A Cage of Bones

by Jeffrey Round

  “Hello, superstar American photo-model,” he said.

  Warden sat up.

  “The show was a big success,” he said. “Your picture is in all the papers.”

  Valentino sat on the bed holding a newspaper. He pointed at a photograph of Warden trailing down the runway, looking very much in control.

  “It is very exciting,” he said.

  “It was pretty exciting last night, too. What I can remember of it. My head still hurts.”

  “Poor bambino,” Valentino joked, tousling his hair.

  “Ouch!”

  “To make you feel better, Paolo and I would like to take you to the Riviera if you are free this afternoon.”

  “The Riviera? I’d love to!”

  Warden called Maura’s to book himself off for the afternoon, standard procedure for a model who was temporarily unavailable. He relayed his message to the receptionist, expecting her to say “grazie” and pass the information on to the bookers so they’d take no further appointments for him that day.

  “Moment,” she said.

  He was put on hold. After a few seconds Calvino’s voice came on the line.

  “Warden?”

  “Hi, Sr. Calvino.”

  “What are you doing, darling?”

  “I’m booking off for the afternoon.”

  “But darling, why? What are you doing that is so important?”

  “I’m going to the Riviera with a friend. I didn’t think it would be too busy after the show yesterday.”

  “Think? Who told you to think? You don’t know when we might need you. Don’t you realize it’s almost the end of the season? We have to get you in to every last appointment. Why are you wasting your time? How important is your work to you?”

  “I’m sorry—I just wanted to get away for the afternoon.”

  “Never mind that. I need you to go to see a photographer who wants to meet you for a testing. I told him you would come this afternoon.”

  “Just a testing? Can’t it wait till next week?”

  “No. He’s going to Paris tomorrow early. This is the only day he can see you and it is very, very important. You are becoming so lazy, Warden,” he chided. “Now take this address down, darling. I need you to go right away.”

  “All right.”

  Warden wrote down the name and address of the photographer.

  “And make sure you call me back once he’s seen you.”

  Warden hung up and called the photographer’s studio, telling the receptionist who he was and asking if there were any later appointments.

  “Of course,” she said. “He is not busy. He can see you any time tomorrow or next week.”

  Warden hung up and grabbed a T-shirt, barely stopping to wonder if Calvino had lied or simply been mistaken. He ran down the stairs. Valentino sat waiting on Paolo.

  They followed the traffic single file out of the city. The road widened as the buildings became sparser and the landscape flattened into Byzantine perspective. They pulled up behind a flashy red sports car. Valentino honked and drove past, the surge forward momentarily suspending the motion of the vehicle until Warden felt as though he’d left his body behind, racing past time.

  They went north into the hills where deep blue-green valleys opened alongside the roadway. They emerged from the mouth of a tunnel, rounding a final summit. Below, like a vision of ancient civilization, pink, orange and salmon-coloured walls glittered in the bone-white light like a mythical city.

  “Genoa,” Valentino shouted, as they passed the birthplace of Columbus, no different then than now, as though the new world still lay waiting to be discovered.

  They raced downwards again as the intense afternoon sun bleached and flattened everything into an ethereal nothingness. The spectral blue of the Riviera opened up on the horizon. A harbour of brightly coloured boats bobbed on the water. At a small cantina they purchased a hamper and filled it with food and wine.

  At the beach, they rented a rubber dingy. They loaded up and Valentino started the engine with a single pull, motoring among the tethered boats until they reached the open sea. Haze shrouded the coastline. Within minutes they edged past an ephemeral town in a flat blue bay that looked like something out of a dream.

  “This is Portofino,” Valentino said. “It is very famous.” He pointed to the top of a hill where they saw a tall building crested in black and gold. “It was the villa of Rex Harrison,” he said. “You know the American superstar movie actor?”

  “He was British,” Warden replied, amused by how willingly Valentino Americanized anything foreign. “Nice place, though.”

  “One day we shall live in such a house as this. You and me and our wives.”

  Warden laughed as the merry-coloured town floated away like a moving carnival.

  They rounded an escarpment and Valentino stilled the motor. Wooden masts filled a tiny harbour like rows of crosses in the slicing blue afternoon.

  “This is San Fruttuoso,” Valentino said in his soft accent. “It is a fishing village. There are no roads over the mountain so it may be reached only by boat.”

  Above them rose a sparse tree-dotted terrain, rheumatic and inaccessible, with a handful of buildings rooted to its black slopes. In contrast to its colourful neighbour, Portofino, the buildings here were unadorned and built of a uniform grey stone.

  “I want to tell you this place is sacred,” Valentino continued quietly. “Once there was a very big storm when all the men of the village were on the sea and everyone thought they would drown. When they all returned safely, the people made a sign of thanks to God for answering their prayers.”

  Warden glanced wonderingly around the silent shores as Valentino spoke.

  “Under the water is a statue of Gesù Cristo. He is covered in gold and is very tall. He stands on the bottom blessing the boats that pass out to catch fish.”

  “Cool! Where is it?”

  “Over there somewhere,” Valentino said, pointing to an area that took in half the bay. He handed over a pair of swimming goggles. “Take these and you will see it.”

  Warden fitted the goggles over his head and dove. Shafts of light split the underwater gloom as schools of fish meandered by. There was nothing that looked like a statue, only uneven sand and a few rocks. He kicked back up.

  “I can’t see it,” he said between gasps.

  “I remember now! It is over here,” Valentino said, swimming away from the other boats.

  Warden followed him then kicked his legs and dove. To his right, face upturned and hands lifted in blessing, a silhouette reached up from the bottom, surrounded by long, greenish rays of sunlight transformed into a chalky moonlight. Folds of robes seemed to sway in the silent currents.

  Warden kicked down further. A dull weight pressed at his temples as he touched the tip of an extended finger. It felt surprisingly mild, as though it might warm him in the cool depths. He turned and pushed upwards, exploding into the air, coughing and spluttering.

  “You have seen it?” Valentino called out.

  “Yes!” he choked out. “It’s wild!”

  Valentino took the goggles and dove. Others had reached them now, diving and coming back up subdued.

  They climbed back into the dingy, resting while the sun dried them to a crusty saltiness. Valentino was the first to stir. He took up the oars and guided them to shore. Once on land, he grabbed the basket of food.

  “We must take the oars for someone not to steal the boat,” he announced.

  Warden hoisted the oars crosswise over his shoulders. After twenty minutes of climbing, Valentino called a halt. Warden lay down his burden and turned to look back. Small twisted trees extended branches of fattening figs and olives, the over-ripe fruit corrupting in the air around them. The village huts lay far below like tiny seashells. The sky and sea poured into one another at the horizon with an ineffable blueness.

  They settled under the shade of a crabbed fig and stripped off their bathing suits. They laughed to see their faces and limbs coa
ted with salt, their hair sun-dried and dishevelled. Warden rubbed a hand over his torso and grimaced at the sharp sensation on his chest and stomach.

  “I’m getting a burn.”

  “You are not used to our sun,” Valentino chided. “You are only an honorary Italian, my friend.”

  Valentino hadn’t burned. His chest was bronzed and smooth as he leaned back on his elbows. Warden felt a delicate weaving of desire as he gazed at the glow on Valentino’s skin.

  Valentino reached into the hamper, retrieving a bottle of wine. He uncorked it with his teeth then lifted his head and drank until the wine spilled out his mouth and down his chest. He looked up slyly. His cheeks expanded as he spewed a shower of red at Warden. He laughed.

  Warden wiped his face and held out his hand. Valentino passed him the bottle. Warden raised it slowly and sipped. He swallowed once, twice, three times, and sighed. Then with a quick flip he inverted the bottle, pouring a red stream over Valentino’s head. The two burst into laughter.

  “Now we are baptized!” Valentino exclaimed.

  Within minutes the sun had dried them both, as though its merciless kiss could tolerate no moisture. Valentino reached for the hamper again. He removed a flask of oil and drizzled a long thin flow onto his hands. He rubbed his palms together and placed them on Warden’s shoulders. A pungent odour rose around them as his fingers kneaded the flesh that beaded and knifed with pain.

  Warden leaned his head back on Valentino’s chest. The air was dense with scents and the sounds of insects and birds. Amber flowers nodded among the greenness and the solitary murmuring of bees.

  Valentino raised the flask again till the oil dribbled down over Warden’s chest. With one hand, he traced a path across his pectorals, soothing the burning flesh. With the other hand, he reached between Warden’s thighs, parting them like a stone. Warden’s cock lengthened and swelled. He turned his face upwards till their lips met. He saw himself lingering in the darkness of his friend’s eyes and felt the warmth of sun and oil on his skin. Above, purpling fruit hung like dark flesh under the coronal of the fig tree.

  Valentino straddled his body. Warden pushed upwards without penetrating. Valentino laughed at his clumsy efforts. “No—like this, bambino,” he whispered, grasping Warden’s erection, guiding him in and unfisting him once he was secure.

  Warden fell backwards into a cornucopia of mouthings as Valentino began to buck and grip, his knees pressing into Warden’s sides. The struggle embarrassed and excited him, making him gasp as he felt a sensation like an iris dilating, beams of light discharging into Valentino’s body.

  The sky leaned forward. Clouds dissolved as everything stopped for a solitary moment, then time began its ineluctable spread around them again, inconspicuously, in tiny endless waves of consolation.

  12

  One night near the end of July, Warden arranged to meet Valentino for a drink in Bar Magenta before going on to the American Cinema together. He waited for more than an hour, well past the starting time of the movie. Valentino finally arrived, looking troubled.

  “I am sorry I am late. It is my father…”

  “What is it? What’s happened?”

  Valentino took a deep breath. “My father has signed me up for the military duty.”

  “He signed you up for the army?”

  Valentino shook his head, uncertain how to explain. “It is something every boy must do in Italy. Everyone must go to the training camp. I want to wait until after I finish the school, but he says I must go now…”

  “But why now?”

  “He believes I am ruining my life. He says I run around too much and go to parties with girls all night long,” he answered with the trace of a smile.

  “Why didn’t you tell him otherwise?”

  Valentino looked at him askance. “Do you really think it will help? I think this way perhaps is better.”

  “And will you go?”

  “I must.”

  “But how can you just...?”

  Valentino interrupted. “In Italy, a young man must listen to his parents’ wishes. I try to talk to him but he will not listen. He is very angry that I should argue with him. I ask also my mother to speak to him but she says she cannot interfere with his wishes. I must do what he says.”

  “Then there’s nothing you can do?”

  Valentino shook his head. “I must go.”

  “How far will you have to go?”

  “I am not sure. It will probably be to a small town in the north…”

  “Can I see you at all?”

  Valentino shrugged. “It will be difficult. You cannot stay overnight, but I will be allowed one weekend pass a month.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “A year…possibly more.”

  “A year!”

  “I know. It seems forever to me, too.” His eyes pleaded with Warden not to make him more miserable than he already was.

  It was too late to go to the movie. They went to Plastica to dance, though neither enjoyed the experience. They gave up and sat forlornly at a booth. Warden asked again if there was any possibility of changing his father’s mind.

  “It is not possible!” Valentino snapped. “Don’t say this. You don’t know what you are asking.”

  Warden looked at him for a moment. “I’m going back to the albergo,” he said.

  He stood and grabbed his jacket. Valentino didn’t offer to drive him. Warden walked back to the hotel, his emotions cooling as he walked. Just as he arrived, Valentino drove up.

  “I am sorry,” he said. “Please—we must talk. Come with me.”

  They walked to the public gardens and climbed the metal fence. Inside, they lay on the grass in the darkness under the swollen branches of trees. There was little to say and they soon gave up. Valentino cried and Warden tried to console him. The moment of tenderness led to a hard angry sex that barely blunted the sense of impending loss they both felt.

  Valentino stood surrounded by his family at the train station a week later. His father and mother, stiffly dressed for their son’s leave-taking, stood proudly on either side of him. A younger brother watched indifferently next to a pretty girl of seven or eight. Her heart-shaped face was a replica of Valentino’s in miniature.

  Warden purposely arrived late and stood to one side watching. Valentino called him over and introduced his family. Warden shook hands with Valentino’s father and nodded to his mother.

  “Piacere,” he said.

  “Da quanto tempo è qui?” his mother asked pleasantly.

  “Da sei mesi,” he replied before Valentino had a chance to translate.

  Valentino raised his eyebrows at him. “Show off. Since when are you speaking Italian?” he asked with a half-smile.

  “Since I met you,” he said.

  The train whistle sounded.

  “Take care,” Warden said, his emotions weighing heavily on him.

  After a quick hug, Valentino picked up his bags and turned to him. “My friend, I will see you again,” he promised.

  That afternoon, Warden strolled into the agency with his portfolio tucked under an arm. Before he got halfway across the lobby an angry voice began screaming. He turned. It was Calvino, berating him for missing an appointment that morning.

  Warden couldn’t recall having any appointments that day. “No one told me I had an appointment this morning.”

  “Where have you been? I call and call and call and you are nowhere to be found! How can I run a business if I can’t find my workers?” Calvino continued, his voice unabated in volume and without the silky pacifying tones he normally engaged in between bouts of temperament. “You are getting spoiled and lazy. You haven’t worked in nearly two weeks! All night you are wasting your time running around at parties and these dirty clubs!”

  A small crowd had gathered, listening to the exchange. Warden caught Joe’s face out of the corner of his eye.

  “What are you talking about?” Warden said heatedly. “I had a fitting for a show two
days ago and I worked with Oliviero twice last week!”

  Calvino cut him off. “You are becoming a stupid whore!”

  Warden was startled. He wondered if this had to do with Valentino. Had Calvino seen them together? Suddenly it struck him—Derek had probably said something about the night they’d run into one another at the dance club.

  “There is no drugs, no anorexia, no diseases here!” Calvino continued. “I’m not interested in unhealthy, skinny models!”

  In his rage, he jettisoned his sleek Italianate manner and began spitting words in a halting Trinidadian accent. His anger was soon matched by Warden’s. Sensing his young protégé was beginning to get overheated, Calvino began to back down.

  “Don’t you be giving me trouble now. I always say you Canadian boys are better behaved than the Americans.”

  The sleek tone had come back into Calvino’s voice, but Warden was having no pangs of conscience on behalf of his country.

  “You always have to be so careful, darling,” Calvino cooed. “The agency’s reputation is at stake with all our clients.”

  “Agency’s reputation! You can’t even get your appointments straight!” he yelled. “How do you expect me to do my job properly when you send me all over the fucking city to find an address that doesn’t exist?”

  “Now, now—don’t be upset, darling…” He was running out of words. “We’ll make another appointment for you.”

  “Forget it!”

  Warden stomped across the lobby and slammed the door. He was shocked by his own outburst. Outside, he slumped against a wall. A moment later Joe came down the stairs looking for him.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “I’m okay.”

  “You were very angry,” Joe said with a grin. “Just like a real Italian.”

  “I think I need some time off,” Warden said. “I need a vacation from this place.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, Ward, but I saw your pay cheque on Calvino’s desk the other day. He doesn’t pay you enough. When you come back tell him you’re very hurt and you’re thinking of leaving the agency. He’ll offer you twice as much.” Joe grinned. “But where are you going for now?”