Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Five

by Livia Ellis

  It’s not a secret. Haven’t I been up there? No, he supposes I haven’t been have I?

  No. I haven’t. Could he explain to me why he made me come along?

  He thought it would be fun. Family holiday.

  For who? Does this really seem like a family holiday to him? What about this has been family oriented? We haven’t had one meal together. I don’t even know where they’re staying. I haven’t seen mum once. I get that she despises me, but does she have to be so in my face about it?

  She doesn’t despise me. She’s just not feeling very well.

  I just don’t understand. I know what my friends from school do with their families over holidays. This is not it.

  Do I want to go to Pompeii or not?

  Yes.

  Get my camera or whatever I want to bring with me.

  We go to Pompeii. We pile on the bus with the rest of our tour group. He booked us places after our confrontation the previous evening. This is supposed to be a family holiday. Perhaps putting me in the Kidz Club for the whole day wasn’t the best thought out plan. Maybe we should have planned to have lunch together every day.

  It’s just he and mum are really night people as it is. On top of that, Mum’s not feeling very well. She’s had a bit of an upset recently. This might not have been the best moment to go on a holiday, but he didn’t want to disappoint me.

  Because this hasn’t been a huge disappointment?

  The Lotus Eaters reference was a bit harsh, but he is willing to concede how I might see things that way. I just need to understand that he and mum love each other so much that they sometimes forget to make room in their lives for me.

  I’m supposed to believe this is acceptable? Their love for each other is so great that it excuses their pathological neglect of my emotional wellbeing? This is supposed to make me feel better? I don’t care. I’m off the ship and I’m going to see Pompeii.

  The tour bus makes a stop at a cameo factory. We are shown how cameos are made.

  Do I want to get a present for mummy?

  Not particularly. I would like to get something for my grandmother and great-grandmother and Mrs. Gresham. I pick out pendants for the three. Dad choses a fourth for me to give to my mother. It’s a rose. Blah. Lotus Eater.

  He’d really like it if I didn’t keep calling him a Lotus Eater. Mum’s not doing so well. She’d probably really like a gift. Maybe something to cheer her up.

  Fine. I can choose my own. I pick out a salmon pink cameo with a mermaid carved into contrasting lemon stone. I like it. The mermaid has a pretty face.

  Nice choice.

  I nod. Mum’s like a siren. She’s always calling him to her with her song.

  Do I only read classics and mythology?

  No. I have my readers from school. They’re banal.

  As soon as we’re back home he’s going to dig out his old Enid Blyton books.

  When we arrive at Pompeii we meet our tour guide. He knows things that actually impress me. He speaks Latin. He answers the barrage of questions I pelt him with. I take picture after picture. I run out of film (those were the days!). Dad buys me a new supply. He’s loving and attentive. We’re such a charming father and son duo. It’s not real, but I so want it to be. Me with my handsome dad walking around ruins. The tour guide takes a picture of us.

  We stop at a crossroads. The guide points to the building. It’s the Lupanar. I follow even though the tour guide suggests all children remain outside. I don’t really think of myself as a child. I’m certainly nothing like that annoying boy with our group that needs a haircut and can’t stop picking his nose. Gross.

  I know what the word lupanar means (thank you granddad for teaching me Latin). I also know in a vague sort of way what a brothel is.

  Above the doors leading into small cells with raised cement beds were the famous frescos I’d found black and white plates of in some of the books in the library. I’ll admit I’m curious. I’m eleven. Thanks to my grandfather I’ve seen more than any boy should.

  I start taking pictures. Purely for academic reasons of course. Every fresco an advertisement for what is on offer through the door. Perhaps. Scholars continue to debate this. Grandfather will appreciate how meticulous I’ve been in visually cataloging my tour of Pompeii.

  The hand on my shoulder makes me jump. Dad looking down at me, a sort of weird smile on his face and his eyebrows raised make me smile. I’m just taking pictures.

  We will be having a long overdue talk very soon.

  I smile.

  Did I get my pictures?

  Yes.

  He hugs me. We move along with the group.

  The hour arrives for us to depart as we sit at a small café. I’m drinking something lemony and he’s enjoying an espresso.

  I haven’t been even a little difficult. I’ve gone out of my way to be easy going and fun to be around. If this were a date, I’d be pushing for a second.

  We’ve had a good time when we board the bus. I don’t know what to do when we arrive at the ship as he hands our passports and cards over to the attendant. So I follow him. We take the elevator to places I’ve never been before. We stop at a place that promises to develop my pictures in an hour. Then we move on. I realize that we are going to my parents’ room.

  I’m appalled when I see where they are staying. Not that I’m allowed to go beyond the living room area of the suite. Mum is out on the balcony sunbathing with the nanny. So this is how the other half lives. Not in a grim windowless cell below the waterline. I really am nothing but a wart on my mother’s backside. If only she could have me surgically removed every part of her would be so beautiful.

  Dad returns from the balcony. We’re all going to have tea together.

  I don’t like the nanny. Does she have to join us?

  No. She doesn’t.

  I have tea with my mother and father on deck.

  Dad is animated and engaging about our trip. He had a wonderful time. She really should have joined us.

  Or, here’s a thought, they could have gone to Capri like she wanted. They could have had the nanny take me to Pompeii if it really meant so much to me. When she was a child if she’d been taken on such a wonderful holiday she would have been grateful rather than spend all of her time complaining about being forced to have fun with other children. What kind of child prefers to spend his time locked up in a tiny room rather than go to the Kidz Club? The reason she very purposefully picked this holiday was because of the Kidz Club. A normal child would be delighted to spend the day playing games and going to mini-discos. Don’t think she doesn’t realize how cleverly I’ve manipulated my father.

  Can I go back to my room?

  Yes. And next time I want to attention seek, do it on someone else’s time. Go. My mother waves me away with a hand.

  I go before my father finishes lodging his objections. She’s going to win again. She always does.

  My room has been tidied and the towel of the day is a hermit crab. I name him Bob.

  Bob and I sit on my bed watching Italian television and picking at grapes from off of my room service plate that came with the tea I ordered. Between my knowledge of French and Latin, I’m fairly certain I’m starting to understand Italian.

  I look at the cameos I picked out. I don’t think I’m going to give the mermaid to my mother. I like her far too much to part with her.

  Smiley the Dominican room steward comes by early in the evening.

  What am I doing in my room?

  I’ve negotiated a deal that will keep me out of the Kidz Club as long as I remain sequestered in my room.

  I watch him as he moves around tidying my already tidy space.

  Every cruise there is a kid like me.

  What does that mean?

  Nothing. Do I need anything? Want anything? Chocolate bar? Soda? Smiley has a little boy back in Dominica. He knows what little boys like.

  No. Could he get me some Italian newspapers or magazines?

  Sure. He can do that. />
  Can he show me how to make the lobster with the towels?

  Sure. He can do that too.

  What’s his little boy’s name?

  Daniel. He’s ten.

  I’m eleven.

  He finishes doing his job. Asks me again if there is anything I need?

  Nope. I’m good. I’ve had some tea. I’ll order room service for dinner in a few hours.

  I’m left alone. The ship begins to move at some point. I’ve nodded off. It was a long day. I nearly fall asleep again, but there’s a tapping at the door.

  Dad again. He’s wearing a suit and shirt with an open collar. I’m going to dinner with him and mum.

  Does mum know this?

  They had a conversation after I left. Mum’s family was very close. She recognizes we’re not as close as we could be. She agrees that we should start spending more time together as a family.

  I don’t believe him. I don’t. But I don’t say this. I don’t know what I’m supposed to change into to.

  I don’t need to change. Most of the kids at dinner in their dining room are dressed pretty casually.

  There are other kids at dinner?

  Yes.

  So other families eat together on a nightly basis?

  Yes.

  What an extraordinary thing. Can he tell me truthfully if they’re ashamed of me? Is that why they pretend I don’t exist? Is that why there is no room in their bubble of love for me? I’m not ugly. I’m not stupid. I have reasonably good manners. What is it?

  Do I want to go to dinner with them or not?

  No. Sorry. I’m not in the mood to be an annoyance, manipulative, ungrateful, or accused of attention seeking. I had a really good time with just us together. It was a nice day. I want it to stay that way.

  Come to dinner. It’ll be fine. He promises. If I go, when we arrive in Tunisia he’ll take me on the excursion to the ruins of Carthage.

  That is the sort of bribery that works on me. I’m in.

  Mum is standing outside the dining room. There is no nanny.

  Where is the nanny?

  Dad answers. She got off in Naples. This is a family holiday. We will be a family on this holiday.

  Mum smiles tightly. It really wasn’t necessary to send the nanny packing.

  Dad repeats his previous statement. This is a family holiday. We will be a family on this holiday. A time for everything and everything in its time.

  Whatever.

  We go in for dinner.

  Our table is located along a banquette that curves around the room. Mum takes a chair and dad and I sit on the bench. The table is already set for three. The nanny, so it seems, was permitted to dine with them. Like no nanny I’ve ever met before or since.

  Mum is quiet. She seems sad, but I don’t know if she’s just angry or what. If I’d brought the cameo with me to dinner, I might offer it to her to see if that might make her smile. But I didn’t.

  I pretend to be a shadow. I’m silent. I eat my supper. I don’t spill anything. I smile at the waitress and the water boy. I’m so very thankful for everything they do. I’m brought a special sundae that looks like a clown head at the end of the meal.

  Dad pulls out the pictures from our day in Pompeii. He makes mum look at them as I edge closer on the bench seat next to him. Just so I know he’s already removed several pictures which will be returned to me at a later date. Perhaps when I turn thirty.

  We come to the picture of us. Me and my handsome dad with the clear blue Italian sky behind us. Dad hands the picture to mum.

  I glance at mum as she takes the picture. She looks at the picture of me and my handsome daddy. Then I see it. The answer to all of my questions. It’s in her eyes. There’s a flash that could be anger or could be something else. Maybe jealous?

  I like this thought so it becomes the truth.

  She’s jealous. She’s jealous of me. She covets my father like a golden calf. My daddy that gave me his green eyes and brown hair and full mouth. My handsome, wealthy, future earl of a daddy that lowered himself to a level somewhere between an amoeba and a worm by marrying my slag of an unacceptable mother the butcher’s daughter.

  That jealously is delicious to me. It’s in her eyes and the line of her mouth. She will do anything to keep him. She will do anything to prevent another person, even her own son, from getting a toehold on my daddy’s heart. But she’s too late. I see what she doesn’t. My daddy loves me and it breaks his heart that she forces him to choose between us.

  I put my head on dad’s shoulder as I smile at mum.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Field Trip to Kyoto

  Olga and I are up just past ten. She set the Dalvey travel alarm clock that I’m sure I left at home in my bedroom. I’m ready to leave for Kyoto just before noon. I need books and gifts for the family. Something for Mi Young and Elizabeth.

  OIga already has a list. She puts books on it. We need a couple of e-book readers. She’ll get them when we’re back in London. It’s ridiculous that we still haul paperbacks around with us.

  I begrudgingly agree. I never thought I’d give up paper, but she has a point. I finished the three books I bought in Heathrow before we landed in Japan. If we’re going to be traveling a lot I need a fully loaded e-book reader. It’s that or I might end up having to rely on Olga’s taste in “literature” to keep me occupied.

  She needs to change her shoes. She is going to be miserable walking around in those shoes. I have every intention of seeing more of Kyoto than the inside of a bunch of boutiques.

  She’s not going to change her shoes. She’ll be fine.

  Unbelievable. I go to the suitcases of shoes she brought and pick out the most sensible pair I can find. Black ballet flats. I put them in my messenger bag. She’ll thank me later.

  No she won’t because she won’t need them.

  Fine. We’ll see.

  We will see.

  The door opens. The Servant. The Samurai wishes to see me. Olga is to go with the footman. The others are waiting on her at the vans.

  But…

  The Servant looks at me. Is there a problem?

  I really wanted to go into Kyoto.

  I am to be at the Samurai’s disposal during the length of my time in Kyoto. Was this not made clear to me?

  It was. Fuck. I’m not in the mood for this. I reach inside of my messenger bag and give Olga the shoes. For me she is to take them with her.

  She takes the shoes and puts them in her massive bag. She’ll get the things we were going shopping for. She’ll get me something to read.

  Something good.

  What’s good?

  Probably anything that she would never read.

  Nice.

  No vampires, no werewolves, no dragons, no wizards, no spacemen, no bodice ripping pirates, no quirky but confused working girls that just want to fall in love and get married, no procedural crime…

  Something boring.

  Yes. Something boring. If it has a sticker on the cover that reads it’s somehow associated with the Booker Prize, then get it. She kisses me on the cheek at the door. We can stay in Kyoto for a few days when we’re done. She’ll have a poke around and see what looks like a nice hotel. Maybe something with a spa or a hot spring.

  Do that. That sounds perfect. I kiss her on the mouth then let her go.

  We go our own ways. I am brought to the Samurai.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The Ruins of Carthage

  My mother is jealous of me. This is a revelation second only to Muhammad in the dessert or Moses on Sinai. A golden light shines on me. My eyes have been opened. My world has been turned upside down. I sit snuggled up to my father as she flip through the pictures we took in Pompeii. My head on his shoulder. Mum’s bitterness dripping off her fangs like venom. She’s jealous of me and I like it.

  My mother is jealous of me. I’m certain of this. There can be no other explanation for her behavior. So like any eleven year old would do, I stick the knife in and turn.
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  I love you dad. I had so much fun today. I can’t wait until we get to Tunisia. I’ve read all about Hannibal. I’m so excited to see the ruins of Carthage.

  He loves me too. He puts an arm around me and gives me a hug. He’s looking forward to it too.

  Wait. What about Tunisia? She already wants to go to the bazaar in Tunis. Not the ruins of Carthage.

  Oliver wants to go to the ruins. They’ve been to the bazaar in Tunis a dozen times already. We can all go to the ruins of Carthage together.

  No. She wants to go to the bazaar. All along she’s said she wants to go to the bazaar.

  Carthage could be fun for all of us.

  Explain to her what is fun about walking around ruins? Besides, didn’t they kill their young? Weren’t they into child sacrifice? Why would she want to go anywhere near such a place?

  It’s never been proven they performed infanticide. I’m just full of these little factoids. It’s no wonder the other boys at school want to pummel me.

  Why can’t I be a normal child? My mother would really like to know why I dress like a sixty year old man and seem incapable of having normal fun like a child would have. Why? Do I even know how to play?

  I like my horse.

  Dad reaches out to both of us. Let’s just talk about what we all want to do.

  What mum wants, more than anything else in the world, is for this to end. She wishes he would have sent her home rather than the nanny.

  Well maybe if she made a bit more effort and not spend every moment dwelling and moping she might be in better spirits and things would be going better.

  I’ve actually never heard dad talk back to mum. I’m rather proud of him.

  Before a real fight begins, she thumps her fist against the table, gathers up her handbag and walks out of the restaurant with her head held high.

  Dad takes me back to my room. He’ll talk to mum. As much as he wants to take me to Carthage, he might need to smooth things over with her. Maybe we should have just given in and agreed to go to the bazaar with her. That’s fun too. When I’m a grown man with a wife I’ll understand better.