A Cage of Bones

by Jeffrey Round

  “Yes,” Valentino said. “Do I shock you to say such things?”

  “I guess a little bit.”

  Valentino squeezed his shoulder. Warden felt bewildered. So many things that had worked without effort now seemed to be running in opposite directions. He felt poised over an abyss. He stole a glance at Valentino’s boyish face.

  “You have a problem?” Valentino asked.

  Warden shook his head. “Not one I won’t get over.”

  They walked back to the albergo. At the door, Valentino seemed prepared to say goodnight, as if afraid he might be pressing his welcome.

  “Don’t go yet,” Warden said. “We can sit on the roof for a while.”

  “I am glad,” Valentino said, smiling. “I am afraid maybe I am too honest and you will want me to leave.”

  The patio was lit by a ring of candles in bottles winking mutely into the night. The smell of smoke and wax hung in the air. They sat on the patio ledge, feet dangling over the courtyard. Night breezes danced on their skin. Valentino pressed against Warden as they looked out over the city, the heat waves rippling the unreal distance. The moon was rising.

  “La luna,” Valentino said. “The moon is a woman.”

  He took Warden’s hand in his own. “La mano. It is nice to hold.”

  Warden pointed to a drinking glass glistening in the moonlight. “What’s that?”

  “Un bicchiere.”

  He pointed to other items at the outskirts of the circle of candles. Valentino named them as Warden repeated the words. A mosquito landed on Warden’s bare arm. Valentino’s palm slapped over it.

  “Zanzara,” he said, and they laughed together.

  Valentino rested his head on Warden’s shoulder. Slowly, Warden reached up and caressed his face, his fingers catching in a tangle of curls. A sigh broke from his lips, a protest against his confused emotions telling him he could not be doing what he was doing.

  Valentino stirred. “You must soon go to sleep,” he said.

  “I’d stay here all night with you if I could.”

  “Some night we will stay together when you will want me to.”

  Warden opened his mouth to speak.

  “When you will want me to,” Valentino said, pressing a finger over Warden’s lips.

  They went downstairs and stood on the front steps.

  “Paolo! You have waited for me,” he called comically to his motorcycle. He turned to Warden. “You see—I have a boy to go home with every night. You will have to be my second friend-boy.”

  “Boyfriend.”

  “Yes.”

  They said goodnight. Warden listened to the engine fade in the streets as he went upstairs. The light was on in his room. Jimmy was home.

  “Chowdy,” Warden said, as he came into the room. It seemed like ages since they’d had a good chat about ‘life and crap’, as they referred to their talks.

  “How’s it going?” Jimmy responded.

  “Awesome, man! Just awesome!”

  “You sound more and more like a Yank every day,” Jimmy said. “You sure you don’t want to come back and live in Jersey with me someday?”

  “Hey—I’d follow you anywhere, pal. You know that.”

  Jimmy was folding shirts and socks, laying them out on the bed as though he’d been doing his laundry. “So what’s up?”

  “Valentino came by and we went for a walk in the gardens. He just left.”

  “I like that guy,” Jimmy said, nodding. “He’s down to earth, unlike most of the assholes we work with. I’m glad you’ve found a friend.”

  Warden pulled his sweater over his head. “He’s very nice. I hope I get to know him better.”

  “And that’s great news about Oliviero, by the way.”

  “How did you…?”

  Jimmy laughed. “Everyone was talking about you at the agency today. We’ll all be jealous in a few months when you’re hitting the covers of every hot fashion mag. You’re a very lucky guy, Ward.”

  “I know it. First shoot tomorrow morning. I’ll put in a word for you, if all goes well.”

  “Thanks. That’d be great.”

  Jimmy continued to fold. He went over to the closet and took several more shirts off their hangers, bringing them over to his bed.

  “What are you doing? Got an out-of-town show somewhere?”

  Jimmy straightened and turned to him. “I’ve got some news, too, Ward,” he said quietly. “I wanted to tell you earlier but I never got the chance. I got some work, too—it’s in Australia. I leave tomorrow.”

  Warden stood with his mouth open, his tongue moving dryly. It was so unexpected. “Ah, fuck…” he said finally. “I mean, that’s great, man. I’m really glad for you.”

  “I know,” said Jimmy. “I know it. But when you’re called, you gotta go. You can’t miss out on that opportunity. And this could be something really big.”

  “Well, that’s great … but it’s just so sudden. You mean you’re not going to be here for the July fourth show?”

  “’Fraid not.”

  “I was really looking forward to working with the great Jimmy from Jersey.”

  Jimmy smiled and gave a faint shrug, turning back to his shirts.

  So this is how it ends, Warden thought. With an impetuous toss. Not a slow unwinding, but a sudden break. He was stilled by the feeling of having shared the last three months of his life in a cramped room with another man in the bed next to his own.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll see each other next spring,” Jimmy said optimistically.

  Warden disliked the thought of running into Jimmy in a line-up at a casting and calling out, “Hey, man! How’s it going? How’ve you been since the last time we saw each other…?” as he’d seen so many others do.

  “It’s a great job,” Jimmy said. “Guaranteed five spreads over the next seven issues of a classy Australian bridal magazine.”

  “I’ll miss you. The International Table won’t be the same without your sparkling American personality.”

  Jimmy looked up almost fearfully at this successive sharer of the homeless life. He straightened in a manly, military sort of way.

  “It’ll be okay,” he said. “It’s been nice to live with a decent guy for once, Ward—I really mean that. It’s been a fucking pleasure.”

  “Awesome, man.”

  Chowdy.

  PART II

  FABIANO BOY

  9

  After Jimmy, Warden had a succession of roommates, but none stayed more than two or three days. Though he missed Jimmy’s reassuring presence, he was fully in the swing of things. The go-sees were slowing, but he still worked with Andreo regularly. One day Warden returned to the albergo to find his latest roommate had left without being replaced.

  “Nobody has come,” Irena explained with a shrug, as though apologizing for the empty bed. “If there is no one by tomorrow evening, probably then no one comes until next week.”

  It was a rare respite to have the room to himself that night, rolling over to see the empty bed across from him. It hadn’t happened since the first day he’d arrived. Lying in the dark, he thought of his family and friends back home. He remembered something Jimmy had told him that first week about feeling lonely and sleeping to escape the loneliness: you dream of work, you dream of going home, and you dream to escape it all.

  The next day Warden went to a wardrobe fitting for the upcoming Ferré show. He stood patiently, letting the dressers fret and fuss over him as they muttered under their breaths in Italian about last minute changes and other worries that constituted dark clouds on their private horizons.

  Afterwards the models were gathered in the auditorium where they were told the basics of show etiquette—no talking, smoking, or fooling around. They were walked through the show step-by-step with music cues and choreographic arrangements as outfit changes were timed between sequences.

  On the way back from rehearsal he dropped into the agency, oddly tranquil now at the end of a busy week. Calvino was on the phone
and waved from his office as he entered.

  “Any work?” Warden mouthed.

  “Monday,” Calvino said, covering the phone with his left hand.

  Warden checked the agency mailbox. There was nothing for him.

  “Yes, darling—I know, I know…” Calvino cooed into the phone, as though soothing the feathers of some ruffled cockatoo.

  Outside the afternoon billowed like a slackening sail. Warden walked back to the albergo, read for a while and then went to the trattoria. He’d avoided the International Table since Jimmy left, robbed of its biggest, most amiable clown. Now for the first time no one else showed up. The shows had commenced that week, disrupting everyone’s schedule.

  He sat and chased a cluster of fusilli around a bowl. He hated eating alone. At a far table, a short energetic man puffed on a black cigar, punctuating his conversation with the old man at the bar. Warden got up, leaving his meal unfinished.

  Back at the albergo the halls were empty. He turned on the shower and stood for a long time under the running water. He was towelling off in his room when he heard the motorcycle’s roar followed by footsteps running up the stairs.

  “Ciao, Warden! Are you here?” he heard Valentino call.

  “Ciao!” He pulled on a jersey and went out to greet him.

  “How are you, my American friend-boy?”

  “Very happy to see you. And you?”

  “I am happy as well,” he said. “And Paolo, also. He misses you. All week he asks me when you are going for another ride. You have had a busy week?”

  “Yes—very busy. I had my fitting for the Ferré show today.”

  “Ah, I like Ferré!”

  The sun was setting when they went outside. A rosy hue mingled with the awakening lights of the city. Valentino’s face glowed.

  “You look very handsome,” Warden said.

  He protested. “You are the handsome one,” he said. “And very sexy. I don’t know if I can stand to have you sit behind me on Paolo tonight.” He winked.

  “Don’t you trust me?”

  “Oh, I hope not,” Valentino replied, laughing as Warden climbed onto the back of the motorcycle.

  They headed along the broad avenues, joining a leisurely flow of traffic. Valentino swerved into a brightly lit piazza where a crowd milled about. They headed directly across the square toward a flock of pigeons feeding on spilled popcorn. The birds broke upwards, panicking, away from the marauding motorbike. And then they were off again, jumping curbs and roaring down narrow alleyways, the wheels beneath them barely touching the pavement.

  “Are we going to Scimmia?” Warden yelled.

  They approached a red light. Valentino waited till they were stopped before answering.

  “You are dressed much too nice for Scimmia,” he said, turning to face Warden. “We will go to Plastica, a very nice club. It is all right with you?”

  The light turned green. Cars on either side began to inch forward.

  “Anywhere’s fine with me.”

  “You are sure?”

  Behind them, several drivers honked. Some moved up and around them, slowing to shake their fists. Valentino ignored the scene they were causing.

  “Sure I’m sure.”

  “You have a problem?”

  “No, but if you don’t get going I’ll give you one.”

  “I hope so,” he said, gunning the accelerator.

  They sped along, gliding in and out of traffic till they arrived at a pavilion under a grove of trees. Inside, the air was luminous. Bodies were twisting softly on the dance floor as they entered. All around them was a world of beautiful androgynous youth. The muscular chests of men and the firm breasts of women seemed the same at a distance.

  Valentino introduced Warden to his friends. He shook hands with the two boys then offered his hand to the girls. They looked at him shyly and giggled, finally shaking hands with him.

  “Let’s dance,” said Valentino, taking him by the hand and leading him to the dance floor.

  “Is it all right to dance together?”

  “Of course! This is Italy.”

  “Why did your friends laugh when you introduced us?”

  “They want to know who is my handsome friend. I tell them, ‘This is my American friend-boy.’”

  Warden looked back over to the girls who were watching them curiously. “I think they’re jealous.”

  “Good.”

  Warden leaned forward and kissed Valentino, grinning at the surprised look on his face.

  “You have a problem?” Warden asked.

  Smiling, Valentino shook his head.

  They danced for a while then went up to an outdoor terrace. The cool air was refreshing as they balanced on a railing facing one another. Warden yawned and rubbed his eyes.

  “You have had a long week. I should take you home soon and put you to bed, bambino,” Valentino said.

  He took Warden’s hand. “Come—it is time to leave now anyway.”

  As they walked toward the exit they had to make room for someone coming in. It was Jimmy’s friend, Derek. Derek looked at them coolly, ignoring Warden as he brushed past. Warden stopped and looked after the retreating figure.

  “I’ll be back in a moment,” he said to Valentino.

  “I will go to find Paolo.”

  He followed Derek through the crowd, catching up with him at the far end of the bar.

  “Hey!” he shouted.

  Derek turned.

  “What’s up your ass?” Warden said, grabbing his shoulder.

  Derek looked startled. “Nothing. Why?”

  “You just pushed right past me without saying a word back there.”

  Derek shrugged. “I thought you might not want to be seen in here. You know—image and all.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Derek laughed awkwardly. “Well, you know—this place,” he said vaguely, waving an arm in the direction of the entrance.

  “No, I don’t know,” Warden said. “But I’ve just spent the last three months having supper with you every week and now you pretend not to know me because—what? You don’t want to be seen in this bar?”

  Derek looked away. “Actually, I thought you might not want to be spotted in here. The place is full of wops and fags.”

  “Which did you come for, asshole?” Warden retorted, brushing past the other boy who looked after him in surprise.

  Valentino sat waiting for him. Cool drops of rain splattered on the streets as they made their way back. Outside the albergo, Valentino cut the motor. The sound drifted into the night.

  “I shall come up and sit with you on the balcony for a while?” Valentino asked hopefully as they dismounted.

  “You can come up to my room if you like.”

  “I thought the signora does not allow visitors after 10 o’clock.”

  “It’s just girls she doesn’t let in. Are you afraid?”

  Valentino grinned. At the top of the stairs all the lights were out except for a lamp over the reception desk. Warden reached over and freed his key from its hook. He took Valentino by the hand and led him down the hall. He paused as he unlocked the door and looked in. There was no one in the other bed. Nor was there any luggage on the floor. The room was unoccupied.

  Warden closed the door softly behind them, leaving the light off. Their lips met in small experimental kisses. Valentino’s fingers explored Warden’s face, moving across his cheeks and over his closed eyes. Valentino pulled back suddenly.

  “What if your roommate comes?”

  “We’ll say we were out dancing. You have a problem?”

  Valentino laughed quietly. “No. No problem.”

  Warden unbuttoned Valentino’s shirt, letting it slip over his bare shoulders onto the floor then pulled his own jersey over his head. They stood outlined by the light coming through the balcony doors, their smooth skin and taut muscles crushed together. They wrestled their way onto the bed, smothering sudden impulses of laughter as they remembered their s
leeping neighbours on the other side of the walls.

  Warden’s hand moved across the broad warmth of a belly, its lean silkiness contradicting his senses. He searched until he found the object of his curiosity, brushing it quickly aside with embarrassment, but coming back to it again and again. He breathed in the blind smells of Valentino’s body as they rolled and tumbled over one another in a way he’d been led to believe only a man and a woman could do.

  10

  Warden worked closely with Andreo all month. At each session he was greeted as effusively as on their first meeting. Little by little he got to know the eccentric photographer. Andreo had started as a war correspondent, fond of the daring and cleverness required for the job. But by the age of thirty, with his person still intact and facing a diminishing reserve of bravado, he gave up the thrills of fear-seeking as easily as he’d taken them on. Returning home, he was assigned by an editor with a peculiar sense of humour to cover the aggressive postures and stances on the battlefields of fashion. An instant love was born.

  Oliviero’s photographic eye sought out the essence of his subjects, as though life were a pathway between a fixed series of images. Like the sulky blue boys of Calvin Klein with their star-spangled visions of American youth, or the fabulously-tinted European montages of Claude Montana, his photographs evoked a feeling of solidity amid the peripheral drift of fashion, with the power to remain vital long after their fashion statements had faded.

  Where some photographers survived by executing the same picture over and over again, hired and re-hired for their safe predictability, Andreo chose to confront. He offered change and challenge in place of comfort, becoming more and more daring along the way. Those who once praised him began to damn him for shocking their sensibilities.

  “My vision is vital, but it is not meant to be transgressive,” he would say with a gentle smile. “If I offend some then perhaps they need to be offended.”

  He chuckled as Warden sat listening on the studio floor.

  “My first crime was many years ago. For a series of ads I used clerks from the stores where they sold the clothes. Smiling happy people instead of frowning skinny models. Real clothes for real people—how extraordinary! It had never been done before. The campaign went over very well. The agency directors all hated me because I had pointed out the emperor’s new clothes could be worn by anyone.”