Memoirs of a Gigolo

by Margaret Buffano

  A stretch limo pick up at my studio. Then chauffeured to the airport where a first-class ticket was waiting for me – from N.Y.C. to Venice, Italy, the departure point of the cruise.

  I was grateful to learn Margaret Ann and her husband flew their private jet from Canada to Venice. I was hoping to have little, if no, contact with her husband, Kendal, during the voyage.

  The Venice airport is on the mainland; there are many ways to get into the heart of the city; but for me, nothing is more breathtaking than arriving by train – like Katherine Hepburn in Summertime.

  The Venice train station opens out to a series of stairs leading down to the edge of one of the main canals. There water taxies wait for tourists who don’t have the good sense to take the public water-bus. I hired one of the water-cabs to take me to my ship. After all, I wasn’t paying for it.

  Again, surprised and delighted with Margaret Ann’s extravagances, I entered my state room to find it was a large, elegant suite with double French doors leading to a small veranda where you can sit and admire the sea view.

  On the coffee table were a Bon-Voyage basket of fruit and a bottle of good champagne. Attached to the bottle was a note. It read:

  “Don’t drink this without me! See you at dinner. Love M.A.”

  See you at dinner? I questioned, feeling confused.

  We were to remain docked in Venice for twenty-four hours; the poker tournament wouldn’t start till we were away at sea. I was under the impression Margaret Ann and Kendal were to do Venice together, and I was to fend for myself.

  ***

  My heart leaped up into my throat when I walked into the ship’s dining room to find pre-assigned seating – and I was to be sitting at the same table as Margaret Ann and Kendal. How could she have done that to me…flirting with disaster?

  Also seated at the table were a young honeymooning couple who only had eyes and ears for each other and seemed oblivious to all else. A gray-haired old geezer the cruise line must have thought balanced out the table, because of my single seating.

  Margaret Ann was playing the gracious host. She introduced herself and her husband to all, and asked each of us our names.

  I sat in awe of her acting ability. She looked me square in the eye, with no expression on her face that suggested anything other than we had never met before in our lives.

  Kendal, Margaret Ann’s husband, wasn’t much of a talker. I doubt he said more than three or four sentences the entire evening. He also wasn’t much of a looker. He was a fat, little, wrinkled old man who after each bite of his meal replaced his unlit cigar between his lips. He looked like a shaved chimpanzee with a turd hanging from his mouth.

  The honeymooning couple was, as I said, too sex-crazed, self-absorbed adolescents. Their names were Don and Donna, or Bob and Dottie, and they were from New Jersey, or Pennsylvania, or Connecticut…whatever the case may be! Margaret Ann thought they were cute; I thought they were boring.

  The old man was a different story.

  “Harold Macintosh…just like the apple,” said the old man.

  ‘Huh…I never ate an apple named Harold in my whole life,” Kendal said over his cigar, laughing and then choking.

  The old man smiled politely and continued.

  “I’m retired…my wife and I used to go on cruises all the time; we loved them. When she died, I guess you could say I shut down for a while. But, my kids rallied behind me and got me going on cruises, again…do it about four times a year, now.”

  “That’s so sweet,” said Margaret Ann, “I’m so excited we get to spend a day here in Venice; I’ll have my husband, Kendal, to myself all-day, tomorrow. Probably won’t see much of him after that; my husband is here for the poker tournament.” She turned to Harold, “Are you a gambling man, Mr. Macintosh?”

  “No, not me; I’m into taking pictures…you know, photography.” He reached down and pulled up what looked like an expensive camera, “My kids bought it for me a few years ago for my birthday. I don’t go anywhere without it, now. I do my own developing, too,” he said proudly. He continued to get each person at the table to pose as he took their photo.

  “And you, Mr. Defy,” Margaret Ann said, smiling into my eyes, knowingly. “If you don’t mind, tell us why you’re on this trip?”

  “I’m an artist…I mean, a painter. I’m like Mr. Macintosh here, I plan to record what I see…only with a sketch pad and charcoals…it’s lots slower…but it’s what I do.”

  “I see,” said Margaret Ann, “then you’re not a gambling man?”

  “No, I’m not,” I said, “I like a sure thing.”

  “I see,” repeated Margaret Ann, smiling.

  At that moment, I felt something rubbing against my leg. Margaret Ann was playing footsy with me under the table. How utterly quaint and old fashion, I thought.

  ***

  True to my word, I left the ship early the next morning with my sketch pad and charcoals.

  Venice is a city known the world over for its glassworks. I could have gone on a tour of one of the glass factories, but I was afraid that was something Margaret Ann would drag Kendal to. Poor Kendal…spending the day looking at Venetian glass…all the while wishing he was at a gambling table, cigar in his mouth, a glass of scotch in one hand, and a royal flush in the other. Poor…poor bastard…I’m paid for such abuse, but he has to pay for it…poor, poor Kendal.

  I roamed the streets, stopping here and there to sketch whatever caught my eye. Later in the day, like most good tourists, I found myself in the Piazza de San Marco, seated at one of the many outdoor cafes, and sipping on an espresso. Music of a string ensemble filled the air, the sound of thousands of pigeons that haunt the piazza flapping their wings.

  “Smile,” I heard someone say, I turned to see who it was. There was Harold Macintosh (just like the apple) taking my photo and smiling at me.

  “May I sit down?” he asked, sitting down, not waiting for a reply. “No, thank you…nothing for me,” he said as the waiter came toward our table. “So, how’s it going?” he asked.

  “Great…just great!” I was trying to sound as friendly as possible. “Take any good pictures?” I asked, pointing to his camera.

  “Oh, yes, this place is a photographer’s dream!”

  There was a brief and awkward moment of silence that passed between us, and then he continued.

  “You know, Alex…it is Alex, isn’t it? You know, Alex…I was thinking about Mrs. Seating.”

  “About whom?” I asked, trying to sound innocent.

  “Mrs. Seating…you know, Margaret Ann…the woman at our dining table on the ship. I was thinking…her husband will be busy with that poker tournament…she’ll be alone…you’re alone…and so am I. Why don’t the three of us hook-up together for the rest of the cruise and take in the sights?”

  “Gee, Mr. Macintosh?” I said, ill at ease.

  “Call me Harold.”

  His smile ran from ear to ear.

  “Gee…Harold…I don’t think so. I’ve got to do my drawings.” I pointed to my sketch pad.

  “Of course, I understand.” He rose from his seat, his smile lessened, “Well, see you tonight at dinner.”

  “Not tonight,” I said, “I was thinking of taking in one of the local restaurants.”

  His wide smile returned to his face and he went all aglow, “What a great idea! Mind if I come along? Later, we can take one of those gondola rides…we can share the cost…they’re so damn expensive, you know?”

  “Sounds great, Harold, but I just can’t. I need to be alone…my sketches, you understand?” I held up my sketch pad.

  “Oh, yeah…I understand,” He held up his camera, “From one artist to another, Ars-Gratia-Artis I always say. Well, catch you around.”

  He waved and walked off. Though he was still smiling, I sensed his disappointment, but what could I do? I could not afford being saddled with some old geezer for the next nine days!

  The poker tournament would be starting in twenty-four hours; at that poin
t I would have my work cut out for me; and I don’t mean charcoal renderings.

  ***

  Following day, once we were at sea, with military promptness, the poker tournament got underway – three o’clock precisely. At ten minutes after three, there was a knock at my cabin door – it was Margaret Ann.

  We polished off the champagne that was in the Bon-Voyage basket, immediately, and then ordered a few more bottles.

  Next twenty-four hours were a blur of sex, champagne, and room service.

  I kept the French doors leading to my cabin’s small veranda open. The cool sea breeze swept about the room. With that, plus the gentle rocking of the ship, the champagne, our full bellies, and the afterglow of lovemaking, we slept like newborns for hours on end.

  ***

  Our first port of call was Corfu, a Greek isle nestled neatly in the north, as close to Italy as it was to Greece. The fine blend of Italian and Greek influences was everywhere, in the architecture, the food, and its people.

  Like most other Greek isles, many of the streets were mere narrow walkways, too slender for any form of transport, save for bicycles. Lack of traffic noise had a calming effect on a diehard city boy like me.

  Corfu is a shopper’s dreamland, leaning heavily on gold and fine leather goods. Margaret Ann bought us both matching gold chains and a smooth Italian leather jacket for me.

  After a day of sightseeing and shopping, we stopped for a bite at one of the street cafes. We were on our second glass of ouzo when up popped you-know-who.

  “Smile,” we heard a voice say from behind.

  We turned, just the moment Harold Macintosh snapped our picture.

  It was an awkward moment for me, seeing how I made such a fuss about needing to spend time alone; and here I was with another man’s wife playing the tourist.

  Perhaps, he was smart enough to put two and two together and he had enough good sense and manners to wave and walk on.

  “Make sure I get both of your addresses, so I can send you copies,” was all he said.

  Back at the ship, Margaret Ann returned to her cabin to mess up her bed. She wanted to give the impression she had been sleeping in her own bed. Her husband’s sleeping habits were erratically disbursed during a tournament. At anytime, day or night, he would return to the cabin for a short catnap.

  She also stopped in at the tournament to check on Kendal, to wish him luck, and to kiss his cheek and give him reassurance of her love. Then she returned to my cabin for a repeat performance of the previous night.

  ***

  Crete was our next stop. Margaret Ann and I hired a cab for the day and rode out to the countryside to take in the sights. Far as the eye could see, there were hills and valleys covered with row after row of olive and fig trees, with small family owned wineries spotted here and there.

  Later in the day, we found ourselves at one of the many archeology digs, which are so common to all the Greek Isles. This particular one was the ruins of an ancient palace, somehow connected with the legend of the Minotaur. There were frescos on many of the walls depicting the half-man/half-bull monster having his way with some of the local village women.

  We were having a giggle over that, when something caught my eye. I held up my hand to cover my forehead and shield away the glare of the golden Greek sun. When my eyesight cleared, I could see, two hundred yards off, Harold – with his camera. He must have seen me, also, because he smiled and waved.

  By now, I’m sure your suspicion about Mr. Macintosh (like the apple) is growing as was mine.

  I was beginning to believe our shore excursions were nothing more than something to do while we let our bodies recoup from the abuse we were putting them through each night.

  Every night was an orgy for two with wine flowing, nudity, and lovemaking till we collapsed from exhaustion.

  After Crete, we became bolder; we started to venture out from my cabin. In our drunken stupor, we made love out in the open at various places on the ship. It was always late and we assumed most people to be asleep.

  Our first flight of fancy was to make love on the veranda of my cabin, and then we branched out. We made love in the ship’s pool, the whirlpool, the gym’s sauna, and on one of the benches – the top level at the stern of the ship.

  We threw all caution to the wind. After all, Kendal was busy with his tournament, and if anyone from the ship caught us, what could they do...have us walk the plank?

  ***

  The main part of the city on the isle of Santorini rests on the summit of a high cliff. Margaret Ann and I decided to rough it. We declined the more civilized ride up in the cable car, and rode to the top on the backs of the donkeys that were for hire.

  As we traveled up the embankment, part of a small procession of donkeys, I looked down the steep incline. There, seated on a donkey, camera around his neck was Macintosh.

  It was not unlikely to see someone from your ship when on a shore excursion, but I was beginning to get some bad and uncomfortable feelings about the man.

  Margaret Ann and I spent most of the day shopping and eating at the neighboring restaurants, trying out the local dishes. We later went on a tour of one of the wineries, which is where and when my memory of the day begins to fade. I know we bought and drank a few bottles of the world renowned local wine – both red and white.

  I remember being on the cable car. I also remember walking into my cabin and falling face down onto my bed. What happened after that, I haven’t a clue.

  ***

  Last isle on our tour was Mykinos. Margaret Ann and I got a late start that day, due to some serious hangovers.

  One of the highlights and traditions of the island is to find a strategic spot where you can watch the sunset over the sea. The entire village accommodated this traditional pastime; all cafes and restaurants faced the west.

  Margaret Ann and I found a quiet table at one of the cafes on the edge of the shoreline. The waves crashed just below our feet; fine sprays of sea mist flew up and soaked us.

  Believing in the adage the “Hair of the dog” was what we needed, we ordered a bottle of wine.

  As the sun set, colors of red, orange and purple shot across the sky and echoed on the mirror surface of the sea.

  Off to our left was a hill on which we could see the faint outline of large, whitewashed windmills. We walked to them.

  “Have you ever made love in a windmill?” asked Margaret Ann.

  “I don’t think so,” I said, trying to be cute.

  I tried the doors; all the windmills were all locked. I kicked one of the doors open; we entered. It was dark inside.

  There were sacks of un-milled barley piled high and all around. I closed the door; the room went pitch-black. I groped around in the dark till I found Margaret Ann. I took hold of her hand; and the two of us fell down onto the sacks. We made love in the dark.

  “I have to get back to the ship,” she whispered, “The tournament ends tonight in a few hours. Tomorrow we dock at Istanbul. I’ve arranged for you to fly back the day after tomorrow.”

  She nestled her lips deep into my ear, “I’m so glad we did this.” She moaned gently.

  “I wouldn’t have missed if for the world,” I said.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “The Gift Horse starts to choke”

  The Brazilian sun was high, sending its radiant heat down on the slopes of the mountains; a heat only those who live below the equator understand.

  There were beads of sweat dripping into Pedro’s eyes as he picked a handful of coffee beans and placed them into his shoulder bag, repeating the process many times over.

  “Why must you plant so close to the edge of the cliff; it’s too dangerous,” warned his neighbors. “A farmer must be frugal, but one day you will be sorry!”

  He took little heed of their short-mindedness, and continued planting close to the edge of the cliff, so close some of the branches hung out over the abyss.

  Pedro reached out to the farthest branch, the loose soil gave way and he went
flying over the edge.

  By some miracle, his hands took hold of a rock in the side of the cliff, and he stopped his fall.

  He was hanging by his fingertips. He looked up and could not see a way to climb back. He looked down to see a straight drop to the jagged rocks below. His fingertips began to bleed; he felt his death was certain.

  “Do not be afraid,” he heard someone say from behind him. The sound of the voice, though gentle, startled him so that he nearly lost his grip.

  He twisted his head around slightly to see there, floating in midair, an angel shining in bright white and gold with a wingspan of nearly twenty feet across.

  “Do not be afraid,” repeated the angel, “You must let go of the rock.”

  “I’m just a farmer; I can’t fly…I’ll fall!” cried Pedro.

  “If you take my hand, you will not fall,” said the angel.

  “I don’t think I can?” pleaded Pedro.

  “Look at me. Have you ever seen an angel more grand and beautiful? You must trust me!”

  “You are the only angel I have ever seen!” answered Pedro. “I’m too scared to let go!”

  “You must believe!” The angel reached out a hand for him to take hold of. “To believe is to have faith. To have faith is to trust. You must trust me. Take my hand, and let go of the rock.”

  With one majestic expression of trust, Pedro let go of the rock, twisted around and reached for the outstretched hand of the angel.

  The angel backed up a few feet; and Pedro, unable to take hold of his hand, fell to his death on the jagged rocks below.

  The Angel of Death smiled, turned, and flew off into the bright Brazilian sun.

  ***

  Standing at the uppermost point of the now-docked ocean liner (fifteen stories high); I got a panoramic view of Istanbul.

  Istanbul, where the ancient world melds with the new, dressed in earthy browns and grays – an overcrowded city where humanity’s piled on top of humanity and clotheslines connect buildings to one another.