Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Five

by Livia Ellis

  Today’s lesson is the same as yesterday’s lesson. I am to learn Latin. This is important. This matters. There is meaning behind this. All I know is that I am the center of his attention. As long as I maintain the charade that I am not only interested, but eager to learn a dead language, two hours each day are devoted to me and me alone. I cannot recall a time in my life when I’ve ever been shown such attention. And devotion. He’s deeply proud of me. I’m such a good student. Quite like him actually. How much would I enjoy a holiday, just gentlemen – in fact he’ll invite his good friend Lionel, to visit the ruins of Ephesus? His grandson the young Classicist. What a joy I am to him.

  I hate Latin. Okay I don’t hate it, but I’d rather be riding my horse or arsing around with Gwendolyn, The Greshams’ granddaughter. She’s a load of fun. My age too. Pretty. Freckles. I rather like the way they cover her nose.

  Ephesus? I don’t know Ephesus.

  We must go. It is decided. Come.

  I rise from the table and follow him from the library to the map room. He fetches a large atlas from a shelf. A book that is perhaps a meter tall and a half meter wide. It is opened on the table built for such things.

  Ephesus. Modern Turkey. Magnificent Oliver. Truly Magnificent. We will get a good start on my Greek before we go. It is decided. We will go together. Me, Lionel and him. Just us gents on tour.

  Will we invite Dad?

  We can. But only my father – this is a gentlemen’s trip. No ladies or my mother invited.

  I ignore the swipe at my mother. I know well enough, even though I’m ten, how much my grandfather despises my mother. I’m just coming around to the age that I’m done defending her and beginning to feel the first shadows of anger creeping into my soul. In the silence of the night, when I am alone in my bed I think the thoughts no son should ever think of his mother – she’s bad at this. She’s failed me. It’ll take my father one more wrong for me to start believing the worst of him.

  Granddad leaves me at the atlas stand and rings a silent bell. A few minutes later Gresham arrives.

  Where is his son?

  Gresham looks at me then back to my grandfather. The last he saw they were headed off in the direction of the barn with a picnic.

  Very good. We will be leaving for an impromptu holiday in the next few days. Start making the arrangements for a week… no two weeks travel around Greece and Turkey.

  Gresham nods then leaves.

  Granddad gestures for me to follow him. I don’t purposefully mimic his posture as he walks, but I do. Upright. Shoulders straight. Eyes forward. My grandfather is a handsome man even in his advancing years. He wears his hair cropped close to his head, he is purposefully fine of frame through diet and exercise, and he speaks with the command of a Priam or a Prospero or even a Picard. I am not ashamed to admit there will come a moment in my life when I adopt his inflection and vocabulary. I will one day become my grandfather in demeanor. Probably the same day I realize my hairline will never be what it once was and take to wearing it cropped close to my scalp as he did.

  We walk through the house, out the French doors which he flings wide open and down across the grass in the direction of the barn.

  Oliver. He is getting older. This is a fact. I am an intelligent boy, with a solid head on my shoulders, and eyes that see the world around me.

  I don’t respond. Unless I am asked a direct question I know to keep my peace.

  It is no secret that my mother is a profound disappointment to my grandparents. Perhaps if she’d made some effort over the years to endear herself, or even to modify her impulses and behavior in such a way as to be perceived as having a modicum of decorum, then they very well would have tried to meet her halfway. But as it stands, she is at best a poor mother, she is unguardedly selfish, has no understanding of what her place is within our family, and quite honestly gets my father to behave like an pubescent boy. Not that he has ever been much more than a disappointment. But that said if he had not met, impregnated, and married my mother (in that order) he would probably have ended up with someone much more appropriate that would have one day make a suitable countess. Do I understand?

  Yes, sir.

  Therefore, it falls to me. My father’s foolishness, impulsiveness, and occasional bouts of poor decision making, will one day be my problem. Believe it or not, he will not live forever and won’t always be around to wield the rolled up newspaper, so to speak, when my parents need a good whack on the snout. To that end, steps are being taken. Protections are being put into place. I am always to know that I can count on Uncle Albert. He’s the son that should have been born first.

  I’m sorry.

  Do not ever apologize for something that is not my fault.

  I press my lips together rather than apologize again.

  I needn’t fret. I am a fine boy. A fine boy indeed. I please him well. I’m certainly more sensible than Cousin Harry. Definitely more intelligent. Harry would never appreciate a trip to see the Roman ruins at Ephesus. I have a good head on my shoulders. It sits well with him that our family name will one day pass to me. I will certainly never disappoint him. That said he’s certain there will be moments in which I get into hijinks, this is all part of being young, but learning how to manage these little incidents is the stuff that makes a man.

  When we arrive at the barn, my grandfather takes the full bucket of water overflowing one drop at a time under the bursting tap. There is condensation on the exterior of the bucket and I’m quite certain that water is very cold.

  I follow him into the barn. We move silently. The bucket of water makes me slightly curious, but not really all that much.

  There are sounds in the barn that are unfamiliar. We round a corner and there are my parents. I don’t know what to think. I know that they are mostly clothed but that my mother’s skirt is around her waist, she is bare from the waist up, and my father’s trousers are bunched around his knees. I can’t imagine what they are doing and then my grandfather douses them with the freezing water from the full bucket.

  There is outraged screaming. I get a good look at my father’s erect penis. I’m too horrified to know that I should be traumatized. I’m fairly certain this is the moment in my life I can trace all of my neurosis back to.

  Dogs! This is what my grandfather booms at them. Dogs! This is your mother Oliver. A filthy bitch that let’s herself be had like an animal in a barn. And your father. My son. He doesn’t even have the decency to act like a grown man, but rather a hormone befuddled teenager. They are my cross to bear one day. Get a good look. Understand better why they bring him to such levels of despair. Fornicating in the middle of the day in full view of the staff.

  I look around. I don’t see anyone else, but I don’t say this. Granted we are in a barn and I don’t see what’s particularly appealing about that, but no one can see them. Other than me. Some things can’t be unseen.

  Come.

  I turn and follow my grandfather as my outraged parents pull themselves together. We return to the house. I am sent to my room after a brief stop in the library to retrieve my notebook and the hundred or so year old copy of The Odyssey. I sit at my desk and transcribe the Latin text into my notebook. With my dictionary and a level of knowledge that surprises me, I begin to translate word by word the text from the Latin on the left side page into English on the right side page.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Party Time

  When I’m woken I have no idea how long I’ve been asleep. Could be minutes, hours, or days. Olga pulls the duvet we’re sharing off me as she rolls herself in it like a caterpillar preparing to metamorphose into a butterfly. Make them go away. Please darling – stay in bed – let me get the fucking door.

  But I don’t need to get up. The door opens and the Servant enters. He starts turning on lights and opening shutters like an officious mother.

  Wakey! Wakey! Party time!

  He snaps fingers and claps hands. Other servants enter. They bring zipped garment bags. We are Antony and
Cleopatra.

  I’d rather not.

  These are our costumes. Be ready for inspection in two hours.

  We are left alone.

  Olga has only one comment. Thank god it’s not body paint. She stumbles out of the room and into the bathroom. The splash of the water filling the bath filters into the bedroom.

  I open the first garment bag. It’s Olga’s Cleopatra outfit. That is if Cleopatra was a Turkish belly dancer rather than the last Queen of the Ptolemy dynasty. A woman known not for her beauty so much as her intelligence, wit, linguistic ability, military prowess, and charm. History has given her a bad rap. Hollywood got Cleopatra wrong. And so has whoever picked out the metallic bikini top and harem skirt that the last Queen of Egypt never would have worn.

  With a reasonable level of trepidation, I open my garment bag.

  And so… whoever picked out my costume is under the impression Marc Antony, Triumvir of Rome, was a Spartan warrior as envisioned by someone in Hollywood.

  I despair.

  It looks as if I will be wearing a skirt and a cape. At least they got the color right – deep crimson red.

  In the bathroom Olga is already slipping into the water. I join her. I like the way the water spills over the side as I sink up to my chin.

  What should I expect?

  Stick with her. They’ve dressed us as a couple. If we’re expected to perform, just let her do all of the work.

  Perform?

  Yes.

  In what way?

  In the live sex act way.

  What?

  The lighting is generally really good, so don’t worry. She’ll make me look pretty.

  Whether or not I look pretty is not the issue. Fucking her in front of a bunch of people is.

  I better get over it quickly.

  Maybe if she were Elizabeth, or better Talitha, I could do it, but she is her and I am me and that is different. We are us.

  We are not us when we walk into that party. We are James and Anastasia. We’re being paid well to put on a good show.

  I’m confused. The Matchmaker told me that I was just to be at the Samurai’s disposal for five days and four nights. There was nothing about a live sex show.

  Olga holds up a hand. Stop. Have I actually never been to one of these parties before?

  Well… no.

  She laughs. This ought to be interesting.

  I’m not fucking her in front of a bunch of people.

  What did I think? All of my clients would be like the Latin Pop Star and the Psychiatrist? That it would all be prim and proper? Like dating? But with a payoff?

  Sort of. I certainly didn’t think I’d have to fuck publicly.

  Here’s the cold hard truth. Most of the clients are going to be like the Psychiatrist and the Latin Pop Star. But there will be my fair share of clients like the Manager and Mr. White. Do I think she enjoys having the Manager climb her like a tree? She likes the diamonds. Do I think she finds anything appealing about peeing on Mr. White? Not really but it’s easy cash and he gives her dresses. Do I think she enjoys half of the stuff she has to do? Not really. A lot of it she does enjoy. She loves Mr. and Mrs. Coffee. They’re perfect in every way. He’s delicious. She’d fuck them for free. Most of her clients are like them. But not all of them. At the end of the day, it’s a job. Parties are a lot easier than I’m imagining.

  I’m not comfortable doing this.

  We can leave. If I really am uncomfortable and I don’t think I can do the job we can go. She’ll call for a taxi and we can be checked into a hotel in an hour. We both did well in Bangkok. We have cash. We’ll have to refund the airfare and the Matchmaker will be pissed off, but no one has a gun to my head. If we stay, I am expected to entertain. By entertaining that means letting people touch my body and if not liking it, then at least pretending I do. It’s my choice.

  I need the money. I’ll stick with her.

  She leans over and kisses me. Fingers spread over my cheeks. It’ll be fine. Ignore the watchers. We’re not real to them. We’re just objects. We’re not people to these people. They don’t want us to be people. They want us to be a fantasy. Can I do that?

  I can do that.

  I’m tense. Nervous. On edge. I feel like I’m about to take my A-levels again.

  She kisses me with tongue. She straddles my thighs with her own.

  Please tell me this is going where I hope it is going?

  Will that help me relax?

  Yes. It will.

  Then it is.

  But it shouldn’t. I shouldn’t… exert myself… I need to be able to… work.

  It’s the first night. She kisses me again. We can work the crowd more than actually work. Besides, I’m still new at this. Best to ease me in.

  Is she trying to use innuendo on me?

  Sometimes she thinks I speak English, and then sometimes she can’t be so sure.

  She kisses me again then slips out of the bath and into the shower.

  Wait. What? I thought…

  Don’t be so eager. I’m always so eager. Just relax. Enjoy the bath.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Coitiōn or Coetus?

  I’ve just seen my parents engaged in coitiōn or maybe coetus (love my little Latin dictionary! It helps me put some sort of distance between when I witness and how I process it – unfortunately I can’t decide which would be the more appropriate and would rather die than ask my grandfather) and I’m very confused. I love my mummy. Granted she’s not the best mummy in the world, but she’s still mine. I really dislike dad at this moment. I get in a rather abstract way that mummy is his wife and these things happen, but she’s my mummy. My anger is not directed at my grandfather for making me witness this private act, but rather at dad. I could stick a knife in him for what he’s done to my mummy. Oedipus would get my outrage.

  There is shouting. My father’s voice carries through the open window in my grandparents’ rooms to my open window. I cannot hear my grandfather’s responses. But somehow I don’t need to hear him to know what he is saying. A gentleman doesn’t need to raise his voice. If one speaks in a low tone then others are forced to pay attention to hear the words. This is how a gentleman speaks. This is not how my father speaks. He is not a gentleman. He does things to my beautiful mother in the barn. Like dogs.

  I want to see my mother. I want to confirm that I am still her little boy and that it isn’t a lie when she tells me she misses me when we are apart. I go to my parents’ room. My mother, who is always praised and petted for her beauty, is red-faced and ugly with anger. She throws her and my father’s clothing haphazardly into the open suitcases scattered around the room.

  What do I want?

  Nothing. I just wanted to see her.

  Didn’t I see enough already?

  I have no response. I’m ten and I’ve just seen my parents having sex. What the hell am I supposed to say?

  Where is she going?

  We’re leaving.

  Where are we going?

  She looks up from where she’s jamming her pharmacopeia of creams and lotions into a makeup case. I’m not going anywhere. She and my father are going. I’m staying at Wold Hall. She would really like me to leave. She just can’t look at me yet. It’s just too awkward.

  Why can’t I come?

  Because. I’ll be happier at Wold Hall. I have my pony. My grandmother. Mrs. Gresham.

  I’d really like to go with them.

  Why do I have to be so difficult at this moment of all moments? Why? Why can’t I get that my grandfather is an ass hole and that she can’t spend another minute in this fucking hell? The only reason she’s here is because my father pretty well put a gun to her head and made her promise we would spend a month together as a family in this haunted pit. She hates this place. It gives her the creeps.

  He told me the summer.

  She only agreed to a month. But that’s beside the point. Do I know the party she’s missing in Bermuda? Do I?

  I’ve never been to Bermuda
. I’d really like to go.

  And?

  Is that where they’re going?

  Probably. More than likely. She can’t be sure. They’ll decide when they get to London. What is certain is that she will not spend another minute around my grandparents.

  We’ve only been together ten days. I thought we were going to be together for the summer. Dad promised.

  She gives me that look. The one that is a lighthouse beam of annoyance and irritation directed solely at me. I don’t get it yet, but I will understand soon enough that she never really wanted children. She’ll tell me this directly later so there is no room for me to be left to wonder. The only way to keep my father was to give him a son. Not having children was a deal breaker for my father. At least in that one act of reproduction he didn’t disappoint his parents.

  Dad enters the room and shuts the door. He sees me before he speaks to my mother.

  Am I okay? Should we talk? Man to man? Maybe he can clear up some things for me?

  I don’t know what the right answer is so I’m silent. I can’t really look at him without seeing him on top of my mother, so I avoid his gaze.

  My mother holds a bottle of perfume in one hand. I don’t know what it’s called but I smell it on occasion when walking down the street or past the perfume counters in a department store. Few scents have the power to nauseate me as much as that one does. She demands to know what was said.

  Dad is of the opinion I should probably leave before they talk.

  Mum nods to the door. Scram.

  Dad raises a calming hand. Just a moment. He wants to know again if I’m okay. How about we two lads go for a ride in bit? Have a bit of a long overdue chat.

  Mum raises her arm and flings the perfume bottle against the wall. It smacks the stone wall with a small sonic boom then shatters. Would he care to know if she’s okay? Or is that no longer important?