by James Lear
That must be it. After all these years, he’d decided he wanted me. Mitch, I’ve come to the conclusion that I want to suck your dick and fuck you up the ass, and to that end, have booked you into the Continental Hotel on Gozo for an indefinite stay…
“Penny for your thoughts.” She didn’t give up easily, my new friend.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was thinking of someone.”
“Are you, too, running away?” She delivered the line as if it was penned by Somerset Maugham. “I wonder if we all are. If that’s what life really is. Running from one disappointment to the next, to the next…” She sighed, and for the first time she sounded vaguely sincere. A long piece of ash curved down from her cigarette then dropped onto her dress. “Damn it,” she said, brushing furiously, and for a moment the mask dropped: she was an ordinary middle-aged woman, worried, tired. She quickly recovered. “Smoking and swearing and inviting handsome young men for cocktails,” she said, in a carrying voice. “What must you think? My name is Claire.” She held out a hand weighed down with jewelry. “Claire Sutherland.” She glanced up coyly from beneath lowered lashes, obviously thinking that I should recognize the name. I didn’t; I’m not much of a theatergoer.
I said “Ah,” in an understanding sort of way and squeezed her fingers. “Edward Mitchell.”
“Mr. Mitchell. I have a feeling we’re going to be great friends.”
And that’s all, sister. “I do hope so.”
“And look!” She gestured out the dusty window. “We’re almost there!”
The rubbly, barren landscape gave way to the green of oleanders and tamarisk, large hibiscus bushes along the roadside, even palm trees. Instead of stone huts there were elegant houses with white walls and red-tiled roofs, terraced gardens, bougainvillea spilling over walls. The road dipped steeply as we approached the shore.
“Aaaah!” said Claire, throwing her head back and twinkling those earrings for all they were worth, “I am home! My real home! A life of natural simplicity—how one yearns for it!” She ran scarlet nails through glossy, dark curls. “My lovely Xlendi!”
Xlendi—pronounced Shlendy, but, like all Maltese words, designed to baffle foreigners—was a small fishing village boasting a perfect little bay around which a cluster of new villas were being built. There were unfinished houses here and there, piles of bricks and sand, shovels and hammers, although no sign of any actual work being done. People sat on stone benches shaded by trees, smoking, gossiping, watching the bus as it trundled down the road. We stopped just short of the sea; another fifty yards and the front wheels would have been wet.
“Hotel Continental!” shouted the driver as the engine died. As the doors creaked open, the scramble began. The English family clucked and fussed over coats and bags; Claire Sutherland strutted down the aisle like a Ziegfeld girl, placing one foot directly in front of the other, her ass swaying as she made damn sure that she was first down the steps. I got the impression that Miss Sutherland was accustomed to getting what she wanted. Perhaps it was I who would have to watch myself.
I sat awhile, watching Henry shouldering his burdens, enjoying the way his shirt stuck to his damp back and revealed something of the smooth curves beneath. We could all do with a bath. The sea looked mighty inviting. I said as much as I got up.
“We do not bathe in the sea,” said his father, scowling at me through tortoiseshell glasses. “It is particularly treacherous here.”
I looked out at the calm blue waters, so smooth they reflected the yellow sandstone of the cliffs like a mirror. “Looks okay to me. I can’t wait to jump right in.”
“At your own peril,” said the father. Henry tutted and sighed. I caught his eye and smiled. He blushed as he struggled with the bags his parents refused to consign to the porters.
“Let me help you with that.” I picked up a suitcase. His parents squeaked in dismay, but their son had better manners.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t worry, folks. I’m not going to steal anything.” Except your son’s cherry, perhaps. “After you.”
The family got down from the bus, glancing back all the while to ensure I hadn’t vanished with their precious luggage. I followed.
We were standing on a cobbled promenade, tiny shops and houses on one side, the Mediterranean on the other. There was nothing remotely resembling a hotel to be seen.
“Come, come,” said the driver, beckoning towards a dark, narrow alley between two ancient buildings. “Hotel. Here, hotel.” Shallow steps led up into the gloom. Claire Sutherland was way ahead of me, heels ringing like gunshots on the stones.
“Isn’t there an easier way?”
“God no, darling. One of the many charms of this island, to which you will soon become accustomed, is that there’s no easy way to do anything. Cars and buses and suchlike can’t get anywhere near the dear old Continental. A donkey can just about struggle up these steps, but that’s it. One has to rely on the boys.” She was carrying nothing but her purse and the portable wealth with which she adorned her fingers, neck and ears. Only a brave woman walks down dark alleys with that much ice on display, but I guess Miss Sutherland knew what she was doing. One slug from those expensive knuckle-dusters would lay anyone out.
The rest of the party tailed behind us. After a minute’s climb we emerged into a dazzling square of light; once my pupils had adjusted I saw white walls surrounding a sandy courtyard, trees and shrubs in neat beds, a pillared door with a fancy tiled surround and, tinkling merrily in the middle of it all, an ornamental fountain.
“The dear old place,” said Claire. “Still standing.”
And out of the cool, dim interior emerged a young couple, a beautiful woman and a handsome man, smiling and stepping towards us with hands outstretched.
“Welcome to the Continental,” she said. “We’re so happy to have you.”
II
“TILLY, DARLING.” CLAIRE SUTHERLAND STEPPED FORWARD, hands outstretched, lips pursed and ready. Her black curls brushed against the other’s immaculate blonde waves. “I said I’d be back, and here I am. Martin,” she went on, turning to the young man in the navy blazer, “you’re even younger and better looking than last year, damn you.” Another kiss, this one a little more sincere.
“Claire,” he said. “You look wonderful. I don’t know how you do it.” Martin smiled. He had dazzling white teeth, a flop of dark-blond hair and deep laugh lines around blue eyes. He looked like the leading man of a West End show, right down to his tennis shoes. I half expected him to burst into song. “And you must be Dr. Mitchell,” he said, turning the beam on me. “Welcome to the Continental. I’m Martin Dear, and this is my wife Tilly.”
“We hope you’ll have a wonderful time, Dr. Mitchell,” said Tilly. The petite, curvy blonde bombshell was, in her way, just as charming and theatrical as her husband. The perfect proprietors of a nice little hotel. “We’re all friends here, aren’t we, Claire?”
“Oh yes, dear, we are. Now if someone could just…” She gestured around as if conjuring spirits.
Tilly clapped her hands, and an elderly man in an ill-fitting white jacket emerged from the darkness. “Ralph, take Miss Sutherland’s things to her usual room.”
“Darling, you remembered. I need peace.”
“Of course I remembered. I hope you’ll find things exactly as you like them.”
“I hope so too,” said Claire. Was there a note of warning in her voice?
Trunks and bags were being carried up the stairs by a small army of children, black haired and bare limbed, the offspring of the fishermen who acted as the village’s unofficial fetch-and-carry service. Martin pressed some coin into the oldest one’s hand. Claire strode through the door as if she owned the place, and I followed.
“We’ve put you at the very top, Dr. Mitchell,” said Tilly, who was wearing a white dress with a bold design of red roses, tightly fitted over her narrow waist and big bosom. “The stairs are rather killing, but you look as if you’ll manage. And the view! Well,
I’ll let you discover that for yourself. Ralph will bring your things.”
“Are you sure he’ll make it? He’s kind of old.”
“Oh, they all look ancient here. It’s the sun. They will go out without hats. And the salt water—terribly ageing. I won’t go near it. He’s probably only forty or something.” She handed me a key hanging from a chunk of driftwood. “Quaint, I know, but people just kept losing them. Take the stairs and when you can’t go any farther you’ll find a door. Will you join us for dinner? I think Stella is making something rather special. One of her wonderful fish things. Drinks at seven, shall we say?”
And she was off, greeting the English family, cooing over how much “darling Henry” had grown in a year, what a handsome young man he was becoming…I climbed the stairs until I was out of earshot.
The staircase curved around, an architectural eccentricity that appeared to have been cut into the rock of the cliff. The walls were cold and rough, and soon I was in darkness. A few more steps and the light returned, a bright beam shooting through a small aperture in the wall, enough for me to see a heavy wooden door at the top, shot through with black nails. It looked more like the entrance to a dungeon than a hotel room, and I wondered if I might have to ask Frank Southern for alternative accommodation.
A little jiggling with the key and the door opened.
The room was large and round—octagonal, in fact, with four of the eight sides given entirely to windows that looked out to sea, the view unimpeded, save for the uppermost branches of trees on the promenade below. The light was intense yet the room was cool, shaded from the fiercest heat by a solid ceiling, and clearly designed to catch only the weak but picturesque setting sun. There it was, turning from dusty yellow to orange as it sank towards a headland on the other side of the bay, leaving a glittering trail of gold on the water beneath.
I gasped and went straight to the windows. They opened inwards, giving access to a small balcony, big enough for a couple of canvas-backed chairs and a little folding table. The floor was paved with large, square marble tiles. There was a double bed with a hideous brass bedstead; a table with, of all things, an aspidistra on it; a wardrobe and little else. A small door led to the bathroom.
Claire Sutherland was right. Even I, who had never set foot on the island before, felt as if I had come home.
A sudden stab around my heart. Home—the place I left behind in London—was home no longer. Vince had gone, and there was nothing for me except regret, the hollow echo of all the apologies I’d made, each worth less than the last. And then, when sorry meant nothing anymore, Vince decided that his future lay elsewhere. Not in London, waiting for me to come home at night, wondering where I was, who I was with, if I was safe. Somewhere far away, where he could build a new life and forget me. Oh, we’d told each other all the comforting lies—we’d take a break, we’d concentrate on our own careers, we’d come back together when the time was right. Maybe I believed it at the time, but I don’t think Vince did. I betrayed him too many times, and love—even Vince’s love, the truest and purest I’ve ever found—can’t survive that. I was free now, which I suppose is what I wanted. I didn’t need to miss another opportunity because of guilt or scruples. I could fuck every ass that came my way, and nobody would care. Nobody would care. Nobody. That was it.
Not even Morgan, the man I’d spent years chasing and seducing, loving and fucking and, in the process, almost destroying his marriage and family. What kind of friend had I been to him? A false friend. In the quiet hours of a sleepless night I can tell myself that Morgan’s true nature is being denied; that it’s me he loves, not his wife; that it’s society and the law and Morgan’s innate cowardice that has torn us apart. Now, in the brilliant light of an island sunset, those illusions vanish. Morgan is what he is, a normal married man who has enjoyed a few adventures and settled down. The fact that my dick felt so good up his ass, so right, doesn’t mean that’s where it belongs. Time to let it go. And maybe here, far from the mess of my life, freed from the immediate responsibility of earning a living by receiving an unexpected inheritance, I could make a fresh start. Tabula rasa. No regrets, no memories. A new Mitch Mitchell. Others can do it. Why not me?
Start with washing off the dirt of a long and tiring journey. Through the door was a claw-foot tub with curving brass taps, a toilet and a basin. Thank God that modern plumbing had reached this little outpost of the Empire. I proposed to spend as much of my time in the sea as possible, but I’m still American enough to insist on hot water and flush toilets.
I ran a bath—the water gushed out, satisfyingly steamy and smelling slightly of salt—and stripped. You probably know me well enough to realize that I was already thinking about how to get laid, and taking my clothes off made things more urgent. For all my sorrows and regrets, which I believe were sincere, there was a concurrent train of thought: how could I get into that English boy’s pants? Where was the sexy soldier from the ferry—or even the tall, young priest? What about Martin, my genial host? Just how hospitable would he be? My dick was rising at the thought of all these options when there was a knock at my door.
Someone’s read my mind, I thought, adjusting a towel around my waist. Soldier, son, priest, host? Or a surprise…
I opened the door.
“Your luggage, sir.”
The ancient porter, having lugged my trunk up the twisting stone stairs, was wheezing as if he was about to die at my feet. I didn’t want to start my holiday by delivering the kiss of life. “Jesus, you didn’t have to do that.”
“Quite all right, sir.” His accent was thick, rattling out of congested lungs. He looked as if he smoked eighty cigarettes a day. “Where shall I put it?”
“Just there.” I gestured to the foot of the bed and rummaged for change in my pants pockets. “Here. What’s your name?”
“Ralph, sir.”
I gave him a handful of coins, and he looked pleased. It’s always a good idea to make friends with the help, especially if you’re relying on their discretion.
“Is there anything else, sir?” he asked, glancing at the front of my towel.
“No thanks. That’s all.”
“Perhaps you would like to go to a cafe later, sir.”
“A cafe?”
“My sister, she runs a very nice cafe in the town. Very clean, nice girls.”
It took me a few seconds to figure out what was on the menu. “Thanks, Ralph. I’ll bear it in mind. At the moment I just need a bath.”
“Very good, sir. If you would like some company, I know many ladies.”
“That’s great. I’ll be fine, thanks.”
He seemed reluctant to leave, perhaps hoping to see me get into the bath. Perhaps the whole hotel was riddled with spyholes. I’ve stayed in places like that before.
“Goodbye, Ralph.” I pointed at the door, and off he went.
While the tub filled, I looked out from the balcony. The sun was almost down now, the sky a fantastic mixture of pink and gold, the sea already turning black. Lights were coming on along the promenade. Looking down from my eyrie I could figure out something of the layout of the hotel. Beneath me were two identical balconies, one on either side; the house tapered towards the top. Further down there were three more balconies. Six rooms at the front, then, and perhaps others at the back, looking onto the cliffs. I wondered who was where. Miss Sutherland, with her repeated plea for peace, was perhaps at the back, where she could allow herself to fall to pieces (no makeup, no jewelry, no wig—was it a wig?) unobserved. And what of the English family? Were they all camped out in one room, or had they given the son—an adult, for all his boyish looks—the privacy he deserved? At the moment all the doors were closed, the balconies unoccupied, but from my vantage point I could see everything, as well as keep an eye on the comings and goings around the harbor, the bars and cafes, the fishermen’s huts and the promenade. At its left-hand extremity the promenade turned ninety degrees to the right, following the edge of bay and providing a paved pathway ove
r the undulating rocks that led out of the village. On the right, it terminated in a sheer rock face full of small caves—dug either by time and the elements or the hand of man—where the locals kept nets and floats. Steps were cut into the rock leading up a steep path that disappeared to the west; the cliffs there climbed towards the bulky, square headland behind which the sun had now dropped.
There was much to explore, both inside and out. But first, that bath.
The ancient Ralph and his unwelcomed offers had effectively quelled my excitement, but the hot, salty water soon did its work and by the time I was clean in body I was once again very dirty in my thoughts. Trusting the twilight and railings to conceal the details, I stood naked on the balcony and looked down.
Below me one set of windows was open. A towel, identical to the one I’d discarded on the bathroom floor, was draped over the rail. I leaned a little farther and there it all was—a blond head; a long, pale neck; bare arms and shoulders, just the straps of a fresh white singlet across each. He was sitting watching the sunset, and he appeared to be alone. I watched him long enough that my cock started to rise and then, making sure it wasn’t visible, called down a salutation.
“Hi! Henry! Lovely evening!”
He jumped and looked up into the shadows. “Who’s there?”
“It’s me. Mitch.”
“Oh, Dr. Mitchell.” He sounded pleased. “I can’t quite make you out. I’ve been staring at the sunset. Isn’t it beautiful?”
“Lovely,” I said. “You going for a swim?”
“I don’t know. I’d very much like to.”
And then, like sinister figures on a Swiss clock, his parents popped out onto the adjacent balcony. “Henry! Come inside!” shrilled his mother.
“Who are you talking to?” barked the father. I withdrew into the shade of my room; it wouldn’t do young Henry any good for his parents to see a naked man hovering above him.
“Just the gentleman in the room upstairs,” said Henry, who was obviously the honest sort. “Dr. Mitchell. He was asking me if I’d like to go for a swim.”
