Tiramisu After Midnight

by Mark David Campbell

  “Six.”

  Maggie counted as she put six tablespoons of tomato sauce and eighteen cherry tomatoes into the pot.

  Now, for the final step,” Tata said. “Pour the hot oil into the pasta pot over the herbs, tomato sauce, and pasta.”

  Maggie held the handle of the hot pan with both hands as if she were afraid it might burst into flames at any moment. The oil sizzled as it ran down the side of the frying pan and into the pot of pasta.

  “Quick, mix the pasta and sauce well with these wooden spoons.”

  “Like this?” Maggie said.

  “Yes, fluff it.” Tata swirled her hands as if she were about to dance the flamenco. “There, now you can hold any man captive at your table. I’ll get the door.”

  With the hot gloves on both hands, Maggie picked up her large pot of pasta il pratto and carried it into the dining room where Owen, Papà, Enrico, and Fabrizio were waiting patiently at the table.

  “Now tell me, dear, who do you think is in control here?” Tata whispered into Maggie’s ear.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  THAT EVENING, after the heavy pasta lunch, dinner was a light menu of fresh cantaloupe with smoked prosciutto ham, a simple spaghetti dressed with butter, black pepper, anchovy paste, and parmigiana cheese, fresh bread and gorgonzola cheese, and fresh figs for dessert, accompanied by spring water and a carafe of homemade red wine that Giovanni had given Tata.

  After dinner Maggie and Owen went outside onto the terrace and reclined in the wicker chairs, gazing up at the canopy of stars. It probably wasn’t any more spectacular than the night sky over the Finger Lakes district back home, but maybe here they felt like they could really take it in and bask in the carpe diem effect.

  Maggie was right. She was always right. He really did need to get away. And, thankfully, the Prozac and Tylenol were helping.

  “So, what happened to you this morning?” Owen turned his head toward Maggie.

  “What do you mean?” Maggie looked nervous.

  “When we arrived you were still under the manga curse of Pathetic Patty.” Owen grinned. “And now, look at you.” He made a circle with his finger.

  “Do you like it?” Maggie’s face went flushed.

  “Like it?” Owen hung his mouth open. “Mothers of Syracuse, lock up your sons. Here comes the new Maggie—international sex-bomb!” Owen laughed and Maggie, giggling along, reached over, and swatted him on the shoulder. “By the way, whatever magical potion Tata brewed up, ask her if there some left for me. I could sure use a shot.”

  Owen cast his eyes back toward the purple sky and thought about riding on the back of the motorbike that morning, clinging onto Enrico’s warm, hard body. Breathing in deeply, he could still smell the woody scent of the back of Enrico’s neck. Then he pictured him on the edge of the dock, his long lean form packed into a black Speedo accented with a red strip, that clung to his buttcheeks and came around the front, cupping his package. He had heard Italian men liked to wear tiny bathing suits, but he supposed that was only a stereotype. It wasn’t so much the Speedo as the way in which Enrico appeared completely at ease with his body, even though he was standing there in the open, almost naked.

  Back in high school Owen had spent endless hours at the side of the pool, admiring Jessy to the point where he felt almost like admiring anyone else was a betrayal. But now, as he thought about Enrico, for the first time, Owen realized how much his devotion to Jessy had closed him off from seriously considering another boy.

  His mind wandered back to the summer when almost every evening after he’d finished at Party Harty’s he would race over to the community pool just in time for a dip before Jessy closed up. Owen would dart into the changing room, throw on his big baggy boxers, and emerge onto the pool deck, all white and pink. Just seeing Jessy perched there on his elevated lifeguard chair, his bronze muscular form clad in those tight red trunks, made Owen feel virile too. But no matter how Jessy coaxed, Owen could never quite muster the courage to dive off the twenty-foot platform and at the final moment, he always jumped off feetfirst.

  The final week in August, that summer they’d graduated from high school, Jessy had just finished his shift, cleared the pool, and was in the office signing out while Owen waited poolside. As he sat there with his legs dangling in the water, he convinced himself that this was his last chance to show Jessy he was not a chicken. With everyone in the changing room and no one around to make him nervous, Owen got up, padded over to the ladder, and scaled it. The cool evening breeze tussled his auburn hair and tickled his skin. From up here he could see the roof of his house in the distance. Well, it wasn’t his house anymore, not since his mother had thrown him out in June. He stepped cautiously out to the edge of the platform and stood with his arms held over his head like Superman about to take flight. He took in a big breath, bent his knees slightly like Jessy had told him to do, and leaped out into space.

  Down he came like a dead weight and went splat onto the surface of the water, knocking the wind out of his lungs. Luckily Jessy had heard the splash and came running in time to pull him out before he drowned.

  That’s why their argument at Pride had made him so mad. It was like Jessy was pulling him out of the deep end once again. Most of all, he knew Jessy was right. He didn’t care about that little cokehead Lane, or whatever his name was. He just wanted to be a party boy like Jessy. But Jessy was like Teflon. He could party with the pros and nothing ever stuck to him. More than envy, Owen despaired at the thought of losing Jessy. What would he do without him? The coke had given him the confidence he felt when they were together, but he was smart enough to know that coke was a poor substitution to his addiction to Jessy. Well, he’d certainly gone cold turkey from it all. He was a long way from work, the party circuit, and Jessy.

  Owen thought about what Enrico had said when they were in the water as he’d clung to the buoy trying to catch his breath. He really did have all the time in the world. He had no deadlines, no clients to meet. He was young and gay and single. Sure, Owen knew it would probably come to nothing more than flirtation with Enrico, but that wasn’t the point. He was on vacation and he was here to enjoy.

  Suddenly, Owen was jolted out of his little daydream by the sound of a popping cork behind him. Both he and Maggie looked around at Fabrizio, who was standing with a bottle in his hand next to Enrico, who was holding wineglasses.

  “Champagne!” Owen said.

  “No, not really. It’s Italian Franciacorta,” Fabrizio said.

  “Which is considered to be on par with many French champagnes,” Enrico added.

  Enrico handed Owen and Maggie each a glass and Fabrizio filled them.

  “I chose the rosé especially for you, Miss Maggie,” Fabrizio said with a toothy grin.

  “Ah, how sweet. My favorite color is pink.” Maggie beamed.

  Owen turned his head toward Maggie and said out the side of his mouth, “Since when?”

  “Since right now.” Maggie flashed him a quick sneer.

  After Enrico and Fabrizio had filled their own glasses, Fabrizio held his high in the air and said, “A toast. To new friends.”

  “And new possibilities,” Owen added, darting his eyes toward Enrico.

  No sooner had they finished the bottle of Franciacorta, than Enrico appeared with another bottle and held it up. “This is a simple pinot grigio. It’s the most popular northern Italian dry white.”

  “It’s a little lighter,” Fabrizio added. “Or would you prefer prosecco?”

  “No, that looks fine to me.” Owen drained his glass and held it out.

  “So, what do you guys do for fun in the evening?” Maggie said as Enrico filled her glass.

  “Dance,” Enrico said.

  “There’s a club around here?” Owen took a sip.

  “No, the nearest disco is in Varese about an hour away,” Enrico said.

  “Where do you dance, then?” Owen’s eyes were trained on Enrico.

  “Here on the terrace or in the living ro
om in the winter,” Fabrizio said.

  “With each other?” Maggie said in a tone that divulged an unfiltered thought.

  “Of course!” Fabrizio said without the slightest indication that that might be unusual. “We practice here. There’s a network of Latin American dancers and schools throughout the villages.”

  “They have competitions,” Enrico said.

  “We’ve been disqualified three years in a row,” Fabrizio said proudly.

  “Disqualified? Why?” Owen said.

  “Well, we dance tango. You know it was originally a dance between men,” Fabrizio said.

  “The gauchos in Argentina,” Enrico added.

  “There’s nothing in the rule books that says two men can’t compete,” Fabrizio continued.

  “But the couples are scored on both the gentleman’s and lady’s performance, so the judges always disqualify us because neither one of us is a lady,” Enrico said.

  “But that’s ridiculous!” Maggie said, almost spilling her wine.

  “That’s why we have so many rules in Italy,” Enrico said.

  “Just to be sure the playing field always slopes uphill in the winner’s favor,” Fabrizio said.

  “Or in this case, the dance floor,” Owen said.

  “But here, let us show you our tango.” Enrico took out his cell phone and connected it to a set of Bluetooth speakers. “Do you know Gotan Project?”

  Maggie and Owen shook their heads.

  Enrico and Fabrizio set down their glasses, moved to the center of the terrace, and stood face-to-face. Enrico raised his right hand and clasped Fabrizio’s left. He put his left hand around Fabrizio’s waist and Fabrizio placed his right hand on Enrico’s shoulder. Sultry electronic music flowed out of the speakers and the two masculine bodies pressed together. With a slight gyration of his hips, Enrico stepped forward, sinking his pelvis into Fabrizio’s and guiding him backward. In syncopation with the rhythm, they floated as one around the terrace, their feet entwining in a spiraling performance of desire and passion, domination and submission.

  Tata leaned against the doorframe. “I remember your mamma and papà dancing like this.” She pressed her hands to her lips.

  Then, with a theatrical gesture, Enrico twirled Fabrizio and they seamlessly switched roles, Fabrizio taking command and Enrico following.

  Owen shivered and Maggie squirmed in her seat.

  “Who needs porn when you have tango!” Owen whispered.

  With a gesture of defiance, Enrico pushed against Fabrizio and spun outward, but Fabrizio caught his hand and with a flick, like a boy spinning an old-fashioned top, he spun Enrico back into his arms. Enrico slid down the length of Fabrizio’s body onto the floor. Fabrizio stepped ahead and, as if he were weightless, pulled his brother back to his feet and into his arms again, dipping him over like a drooping stem. Then the music crescendoed. Still holding onto each other’s hands, they spread their arms outward like an eagle’s wings and stood frozen in a pose as precariously balanced as a Degas bronze statue.

  Owen and Maggie clapped enthusiastically.

  “I think I just moistened my panties,” Maggie leaned over and whispered at Owen.

  “So did I?” Owen said. “And they’re not even mine.”

  “And now it’s your turn.” Enrico reached out his hand toward Owen.

  “Miss Maggie.” Fabrizio bowed slightly and took Maggie’s hand.

  “There’s no way I can dance like that,” Maggie said as she followed Fabrizio to the center of the terrace. “Even after a bottle of wine.”

  “We’ll start with a simple merengue,” Fabrizio said. “It’s easy, just move your feet like this, one-two, one-two.”

  “Like climbing the stairs,” Enrico added.

  “And sway your body back and forth.” Fabrizio placed his hands on Maggie’s hips.

  At first Maggie and Owen bounced like two kangaroos during mating season while Fabrizio and Enrico floated and swerved like snakes in water. But after they had finished the second bottle of wine, Owen’s hips had discovered a rhythm different from his usual shuffle and writhe he’d perfected from years at the clubs. Meanwhile, Maggie had become as malleable as putty, completely surrendering herself to Fabrizio’s guiding arms. Punctuated by bouts of laughter—like when Owen stepped on Enrico’s foot and when Fabrizio dipped Maggie and she moaned—and pauses for wine refills, the two pairs danced on, letting themselves float along with the music into the night. By the time the third bottle of wine was empty, Maggie became dizzy and the evening came to an end as naturally as it had started.

  “What just happened here tonight?” Owen said to Maggie as they climbed the stairs to their bedrooms in the tower.

  “I have no idea.” Maggie twirled around, gliding in through her bedroom door. “But whatever it was, I want more.” She blew him a kiss and shut her door.

  Owen went into his room and flopped down on the bed. As he lay there, he thought about the time when he had confessed his love to Jessy and Jessy had said, “I love you too, like a brother.”

  “Sorry, Jessy, but I want more too,” Owen said out loud.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  MAGGIE REMAINED in bed, not sleeping, just staring out her window at the morning sun caressing the mountains on the far side of the lake. Eventually she rose. She slathered herself with sun cream and put on that black swimsuit with the square-cut legs that her mother had bought her years ago when she had to go to swimming lessons at the local pool. It might look like an old-fashioned wrestler’s costume, but it still fit. She put her father’s white cotton dress shirt on over top to protect her from the sun, grabbed her bag and straw hat, and skipped down the stairs. “Tata, have you seen Owen?” Maggie said as she leaned in through the kitchen door.

  “I believe he’s already down at the boathouse with the boys, getting the boat ready to go out,” Tata said without turning around. “Do you want coffee?” She lifted the Moka pot off the burner and filled two cups, then turned with the cups in her hand and looked at Maggie. “Ahhh! What are you wearing, child?” she cried, almost spilling the coffee.

  “It’s one of my dad’s old dress shirts. I’m very sensitive to the sun.”

  “Not that.” Tata placed the cups on the table and went over to Maggie, pinched the corners of the shirt, and held it open. “Oh no, child, you’re not going out in public like that, are you?” she said as she inspected Maggie’s swimsuit. “I’ve seen nuns wearing sexier bathing costumes.”

  “No one will see it except when I go in the water,” Maggie said.

  “Remember that discussion we had about underwear?” Tata winked.

  Maggie frowned. “You really think it’s that bad?”

  “It’s a tragedy. Come with me.” Tata led Maggie out of the kitchen and into one of the back bedrooms. She opened an enormous closet, removed a box, and lay it on the bed. She took off the lid and lifted out a carefully folded pink-and-white bikini and placed it on the bed as if it were something rare and precious.

  Maggie held up the bikini. “I don’t have the hips or the breasts for this.”

  Tata then held up a simple red woman’s one-piece, cut low in the front and high in the hips. “It’s old, but nylon lasts forever. This was the boys’ mother’s. She wore it when she swam across the lake in the annual competition. After she became pregnant, she gave it to me.” Tata grabbed her hips. “Of course, I’m a little too old for this bathing suit. But you, my dear, have the perfect shape.”

  Maggie held up it up and examined it. She liked vintage clothes, because they always told a story, but she felt a little uncomfortable about wearing a borrowed bathing suit. Then she remembered how silly Owen was about wearing the pair of underpants Enrico had lent him. “Okay, I’ll try it on and see if it fits.”

  Enrico and Fabrizio were bent over in the stern checking the fuel and Owen was squatting holding the boat steady by the time Maggie walked down the garden steps to the waterfront and out onto the dock. The old wooden boat was about fourtee
n feet long and looked as if it could comfortably hold five people. Unlike the sleek decorated gondolas Maggie had seen in photos, the boat was much deeper and fatter, and quite plain. It had a tiny raised deck in the bow with a tapered stern and resembled a large, fat semifolded leaf. Its outer hull was painted blue with a red strip, and the rest of the boat was varnished mahogany.

  Fabrizio stood up. “Okay, we’re ready to go.”

  Maggie slipped off her shoes, tossed them into the boat, and Fabrizio held out his hand for her as she stepped on board. Owen stood upright and handed Enrico his pack, then made a little leap from the dock onto the gunwale of the boat. Just as he started to lose his balance Enrico reached out and grabbed him.

  “Thanks!” Owen said with Enrico still holding him around his waist.

  “Why don’t you and Maggie sit up here on the bow deck. The view is better and it’s not so noisy,” Fabrizio said.

  “Just hang on to the railing,” Enrico added.

  “I’m sure that little balancing act you did getting into the boat was a complete accident,” Maggie muttered to Owen as he sat down next to her and they dangled their legs over the gunwales.

  “Strange, I normally I have the agility of a cat.” Owen grinned.

  Fabrizio untied the mooring, and Enrico sat on the captain’s seat, started the engine, and slowly pulled away from the dock. He drew back on the accelerator, the engine roared, and the bow rose. The breeze tugged at Owen’s shorts and T-shirt and made Maggie’s father’s shirt flap like a flag. The water slapping against the hull splashed Maggie’s and Owen’s dangling feet as they sped out over the undulating surface of the bay and passed little camps of families congregated along the stony shore at the ruins of Le Fornaci.

  “They used to mine limestone from this cliff and burn it in those kilns to make lime for concrete.” Fabrizio pointed and called out above the sound of the breeze and the motor.

  They watched as a boy, standing on top of one of the ruined lime kilns, ran out, leaped into space, and plummeted down into the water with a splash while his friends cheered and hooted their approval.