Tiramisu After Midnight

by Mark David Campbell

  “Ohhh!” Ian pulled back and made a sour face like he’d just smelled a fart. “That’s not good.” He shook his head disapprovingly. There was an uneasy silence. “Listen, I should tell you about what happened to my other boyfriend before him….”

  While Owen drank his second beer Ian recounted a nightmarish tale of the year he lived with his bisexual lover and his lover’s wife in the same house in suburbia. By midnight Owen had drained his glass. He slid off his barstool, leaned over, kissed Ian on the cheek, and offered him the usual excuse. “It was nice to meet you, but unfortunately I have an early morning.”

  Owen really did intend on going home, but he got sidetracked. It was still early, and he was horny. Why not pop into the Clinton Street Spa and get a little action in the sauna?

  As Owen walked in through the front door, there wedged against the corner by the reception desk was a five-foot-high plastic copy of Michelangelo’s David. He’d never realized how much faux Italian stuff there was in Syracuse. Even the city was named after Tata’s home in Sicily! Owen groaned, turned, and hurried back out the door toward home.

  A half hour later, Owen lay in bed with his cell phone in his hand scrolling down the icons on his screen.

  Grindr? Delete.

  Tinder? Delete.

  Then he went to his telephone lists.

  Hal? Definitely delete.

  Ian? Well, maybe not. He was a nice guy even if he talked incessantly.

  Big Eddy? No, Big Eddy would break his legs if he deleted him.

  Suddenly, an old address popped up. Lago B&B. He was just about to hit Delete when he paused and sent a happy face emoji, instead.

  “Shit! Why did I do that?” he said out loud.

  Within seconds a wave emoji popped up.

  Owen’s hand was shaking. He typed, Enrico or Fabrizio?

  Less than a minute later a message appeared. The one without the scar.

  Owen turned his head and looked over at his night table. There, sitting next to his alarm clock was the lump of red glass on a silver chain. He held it up in the light that was coming through his bedroom window from the streetlight outside. Its ruby color was so deep that the light could barely penetrate it. What could he possibly say to Enrico?

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  “GOOD. SO, are you going to pay Francesca the money you owe her, or will we have to sell the house?” Pietro’s tone was curt.

  “Sell the house?” Fabrizio’s voice rose. “We can’t sell the house! Where will we live?”

  “That’s not your sister’s concern. According to the law, Francesca has the right to one-third of her grandmother’s entire estate,” Pietro said as if he were giving a lecture on Italian inheritance law.

  “But Grandmother left the apartment to Francesca and the house to us,” Fabrizio pleaded.

  “She left Francesca the apartment long before she died, so it’s not part of the inheritance,” Pietro insisted.

  “And what about the bank account that Grandmother left us?” Fabrizio shot back.

  “What bank account?” Pietro’s tone had gone from curt to belligerent. “I don’t recall any bank account.”

  Fabrizio took in a deep breath. “Just let me speak with Francesca and I’m sure we can get this all straightened out.”

  “She’s not in Milan. She’s spending the next two weeks at the spa in San Moritz.” Pietro’s voice dripped with theatrical tragedy.

  “Can I phone her there?” Fabrizio’s voice was trembling.

  “I think you’ve already caused her enough emotional stress with your ugly attempt to cheat her out of her birthright.”

  “But….”

  “You’ll hear from her lawyer. Goodbye.” Pietro hung up.

  As Fabrizio lay in bed, what Pietro had said kept rolling over and over again in his mind. Surely there must be some kind of misunderstanding. If only they could talk to Francesca, they could straighten everything out.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  STRANGE, I can’t find that pair of underwear I lent you last summer, the message read.

  A wicked smile spread across Owen’s face as he stretched out on the bed like a cat. I’m wearing them, he typed.

  Send them back!

  No way! I’m keeping them. Owen ran his hand down his abdomen and over his crotch. I’ll send you a pair of mine if you want? He chuckled.

  Yes! But don’t wash them!

  With a surge, Owen’s penis became hard, peeking out from the top of the underwear. Are you alone?

  Not exactly. Fabrizio is asleep in the other bed. How about you?

  I’m in my room. Owen was so horny he was shaking. Maggie’s not back from her cooking classes yet, and….

  And?

  I have a little problem. Owen rubbed his hand across his chest.

  What?

  I have some uncomfortable swelling. And you’re the cause. Owen caressed his stomach.

  And so, what’s the problem?

  I’m right-handed. Owen’s hand trembled.

  Type with your left hand.

  Couldn’t we just Skype? Owen pictured Enrico naked on his bed.

  It’s not the same. Besides….

  Besides what? Owen wondered if maybe he’d gone a little too far.

  I want you to suffer. Close your eyes and imagine me touching you.

  Oh, yes! Owen reached into his underwear and grabbed his hard cock. I’m suffering now.

  Good boy. So am I.

  Ohhhhh. Owen pumped.

  I’m rolling my tongue over your swollen head and running my lips down your shaft.

  Yes, yes, I’m going crazy! Don’t stop! It was as if Enrico were really there with him.

  Now I’m licking your big hairy balls.

  He could almost feel Enrico’s tongue. Oh, oh, I’m coming.

  So am I! ahhh$%)?….

  What was that? Owen was barely able to strike the letters.

  I dropped the phone.

  Opps! I got a little on my screen. Owen smirked and wiped his screen with the corner of his sheet.

  Oh no! Fabrizio just rolled over.

  Owen shook his head.

  He says hello.

  Say hi to Fabrizio for me. Owen rolled his eyes.

  Fabrizio says to give Maggie a kiss from him.

  Owen chuckled. Tell the heteros to do their own sex chat!!!

  Chapter Fifty

  “WHERE’S TATA?” Enrico said as he came down to the kitchen and found his brother standing in front of the stove making coffee.

  “I don’t know. She left early this morning. Said she had something important to do.” Fabrizio took the Moka pot off the burner and poured the coffee into two tiny cups. “Listen, I talked to Pietro yesterday and….”

  “And what?” Enrico said.

  “And it looks like we’re going to lose the house….”

  TATA WALKED up the steep hill and past the cemetery and the church with a large brown envelope firmly clutched in her hand. She turned right and walked up the street past the grand villas that had recently been restored. She held her back straight, her shoulders relaxed, and her head high—dignified and self-assured without any suggestion of arrogance or conceit—the way the boys’ mother used to, even in the final days of her pregnancy with Francesca. At the end of the street stood the grandest villa of all, not so much for its architecture but for its sweeping gardens, positioned on the peak of the hill overlooking the bay of Castelveccana.

  She approached the gate. Dott. Gaetano Pozzi, Notaio, was printed above the buzzer. Tata knew the family well. Old man Pozzi had been a notary, and so it was only natural that his son, Gaetano, followed in his footsteps. She smoothed her dress and pressed the buzzer. The gate clicked open. After all, she was expected. She walked in and along the gravel lane lined with northern palms, toward the house.

  Gaetano and Tata had met when they were only seventeen. But what could a boy from the best family on this side of the lake possibly have seen in a domestic servant girl from Sicily? After tha
t summer of first love, Gaetano went to university in Milan, and Tata, of course, remained at the lake looking after the old woman. Eventually Gaetano’s family introduced him to his wife-to-be, a beautiful woman from a respectable Milanese family.

  Years later, on a breezy summer’s afternoon, much like the one when they first met, Tata stood at the foot of the steps of the church bouncing baby Enrico and baby Fabrizio in their pram and watching as Gaetano and his bride emerged from the church to a hailstorm of rice. He was so handsome in his black tuxedo and she was so lovely in her white gown with her veil flowing behind her.

  Then baby Enrico began to fuss, and Tata bent over and put the chew-chew back in his mouth and tucked the blanket in around baby Fabrizio’s neck. By the time she looked up again, the bride was standing in front of the open door of a black Mercedes decorated with flowers. She launched her bouquet in the air and a small horde of desperate-looking single women pounced upon it like a pride of lionesses on a gazelle. Tata smiled, turned, and wheeled the pram around and back down the steep street toward home. It was feeding, changing, and nap time.

  His wife’s funeral was the last time she had seen Gaetano. After that, while Tata had been busy raising two boys and looking after their aging grandmother, Gaetano buried himself in work. Maybe those were just excuses they used to protect themselves from a story that could never be. But that was such a long time ago.

  Gaetano was now bald and had a paunch, but his eyes were still as blue as she remembered. After an hour, Tata left the grand house with the taste of coffee still on her tongue. In her hand she held a copy of the original document she had left behind with him. As she walked down the hill toward home, her feet felt much lighter than they had walking there. She entered the kitchen, where she found the boys hunched over at the kitchen table.

  “Here.” She placed the envelope in front of them.

  “What’s this?” Enrico looked up.

  “It’s a registered copy of your grandmother’s will and testament.”

  “Where did you find it?” Fabrizio said.

  “In that old trunk in the back. It’s still full of your grandmother’s stuff.”

  Enrico opened the envelope and extracted the pages. Fabrizio pressed up against his shoulder.

  Enrico smoothed it flat and they began to read. “It says clearly that the apartment in Milan goes to Francesca.”

  “And the house goes to us,” Fabrizio added.

  Tata pointed to the bottom of the page. “It’s signed by your grandmother and witnessed by old Giusseppe Trota. He was the village mayor at the time.” Tata tapped her finger on the signature.

  “But look here,” Enrico said. “It also says that since the market value of the apartment is more than twice the value of the house, Grandmother left us the difference in a bank account.”

  “But…,” Fabrizio started.

  “Francesca claims there was no money?” Enrico finished.

  “Well, now it’s time to talk with a lawyer.” Not since she had marched up to the church to confront that priest who had insisted Enrico make private confession in his study had she been so angry, but outwardly, Tata remained calm and composed. Francesca was their sister, if only by half.

  “First I need to change into something more practical and prepare some lunch,” Tata said in a casual tone.

  While the two boys remained at the table examining the document, she walked out of the kitchen and went to her room. They didn’t see her crack her knuckles or hear her mutter, “Nobody messes with my boys.” Then she stopped in her tracks and pressed her finger to her lips. “Hmmm,” she said to herself. “I wonder if the revenue police would be interested in knowing about Francesca and Pietro’s frequent trips back and forth to Switzerland.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  CHEF NERI put the fork of spaghetti alla bolognese in his mouth and chewed. Then paused, put a serviette to his lips, and spat into it. The young man standing behind the bowl of pasta had a terrified look on his face.

  Chef Neri dropped the wad of serviette onto the table in front of him. “A glass of water please, so I can wash the taste out of my mouth.”

  The instructor handed Chef Neri a glass of sparkling water. He took a large swig, swished, and spit it back into the glass. “When you start with canned ingredients you end up with canned spaghetti.”

  He stepped over to Tony, who was standing behind a plate of lasagna.

  Chef Neri examined the dish. Then he bent over and sniffed. “Heavy on the garlic.”

  “I only used….” Tony trailed off as he caught the instructor waving his hand vigorously behind Chef Neri’s back.

  Chef Neri took a fork and tapped the surface of the cheese. “Is this real Parmigiano-Reggiano?”

  “Yes, sir,” Tony said.

  Chef Neri dipped the fork in and lifted out a small slice. He put it in his mouth, stared at the ceiling, and chewed slowly. “The pasta is slightly overdone, but the béchamel is smooth and creamy.”

  He looked directly at Tony. “What wine do you recommend with this?”

  “Wine?”

  “Yes, wine, or perhaps you recommend Pepsi Cola?” he barked.

  “No, er, wine, yes. What about a bottle of Barbaresco?”

  Chef Neri said nothing. He walked over to Maggie, examined her dish, then looked at her. “Pasta all’arrabiata? Are you angry about something, my dear?”

  “Yes, a little.” Maggie nodded.

  “Well, let’s just see how angry your angry pasta really is.” He picked up the fork and flicked the pasta lightly, then he bent down over the dish and sniffed. “Hmm, basil, peppers.” He squinted, cocked his head sideways, and looked back at Maggie again. “Do I smell mint?”

  “Yes, sir, just a sprig.”

  He picked up a piece of pasta, examined it closely, then put it in his mouth and closed his eyes and chewed. He swallowed and breathed in deeply.

  “Mmm! And for the main course what do you suggest?”

  “Eye of pork chop, dressed with a slice of baked apple,” Maggie said without hesitation.

  “Why?”

  “Because the pork is robust enough to balance the rabbia of the pasta, and the apple is sweet enough to calm the fire.”

  Chef Neri raised one eyebrow.

  “And for wine?”

  Maggie drew in a deep breath. “I’d recommend an aromatic wine, like a dry Riesling or a possibly a semi-aromatic wine like sauvignon blanc.”

  “Why?” His tone was clipped.

  Maggie swallowed. “Because the fruitiness works well with spicy foods, sir.”

  Chef Neri turned and faced the other candidates. “Any half-decent pizza cook with a timer, a pot of boiling water, and salt can cook pasta.” Then he turned back toward Maggie. “But you, my dear woman, understand the emotion of the food.” He cupped his hands. “Which, of course, is the essence of Italian cuisine.”

  “Yes, sir.” Maggie nodded.

  “What restaurant are you with?”

  “None, sir.”

  “Good! Be at my restaurant tomorrow, 10:00 a.m. sharp.”

  “What for?” Maggie squeaked out.

  “You’re my new chef in training.” He picked up the bowl of pasta, walked over to the central table, and sat down. “Now somebody get me a glass of Riesling to accompany this fine dish.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Dear Mr. Tun,

  I am Fabrizio. I have twenty-four years and I have no diseases and no police records. I am very pleased to tell you that I have recently discovered I have not fathered any children (although I believe I am fertile). I am a good man and I can work hard. I love your daughter Maggie and I am writing for your permission to ask her to marry me.

  Sincerely, Fabrizio.

  “Are you mentally damaged?” Enrico said as he read the screen over his brother’s shoulder.

  “What?” Fabrizio said. “Stop criticizing and check my English for me.”

  “Okay, now I’m convinced Tata dropped you on your head.”


  “Now that I don’t have to marry Grazia, I want to tell Maggie that I love her and want to marry her.” Fabrizio reached up and scratched his head nervously. “But I don’t know how I’m supposed to do that!”

  “Do you think we live in the 1800s or something? Get on the phone and call her!” Enrico held out his phone.

  “And what do I say?” He didn’t move to take the phone from his brother’s hand.

  “Tell her how you feel.”

  “And what if she says no?”

  Enrico grabbed the arm of the chair and spun Fabrizio around to face him. “And what if she says yes?” Enrico batted his brother’s shoulder. “Look, you hardly even know her.”

  “So you’re telling me to forget her?”

  Enrico immediately thought about Owen and felt a twinge in his stomach and a ping in his loins. “No, all I’m saying is slow down a bit. Give it time.”

  “You know, everybody thinks I’m a cool guy with the women.”

  “Trust me, nobody thinks that!” Enrico said.

  Fabrizio ignored his brother. “But the truth is, other than a few quickies and that time with Grazia, I’ve never been good with women.”

  “What are you telling me that I don’t already know?” Enrico said.

  “Then there was that night with Maggie. It was the only time I’ve ever really felt like I was making love.”

  “Look, she’s an intelligent woman and I’m sure she knows what a great guy you are.” Enrico waved the phone in front of his brother’s face. “Even if you are a cretino.”

  Fabrizio sat there staring at the screen, chewing his lip. “I’m scared.”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  YOU COULD come to Syracuse? Owen’s hands were sweaty.

  Maybe for a short visit someday, Enrico wrote.

  No, I mean forever! We could be together. His hand was now quivering as it hovered over the Send button. Not since he had confessed his love for Jessy had he been so direct and honest about his feelings. He pressed Send.