by Alan Chin
We arrived during siesta. The shutters were drawn, and a drowsy calm stalked the streets. Dogs slept under the café tables. Pigeons perched in an elm and made soft cooing calls, as if trying to lull us into sleep. We sat on benches under shade trees and waited for the cafés to reopen.
The heat had broken, but sweat still dripped steadily under my cotton shirt.
At five o’clock, the plaza came alive. The doorman at the Hotel Excelsior opened the thick wooden doors and stood under the purple canopy. A dozen couples appeared at the tables, sipping beer and munching tapas. The barbershop opened for business, although there were no customers yet. Dogs sniffed around the cafés, looking for handouts.
We picked the most prosperous-looking cafe and crowded around a cane table, ordering beer, shrimp cocktails, raw octopus, and oysters on the half-shell. As the waiter scurried to the kitchen, we sat back to watch the people.
A number of patrons assembled under the umbrellas, glancing our way while affecting a studied indifference. These well-to-do citizens had long, straight backs that arched upwards, and their skin looked alabaster pale. Many had sandy-blond hair and eyes like a sailor’s, with that sparkle that seems to reflect the sea.
A clutch of youths recognized Jared and Connor. They came begging for autographs. I noticed a mask falling over Connor’s face as he answered their questions. Yes, it was an exciting match. Yes, he planned to play the French. No, he had never played Ernesto Montoya, but he had played Jose Lamas. I’d never seen him act so bored with his fans. Or was it something else? His eyes kept roving the square as he talked.
Across the street, three teenagers began strumming guitars while a fourth played a mandolin and sang. His voice soared above the instruments as they played their mercenary songs. The sun sank under the rooftops. It was so picturesque that it might have been a scene from a movie.
Spencer told a joke, trying to tease Connor out of his doldrums. A beer later, Connor relaxed and even flashed a momentary grin. We ordered another round and more tapas. As the waiter set down new glasses and plates, Connor turned to watch a group gather around a table on the other side of the café. I followed his gaze and saw Shar and Alma sitting with three other men. I touched Jared’s leg and nodded in Shar’s direction. He glanced over and rolled his eyes.
“Shit,” Jared said.
Connor’s scrutiny grew less than polite. He focused an aggressive gaze on Alma, and it was returned in equal measure not only by Alma but by all the men surrounding Shar. They stared straight at Connor with an unspoken challenge.
I couldn’t help thinking how similar Connor and Alma seemed, the proud cock of the head, the sad fear in the eyes that their body language tried to mask, the same feelings of wanting to possess Shar, who could not be possessed. I wondered if Connor could see the resemblance too.
I drained my glass. “I feel like a stroll. Connor, how about wheeling me around the plaza?”
When he didn’t respond, Spencer offered to do it. I shook my head and touched Connor’s arm. “Connor, walk with me?”
At that moment, Shar touched Alma’s chin and pulled his face around to look at her, ending the stare-down. She said something we couldn’t hear. A moment later she laughed, a burst of stinging laughter that we heard all too well.
Connor stood up and spun my chair away from the table, wheeling me down the street toward the Hotel Excelsior. We passed the musicians, and as we did, the mandolin player began a solo to his own accompaniment, a love song popular a few years back about a love that never fades. The guitarists joined in, strumming their instruments, and one accompanied the mandolin player’s tenor voice with his husky baritone.
Connor pushed my chair faster. As we hurried along, the serenade melted into the hum of other night noises, and Connor slowed our pace again.
Behind the Hotel Excelsior’s balustrade, on the ground floor terrace, every table was occupied. Well-dressed patrons sat with a casual air. Their banter drifted up in clouds of gay noise and made me hopeful that tonight would prove to be something special.
In fact, it was already special. The almost-full moon shone down on the plaza and along the streets. The townspeople strolled about, chatting and smoking. Children chased each other around the fountain.
“It’s a beautiful night. Wouldn’t it be grand to be out on the water, sailing?”
Silence.
“Something tells me you left your thoughts back at the café,” I said.
More silence.
Okay, I thought, try a more direct route. “Connor, do you want her back?”
“Yes.”
“What are you prepared to do?”
“Whatever it takes.”
“Do you know what women value most in a man, what everybody secretly values?”
“No, but it sounds like you’re about to tell me.”
“Dignity.”
“Dignity?”
“That means self-control,” I said. “Ultimate composure while in torment. Ladies eat that up.”
“I want to kick his ass into next year and drag her back home.”
“Right. That approach worked so well the first time that now he’s with her and you’re wheeling me around the square. Connor, you blundered into an emotional outburst that embarrassed her and made you look foolish. Do you really want to repeat that?”
“But how can I get her back? She’s over there laughing at me.”
“There is nothing you can say to her; words can’t fix this. You have to show her that you’re more man than she gives you credit for, more man than Alma.”
“How?”
“Show her you’re hurt, that she punctured your heart, but that you’re quietly enduring the pain. If that doesn’t get her back, nothing will. And even if it doesn’t work, at least you’ve shown her you can survive her. She’ll have more respect for you.”
By the time we passed the barbershop, we both had fallen silent. I enjoyed mingling with the locals. Connor didn’t say another word until we had completed a full loop. He guided me right back to the table and sat beside me. The waiter had deposited a new round of drinks, and I noticed that Jared had switched to soda water without my badgering him.
The musicians had finished a series of love ballads, and the mandolin player strolled through the café while holding out his straw hat with such a display of humility, bowing with lowered eyes and softly grinning while tiptoeing between the tables, that it was impossible to refuse him. I tossed some bills into his hat and thanked him. His grin spread into an obsequious smile as he put his hat on and rejoined his troupe. They began another round of ballads.
Roy said, “I hear there are Chinese restaurants in Paris. I can’t wait to eat good food again.” Before he finished speaking, Connor was back on his feet and stalking toward Shar’s table.
I am sure he had a simple desire to say something to her, not even knowing what that something might be, but I could tell from the tension overtaking his body that his anger had taken over. Harman and Roy jumped up, but before they could stop him, he began to shout. “You fucking slut. How dare you leave me like that? I need you, goddamnit!”
Alma leaped to his feet, pummeling Connor’s mouth with one fist and the left eye with his other. I flinched at the force of the blows and began to pray that there were no broken bones. Connor’s head knocked backward. He lost his balance and landed solidly on his butt, dazed.
The men around Shar shared a loud bray of laughter. A half-dozen older men sitting at nearby tables cackled too. Alma loomed over Connor, ready to continue the drubbing, but Roy and Harman converged on Connor. Each took an arm and lifted him to his feet, then guided him back to our table.
Blood ran from his lips.
“So much for dignity,” I said.
Connor looked away. He tried to speak, some kind of apology, no doubt, but he could only mumble through his numb lips.
Roy said, “Let’s take him to the van. We can eat back at the villa.”
“You go ahead,” I said. “I’l
l pay up here and join you.”
I called for the check and waved Shar over. She whispered something to Alma. He glared my way as she strolled over.
She sat beside me. “Sorry, darling. I didn’t want trouble.”
“No need to apologize. Connor’s hot-tempered, immature, and in love. I’m sure you remember what that feels like.”
“Will he be all right?”
“Let’s talk about you.”
“Me? I’ll be fine. I plan to hang around here another week or so before moving on. Maybe I’ll go back to Rome, or Venice. I’ve always wanted to see Venice before it sinks.”
“You plan to take Alma with you?”
“I hadn’t thought about it. He’s a sweet kid, but probably not. Why?”
“He means nothing to you?”
“Should he?”
“He means a great deal to the Baroness. They had something going until you came along. Now she’s got no one.”
She looked away. “Shit!”
“Buddhist law,” I said. “Every action causes an equal reaction to everything around it. It’s a lesson I keep learning over and over, it seems.”
“Even if I dump him, there’s no guarantee he’ll go back to her.”
“No, I suppose not.”
She took my hand. We both smiled, a sad smile of parting, probably for the last time. She leaned over and hugged me. “Take care of him.”
“I do what I can. If you ever need my help, don’t hesitate.”
All the way back to the villa, we were quiet except for Spencer, who mumbled that we needed to put some raw meat on Connor’s eye if he was expecting to see the ball anytime soon.
FRIDAY, our last full day at the Villa Baraka, began quietly enough. At sunrise, Connor tapped on my bedroom door. I had agreed to let him take over my physical therapy sessions since Shar had abandoned us. Connor had watched her perform the procedure and was interested in doing it himself. He still harbored the idea of treating the sick and injured someday. He wanted a taste of that experience, I supposed, to see if it was truly something he enjoyed.
Jared slipped on his running shorts and shoes. He and Spencer dashed off for a run along the beach while Connor administered my comfort shot, which held a little less comfort than I was accustomed to. I laid on my stomach while he worked in a relaxed yet intent fashion. His touch was soothing, his manner caring. He poured liniment onto his palm and gently rubbed it over my ribbons of scar tissue and into my skin. It felt so good, so sexual, that I groaned every time I breathed out, an involuntary sound coming from deep within.
“Is that too much pressure?” he mumbled through a swollen lip.
“It feels better than Shar ever dreamed of.”
He worked his thumbs into my shoulder joints and along my sides. The pain inside me retreated, and a soothing warmth spread through the hollow space it left behind. He massaged his way down my left leg and up the right, turned me over, and repeated the procedure on my front side. This time I could see the glow on his face as his hands kneaded my muscles. His eye was dark and swollen, his lip puffed up and plum-colored. But his damaged face radiated a benevolent glow that I’d not seen before, on him or anyone else. It felt like he was making love to me in a non-sexual way.
Sunlight poured through the open windows, and a soft breeze stirred the fragrant air. Shore birds called from far away as my mind drifted within his touch.
As he rotated my leg to stretch the muscles, he mumbled, “I cut down your dose of morphine, and I think you need to cut the number of painkillers you take too. I mean, I’m no doctor, but shouldn’t we try to wean you off these medications? Just a little at first and see how you feel?”
His tone was caring. More importantly, he made sense.
I began to think that Connor was born to be a healer. I wanted to tell him so, but I also didn’t want to lose him as my client. So I kept silent as he performed my stretches.
Before he left, he took my hand and smiled. “How was that?” he mumbled.
“I think you would make a competent doctor.” I couldn’t resist being honest.
His smile widened. I wondered if this little spark had reignited his old dream.
Alma had returned sometime in the night, and he delivered breakfast on our balcony as soon as he saw Jared and Spencer run up the steps. Jared and I enjoyed a quiet breakfast while we watched the golden sunlight tumble over the Mediterranean. We spent a vigorous two hours on the court. After, we all hurried to the beach to cool off with a swim before lunch. Even Roy joined the fun.
Roy’s pale yellow skin shone bright against the blue, blue water, and it was the first time I ever heard him laugh at nothing, seemingly for the sheer joy of hearing himself. Connor looked more surprised than anyone, but I became suspicious. It was too out of character. Something was up, something only he knew about, and I began to worry.
During high tea, the Baroness showed me her small but impressive collection of crystal figurines: ballerinas, cherubs, dragonflies, hummingbirds. She had twenty in three different curio cabinets around the conservatory. Each cabinet literally burst with prisms of color in the afternoon sun that played through the French windows, the figurines seeming to dance a slow, intricate ballet within a sea of colorful light.
Her favorite, she said, was a smoky green angel, Baccarat, made in 1820, with beautiful translucent wings as sheer as any butterfly’s and little spikes sticking out of the body. “This one,” she told me as she placed it in my hand, “is called Sebastian.”
It glowed like some rare emeralds I had seen. I smiled and agreed that it was the most extraordinary piece in her collection. “It must be wonderful to have a hobby that you love,” I said.
“Love, yes. Wonderful, hardly. It is my curse.” She drew a long breath before continuing. “There are always so many rare and magnificent pieces that one does not have, and they are all terribly expensive and hard to acquire. It is funny how the mind always migrates to the hundreds of pieces one does not yet own, rather than simply admiring the ones one does have.”
Yes, I thought, understanding perfectly.
“Most of the serious collectors’ pieces were crafted before 1900,” she said. “I started collecting after my husband’s passing. Back then, they were out of fashion, and one could find bargains, but no more.”
I handed the figurine back to her, and she placed it on the shelf.
I was about to ask how much a piece like Sebastian cost when J.D. Lambert burst into the room, his face white as a sheet. He set his briefcase on an empty loveseat and opened it with a flourish. Extracting two stacks of contracts with little yellow sticky arrows to show where to sign, he handed one stack to Roy.
“They sweetened the deal after you left. Six million with Adidas and another million and change with Canon cameras. Daniel hit the nail on the head, they weren’t offering even half that when I talked to them at Indian Wells. He said to wait until after the French, and look what it got us? An extra four million. My God, Daniel, I could kiss you. And that’s just for starters. I’m talking to Faberge about a new fragrance, and Rolex left a message on my cell just an hour ago.”
“It’s not after the French,” I said. “That’s two weeks away.”
Roy had known this was coming, and he had said nothing. I knew that’s what had changed him, the cause of his good humor. He had finally gotten exactly what he wanted.
“The best news is,” J.D. continued, ignoring my comment and handing me a stack of papers, “Nike offered Jared a ten-million-dollar deal, and HBO wants to buy the rights to your story. They’ll publish a biography through Random House and do a movie. It might even turn into a mini-series.”
“What story?” Jared asked.
“You know, being the only openly gay man on tour, the shooting, going on to win all these tournaments. They’re already working on the manuscript. They want to send the writers over during the French to interview you both. You’re solid gold, Jared, twenty-four karat. They’ve offered two million, but I think
they’ll go twice that. I’m waiting to hear back from Columbia Pictures and DreamWorks before we sign with HBO.”
Jared stared at me, neither smiling nor frowning, his eyes empty and dull. He echoed my thoughts when he said, “How can they write a story that isn’t finished yet?”
A disquieting silence fell over us, soft and dense. I felt torn in two. On the one hand, I was thrilled about the Nike deal, and visions of all those medical bills going up in smoke made me giddy, but my other half was angry because HBO and Random House wanted to write a final chapter, bind us in hardcover, and close the book. I felt that we were just getting started, hardly past the second chapter.
“Will Nike come through if we back away from the book and movie?” I asked.
“To be honest,” J.D. said, “right now it’s kind of a package contract. It was really Nike that got HBO on board. They’re looking to get a ton of publicity out of the whole deal.”
Roy cleared his throat and asked rather abruptly, “Connor is as good a player as Jared, and he’s won a Masters Series. Why are they offering Jared so much more?”
“Marketing is a fickle business, Roy,” J.D. explained. “The movie, for one thing. All this has little to do with skill on the court. It’s about charisma, good looks, and being a winner. I call it the ‘Pizzazz Paradigm,’ and that’s what translates into fat endorsements. Some players have pizzazz, and some don’t. Andre and Pete had pizzazz, but not Chang. Maria’s definitely got pizzazz. Lindsay has a fabulous game and has won more prize money than any other woman, but she lacked pizzazz. Connor’s good-looking, and his personality on court excites people; they want to be him. He’s also Chinese, and China is jumping into this sport with both feet. In a few years, it could be more popular than badminton. That’s why they’ve offered him more than Alec Gardener.”
J.D. smiled big, but when Roy continued to frown, he said, “Now, Jared doesn’t have pizzazz. He’s like Christopher Drake. His personality is reserved, cool, and he lets his stick do the talking. But he has a huge gay following, and gay fans have lots of disposable income, and this war paint thing he does is pure marketing genius. It makes him unique and enhances his warrior image. By the way, I’m checking into whether we can patent his war paint idea before some cosmetic company gets it first. Combine all that with the movie and the book, and we’re golden. Better. Pure platinum.”