The Hamam Diaries Continued

by Sebastian J Stone

  I mentioned bringing one precious Islamic bowel to Greece to sell. The veneer of brotherly concern vanished instantly “Hang on a minute, I will have to check this with Shirley” and, it was established that the bowel was mine. The following morning, I found the bowel in my end of the house.

  The appearance of family unity did not last. I knew it had come to an end when Shirley confronted me with this demand, “Would you please take all your rubbish and those moldy carpets out of my attic and put them all in your room.” The task ahead of me was immense, but to fill the only beautiful room left in the house was a spiteful and vindictive act. I assured her that I would start sorting and burning the following day. I was then warned by my brother not to make any mess in Shirley house. I told my brother I could not do the job without help and I had no intention of piling rubbish in the only room in the house that is still tolerable, and I left to visit Stuart for a few days. I needed preparation for the task ahead of me. Obliterating my family’s history is no small matter and I needed Stuart’s support.

  Being with Stuart revived my sense of belonging, continuity and the memory of shared history returned. On my return, I started organizing and empting the attic with my brother’s help when Shirley was out of the house. All the accumulation of materials collected over a life time had no future. My days of antique restoration and upholstery were over. Precious bags of irreplaceable curled horse hair for stuffing antique seat furniture and my mother’s collections of genuine Ida-down for filling sumptuous cushions were burned. Antique fabrics rescued and saved to cover period chairs had no future and were burned. I burned all my paintings and drawings including the collections of drawings made on LSD in Morocco. I spent a whole week burning treasures stored for future use.

  During one burning afternoon, I confronted my brother with these words, ‘Brother, there seems to be a situation and it seems to involve me. If this is the case I will call in a firm of Auctioneers and they can take the lot.’ My brother suggested that I could put my furniture into store and I replied, ‘I am contacting Bonham’s.’ He looked very relieved but also hurt and, I detected a history of resentment now fueled by Shirley’s constant demands concerning me. But, I also know that they had expected to inherit my entire collection of Art and antiques. I recall that I once sold a Dutch chest of draws with two matching chairs for 12,000£ and was told that I must consult them first, next time. That was before antiques lost their value. I wish I had sold the lot then, but antiques losing value was unthinkable.

  My brother mentioned our mother only once, his words were, and “That woman has a lot to answer for.” Perhaps in Shirley he has found the conventional mother that he always craved. The house is now tidy and Shirley can be guaranteed to always be well dressed and say nothing of significance. At last he has achieved the acceptability of mediocrity. The house is no longer a home but a reception area. Oddly their bedroom is disgusting, the bed unmade and dresses and shoes piled every surface. Why are people always wrong?

  My collection of old roses seems to be vanishing because my brother doesn’t like anything with thorns. Several rare trees have disappeared because I treasured them. I offered to help classify the garden because my brother can’t tell weeds or self-setting ash trees from ones that need nurturing, but Shirley forbad my intervention. I spent my time obliterating our family history. As Stuart once remarked, “They haven’t given you time to grieve.”

  I spent a lot of time with one friend who is over 90; she is my only link with the past. For some reason the few items I sold her over the years make her home feel more like my own history. She is a Parson’s daughter who married a policeman now long dead. Her son is something very important in London, his wife is Indian. I suspect her son could be gay though I have no basis for this assumption. My friend insists on being called Paddy, because she likes to think that she belongs to the class that has a ‘nick name’ dating from the nursery. Paddy loves antiques and we often went to auctions together and her house is a total delight.

  Paddy has always loved Orchards End; it is her favorite house. I told Shirley in passing that Paddy Loved Orchards end and would have bought it if she could. Shirley reply revealed how she feels ‘I can’t imagine why. It’s too close to the road.’ Feeling superior, I replied ‘Actually the house was here first, it’s the road that’s too close to the house.’ Paddy’s son has just bought a farm house in Devon with fifty-five acres of land. I will give him the Donegal carpets. He has visions of being the country gentleman and shooting pigeons at weekends. His children are very beautiful and clever; they always went to private schools. I first met Paddy because a teaching colleague lived next door. Paddy had been hoping to make our acquaintance for many years.

  During this visit Paddy told me that, when we first met and started going to auctions together one of her neighbors said to her, “I know who you are seeing, you should have seen his mother when she was young. She used to walk her dogs and all the fellows use to look out for her”. He added, “My word she was a stunner.”

  Paddy fluted ‘he never forgot your mum.’ That must have been between the years 1932 to 1937. She borrowed neighbor’s dogs and walked for miles. Paddy then confirmed ‘She was so beautiful, wasn’t she?’

  These were the years of national strikes, no work and her platonic relationships. Mother loved extremes of weather and would have glowed, battling against the wind, her color high, her hair flying. I have seen that look of ecstatic bliss on a few occasions.

  September 7, 2010:

  Nashwan has told me that I can write about the illegal immigrants if I want to. He insists that he loves me and I find it very easy to return the sentiment. If I could make him my partner he could then be legal. This is not possible in Greece because the church is still part of the state. Also, it would have to be secret because in Islam marriage between men is strictly forbidden. He told me that, ‘If anybody at home thought I was gay, I would kill myself Sebastian.’ Nashwan often threatens to kill himself, but not in the western manner as a cry for attention. His threat seems very eastern, as if life is transient and death is only door closing. I get the feeling that life is cheap and death an ever-present reality. He has no concept that beyond death there is nothing.

  Nashwan wants to cook for me. He explained to me when he was growing up food was so scarce, they only had a bowl of rice or lentils to eat. I find his food too bland but he finds my food too rich. The problem is that he eats too fast and too much and then goes to sleep. His beer intake will not help; he drinks before eating and then throws up one hour later.

  September 9, 2010:

  I have met a Pakistani boy in the park. He spends all day alone listening to his music. The Gardner first drew my attention to him, he said, ‘don’t go with him he doesn’t use condom, he doesn’t kiss and he hurt me, he made my ass bleed.’ The Gardner also told me how he first met the Paki boy, ‘I came early and he was sleeping on the wall, I thought ‘ah, what a beautiful boy.’ He is very beautiful, tall and thin with a marvelous face and a magnificent aquiline noise. Sometimes he looks at me sideways, his eyes are very dark.

  Keith brought the Paki to Novak late one night. He walked respectfully behind Keith and he is very polite. I whispered to Keith, ‘Your friend is very beautiful’--- ‘Yes I know. Do you know anything about him?’---‘Yes, he’s a rent boy and he fucks without a condom.’ He walked to Keith’s hotel but declined his invitation and promised, “Perhaps next Time.”

  The following morning, I spoke to the Paki boy. I have seen him accompanying respectable tourists on several occasions. Savas told me that ‘He is educated and wouldn’t know the first thing about renting.’ I asked the Paki if he is a rent boy and gay, he answered, in the most educated English, ‘I am not gay’ his shoes are cheap and very warn, his trousers are loose and in need of a wash. I can clearly see the size of his dick through his trousers he doesn’t wear underpants. I told him about the dangers of Aids and that he must always use a condom if he fucks. I offered him money and he refuse
d, so I said, ‘Its ok you can pay me back’ and he accepted the price of a gyros.

  Keith later told me that he works for fifteen euros a day washing vegetables, he sleeps in a hotel after they close for the night and he washes every morning in a Turkish cemetery. I join him every morning after he finishes work and give him some money to buy us a Gyro and we laugh about Greeks. His English is very slow and his voice soft and beautiful but conversation is hard work, unlike Nashwan. He told me that every time he asks a Greek if they have any work they all say ‘Sorry there is no work, but do you want sex’ he spends all day and half the night in the gay park. I asked about the Gardner and he said, ‘He offered me fifty euros for fucking, but I am not gay.’

  My relationship with Novak is reaching a crisis point. Every time I speak he looks away, especially if girls are passing and then says, ‘Sorry, what did you say?’ or he interrupts me continually. So, I told him, ‘I do not speak very often and if I do I hope it is because I have something to say, and I expect people to pay attention’ but he never stops talking long enough to hold a conversation. His pet hate is, the British Empire. I am the first to criticize it, but I would appreciate a discussion if it is supposed to be a conversation. He is beginning to make me ill.

  September 10, 2010:

  The Paki boy calls himself Sultan, but first he told me that his name was Ali. I took him to the Hamam because I want to know exactly what I am letting myself in for. It took me a long time to persuade him to join me. His excuse was always, ‘But I’m clean.’ Eventually I gave him no choice and he reluctantly followed me. We arrived rather late, and the baths were full of old homosexuals. In the changing rooms, after a moment’s hesitation, he pushed his trousers and underpants down as one, and stood naked in front of me. His dick seems to be in a permanent state of semi-erection. He is clean but his feet smell terribly and he needs a home. He was not very happy and knowing Muslims reluctance to appear naked in public, I quickly handed him a towel to cover himself and he followed me into the baths.

  We went directly into the hot room; it was crowded but we sat down. I caught his eye and eliciting a node from him we left. We communicate with ease. In the cool room, I washed his back and then I lay on the floor. He was not very happy but gave my back a rudimentary scrub. To ease his embarrassment, I said, ‘Thank you, I needed that’. I then asked him if he wanted a scrub and, he lay on the floor willingly. His dick promptly began to engorge, so while soaping him all over I whispered ‘Your dicks coming up.’ I avoided anything that could be construed as more than friendship between a responsible man and a boy looking for friendships and security.

  We sat together, he is very beautiful, smooth, brown, long legged, and broad shouldered, and he has a beautiful ass. His hips look a bit wide for my taste but this is probably because his waist is so narrow. He suddenly began to relax and we sat smiling, probably about his dick, or probably his relief at finding there were no expectations. Then it was time to leave but he promptly lay on the floor and closed his eyes. I don’t know if it was trust or an open invitation, so I ran my hands over his body, close to his dick and the inside of his thighs. I whispered, ‘Your dicks coming up again’ he smiled, and I put the steel bowel over it and his smile widened. We had established a degree of trust and understanding. We left and outside he asked, ‘are you going home?’ I answered ‘Yes’ and he replied, ‘Can I come?’--- ‘Not this time I have a boyfriend, I will see you tomorrow morning in the park’.

  September 11, 2010:

  This morning, I visited the British consulate to ask about the possibility of travelling with Sultan and was told I can take him anywhere on visas. I was given a website for visas.

  September 13, 2010:

  To the best of my knowledge, I have just sent John the Greek to jail for ten months. It was his appeal against the court’s verdict that he should spend eight months in jail for the deformation of my character. I was afraid that he would contrive devious proof for the court to prove that I am a famous pedophile (as he had claimed in his defense case for tricking me out of 60,000 GBP).

  John had contrived nothing for his appeal, but merely claimed that the judges had not paid proper attention to the documents that he had presented at the original trial. The judge, a woman, checked with me if there was any basis for his accusation. I replied, ‘No, and I can prove it because I retired from teaching with my pension.’ I asked Panni to explain, I don’t know if she did or if the significance of having a pension was fully understood.

  John told the court that I had admitted to him that I had sex with my pupils. The judge then told John “The documents pertaining to the loan have nothing to do with this case and if I could send you to jail for longer I would, but ten months is the maximum.” Outside there was a political demonstration and it was difficult to hear anything. Panni was superb and nothing escaped her attention. The edge of hysteria in her voice always heightens the significance and urgency of her translations and the political demonstration outside added tension to the drama of the whole proceedings, because everybody had to shout.

  September 14, 2010:

  Nashwan is arranging a flight to Milan for a Syrian rent boy. Nashwan claims, he was the one who introduced him to the profession of ‘fucking the Poustis’.’ He is a short sturdy boy with a beaky nose and his browse meet in the middle. The passport is Romanian. The Syrian has a collection of expensive mobiles stolen by the black boys and bought by the Muslims to use as currency in Europe. He has a lot of money and Nashwan told me, ‘From fucking the Gays Sebastian.’ Nashwan also told me ‘If you want he will fuck you.’ Nashwan also wanted me to look at his dick and the Syrian boy looked more than willing.

  Nashwan sees his two Pilipino boys every ten days. They telephone him quite often. He is always telling me how beautiful they are for fucking ‘They have no hair on their asses Sebastian and they very clean.’ He has tried to bring them home but they don’t want to meet me.

  Nashwan asked me the meaning of the word ‘bastard’ and my answer surprised him. So, I asked, ‘what do you call them in Iraq’ and he told me, ‘Sebastian there are no bastards in Iraq’ so I asked why and the answer, surprised me, ‘we kill them.’ Seeing my dismay, he explained ‘The girls would rather be dead than bring shame on their family. They would kill themselves anyway.’

  September 15, 2010:

  Today I took Sultan to the Hamam again. As soon as the room emptied without being asked, he stretched out on the warm marble floor on his stomach. I took my time soaping and massaging his whole body and, he moved his legs apart. I could see the very thick base of his erection. I ran my hands up the inside of his thighs and he lifted his ass so I could massage between his legs and his groin from behind. I avoided anything invasive and concentrated on his ass, hips and groin. His ass rose higher, as if by instinct so I soaped his anus, balls and dick. To avoid sexual arousal, I said, ‘It’s my turn now’ and stretched out the floor. He used the rough side of a pan scrubber over my entire body. I warned him not to press on or scrub in one place. He respectfully avoided my ass and my dick. We rinsed one another down and it was time to leave.

  On our way, we passed Angelina’s shop. She was devoid of make-up apart from scarlet lips outlined with eyebrow pencil and she looked unusually haggard. The Greek debt crisis seems to be upsetting her. She believes the world owes Greece a debt for introducing civilization and said, “They should pay us.” She then went on to say “Germany should continue to compensate Greece for the last war.” She then went on to suggest that Europe should pay Greece to maintain its ‘laid-back’ life style, because it is a tradition’. I gather that Greece cheated to get into the European Union, to qualify for joining the E.U they borrowed a vast sum of money from Russia. That was one debt they honored. From what I understand of Greeks, they have no concept of ever paying a debt and corruption is normal, in fact it is the only way to survive.

  If I don’t agree with someone’s point of view, I like to find some common ground for discussion. So, in answe
r to Angelina’s comment Greece inventing civilization, I said, ‘You have a point, I must admit that when Greece was establishing the first intellectual civilization, we primitive British were running around painted blue.’ Angelina thought I had misunderstood her and was trying to change the subject or just being obtuse. Angelina was in awe of Sultan; she couldn’t take her eyes off him and we made our escape. She is getting tedious and stupid, as well as old. I have am realizing that Greeks have no concept of responsibility, concerning money.

  September 18, 2010:

  I have received a second court order for the non-payment of the service charge for my apartment. The law firm who is also the debt collectors assured me that they would pass on my address to the company handling the service arrangements. While in England, I tried to check that the company had been informed of my Greek address, but it was impossible to find them. I paid the debt plus interest and all charges. I informed the debt collectors that I intended contacting a solicitor in England.

  Nashwan has a new mobile and the Syrian boy’s belongings. On his new mobile he showed me a party of eastern boys roasting a lamb and dancing. They were very drunk and danced holding hands in a line. It was a bacchanalian orgy of uninhibited beaky boys with flashing eyes and a huge capacity for harmless fun and joy, so different to western drunks.