Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Five

by Livia Ellis

  He doesn’t come for me when we land in Tunisia the next morning. I see Smiley regularly. As promised he delivers a stack of Italian newspapers. Most of them have been read already, but I don’t care. I don’t like the look on his face. Pitying and sad. I put the do not disturb sign on the door. This is a boundary he respects. I’m not his problem anymore. The sign absolves him of all responsibility. If they find me dead then he can point the finger at the sign. I’m left alone in my cave. With Bob the hermit crab folded towel.

  In my windowless room time takes on new meaning. I sleep a lot. I think it’s morning when it’s really afternoon. I think it’s day when it’s night. I use the television for light. I call for room service at irregular hours. I stop dressing and just lay on my bed in my boxers. I’m cagey, confused, disoriented and somewhat feral when my door opens after I ignore unexpected knocking.

  It’s dad. He turns on the lights.

  He looks at me and the state of the room I’ve been living in for what turns out to be five days. It’s the evening of our final night on the ship. He wanted to make sure I’d packed my things and put them outside the door.

  I see the room as he sees it. It’s a mess. I’m hungry. I don’t remember the last time I bothered to call room service.

  He sits on my bed and puts his face in his hands. His shoulders shake and I understand he’s crying. I really am that much of a disappointment to him.

  I put a hand on his shoulder. I tell him I’m sorry about everything. I just didn’t realize things had gotten so bad. I’ll tidy up.

  He looks at me. His green eyes are red and wet. Have I been in my room the whole time?

  Yes. I told him I wouldn’t leave my room if I didn’t have to go to the Kidz Club again.

  I could have gone and gotten some fresh air. I could have gone to the Kidz Club. He assumed I’d keep myself busy. It’s not like I’m a baby anymore. I’m not a prisoner.

  I told him I wouldn’t leave my room if I didn’t have to go to the Kidz Club again. I haven’t left my room. I did as I promised I would do. Is he going to take me home now? Does this mean I get to go home now? Is it all over?

  He’s going to take me home in the morning. He never should have brought me on the cruise. He should have known what would happen. This was just a bad idea. He should have cancelled the whole thing. He’s going to take me home. He’s going to talk to my grandparents. They take good care of me. As much as he’s bitched about them, he’s starting to realize that for all of his complaints they’re better parents than he’s ever given them credit for.

  Mum wasn’t ready for this. He is a lotus eater. He is. I’m right about this. I’m eleven and I see better than he does how skewed things are. He needs to take care of mum. He’s sorry. He truly is. But she has to be his priority right now. He’s going to take me home. My grandparents will be delighted when he gives them what they’ve wanted all along.

  I don’t understand these ramblings.

  I’m hungry. I’m shaky. The light hurts my eyes. I just want to go back to sleep again. When I wake up I want to be in my bed as Mrs. Gresham whips open my curtains and my grandmother complains about the fact I’m incapable of at the bare minimum hanging my trousers over my chair rather than leaving them in a heap on the floor.

  He makes me get up. He makes me dress. I’m marched out of my room. He catches Smiley and orders him to go and clean my room. It takes cash for Smiley to agree to do my father’s bidding rather than call on someone with the power to make life awkward for dad by divulging the fact my parents kept me confined to my room up for nearly a week. Smiley isn’t the only one that knows what’s going on.

  I’m taken up on deck. It’s night. We are at sea. Mum is at a table with another couple. They’re all attractive people.

  What is this? My mother’s voice turns to a hiss when she sees me.

  I just want to go back to my room. Please let me go back to my room.

  Yes. My mother agrees with me. I am to go back to my room. I’m the one that didn’t want to go to the Kidz Club. I’m the one that wanted to be a martyr. How do I enjoy being a martyr? I certainly stink of martyr. Have I even bothered showering? Have the past few days been as fun for me as she hopes they’ve been? Am I bored to tears? Am I sorry for being such a little brat? Do I wish I would have just learned to like the Kidz Club? Do I wonder even a little why she doesn’t enjoy going places with me? She doesn’t want to be around me.

  The couple she’s sitting with doesn’t know what to make of me. I’m this pathetic creature in rumpled clothing they probably didn’t know existed. They leave after mumbling something about needing to be anywhere but where they are.

  Dad makes me sit. He thought she had checked on me. She told him she’d checked on me. Several times.

  The do not disturb sign was on the door. She shrugs. He’s too soft on me. He doesn’t see how I try to manipulate him. She sees it. She’s on to me. A few days on my own has probably done me an absolute world of good.

  I stop listening to them. Instead I look as other children my age look joyful and sleepy as they run about on the final night of their family holiday. They haven’t been in seclusion for days. Their skin is not sallow from lack of sun and their eyes are not wide and glossy.

  Dad makes me go to the midnight buffet with him. I don’t want anything I see even though I’m hungry. I’m tired of chips, burgers, and sandwiches. I take cheese, a roll, olives, and some fruit.

  I eat silently then ask to go back to my room. I haven’t packed up my things. I didn’t realize it was the last night.

  My father tells me that I’m moving to their room for the last night. We all have to be up early in the morning. There will be no argument or objection. He’s had enough. She’s gotten everything she wanted.

  No. She didn’t get to go to Capri. Or has he already forgotten?

  The look on my father’s face is one I will never forget. At last my mother has taken a step too far. She sees this instantly. For the first and only time she capitulates.

  Very well. If he insists.

  He does. We three were originally supposed to share the suite. That was the plan. That was what she had agreed to. This was supposed to be a family holiday. Not Martina fucking pissing and moaning like a goddamned infant for ten days because he wanted to spend some time with his son. Not him jumping through hoops of fire to keep her happy because he took his son on an outing.

  He’s angry. I’ve seen my father sad, joyful, expectant, morose, undone, and happy. But rarely angry. He’s angry. This is not the family holiday he had imagined. These ten days have been nothing but a punishment for him. Whether she realizes it or not, he’s upset too. She isn’t the only one that is suffering. He’s hurting too.

  I love to hear that somehow I am the source of suffering and hurt. Because it has to be me they’re speaking of. This is the way a child’s mind works.

  With a huff and a puff my mother gathers her handbag to storm off.

  My father isn’t having it. He grabs her hand and makes her sit. He’s not having it anymore. He’s not. They will bring me home the next day.

  No. They will put me on a plane and they are continuing on to New York. That’s the plan.

  No. He’s taking me home. If she wants to go to New York on her own, fine. He’s taking me home.

  Does he realize someone named Herman Gould is in New York and he’d be absolutely delighted to see her without him?

  Fine. In fact good. Maybe that’s for the best really. Maybe it’s time his priorities shifted. He doesn’t know what he was thinking these past few days, but his head is starting to clear. He needs some time to think. Her going to New York without him is probably a good idea.

  This is like a slap in the face to my mother.

  I watch this drama unfold before me as I eat olives. This is what a marriage on the brink of cracking in two looks like. I don’t understand this at the time. But like the meaning behind Makin’ Whoopee, it will come to me in time. Mum has a choice at this mom
ent. Dad’s getting on that plane with me whether she likes it or not. She’s used up her ammunition and already thrown the gun at him.

  The best thing that could have happened to me was for my mother to make a final push. To get my dad to really and truly make that choice between the two of us once and for all. No matter what, dad was still the product of my grandparents. He may not have wanted children, but he had me. He understood that the line needed to continue on. And if not through him then it would all go to his detested brother by legal default. That he could not have.

  Even mum was smart enough to know that this was not the hill she was going to die on. If she wanted to live to fight another day she needed to retreat. If she didn’t return to England with us, then their relationship would be forever changed. She capitulates. She will return to England with us. But she’s staying in London. She refuses to go to Wold Hall. This is a compromise everyone can live with.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Jealousy

  I am brought to the Samurai. She is behind a solid door in a room. But not to the room where we first met. This is a bedroom based on how it’s furnished. But there are no windows. A windowless cave. A den. A lair. A cavern. A burrow. A hideout. A sanctuary. A snuggery.

  Everything is only as we perceive it to be. This room is just a room without windows. Nothing more. A perfectly private place where the Samurai can be herself.

  The room is dimly lit and smells of jasmine and spice. Something about the way there are sheer curtains dividing the space and surrounding the carved opium bed, that I can only assume is where she sleeps, makes it feel like a sultan’s harem with only one occupant.

  The opium bed is magnificent. Wooden canopy, horse hoof legs, shutters which are open.

  Boudoir seems to be the best word to describe the effect the opium bed covered with pillows combined with the candlelight and general feeling of Zen the atmosphere produces.

  She sits on a divan. A tablet in her hands. She is wearing a wig. Shoulder length blond hair. She’s wrapped in an orange silk robe. I like the color.

  The door closes behind me. We are alone.

  Do I realize there are cameras in the room?

  I figured there probably were.

  She knows I asked Avan about the cameras. She likes that I didn’t lie to her. Do I find Avan attractive?

  Yes.

  Would I fuck Avan in front of her?

  Sure.

  Would I like to watch Avan fuck Olga?

  She’s going to have to excuse me. I don’t really have an answer to that question. I’m not certain what it is she’s looking for. I think the question is far more layered than she is leading me to believe.

  Perhaps it is. Do I like watching other people fuck Olga? Is that something we are into?

  We’re prostitutes. I see her having sex with other people all of the time.

  But do I like it?

  I’m indifferent. (No – I am ambivalent and struggling, but I don’t say this) What happens on the job is on the job.

  What about privately? Do we fuck other people when we are not working?

  Again, I’m not certain what she’s looking for.

  She’s been watching us.

  And?

  Olga isn’t very bright is she? Personally she thought the Battle of Actium quip was hilarious.

  She’s going to have to excuse me. I don’t have the benefit of being able to rewind and review conversations I’ve already had.

  A finger beckons for me to join her on the divan.

  I sit.

  She turns the tablet towards me. I’m shone on the tablet four camera angles first of Olga and I fucking from beginning to end. I am really loud when I cum. I didn’t know that. I also have this sort of weird look on my face. I might need to work on that. But then again, who looks pretty when they’re fucking? Actually Olga does. But that’s different.

  Do I like fucking Olga up the ass?

  Yes.

  I continue watching. We dress. We talk. These pedestrian exchanges between two people that share a life should never be recorded. The conversation is just this unending repartee and a sort of code of half uttered sentences only one within the couple could fully understand. What we say to each other couldn’t possibly be interesting to anyone other than us (do we really spend as much time as we clearly do discussing her footwear or my rose gardening? I suppose we do – we are so fucking boring!). Or perhaps not. Clearly The Samurai finds it fascinating.

  Then we come to the Battle of Actium quip.

  I sound like such a pretentious snot. I knew Olga wouldn’t know what the hell I was talking about, but I enjoyed being such a smarty-smarty. Something else I need to work on.

  The Samurai thinks this little exchange is hilarious. She keeps on reversing and replaying.

  Olga is dumb.

  Olga is smart in her own way. She’s also very kind and has a good heart. These things matter. (For certain Olga would never delight in watching another being privately poked at – she would think it was mean even if she wasn’t the butt of the joke)

  She’s pretty.

  She’s that too.

  Could it be possible the only reason I like her is because she’s pretty? Because if Olga were ugly, deformed, fat…

  I get the idea. I don’t judge people on their looks.

  Everyone judges people on their looks.

  Who gave her the authority to speak on behalf of everyone?

  This takes her aback. I don’t think she’s used to being talked back to. She is the empress of this little island. No one dares give her lip.

  I don’t judge people on their looks. Martin Luther King Jr. got that one very right. I prefer to judge people on the content of their character. (I’m annoyed. I wanted to go to Kyoto. I was looking forward to lunch with Olga in a restaurant and not in our bedroom. I wanted to get to a phone and call the Matchmaker. There are things I need to tell her. I have this feeling my emails are being monitored.)

  Is Olga my girlfriend?

  Olga is my friend.

  The Samurai takes the tablet and flicks her fingers over the smooth surface.

  I am shown footage of the two of us returning from the party. We are in the shower. I massage Olga’s shoulders and kiss her neck. It’s insultingly intimate. Having to share this moment with the Samurai makes me feel more violated than Avan ever could.

  The video continues to run as I dry Olga off then we slip into bed. I assume the show is going to end when the lights go off, but it doesn’t. It’s as if we are being watched through night vision goggles. Here we are. I’m the big spoon. Olga is the little spoon. And we fall asleep. If nothing else I have hard proof she steals the covers.

  The Samurai stops the replay. So?

  So what?

  Is she my girlfriend?

  What does she want me to say? We work together. We’ve been put into the same bedroom with one bed. Should I sleep on the floor?

  She could change sleeping assignments. She could move me in with someone else. Put Olga in with Avan.

  No.

  Why no? Because Olga’s my girlfriend?

  Because I’m not going to be jerked around.

  It’s her house. She can make people sleep where she wants them to sleep. Especially if she’s paying for it.

  I think it’s time for me to go. The job wasn’t what I thought it was going to be.

  I can’t leave. I’m due to stay another two nights. There are two more parties.

  I’d like my phone back and someone to drive me into town. I rise to leave.

  She grabs me by the shirt.

  I can’t leave.

  Yes. I can. I am not a prisoner. Or am I?

  I’m not a prisoner. She would like me to stay. She won’t move my room.

  I’ll stay. Just so we’re clear. She’s not Olga. She’s special in her own way.

  She wishes she was Olga.

  Why? What is it in her head that makes her believe Olga is superior? Can I be totally honest with her
?

  Maybe. Probably not. She’s fragile. Am I going to say a bad thing about her?

  No.

  A nice thing?

  No. Something about Olga.

  Okay.

  Olga isn’t so great. She’s bossy, demanding, fussy, annoying… the list is long.

  Olga is beautiful.

  So is a hurricane. The moment she let’s go of this desire to be someone she isn’t, but rather learn to love who she is, then good things might start to happen.

  Okay. How about this. She wanted me to come to her room for a reason, and I think that she wants us to touch. Is that it?

  She shrugs. Maybe.

  What would make her the most comfortable?

  Why do I wear clothing during the day? Why don’t I wear a robe? It’s not like I’m leaving.

  First of all, I thought I was going to Kyoto. Second, I prefer to dress in the morning. I like to do things a certain way. Maintain a level of order. I don’t exactly have a regular schedule so I have to make one. Part of that is dressing appropriately every morning. Otherwise standards start to slip and before I realize it I’m sitting around in my underwear day in and day out not precisely certain when it was the last time I showered.

  She would like it if I came to her room wearing a robe. It makes things less awkward for her.

  I can do that.

  Will I change? She points to a sliding door.

  I step through it. I’m in a hallway with five doors. Two on each side. One facing the opposite from the door I’ve entered through. Five doors. Button button who has the button?

  First door on the left. A closet. More than a closet. A room devoted to the art of dressing. Olga would go catatonic at upon viewing the racks of shoes. I never want her to see this room. This room would only give her ideas.

  I close the door and move on. First door on the right. No Vegas casino has so many security monitors set up in one location. Three walls of monitors. I find our bedroom. It’s empty.

  Moving on. Second door on the left side. Toilet. Wash basin. Stand with neatly folded towels.

  Second door on the right. Bathroom. Gorgeous. Teak (I think it’s teak) lined and sauna warm. I walk through the room. There is a sauna. Perfect. There is a steam room. I’m in heaven. I walk through another door within the bathroom. Inside along with standard cardio equipment is a compact lap pool. State of the art. If I had the money, I’d buy one in a second.