What was it with these men and their moods?
“No, nothing sexual is happening with us – you should know that. Now bugger off and let me get ready for dinner. I can see I’m going to have to make quite the effort to look the part if I am to dine in these posh surroundings,” I said as I busied myself with my suitcase.
“Very well,” he said slipping off the bed but making sure he slapped my bum as I bent over to retrieve his clothes.
“We will talk later … about the sex,” he laughed as he left the room.
After he closed the door I sat on the bed and gazed around me at the palatial room with its velvet curtains, marble fireplace and antique furniture. Was I having feelings for Agapeto? Had all this grandeur changed my opinion of him? What about Marco? Surely if I was going to be romantically involved with anyone it would be him, the man who had stood by me during the most difficult time of my life and respected my space enough to leave me alone? That was right. It should be Marco if it was going to be anybody. I did know something though. I was ready for sex, and I would have to have it soon and I would be pointing that out to Marco as soon as I got home. I might not be ready for a relationship but surely we could have sex. Just once.
I dressed for dinner, thankful I had brought along a pair of high heels and a little black dress. Somehow I managed to pile my hair on top of my head to look like a decent French roll and downstairs I went, doing my best not to topple down the ornate staircase.
Agapeto’s brother had invited several guests that night, to celebrate Agapeto’s 40th birthday. Something he had failed to mention to me, much to my horror.
Seated at the table that night were the most entertaining and lively bunch of Italians I had ever met, who never made me feel excluded for my lack of language skills, and before I knew it I was having the time of my life. I had forgotten how good it was to share food with a big group of people, drink and laugh. I looked over at Agapeto whose eyes had barely left me all night and caught a look which surprised me. Naked, unabashed, longing. Or maybe it was just the wine.
“I see Agapeto has found a woman he can love at last,” whispered the man to my right who had been entertaining me with stories of his life in Sicily. His name was Antonio Brandolini and after a few moments I realised he was very gay.
“I love men,” he said to me. “I always have, and in my line of business I meet many men who are not only good lovers but have good brains as well,” he laughed.
“I know what you mean,” I agreed. “You can only survive on sex for so long before you need to have a chat,” I laughed.
“I see we think alike, you and I,” said Antonio. “Maybe it is because you are from New Zealand. I once had a gorgeous affair with a Kiwi man, are they all so handsome and brilliant all in the same package?” he asked.
“Oh no,” I reassured him. “In New Zealand most of the men are either good looking and into sport, or good looking and into themselves. You rarely find the combination you stumbled across.”
We talked further about my home country and then I filled him in on my Venice odyssey of grief and my good friend Marco.
At the mention of Marco’s name, Antonio froze, with his fork half way to his mouth.
“You do not mean Marco Wilson, the restoration architect, do you?” he asked, eyebrows raised.
“Yes I do, do you know him?” I said distracted by the piece of pasta which was about to fall off my fork.
“Oh yes, I know him very well,” he proffered raising his eyebrows. “He is an extremely talented man and we met when he was in Sicily researching frescos for a church he was restoring. He is a very mysterious man,” he said, lowering his eyes and fiddling with his napkin.
“Oh, in what way? He’s always seemed rather normal to me,” I laughed.
“Oh I mean he is a little confused and quite moody too. He and I were lovers for a while you know. He is a marvellous man, but sad to say we ended badly.”
“Oh,” was all I could get out.
I looked across the table at Agapeto who must have sensed something was wrong as I felt the blood drain from my face.
Antonio sitting next to me, saw the look and turned to me with concern. “Jane, you did know he was gay, surely. You are old friends are you not?” he inquired hastily. “I hope I haven’t upset you with this knowledge,” he added apologetically.
“Ah yes, of course,” I replied hastily. “Would you excuse me for a moment I just have to, ah, go to the loo, yes that’s it, off to the loo, ha ha.”
And with that I shot out of the dining room, up the staircase and into my room where I sat on the bed feeling like I was going to throw up at any moment and feeling a rising anger in my belly directed all the way across the sea and up the centre of Italy to Marco in Venice.
The door opened and there was Agapeto.
“What has happened? What did Antonio say to you? He can be very rude sometimes when he’s had some wine. I do hope he hasn’t offended you,” he asked coming over to sit next to me on the bed.
“Marco is gay,” I muttered. “Antonio and he were lovers, apparently.”
“What! That cannot be possible. He does not strike me as a man who has any interest in that sort of thing. I’m a man, I would know.”
“Antonio said he is a mysterious man. You don’t lie about something like that,” I replied feeling the tears welling in my eyes.
“Okay, so he is. You told me there was nothing between you so why are you getting upset. It is not a crime to be gay.”
“You don’t understand, Agapeto. There’s more to us than you think,” I replied immediately regretting what I had said.
“Ah, I knew it,” he said, sitting across from me in the armchair by the fire. “I could tell he was in love with you but you always insisted you were just friends. So you were lying to me. Is this how they do it in New Zealand?” he demanded, angry now.
“Look, it’s nothing really,” I explained hastily. “I just kissed him once, ages ago when we had drunk too much, and nothing happened. Nothing happened because he bloody well rejected me.”
“Ah, of course, he is gay then. No man should resist you, my love,” said Agapeto attempting to lighten the mood a little.
“Well, why didn’t he just say that?” I asked. “At the time he said it was because I needed some more time to heal before rushing into a relationship, but now I know it was because he was too much of a coward to come straight out and tell me. I can’t believe he would do that, we are too close for lies,” I said, bursting into tears.
Agapeto held me in his policeman’s arms. Or was it his nobleman’s arms? Either way it felt good. Very good. He produced an immaculately pressed handkerchief and holding my face with one hand he gently dabbed away my tears, leaving a lingering smell of his cologne of cinnamon and spice and all things nice. When he had finished he leant down and kissed me. A short kiss, followed by a slightly longer kiss, followed by a very long kiss where our tongues and cheeks and saliva met each other and got to know each other better.
I was lost in a moment of sheer emotion and sexual longing mixed up with disappointment and anger towards Marco, who I had realised no longer deserved or, in fact, wanted me. With those kisses Agapeto had unlocked a passion in me and there was no going back.
“Darling, I think we must quickly go downstairs before anyone notices we are missing. I don’t know how we are going to do it but we will finish dinner and as soon as dessert is finished you must say you want an early night and I will join you as soon as I can,” he said urgently. “Are you okay with that, do you want me as much as I want you?”
“Mmm,” was all I could manage.
I could barely touch my pannacotta as the two of us swooned at each other across the table while trying to pretend we were just friends. At one stage we both reached for the same plate on the table and when our fingers touched our hands leapt in the air as if struck by electricity.
I’m sure everyone knew what was going on but we were putting an Oscar award effort into ou
r performance. As I sipped my coffee I reasoned that if Marco was gay there was no chance for us, much as I hated to admit it. And besides I was more than a little pissed off he hadn’t been honest with me. No wonder he never went back to New Zealand, his mother would kill herself if she knew.
Finally, my coffee was finished and I had barely touched my gorgonzola as I said my best goodnights, despite having the better part of a bottle of wine in me and still reeling from the shock of Antonio’s revelations.
Back in my room I hastily stripped off, deciding to stay in my black lacy slip as an attempt at modesty, and I thought it made me look quite sexy in a refined, noble way.
I lay on the bed, then thought better of it and sat seductively in a huge, soft armchair by the fire. Then I decided the bed was the better option and then tried the other armchair by the fire. I needn’t have bothered with the staging because the minute Agapeto entered my room he was ripping his clothes off, hopping on one foot then the other, stripping urgently. I watched fascinated as his well built, hard and huge body presented itself to me in its naked glory including a very impressive member standing to attention.
“In a hurry?” I inquired from the safety of my armchair.
“If only you knew how long I have been dreaming of this moment,” he murmured as he strode across the room, picked me up off the armchair and carried me to the bed.
He was such a big man. For the first time in my life I felt tiny in his arms, which was quite an achievement for a tall girl.
“Now what is this thing you have on? It’s very pretty but it’s getting in my way.”
And with that he took the flimsy piece of silk in both hands and ripped it from top to bottom exposing my body. I let out a little squeal of surprise.
“Don’t worry I will buy you another one. I will buy you ten more, oh my God, look at your breasts.”
“Well they’re not that big,” I said slightly embarrassed at the attention.
“They are pert and perfectly formed. They are magnificent!”
And with that he buried his face in my pert and perfectly formed breasts, nuzzling and sucking, while his right hand explored me gently but with determination.
I couldn’t wait any longer.
“Agapeto, get on your back,” I demanded and set to work with a determination I had never experienced before.
As I collapsed on top of him the tears started. I couldn’t stop. They were tears of relief, release, joy, sadness, and any other emotion which might have decided to pay a visit at that flagrant moment.
Agapeto held me as I sobbed, and whispered in my ear.
“There, there darling it is okay. You have a cry, I understand.”
As we lay there naked and warm together with him stroking my back I felt blessed to have found a man who made me feel this safe, and this good.
As the tears subsided I kissed him and apologised.
“I’m so sorry about that. It’s been a long time.”
“Oh don’t apologise, all women have this reaction when they have sex with me,” he laughed. “From now on you must feel free to be however you want. To laugh, to cry, to scream or to say nothing. I will accept you whichever way you come to me. My love for you accepts everything,” he kissed the tip of my nose and wiped the last remaining tear away.
“Thank you, Agapeto, I hope I won’t be too much of a handful,”
“Speaking of handfuls let me take another look at those breasts of yours. They are truly exceptional.”
“I think they’re saying happy birthday,” I giggled.
“And I think my present might be hidden down here.”
The next day poor old Stefano and Mirella could only stand back and watch two of the silliest, happiest, most loved up people fool around all morning, and then finally Agapeto took me for a drive into the local village for lunch. Here were the smiling Italians he had told me so much about. Unlike the Venetians, surly and resentful of what their home has become, these people were welcoming and friendly, chatty and expansive. We ate at a restaurant overlooking the sea in Ortigia and I sampled for the first time the Sicilian pasta dish of sardines, currants, breadcrumbs and pine nuts. We sat outside in the sun and toasted each other with prosecco and wine and later local limoncello. As we stumbled onto the plane that evening, I was reluctant to leave. The warmth of the sun, the people, the food and Agapeto’s devotion had filled a small place in my heart which had been empty since Charlotte’s disappearance. I felt like I was a walking bubble of hot chocolate. Warm, smooth, sweet and creamy.
15
When we arrived back in Venice to rain, fog and cold I was a little resentful. We were picked up from the airport in a police boat care of Agapeto and as he deposited me at Zattere he whispered in my ear:
“I will call you tomorrow. Don’t be too hard on your friend Marco. Without knowing it he has brought us together, my love.”
As I made my way along the calles leading to our apartment I thought about how I would handle Marco. Now that I had been so warmed up and was in such a good mood it seemed hard to be angry at him because he didn’t tell me he was gay. Perhaps he is too private, too concerned at how I will take the news. Better that I pretend I don’t know and give him the time to tell me, in his own way.
As I unlocked the door to our apartment Marco was reading with a glass of red, the lamps down low and his favourite opera, Madam Butterfly, on the stereo.
He looked up and I knew he was sulking.
“Darling, how are you? Did you miss me?” I said dropping my bags and running over to give him a huge hug and a kiss on the cheek.
He responded, barely.
“I had a quiet time, nothing special. You look like you had some sun, your hair has got blonder, or something. You look healthier somehow.”
“Oh I had a fantastic time, Marco, and guess what, how rich is Agapeto? He’s from a fucking ancient old Sicilian family and he owns this huge palazzo with grapevines and olives and lemons and oranges and well, it’s just beautiful!”
“You fucked him, didn’t you?” said Marco, turning away from me and pretending to read his book.
“What?”
“You fucked him, I can tell. It’s not the sun or the blonde hair, it’s sex, you’ve been having sex with him,” he raised his voice to be heard over the opera.
“Oh for Christ’s sake, Marco, settle down. What business is it of yours anyway Mr ‘oh you’re too fragile to have a relationship you poor grieving mother.’ ”
“Oh that’s it is it? You couldn’t get into my pants so you took the first opportunity you could to get into his.”
“What?”
“Do you really think Mr Made of Money Inspector Moron even cares about you? He’s an Italian male, honey, and Italian men will do anything to get their fat penises inside foreign women. You’ve been had with all those olives and grapes and fucking villas. I can’t believe you’ve been so stupid. He’s a complete dickhead.”
“He is not. You don’t even know him. You’ve never even made an effort to be pleasant to him and he’s done so much work for me looking for Charlotte. Don’t you dare try to turn this into some sordid pick up.”
“Exactly how much sex do you need anyway, Jane? Isn’t it a little early to be spreading your legs for anyone who will have you? You did just lose your daughter you know.”
Marco was officially playing dirty.
“How dare you try to paint me as some sort of emotional cripple because I lost my daughter. I will never get over losing Charlotte, you of all people should know that, but I’m damned if I’ll throw myself in a monastery for the rest of my life. Where do you get off telling me how to live my life?”
“Oh so it’s okay for me to tell you how to live your life when you needed me. When you were staying in that ridiculously overpriced, over decorated hotel and had no one who loved you enough to look after you. Your creepy husband walked out on you, and your ditzy slave friend Daisy was gagging to leave. Who came to your rescue then? Who took you in and held you
and loved you? There was no one else, Jane, you had no one but me!” Marco’s voice was now so loud the opera was struggling to keep up.
“And when did you become a fucking saint?” I yelled back. “I thought you wanted to help me. I gave you every opportunity to tell me to go. Don’t turn around now and say you pitied me. I am doing the best that I can at the moment and if I’m looking for some sort of happiness or release in the middle of this hell then I’ll do it and I don’t need your permission.” I was now very, very angry.
“That’s right, it’s all about you, isn’t it, Jane? It always has been, even when we were kids. Have you ever realised that selfish attitude is exactly the reason you have no friends who are even interested in contacting you here? No one cares about you. You are a sad lonely woman who is so unwanted that you are hiding out in Venice so that you don’t have to face up to the pathetic creature you really are,” he glared at me. His breathing was fast and his face was bright red. “And as for your taste in men, well what a surprise you are helping yourself to another controlling wanker. You are possibly the most shallow person I know.”
“I had no idea that’s how you felt about me. But while we’re talking about hiding out, why don’t you tell me the real reason you won’t go home to New Zealand.”
“I’ve told you. I don’t like it there. So what?”
“It wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that you’re a screaming fucking queer would it?”
Oh, God, what had I said? Why had I used this of all things to try to win an argument?
Marco’s book dropped to the floor. He held his head in his hands.
“How … did … you … ”
I couldn’t think of anything to say that would make up for what I had just done and so I said nothing.
He looked up at me and there were those blue eyes with not one sparkle, instead a stone cold metal colour had taken over.
“I asked you, how did you find out!” he yelled.
“I met Antonio in Sicily,” I whispered.
“Ahh, Antonio.”
And with that he stood up, grabbed his coat and walked out.
The Road from Midnight Page 12