I peer over at the farmhouse. Tom has gone over to use Dante’s cold shower. It would be normal courtesy for Dante to offer him the use of the heated indoor one…
I sigh and stand to see if I can spot Tom, but it is Dante I see, weaving through the field towards me. I groan at the sight. He’s wearing tattered khaki shorts, a camouflaged armless flak jacket, and muddy boots. As he nears, he waves a plastic bag at me.
“I bring bread,” he says. “Tom says you have not, but he forget to take…”
“Tom?” I say. “Is he…”
Dante shakes his head. “Last night, he tell me… Told me,” he corrects himself.
I sigh with relief or disappointment, I’m not sure which, and take the bag that Dante has proffered. “Thanks,” I say, “but it’s okay actually. We have these.” I point to the packet of Biscottes.
Dante rests a hand on the back of the other chair. “Yes, but fresh is better,” he says. “Can I sit?” he asks, nodding down at the chair.
I realise that I’m on the verge of rudeness, so I force a smile and say, “Sure! Please.”
I flip the magazine closed and cringe at the semi-naked model on the cover and the red GAY TIMES emblazoned across the top.
“And Toma?” Dante asks.
I shrug and wave a hand vaguely across the horizon. “Exploring,” I say.
“I think he like the country,” Dante says.
I nod. “We both do,” I tell him.
Dante disinterestedly pulls the magazine towards him, reads the title, and absentmindedly pushes it away.
“I think you are more city boy,” Dante laughs. “Music and lights,” he adds, wiggling his fingers across an imaginary skyline.
I’m slightly offended by the judgement. “Music’s good,” I say. “Lights are useful too,” I add.
Dante smiles and nods.
“But trees too,” I say looking around.
“The city is attraente,” he says. “Pulls you, but has no qualità.”
“No quality?” I frown.
Dante nods.
“If you say so,” I say, rubbing a hand across my forehead. I still feel tired, not to mention concerned, angry and a whole load of other things… Mainly I don’t feel like having a philosophical debate with Dante.
“You don’t agree?” Dante says. “That there is no quality in city?”
“I don’t care,” I think, but that would be too rude. “Quality means many things,” I say. “That’s all.”
Dante frowns.
“Like quality of life,” I point around me. “And quality of experience.”
Dante nods.
“But a Mercedes Benz, or a BMW is a quality car,” I say. “And I don’t think that’s what you mean. And if you want a quality hifi that makes beautiful music then the city is the best place to find one.”
Dante nods thoughtfully. I wonder if I can maybe just pretend to doze off and he’ll go away.
“People think quality is isolamento,” he says.
“Isolation?” I ask, regretting almost instantly that I have further engaged in the conversation.
Dante nods. “From life, yes,” he says. “Spend more, on your BMW, never hot, never cold, air conditioning, you know? Never uncomfortable…” He raises a hand to his ear. “Not even hear world outside…”
I nod.
“But hot, cold, tired, noisy… This is life,” he says.
“Yeah, I see what you’re saying,” I say vaguely.
“This is luxury. But not quality,” Dante tells me. “Experience is life, and experience is quality, not l’isolamento from life.”
I frown and nod. “Look, Dante,” I say, pulling a dumb face. “I had too much wine last night you know, and…”
But Dante has understood. “Sorry,” he says. “I talk and talk… Too much time on my own.”
I nod. “It’s okay,” I tell him, “it’s just…” I tap my head to explain.
Dante smiles and stands. “Sorry,” he says. “I go now; I only bring bread.”
“Thanks,” I say.
But Dante is already heading away across the field. He has his head down, and I actually feel a little sorry for him.
I try to read Gay Times, but it’s impossible – I just can’t concentrate. I read and re-read, but every time I get halfway down the page I realise that though my eyes are skimming the words, my brain is elsewhere.
I’m worrying about Tom; wondering what is happening between us; I’m being relieved that at least he isn’t with Dante and realising that now I’ve sent Dante away, I’ve made it perfectly possible that he is with him…
I decide that that’s a stupid thought, and dismiss it, but I carry on thinking it anyway.
We really need to get out of here, I decide. Things seem weird since we arrived here, and there are plenty of good reasons why we need to move on, other than my own illogical jealousy. Places to see, things to buy… Man cannot, after all, live on bread alone.
I fold the bed back out and lie inside the van in an attempt to get some more sleep, but I feel restless and tired, fidgety and uncomfortable, so I get back up and sit in a deck chair outside. Still unable to settle, I stand and pace around the van.
Finally I mutter, “Damn you Tom,” and head off around the field.
Walking provides a measure of relief from the darker machinations of my mind. I see some seagulls perched on a branch, and remember with some surprise that we are less than half an hour from the coast.
This in turn, reminds me that this isn’t some obstacle course to be endured; we’re on holiday. We really have to “pull up sticks,” drive to the coast, have a swim and a nice meal and get back into the idea of having some fun.
It feels as if we have been here for weeks, not twenty-four hours. It seems as if we are getting entangled in some web and though I can’t explain quite what’s happening, I know it’s not good.
At the far end of the field, beyond the fence that delineates Dante’s land is the start of a dense pine forest. It looks carefully planted, managed – man-made.
From a mound on the far end of Dante’s land – an old compost heap long since turned to earth – I hurdle the fence and head into the tall trees.
The ground is a soft carpet of pine needles, the air fragrant and cool. There’s no birdsong in here, no sound of insect or animal life… It’s a peculiar place, here in the dim light of these rows of trees.
I peer up at the tiny patches of sunlight filtering down the trunks and remember last night looking drunkenly at the stars with Tom. At the mere thought of him my heart misses a beat.
“I’m losing him,” I think, crazily. I never expected this relationship to last forever – I’m too old and far too cynical for that – but could things really be falling apart on our first holiday together.
The hangover, I realise, has left me raw and emotional. I swallow hard and turn back toward the light, determined to leave the forest and these paranoid thoughts behind.
With a lack of grace that would be embarrassing were anyone watching, I scramble back over the fence. It’s much harder with the mound on Dante’s side of the barrier.
I continue my way along the perimeter, seeing neither Tom, nor Dante; circling the farmhouse in the distance, passing the rusty gate again, and finally ending up back at the van. I slump into a deck chair and reach for the coffee pot to see if there are any dregs, but it’s empty.
“That’s a loud sigh,” Tom says.
My heart skips a beat. The coffee pot almost slips from my hand such is my surprise. “You made me jump!” I say, turning to see Tom’s face framed in the window of the VW.
He smiles weakly. “So I see,” he says.
I stand and lean into the van. “Have a good walk?” I ask, climbing in and sitting on the end of the bed opposite him.
Tom nods. “Just thinking about stuff,” he says. “I bumped into Dante on the way back. He asked if we could help him put up some netting or something tomorrow. It’s for the chickens.”
“Oh,” I say, my irritation palpable. “He was over here earlier and he didn’t mention it at all.”
Tom nods and shrugs. “I said yeah,” he says. “Seems the least we can do, after all his hospitality.”
“But I…” I start to say. I hesitate, wondering momentarily if forcing our departure is going to be a solution or merely cause for another row.
“We need to talk, you know,” Tom says ominously.
I swallow. “I guessed as much,” I say, forcing a feeble smile.
“You remember this morning?” Tom asks.
I grunt. “Well of course,” I say. Then, softening my tone I add, “I remember.”
“You know how I didn’t want to…” Tom says, glancing away towards the farmhouse.
It seems suddenly that I have been here before. I’m certain that what is to come is going to be bizarre and inexplicable. And it’s going to be terminal.
The possibilities flash through my mind. Maybe he’s met someone else; maybe he’s cheated on me. Maybe he’s going to tell me that he doesn’t love me anymore, that for some reason that he just can’t explain, he doesn’t feel the same… Maybe, he’s in love with Dante. Stranger things have happened. Stranger things have happened to me.
I think I might vomit, a mixture of the hangover and stress I suppose – the stress of remembering just how fragile everything is.
“But I already know that lesson,” I think bitterly. “I don’t need to learn it again.”
I look at the back of Tom’s head, at the nape of his neck.
When he looks back at me his features soften. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, with a tenderness that strikes me as incongruous, hypocritical, guilty maybe.
He moves across the bed and tries to place a hand on my leg, but I pull away.
“Please, just say it,” I say. “Whatever it is.”
He sits back on his heels and frowns. “It’s hard,” he says.
I nod.
“It’s kind of embarrassing.”
I wrinkle my brow.
Tom sighs and then blows through his lips. I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. If he doesn’t say whatever’s on his mind soon, I will scream.
“Tom!” I say. I hold my breath and listen to the empty silence of the van, to Tom’s breathing, to a screeching crow in the distance. The length of the pause strikes me as a bad omen.
“I’ve got herpes,” Tom says.
I breathe. My hand slips to my mouth.
“I’m really sorry,” he says. “I should have told you before, only…”
I’m frozen. It’s so not what I expected him to say.
“It doesn’t happen much nowadays, but it flared up really badly…” He pulls a face as if the pain of admitting this is excruciating.
I’m trying to restrain the beginnings of a smirk.
“It started the day I came actually… My dick is like raw,” he says. “And of course, I’ve got no fucking Zovirax with me.”
My eyes are still watering, but I’m grinning broadly now; I just can’t help it.
Tom looks at me uncomprehendingly. “Well, don’t look so happy about it,” he says.
*
We lie side by side. I have one arm behind his head and am stroking the downy hair of his chest.
I don’t tell him my paranoid imaginings. I just say that I thought I’d upset him in some way. I know that’s dishonest, but now is a good moment, and I don’t want to spoil it. Good moments have been few and far between recently.
The true reason for Tom’s lack of sexual prowess and his embarrassed reticence to tell me about it… Well it all strikes me as so lovably human, a wave of tenderness sweeps over me for the gorgeous treasure that is a lover; that is this other human being, here, now, just for me.
“You know, we should talk before,” Tom tells me.
“Before?” I ask.
“I mean before anyone gets all paranoid and upset.”
I nod.
“Dante was going on earlier about how all human conflict comes down to lack of communication.”
“So he did talk to Dante,” I think.
“He was saying that if everyone would just pause and explain themselves at the very beginning of that moment when you, feel, you know, againstness…”
“Mmm,” I say, stroking his hair.
“He says that all human conflict comes down to misunderstanding, or paranoid imagination about what other people are thinking… paranoia about their motivations.”
I snort gently at the accuracy of the remark, but when Tom looks at me questioningly, I say, “I’m not sure that all human conflict comes down to that …”
Tom shrugs.
“I mean, take the Second World War for instance; it wasn’t a lack of understanding. It was about stopping someone’s ambition to rule the world and kill anyone who he didn’t like.”
Tom tips his head and looks up at me. “You always have a counter-argument, don’t you?” he says.
I shrug. “Well, no amount of sitting down and chatting would have convinced Hitler that the Jews or the gays or the disabled were, you know, okay really…” I say.
Tom laughs. “I like that about you, you know, the fact that you always see the other side…”
I shrug. “I don’t like totalitarianism I guess,” I say. “Whether it’s Hitler’s or a hippy’s. The truth always lies somewhere in between; it’s always more complex.”
But as I say it I feel vaguely fraudulent. I wonder if it isn’t simply that I don’t like Dante very much, that I just can’t resist finding fault in his outrageously accurate perception of our situation.
Tom yawns and moves his head side to side rubbing it against my arm. I reach across and stroke his nipple.
“He’s got a theory for everything that Dante,” I say. “He was going on to me about…” I close my eyes and try to remember. “Yeah, that’s it, quality… He was saying people get quality and luxury confused… something like that anyway.”
Tom frowns and I shrug. “I was only half listening really,” I say. “I was worrying about you.”
“Quality and luxury?” Tom says thoughtfully.
“You should ask him about it,” I say. “He’d like that.”
Tom looks up at me again and smiles. “You changing your mind a bit about Dante?” he asks.
I shrug. “He’s okay really,” I say, forcing myself to be generous, or is it just to sound generous? “He’s quite interesting I suppose.”
“But you don’t really like him,” Tom says.
I shrug again. “Nah, not really. He’s a bit full on,” I say. “Maybe a bit too evangelical for my liking.”
Tom nods and looks sideways towards the farmhouse. “I can understand that,” he says. “I quite like it though, it makes me feel like I’m young and at college again, you know?”
“Working out the world,” I say.
Tom laughs. “Did you do that too? All that sitting up till 5 AM arguing about why we’re here?”
I snort. “Yeah; never worked it out though,” I say.
Tom pauses for a moment. “Maybe just for this,” he says, snuggling closer against me.
“Maybe,” I say, leaning over and kissing him. “It’s a good philosophy,” I add.
“And you don’t mind about tomorrow,” Tom says. “Helping Dante with the chickens.”
I shake my head. “Nah, but let’s go out tonight eh?” I say. “Lets go find a restaurant somewhere. I want to feel like I’m on holiday.”
Tom rubs his eye. “Yeah, that’d be good. If there is one.”
“The seaside’s not that far away,” I tell him. “There’s bound to be restaurants.”
“Hmm,” Tom says happily. “A real Italian pizza. I’ll go over later and ask Dante if he’s free.”
“Tom,” I say. “I thought, you know… Well, I thought we could make it just me and you?”
Tom smiles and sighs. “Sorry,” he says. “Sure. I’ll go over and let him know. Just so he doesn’t think we’re h
aving dinner with him.”
We have to pay five Euros just to park the van. The weekend crowds in Vernazza are stunning. The swelling crowds of tourists are an assault on the senses, especially after the calm of Dante’s field.
“I’m not so sure about this,” I tell Tom as a fat English woman barges into my right arm.
“I know!” he says. “Still, now we’re here…”
We push our way through the meandering streets down towards the harbour.
“It’s a bit like Santorini somehow,” Tom comments. “In Greece.”
“Except pink instead of white,” I say.
“You’ve been there too?” he asks.
I nod. “Twice,” I say. “Loved it.”
In the harbour, fishing boats are bobbing up and down on the gentle swell and four or five groups of tourists are simultaneously posing for photos on the quayside.
I nod to a hill on the right. “Shall we try that way?” I say.
Tom grabs my hand and pulls me through the crowd. I’m surprised at the gesture, as he’s not usually a one for public handholding, but I think, “What the hell.” There’s something about the mad tourist anonymity of the place that makes me just not care.
It’s quieter up here – we only occasionally bump into tourists coming the other way – so we press on, zigzagging through the tiny side streets, working our way out toward the edges of the tiny village.
We cross a small piazza dominated by a huge candy striped church. Tom nods at two wrinkled black-clad widows sitting on a wall. “Even more like Santorini,” he says.
“A note of authenticity,” I comment.
“They’re probably paid to sit there by the local tourist board,” Tom giggles.
Eventually we reach a walkway heading away from the town along the cliffs.
“Do you think this goes all the way to the next town?” I ask.
Tom shrugs. “Maybe…” he says. “Maybe we should see how far it is, look it up in the tourist guide. We could come down and walk it one day.”
After a few minutes we quit the path and scramble down to a niche Tom has spotted in the cliff-face. Squeezed into the natural alcove we look down on the distant port, increasingly orange in the fading daylight. We’re out of sight from the path above us and people at the restaurants dotted around the harbour are mere dots below.
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