A Madness Most Discreet

by Laura Lascarso

  While they chatted, I took in the opulence that surrounded us—stone pedestals and marble cut-outs displaying a variety of bronze and glass sculptures. Fine art in ornate frames adorned the walls. The marble floor was patterned in an Art Deco style, and the varnished wood doors appeared custom-made. Even the fluted glass doorknobs were probably antique.

  “I read somewhere that eating honey from the local bees can help,” Arden said. They’d been conversing about seasonal allergies and how best to combat them.

  “I’ll have to see about getting some from the market,” he said and then turned his attention to me.

  “This is Michael D'Agostino, the author I’ve told you about,” Arden said. “Michael, this is Mr. Bertrand Horne, Matteo’s houseman.”

  I held out my hand, and Mr. Horne shook it politely.

  “Mr. Evans was quite taken by your talent, Mr. D'Agostino. He offered to let me borrow your books, but I’m afraid reading puts me straight to sleep. He did share a few passages for my benefit. And I hear they may be adapted to film.”

  Arden glanced over at me, embarrassed by the outing. I’d told him only last week that Bitzy had received an inquiry from a television producer interested in purchasing the film option for Cold Lake Chronicles. The deal was not necessarily common knowledge, but that Arden had shared it with this man, showed he was proud of my work.

  “We’re still in the very early stages,” I told him. “And please, call me Michael.”

  Mr. Horne nodded. “Well, if it were to be made into a television series, I’d surely watch it. I love a good mystery.”

  “Me as well,” I replied, my eyes alighting on my lover again.

  “Mr. Giacomo is waiting for you on the West Terrace. May I get your drink orders?”

  “I’ll have a fruit fizz,” Arden said, then glanced at me. “Mr. Horne makes a wonderful gimlet with fresh basil.”

  “Sounds delicious,” I said.

  Arden then led me through the foyer where I was confronted with a life-sized nude statue, the likeness of which could only be my lover. Gilded mirrors reflected the marble sculpture in all its titillating angles.

  “Arden, is that…”

  “Yes,” he said, with an embarrassed smile. “Matteo wanted a centerpiece, and I was living here at the time. It was convenient.”

  The statue’s face was angled upward, one arm outstretched as though plucking fruit from a tree limb, torso twisted slightly from the effort. The care with which the sculptor took in capturing every sinew of muscle and protuberance of bone was admirable. Even the statue’s flaccid cock was recognizable. The sculpture, like my lover, was a work of art, and it spoke to some deeper emotion that Matteo had commissioned it to exalt him. Did Arden understand that, or was he only downplaying the gesture for my benefit?

  This was one serious mind fuck.

  I loosened my tie as we passed through the kitchen—large enough for a catering staff to be fully operational—and onto an open patio overlooking Central Park. The shrubbery on one side offered privacy from the building next door. There was a fountain, the base of which was a koi pond, and a greenhouse. I remembered Mr. Horne calling this the West Terrace, which meant there must be at least one other elsewhere.

  Matteo rose to greet us. He was shorter than me by a couple of inches. His open shirt revealed a mat of graying chest hair while the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to display his muscled forearms. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back from his face and drew attention to his sharp features—piercing coal-black eyes and a slightly hooked nose that reminded me of a bird of prey. With his darker skin tone and features, he looked Sicilian or Neapolitan. My own family was from the north where the bloodlines mingled with Northern Europeans. Despite that and being twenty years my senior, there was a faint resemblance between us, and I wondered if Arden might also have a type.

  Arden greeted Matteo with a light embrace and a chaste peck on the cheek, then introduced the two of us. Matteo offered me his hand and I shook it.

  “Ciao, Michael. Parli Italiano?”

  “Non bene.”

  “Peccato. I seldom have the opportunity to practice. Please, sit.” Matteo motioned to three plush chairs surrounding a low table. “So, you’re the writer Arden’s told me so much about?”

  “I am, but I’m afraid the opposite is true for you.” I didn’t mean to be rude, only honest. Everything I knew about the man had been through my own research.

  “Arden knows how private I am,” Matteo said, unbothered by it. I sensed that he’d faced off with far more fearsome creatures than myself. Men with claws and teeth and dark hearts, where my sharpest weapon had always been my (written) words.

  Arden fiddled with his hair, a telltale sign that he was nervous. His gold bracelet caught the light and attracted both our attentions. Matteo smiled. Something else he liked, to see his favorite pet adorned in his gifts.

  I’d never be able to afford such extravagances.

  “You have a beautiful home,” I said.

  Matteo shared that it had once been a hotel of some renown, opened during the height of the Roaring Twenties and converted since then into several apartments. Matteo had purchased the entire five-story building after the housing market crashed and had been steadily restoring it to its former glory.

  “It’s been a labor of love.” Matteo took Arden’s hand briefly and gave it a squeeze. They were familiar with each other and affectionate. They might even enjoy each other’s company. I knew that already, didn’t I?

  “Arden has an eye for beauty,” Matteo continued. “He’s helped me with a lot of the finer details.”

  “You give me too much credit,” Arden said modestly. “He’d pick three options from hundreds and then let me choose my favorite.”

  “Your arguments were always good. Like the Carrara marble you saw throughout the first floor. I’d wanted a snow-white statuary, but Arden convinced me the veined pattern would be better for housekeeping.”

  “The imperfections are what make it so interesting,” Arden said.

  “Absolutely.” Matteo gazed meaningfully at my lover, who only smiled faintly and turned his attention back to me.

  “Michael has a book coming out this summer, the final in his mystery series,” Arden offered on my behalf.

  “Arden would ignore me for days whenever one of your books was released. I was the one who told him you were giving a reading. I couldn’t possibly know how life-altering that night would be.” His upper lip curled into an expression that could have been a smile or a sneer. Was he threatened by me? I hoped so.

  “I didn’t know until recently I had such a big fan,” I said. Matteo’s confession had produced a faint flush on Arden’s cheeks. At my amused gaze, he took my hand and held it.

  “Michael is helping me with my memoir,” Arden said.

  “The one about your father?” Matteo asked, and Arden nodded. “He doesn’t let me read a word of his writing. How about you?”

  I shook my head slightly. “He’s been very secretive so far.”

  Arden shrugged helplessly. “I keep surrounding myself with masters. I feel inferior in comparison. I wouldn’t want to embarrass either one of you, so I keep my novice attempts to myself.”

  “Arden,” I said softly, hoping that wasn’t true. “I’d be happy to look at whatever you’ve written. I’m not a harsh critic.” I also didn’t care to be lumped into the same category as his “benefactor.”

  “How could you be truthful if it were shit?” he reasoned. “And how could I assume anything else?”

  “Arden and his riddles,” Matteo said with a mixture of tedium and affection. That we might have more in common than I thought was a little unsettling. “Ah, here’s Mr. Horne with our drinks.”

  The drinks were duly distributed, and I took a few sips of mine, welcoming both the liquid’s chill and the soft embrace of gin. It was a good cocktail, floral undertones with a sharp bite. It was warm out there on the veranda with my suit absorbing the sun’s rays, a
long with Matteo’s critical eye. Sweat dripped down my neck and spine. It wasn’t unlike meeting a man’s father for the first time, and I found myself wanting to prove my worth in some way.

  Not to mention I had questions that bordered on invasive. It was overwhelming me to keep my curiosity at bay. Arden kept up conversation on inconsequential matters, and I studied the body language between them, trying to keep their more carnal experiences out of my mind. Arden nudged me with his foot. Matteo had addressed me directly.

  “I’m sorry?” I tugged at my collar again.

  “I suggested Arden take a tour of the greenhouse so that I might get to know you better.”

  I glanced over at Arden who seemed to be waiting for my permission. “Yes, that’s fine.” I sat up straighter in my chair.

  Arden crossed the veranda like it was a catwalk and entered into the greenhouse, leaving the door open behind him. Through the glass, I could still see him, surrounded by what looked like a vast array of tropical plants. I couldn’t imagine a more fitting backdrop, and I wondered if the moist heat and flora reminded him of home.

  “Do you have any questions for me?” Matteo said.

  “I was given strict orders to behave myself.”

  Matteo laughed, deep and rich in its timbre. “Arden worries too much. I arranged this meeting because I thought it might be best for us to get to know each other as friends. Please, you need only ask.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  “I was visiting a friend in Sarasota. We met at a house party.” Matteo paused but only for a moment. “Arden was the main attraction. I was struck by both his beauty and the utter desperation of his situation. I paid for his company for a few days, thinking my infatuation might pass, but it didn’t. So, I brought him back with me to New York, locked up my liquor cabinet, and gave him some conditions. He fell into modeling quite accidentally, though I should have known he’d be good at it. He’s attractive enough and has a very pleasant disposition.”

  Was he implying that Arden was eager to please? Would he be wrong in that assessment? Matteo gazed across the veranda to where Arden was spritzing plants before turning the nozzle on himself.

  “What’s the nature of your relationship now?” I asked.

  “Do you know of the Medici family?”

  I’d been to Italy a couple of times with my father to visit distant relatives, and later, I’d spent a summer abroad in Rome and had traveled extensively throughout the country, including Florence where I learned more of the Medici’s influence over art and culture. They were like the centuries-old Italian version of the Kennedys.

  “I know of them,” I said.

  “They are best known as being patrons of the arts, but what they really excelled at was politics. How else could one family produce four popes?”

  “Money and influence?”

  “And a trusted network of spies. The rich can only gain so much intel from their own networks. The true scandals are uncovered in the servant’s quarters, the taverns, the brothels… That’s where you learn your enemies’ secrets.”

  “Arden is your spy?” I found it hard to believe.

  “He’s much more than that, but he’s done a great deal of investigating on my behalf. A couple of years ago, I was terribly depressed. In a creative slump you might say. One of my competitors had landed a coveted contract to dress a famous celebrity for the Met Gala. I’d been granted a lesser contract and was suffering a crisis of confidence, sure that my own efforts would be outdone by my rival.

  “Arden took it upon himself to become acquainted with someone from the designer’s inner circle, and he brought me an exact description of the dress, detailed down to the pattern in the lacework. He has a great aptitude when he puts his mind to something. It doesn’t surprise me that he’s taken an interest in writing. Despite his lack of formal education, he’s really quite eloquent.”

  I didn’t need to be reminded of my lover’s charms, for I knew them intimately.

  “Knowing my competitor’s design gave me the confidence I needed, and even though my client was not quite so attractive or famous, it was my dress that dominated everyone’s attention. I was so pleased by Arden’s gesture that I made him that gold bangle he’s wearing as a token of my affection. It remains one of my favorite pieces.”

  “Looks expensive,” I said mildly.

  “Arden doesn’t like anything too flashy, but it was well-earned.” Matteo’s gaze had hardly left him, and I saw a true fondness there. “He has incredible resilience. Another man in his circumstance would have turned bitter.”

  “Are you in love with him?” It seemed the natural conclusion.

  Matteo made a dismissive gesture. “How could I not be?”

  “Does Arden feel the same?”

  “I don’t think so. Not anymore. There was a time when he may have loved me, but I believe I caused irreparable damage.”

  “How so?”

  Matteo sighed. “It’s rather personal for both of us. Arden may forgive, but he doesn’t forget. And rather than lose him entirely, we now have an arrangement where I pay him generously for his services.”

  “Sex?”

  “And other things.”

  “Such as?”

  “Arden has many attractive friends, and when I entertain, which I sometimes do, Arden fills my home with an array of beautiful young people who might be looking for the comforts that an older, more established man can provide. Not unlike the Ruspanti.”

  My Italian was limited to the most rudimentary requests, and Ruspanti wasn’t a word I recognized.

  “And what about his other clients?” I asked, thinking of the man in the club who’d spotted Arden, and I assumed, instigated this meeting.

  “There are occasions where Arden grants me favors, though I try to use him sparingly.”

  The idea of this man using Arden for anything stoked my indignance.

  “How long do you think this will go on?” Not much longer, if I had my way.

  “With you in the picture, I don’t know. Of course, I have the means to offer Arden every luxury he could desire, and I’m willing to negotiate. Do you think you could convince him to live a pauper’s life?”

  It was his first bald challenge, though the threat had always been there. I was surrounded by our vast inequities.

  “Arden doesn’t strike me as overly materialistic.”

  “Why would he ask you when he already has me?”

  The truth of his statement disarmed me. “Why be with me at all, then?”

  Matteo shrugged. “Perhaps he is enamored by your talent. Or your cock. You’d know better than me. I only wanted to assure you, there’s no coercion taking place. Arden is not destitute. He has a career and marketable skills. He can end our arrangement at any time, and so long as he keeps my confidence, we will part as dear friends.”

  His message was clear, and it was something Arden had said himself. He chose to cater to this man and his lifestyle. The one rule he’d given me was not to interfere.

  “And now, I have a question for you, Michael. What are your intentions for our dear Arden?”

  “I want to marry him.”

  Matteo seemed surprised by my surety.

  “You are ambitious.”

  “You don’t think he’d want that?” It had never occurred to me that Arden might not want a long-term commitment, a sure sign of my own arrogance.

  “Arden is wild at heart. The few times I’ve tried to tame him, I’ve been confronted with an obstinance I cannot match. But you’re younger and perhaps better suited for the challenge.”

  From across the veranda, Arden caught my eye and gave a cautious smile.

  “I love him,” I said. The realization pained me a little more each time.

  “Tread lightly then. And if and when you muck it up, maybe Arden will consider me a suitable alternative.” Matteo smiled and lifted his glass. “Salute.”

  Part IV.

  The boy got his sea legs. He learned, through the capta
in’s tutelage, when the sails needed to be trimmed or lowered or reconfigured to catch the wind. He learned how to tease the anchor to make sure it took, how to navigate the shallows and avoid running aground on the many coral reefs, a beautiful but treacherous minefield.

  He became so adept in his role as first mate, that he and the captain sometimes went whole days without speaking in complete sentences, both of them focused on keeping Tondaleo on course and her “fat ass” on the move. Both the captain and the boy bemoaned her tendency to stall out in perfect winds. She was stubborn in getting going in the first place, determined to chart her own course rather than sticking to the one they provided.

  “Like being married to an ugly woman,” the captain said, “but one who can cook.”

  The boy also learned how to collect rainwater and filter it, how to prepare meals, take inventory of their supplies, and make lists of what they needed when they went to port. He learned the basics of first aid, like when the captain hooked his own thumb, and the boy had to remove the sharp metal and doctor the wound. He learned how to fish, clean their catches, and how to season and prepare the meat, or else store them in their freezer for later. He even learned how to mend clothing and repair the tough canvas sail covers, which the captain appreciated.

  The boy grew six inches overnight, and with his newfound height, took on other privileges as well—a cold beer at the end of a hard day, a smoke on the upper deck after the sun had gone down. He started growing hair—down there—and experienced new, strange desires as well. The need to run as fast as he could, which he did often enough in the early mornings by sprinting along the beaches when they were anchored offshore. The need to shout into the wind and storms when the weather was bad, to curse his fortune on the roof during a rainstorm when he was cleaning the deck so that they might collect water to replenish their tank. The need to fight, which the captain provided opportunity often enough.