at sea. Some of the village elders, stooped and white haired, bent ruminatively over drinks and pints. All locals, by the look of it, but for me and a stout, red-faced gent in a dusty old jacket, a cravat around his neck and a cap of somewhat nautical style perched on his white hair. He sat and watched, sketching in a pad—one of the artistic community of which La Sutherland had spoken, perhaps.

  “Beer, sir.”

  The son returned with a reassuringly dewy bottle on a tray with a glass. He laid them in front of me and seemed in no hurry to depart. That suited me fine: he was tall and handsome, and for all his laziness he appeared to be strong. I was glad of the beer, but there was something I needed more—and maybe he could provide it.

  A plan popped into my head. “I need a guide,” I said. “Someone to show me the sights.”

  “What you want to see?” His voice was rough and guttural, more thickly accented than his father’s.

  “The local beauty spots. I’ll pay you for your time.”

  He shrugged, looking down into my eyes, trying to figure out what I wanted. “Okay. Tomorrow?”

  “Now. Show me the clifftops. There must be some great views of the harbor.”

  Joseph nodded towards the back of the bar. “There’s a path there, takes you way up. If you can climb.”

  “I can climb.”

  “Then come.”

  I took the bottle and followed him to a narrow alley cut into the rocks, which seemed to serve as a combined drain and trash dump; it was wet and smelly. A few yards up, however, a path led through the rocks and scrub; Joseph sprang up it like a goat.

  “Watch your feet.”

  “I can’t. It’s pitch black.”

  “Then hold on.” He reached back, grabbed my hand and pulled. I half climbed, half scrambled up the steep path, spilling beer as I went. There was a house at the top, and a broad, flat path that was visible even in only the very last of the evening light. I was panting by the time I reached it; Joseph seemed to have barely noticed the climb.

  “There,” he said, pointing down to the harbor, “the village. It is very pretty.”

  “Yep, sure is.” Crickets were singing up here, seabirds making strange mewing calls above our heads. I swigged my beer, then offered it to Joseph. He took it and drank. “What’s up that way?” I pointed up a bit, in the direction of the sunset.

  “Cliffs. Caves. Other villages.”

  “Show me.”

  “You pay?”

  “Sure.” I patted my pocket where my wallet was. “American dollars.”

  “This way.” He put an arm around my shoulder and led me along the high path. It was not quite the affirmative gesture I was hoping for—many of the young men of the southern Mediterranean walk hand in hand with none of the implications it would have in America or England—but still, it was good to feel the weight of that strong, dark limb at the back of my neck. “Be careful,” he said, leading me away from the cliff edge. “It is dangerous up here. There have been accidents.”

  It was cooler on the clifftops, a stiff breeze ruffling our hair as we crunched over the stony path. I shivered, and was glad of the heat from Joseph’s body. We passed the bottle of beer to and fro.

  “You’re cold,” he said, pulling me closer with his hairy arm.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You want my shirt?”

  “What?”

  He was already undoing the last few buttons; even in the failing light I could see that his stomach was flat, brown and hairy. “Here.” He put it around my shoulders. “Better?”

  The material was still warm from Joseph’s body and smelled faintly of sweat.

  “What about you? Don’t want you catching a cold.”

  He put his arm around me again; now I could feel a good deal more skin. “Up here there is a hunter’s place. You see?” He pointed ahead. I could vaguely trace the gray outlines of a hut. Empty now. I come up here sometimes. Sleep, drink…”

  “I see.”

  “Bring girls.” He pulled me closer. I put my arm around his waist, feeling the firmness of his flanks. He didn’t pull away. “Do you kiss?”

  This was unexpected; most men of Joseph’s type pretend nothing’s happening even when you’re s
wallowing their cocks. “Of course I do.”

  He looked into my eyes, smiling. “Good. Some don’t. I do.”

  “You do this with many men?”

  He shrugged. “A few. Here.” We were at the hunter’s hut, and he was fiddling with the lock. I wanted to ask if this was a financial arrangement, or simply for the sake of pleasure, hoping it was the latter but confident in the power of the dollar.

  There was just enough room to stand up inside. It was dark, a few cracks in the wood allowing dim rays of light to penetrate. I wanted to see Joseph—and I wanted him to see what we would be doing—but that would have to wait. He took me in his arms and kissed me, large flat hands pressing against my shoulder blades. There in the dark, with the warmth of his hairy body against mine, the salt tang of sweat, it felt like it meant something—as if someone wanted me for myself, someone cared about me, loved me even. I was tired from the journey, and I guess my emotions were near the surface. I was missing Vince and marking time over Morgan, and for a moment I allowed myself to believe that here in this ancient hut perched above the Mediterranean I had found something of meaning…

  “I want your cock.”

  Well, that was meaning enough, I guess. His hips were grinding into me, his tongue plunging into my mouth, and when I reached down to slide my hand to the front of his pants I could feel something long and thick and very hard down there. Love and regret are all well and good, but I’m shallow enough to forget them for a fistful of penis.

  We pawed at the front of each other’s pants for a while, our breath loud in the confines of the hut, the heat from our bodies rising. One of us was going to have to take the initiative, and for all Joseph’s claims that he had sex with “a few” men, I’m pretty sure I was the more experienced party. I unbuckled my belt, unbuttoned my fly and hauled the goods out. I was well over half erect, in some ways my favorite state: the surge of arousal, the anticipation, the intoxicating sense of possibility. It’s probably all explained by the drain of blood from the brain.

  “Suck it.”

  I didn’t have to ask twice. In the gloom of the hut Joseph dropped to his knees, drank the last of the beer, put the empty bottle carefully on the floor and took my cock in his mouth. I’d been on the island for barely a couple hours and already some handsome, hairy native was sucking my dick. I can’t fault Mediterranean hospitality.