Good Thing Bad Thing

by Nick Alexander

  The conversation wanders and Tom, touchingly, does his best to translate and keep me involved. But though they can’t hear it themselves, the level of the conversation is so base, the theories so formulaic, the logic so stoned, that I simply can’t be bothered to get involved.

  Tom and Dante are all loved-up on shared hard-labour and grass, so I let them carry on and satisfy myself thinking about other places and other times and watching their faces in the flickering light.

  I think about Jenny and Sarah back in Nice. I remind myself that this strange looks-so-good dream of Tom and Dante and myself, sitting in a farmhouse in the flickering light of an oil lamp on a beautiful summer’s evening… this stranger than strange dream which is, in reality, a nightmare of manipulation and power games and dodgy philosophy… Well, it’s all bearable because it will soon be over.

  “So?” Dante says. He’s nodding my way. “What does old fashion boy think?”

  I look from Dante’s face to Tom’s and skew my eyebrows.

  “It’s old fashioned,” I correct him, unable to bear it any longer. “I’m afraid I wasn’t really listening,” I say shaking my head. “I was… elsewhere.”

  “Dante is saying that, you know, a committee should decide who can have children and who can’t,” Tom says. “That some parents…”

  “Most,” Dante interrupts.

  Tom nods. “Sorry, most parents shouldn’t be allowed to have kids because they don’t, you know, have the skills to bring them up properly.”

  I nod in a non-committal way.

  Tom shrugs and smiles. “I can think of a few people who shouldn’t!” he laughs.

  I shrug.

  “I thought you’d, you know, have a point of view,” Tom says. Then with a wry smile he adds, “A different point of view.”

  I shrug again. “It sounds pretty fascistic,” I say, saying my thoughts as they form. “It sounds like you’re setting yourself up to be arbiter of someone else’s human rights – the right to have children.”

  Tom frowns.

  “Ze people’s committee vill decide,” I say.

  Dante smiles and shrugs. His eyes have become heavy lidded slits.

  “Fascista,” he says. “You know it means very different thing to Italian. Fascista not always mean bad in Italy.”

  “I think you could find a few people in England who would agree,” I say. “They wouldn’t be my friends though.”

  Tom swivels his frown back at me. It’s as if the edgy aggression of the conversation is finally piercing his dope-bubble.

  “I think Italian peoples, maybe Latin peoples… More comfortable with the idea that all is not good, all is not bad,” Dante says.

  I really can’t be bothered trying to debate this in Pidgin English with two slightly drunk, very stoned sparring partners, so I just shrug again.

  “Anglo-Saxons are much more…” He makes a chopping action with his hand. “This good, that bad,” he says.

  “Black and white,” Tom says.

  “Italians, Latins… we say everything is good and bad at same time,” Dante continues.

  “Except certain parents,” I say, unable to resist. “Who are so bad they shouldn’t be allowed to have children.”

  Dante shrugs and nods. “Maybe.”

  “And what about, I don’t know, say, the Holocaust?” I add. “Hitler’s extermination of, like, however many millions of Jews and Gypsies and homosexuals… That was good and bad too, yes?”

  Dante pushes his lips out and frowns and shrugs and smiles all at once. It means, well, of course, you can always find exceptions…

  “Or Aids,” I say. “Presumably you can see the good in that as well can you?”

  Tom frowns heavily now and reaches out to touch my hand. “All Dante’s saying…” he says.

  “I understand perfectly what he’s saying,” I interrupt. “I’m not stoned.”

  “Aids!” Dante snorts.

  “It’s just that none of it stands up to analysis,” I mumble. “You can’t go around saying everything is this or that if it isn’t. It’s pointless.”

  “Aids is not even real disease,” Dante says. He nods his chin at me. “You believe in Aids?” he asks. He turns to Tom. “You?”

  I open my mouth to speak, then close it again and stand.

  “That’s it,” I say as neutrally as I can. “I’m turning in,” I add, faking a yawn.

  Dante smiles at me superciliously, as if he has won. He looks like he thinks I’m running away.

  I wonder for a moment if he isn’t right, but on reflection I’m clear about my motivation. I don’t need to argue with Dante because I don’t need to convince him. I don’t care what Dante thinks.

  Tom stands and rubs Dante’s shoulder affectionately, then straightens and latches onto my arm. “Me too,” he says. “I’m knackered.”

  “We work very hard,” Dante says, pointedly gesturing that he means Tom and himself.

  I steer Tom towards the door. “Come on my little dope-head,” I say. “Let’s get you home.”

  As we cross the field Tom stumbles against my side, snorts, then starts to giggle. I put an arm around his shoulders and guide him through the gate.

  “What?” I ask.

  Tom snorts again and I start to smile – the first genuine smile of the evening.

  “Come on,” I say. “Out with it…”

  Tom shrugs. “Oh, just you and Dante,” he says. “Sniping at each other.”

  I glance over at the van and correct our trajectory by steering Tom a little to the left. “And that’s funny?” I say.

  Tom looks sideways at me and gives me his lopsided cheeky smile. Then he nods in front at the trees and says, “Wow, have you seen how big the trees are tonight?”

  I look at the trees and it’s strange to say, but he’s right. In the peculiar monotone moonlight they do look bigger than by day.

  “Yeah,” I say, and giggle at the absurdity of the proposition, “they are big tonight.”

  Back in the van Tom sits like a man who’s had a lobotomy, his hands dangling loosely between his legs. He watches me slot the bed together.

  He’s completely stoned and more than a little drunk, but the wry smile and the blank regard give him the innocent air of a six year old. His inexplicable surge of cuteness causes a tiny fist of loving angst to form just below my throat, making it hard to swallow, and pushing my earlier anger aside.

  He stands and, giggling, he lets me undress him. I push him forward onto the bed, where he flops corpse-like.

  “Massage,” he mumbles.

  I yawn and shuck my jeans. “I’m not sure about that,” I say. “I’m knackered too.” But that’s not the real reason of course… I’m just not sure that I’ve forgiven him for…

  I momentarily can’t remember what I’m angry about – I’m a little drunk myself. The reason is lurking on the edges of my consciousness – firmly within reach – but I decide to leave it be, for tonight at least.

  “Massage!” Tom repeats childishly.

  I pull my t-shirt over my head and straddle his legs.

  “Well, seeing as it’s you,” I say.

  He makes a humm sound, and wriggles and settles on the bed beneath me.

  I reach for a tube of suntan lotion and squirt a little onto his back, then slowly start to run the edges of my thumbs along his vertebrae.

  “Oh yeah,” he murmurs.

  I smile and press a little harder, moving my thumbs up towards his shoulders, and as I do so my semi-erect dick touches Tom’s buttocks. He wiggles slightly and spreads his legs a little.

  “A massage you said,” I chide.

  With visible effort Tom lifts his head and peers back at me. “Yeah, a full massage,” he smirks.

  A dog barks in the distance reminding me that the sliding panel of the van is still open behind me. “I just need to close that door,” I say setting a foot onto the floor of the van. “Keep the mosquitoes out.”

  I freeze, one knee still on the bed. My ey
es widen and my throat constricts. I make a little gasping sound.

  I grab a pillow to hide my erect dick. Dante is standing silently just outside the van. He has his feet firmly planted, and his arms crossed.

  “What the fuck,” Tom says, rolling sideways and pulling a sheet across himself.

  Dante uncrosses his arms and thrusts something at me. “Tom forget,” he says.

  I reach out and pull Tom’s wallet from his grasp. “You made me jump,” I say.

  Dante nods and grins salaciously. “I know,” he says. “I see.”

  I hand the wallet behind me to Tom who frowns and blinks slowly.

  “Thanks Dante,” I say. “Goodnight.”

  But Dante doesn’t move.

  Tom sits up straighter. It’s a clear effort to straighten his mind. “Is there a problem?” he asks.

  Dante grins dumbly and shakes his head, and I remember that he too is completely stoned.

  “Goodbye Dante,” I say forcefully. I reach for the handle to the door.

  “Buonanotte,” Tom says.

  Dante nods and starts to turn and I slide the heavy door across. He glances back at us one last time before shuffling off across the field.

  “Jesus!” I exclaim.

  Tom nods at me, wide-eyed.

  “How long was he there?” I say. “And how did he get your wallet?”

  “Weird,” Tom says.

  I sigh unhappily. “Yeah,” I say, pulling a face. “Weirder by the minute, did you see the way he just stood there?”

  Tom shrugs and throws himself back on the bed. “He’s just stoned,” he says. “He probably feels lonely. He probably wanted to join in,” he says repositioning himself for the resumption of his massage.

  “Hey! Tom!” I say, prodding him so that he looks at me. “He probably did want to, and that’s not okay. Right?”

  “Right,” Tom says, his voice gently mocking. “Massage?” he adds hopefully. “Please?”

  *

  Tom’s hangover is worse than mine, so I get up and make the coffee.

  “Just put it on the side,” he tells me. “I’ll be up in a bit.”

  It’s hazy today and the diffused sunlight makes everything uniformly blinding.

  I grab my sunglasses from the dashboard and sit on the step of the van. After a few minutes, realizing that Tom has fallen back to sleep, I move outside and settle in the shade. One of Dante’s cocks is screaming a belated dawn chorus and I can hear a vague sound of hammering.

  When Tom finally appears the first thing I spot is that he’s wearing yesterday’s dirty work clothes.

  “You’re not helping Dante again are you?” I ask. “I mean, you’re completely knackered…”

  Tom sits on the step and starts to tie his shoelaces. “He needs help,” he says with a shrug.

  I put down Gay Times and stand and move to his side. “Hey Mister,” I say. “Don’t forget you’re on holiday.”

  Tom nods glumly. “Yeah, I know,” he says. “But, it’s good for me really. It’s different – it’s like they say, a change is as good as a rest.”

  I nod and rub his back. “Sure, but why not actually have a rest?” I say. “Dante managed fine before we turned up.”

  Tom sighs. “Well, just about,” he says. “You’ve seen the state of the place.”

  “And he’ll have to manage tomorrow once we’ve left,” I say. “Funny,” I think. “I was wondering how to say that …”

  I brace myself for a fight but Tom surprises me by saying, “Yeah, I suppose.” He runs a hand through his hair and yawns and stretches. “Look, I’ll go over and get this done,” he says. “And then maybe we can…” A shadow sweeps across his face. “Tomorrow?” he says. “Since when?”

  I shrug. “Since I had enough of here, I suppose.”

  Tom leans back against the van, his features dark and brooding. “And what about me?” he says.

  “Tom, we have to move on at some point, and there’s loads of other stuff I want to do.”

  “Like what?”

  I shake my head slowly in exasperation. “Like visit La Spezia, like going to see the lake at Como… I’m sorry, but I don’t want to spend my whole holiday on a bloody farm.”

  “But why not?” Tom says. “I like it here.”

  “Tom, I know you do,” I say earnestly, “and I accept that, and that’s why we’ve been here for three days now. But you also have to accept that I want to move on. I want to do other stuff, and I want some time alone with you.”

  “But how often do you meet someone like Dante?” Tom protests. “How often do you meet someone you really connect with like that?”

  I bite my lip and take a deep breath. “Tom, why are you being like this? I don’t connect with Dante. You know that. I just don’t. And his snooping around peering in at us only makes me like him less.”

  Tom looks like a four year old. He looks like he might stamp his feet in anger. “I understand that you don’t like Dante,” he says. “I do. But I’m not ready to leave. I want to make the most of this. I want to get to know him better before we leave. I want to experience more of this whole living off the land thing, I want…”

  “Tom,” I interrupt. “You can’t just…”

  Tom shakes his head. “Look, it’s not complicated,” he says. “I’m not leaving tomorrow.”

  “You’re not?” I say. “So you have a veto now, do you?”

  He glances away towards the forest and then down at his feet. He kicks the side of one foot with the other. “I think you’re being unreasonable,” he says without looking up.

  “Unreasonable?” I repeat.

  “Yeah, just because, you… I mean, don’t you think we should discuss what we’re doing? Instead of you just deciding?”

  “The way you consulted with me when you told Dante we would help him yesterday?” I point out. “And again today? Is that the sort of discussion…”

  “Consult?” Tom spits. “Consult with you? What are you, like my bank manager or something?”

  I frown at him. There’s no real logic to the argument, and I’m left speechless. I wave my hands vaguely and shrug.

  “Consult!” Tom repeats, as if it’s the most absurd word he ever heard.

  “So when do you want to leave?” I say as evenly as I can. “I mean, we can’t stay here forever, even you agree that, right?”

  Tom frowns and swallows hard. “I don’t know,” he says. “I like it here.”

  “What exactly do you like?” I say. “The farm or cute little Dante? Or is it the all-you-can-smoke dope? You didn’t even tell me about that, by the way.”

  Tom shakes his head. “It’s not that. It’s… I don’t know. I feel… I feel centred here. That’s it. I feel more me here. And I really like working with Dante. I haven’t felt this happy since…”

  “It’s just a holiday,” I say. “It’s just the first stop in a whole…”

  “I wouldn’t mind staying here the whole time,” Tom says quietly.

  “The whole time?” I repeat incredulously. “For a whole month?”

  We stand and stare at each other in silence for a moment.

  “It’s not what you think,” Tom says.

  I laugh bitterly. “What do I think then? Please tell me.”

  “Allora, Toma!” As he rounds the corner Dante’s voice jars the air with its boisterous optimism. When he reaches the van he grins lopsidedly and then, looking between our faces, his expression slips into a frown. “Qualche Problema?” he asks.

  Tom stares at his feet and kicks at a stone. “Mark vuole partire domani,” he says.

  “Domani?!” Dante repeats turning to look at me. “You leave tomorrow?”

  I shrug. “It’s a holiday,” I say. “There are places to visit, things to see.”

  “But not tomorrow,” Dante says. It sounds more like a statement than a protest.

  I nod earnestly. “Sorry,” I say. “I want to go to La Spezia, and to…”

  “La Spezia!” Dante laughs dismiss
ively. He spins on his heels and heads back towards the farmhouse.

  “Si puo′ andare a La Spezia e tornare in giornata,” he says, adding as he disappears from view. “Un ora in ciascun senso.”

  Tom glares at me. I shrug.

  Tom shakes his head. “Dante says La Spezia is just a day trip from here.”

  I try and calm my anger by pursing my lips and blowing.

  “He says it’s an hour each way,” Tom continues.

  “This isn’t about a day trip, Tom,” I say. “I want out of here. Can’t you just trust me on this? Just once?” I say.

  Tom grimaces. “Why should I?” he says. “You don’t seem to trust me.”

  “Sometimes there are just things that you know. And I know we need to leave.”

  “I’m staying,” Tom says.

  “So what do we do – split up?” I say. “Do you really want that?”

  Tom shakes his head. We stand in silence for a moment, absorbing the enormity of the moment.

  “Look,” Tom eventually says. “Let me help Dante out again tomorrow, and then we’ll both go on Tuesday, okay?”

  I sigh heavily.

  “Where’s the problem with that?” he asks. “I mean, it’s not like we’re short on time, is it?”

  I shake my head sadly. “It’s just…” I say. But my voice fades away. I’ve run out of steam.

  Tom opens his mouth to say something, but then he closes it again. He glances over towards the farm, then turns back to face me. “Look, I have to go,” he says. “Do what you want.”

  “What I want?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Either go to La Spezia on your own tomorrow, or we’ll go together on Tuesday.”

  Then he shrugs and walks away.

  *

  I slouch around all day, moving between the inside of the van and the deckchair outside. I’m too irritated to relax, too tired and annoyed to actually do anything.

  Twice I catch a glimpse of Tom in the distance carrying something into the farmhouse but he doesn’t even glance over at me.

  Just before seven the dilemma of dinner starts to loom. I should obviously cook something for both of us, but I have this overriding feeling that Tom isn’t coming back for dinner. I know from experience how he hates conflict – he’d do anything rather than come back for round two.