An Italian Landscape, with figures

 (c) 2011

The dawn wind stirred the curtains, and bits of Jason’s dream merged with the light flickering through the gap that opened and closed between them. For a moment, he was in his flat in London, with Charles curled up next to him. He was happy and content. Every few seconds, Charles’s steady breathing brought his chest into contact with Jason’s body, comforting him with this rhythmic proof of his lover’s nearness.

There was a whisper of conversation outside the window and then a half-stifled laugh. ‘Ciao, Angelo,’ said a female voice.

‘Ciao, Maria.’ The voice was deep and masculine.

Jason rolled over and awoke in a hotel room in Italy. He turned his head and gazed out the window at a narrow strip of sky that was quickly fading from grey to the pale yellow of an Italian day. The breeze mingled the scents of the Adriatic and country grasses and bread baking. Another perfect day, thought Jason. Later, he and Charles would breakfast in their room, sitting on the small balcony and watching the fishing boats on the bay. On the crest of the hill behind the hotel, the bells in the church would toll, followed shortly by those of the clock in the tower above the town hall. Below them, the town would stir with activity as the market opened. The trucks bearing crates of vegetables would arrive, and the sellers would set up tables and erect awnings and then display their offerings for the day in colourful mounds. The merchants would fold open the shutters that covered the shop windows. Soon the parade of housewives would begin, and the noise of joyous bargaining and gossiping would fill the air.

Or perhaps they would sit at one of the tables on the terrace below their window, drinking coffee as they paged through the guidebooks and planned their day. They would choose that table that was half-hidden in the bower created by the bougainvillea branches that tumbled over the walls from the garden next door. The glow of sunlight filtered through red and purple flowers would surround them. Later they might take the bus that ran along the coastal road and explore one of the villages further south. They would find a café and have another wonderful meal and then catch the last bus back. In the gathering twilight they would climb the hill to the hotel. They would get drinks at the bar and then sit outside on the terrace and watch the reflections of the lights of the town ripple in the sea.

They would discuss what they had seen that day. Charles would again surprise him with his sensitivity, both to others and to him. It was amazing how accurately Charles knew his moods. Charles could sense what he was thinking from the smallest clues. They would finish their drinks and say goodnight to the hotel staff and climb the stairs to their room. They would undress and sit in the dark in front of the open doors to the balcony, sharing the peace of the night. Then they would make love, quietly, gently, slowly, easing into their final raptures, letting the climax happen without force or artifice or self-consciousness. It would be another expression of their growing love for each other, an important way of expressing it but not the only way.

Another enchanted day in San Andreas, their fifth. They hadn’t spoken of it, but for Jason, and he was certain for Charles, the trip was a trial run. They had met seven months earlier. Their relationship had progressed from friendship, admittedly a friendship fuelled by mutual physical attraction, to a convenient means of having sex with an agreeable partner to love. Their joint holiday was a test. Could they live together? Or was their limit a few hours a few times a week, dinner, a few drinks, bed, perhaps an overnight stay?

On the whole, Jason thought the holiday was proving that they could live together. Of course, it would have to be tested in London. A holiday with no everyday responsibilities, an attentive hotel staff, scrumptious food seemingly available on every corner, warm weather—those were hardly normal conditions. But he was increasingly certain that the demands of their schedules, domestic chores, cooking for themselves, and cold, rainy weather would not dampen their relationship.

Jason eased himself out of bed and slipped on his robe, careful not to disturb Charles. He closed the door to the bedroom behind him and walked into the small sitting room. He wanted a bit of privacy to think and get his thoughts in order. He needed to plan how best to raise the subject of inviting Charles to move into his flat. Luckily Charles was only renting and his flat would be cramped with two people living in it. So it made sense that Charles should be the one to move. But he didn’t want to box Charles in. Charles would have to get rid of his furniture and many of his possessions. Jason’s flat was big enough for the two of them, but they wouldn’t need another television set or a second sofa. It might be more crowded than either of them was used to, and having only one bathroom could be a problem. It was important that they be able to discuss the possibility without committing themselves until both of them were ready and understood the consequences. Haste might lead to a disaster that thoughtful planning could avoid.

He had never thought he would be having this discussion with himself. At 32, he thought himself beyond a relationship and had resigned himself to a lifetime alone. The realisation that he loved Charles had surprised him. He hadn’t expected that to happen. The sudden swelling of joy he felt when he unexpectedly saw Charles approaching him along Douglas Street had startled him into an awareness of his feelings. Further encounters had only deepened his feelings. He was certain that Charles felt the same. Charles had exuberantly acquiesced in his suggestion that they spend a week in Italy together. Charles had scoured the guidebooks and found San Andreas. It was proving to be the perfect place for—well, for a honeymoon. The sequence of events might not be the customary one, but the emotion and the sentiment surrounding this holiday in paradise fulfilled the definition of honeymoon. Of course, Charles has his faults. Truth be told, so did he. But as long as they were committed to each other, they could work out their differences. And living together would make them even more willing to make the relationship permanent.

Should he, pondered Jason, propose today? Or should he wait until the last day of their holiday? Spending the last two days and then flying home together would be awkward if Charles said no. He needed a way of testing the waters. There was that jewellery shop on the street leading to the market square. Yesterday when they had walked past it, there had been a tray of cheap rings in the window. The miniscule diamonds had sparkled in the light. Perhaps they could just amble by it again, and he could point them out and then speculate a bit on marriage in San Andreas. See what Charles said on the subject.

Jason’s reverie was interrupted by the scraping of a metal chair against the flagstones of the hotel terrace. He stepped over to the balcony doors and looked out. One of the hotel employees was cleaning the garden. The young man’s back was towards Jason. He had to be the Angelo of the conversation that had awoken him. Angelo was kneeling down and reaching under a table for a scrap of paper. He had draped the white tunic that all the employees of the hotel wore over the back of one of the chairs, possibly to keep it clean while he was sweeping up. He was wearing only a string vest. It stretched tautly over his torso. His body glowed in the early morning light. That was one problem with Charles. He burnt so easily that he had to keep his body covered up. His flesh was so pasty looking. And it meant he didn’t go outdoors and exercise. His body drooped, unlike Angelo’s. Jason had a sudden mental image of Charles lying on his side in bed, his chest uncovered. His pecs sagged and his stomach flowed down onto the mattress. Not like Angelo. That young man’s muscles wouldn’t sag, and his ass was magnificent, worthy of Michelangelo. Jason could almost feel it under his hands, firm and full. Charles couldn’t even begin to compete in that area.

Jason slid the door to the balcony further open and stepped outside. The young man looked around at the noise. He smiled and waved a silent greeting. Jason nodded and then looked away. He didn’t want to be caught staring but he was very conscious of Angelo and his movements as he continued to prepare the terrace for anyone who might want to breakfast outside.

Jason considered returning to bed and awakening Charles with a kiss. He mentally shuffled through the possible places where he could plant the kiss, each succeeding option a bit more arousing than the previous one. The young man tugged the bottom of his vest loose from his trousers, briefly exposing his abdomen. Now that deserved a kiss, many kisses in fact. Jason leaned on the railing of the balcony and looked down. The young man was working directly below him. From above, his curly black hair obscured his face. Poor Charles was going bald already. From above, the bare spot on the crown of his head would have been very apparent. The young man’s shoulders were really very wide. They made his waist and hips look even smaller. It would be lovely to be in bed with a body like that.

The quiet of the morning had a palpable weight. Somehow it magnified the sounds of the birds calling in the hills and of the scuffling of the young man’s plimsolls against the garden tiles. It felt almost warm on Jason’s skin. It was really a perfect day. The boundless sky, the cloud of flowers hanging over the terrace, the handsome hotelworker going effortlessly about his task—Jason felt a wave of contentment and happiness infuse his body.

The quiet was interrupted by the sound of snoring. Charles must have rolled onto his back. That was one of his annoying traits. Charles’s snoring had disturbed his sleep several times already. If they were going to live together, he would have to do something about that. Even with the bedroom door closed, his snores were loud enough to wake anyone within twenty feet. It would be even worse in London, thought Jason. His flat had a lot of charm, but the walls were thin. It would be impossible to escape the noise if Charles lived there.

Jason glanced back into the sitting room. Charles’s shirt and vest were tossed over the arm of a chair. The rest of his clothes—the jeans, pants, socks and shoes he had worn the day before—lay in a tangled heap on the floor. That would have to change. Jason knew that he could be irrational about neatness, but Charles went too far in the other direction. His flat was a mess. It was impossible to sit down in a chair without first removing several days’ worth of dirty laundry. Every dish Charles owned sat in his sink waiting to be washed up. When he needed a clean glass or plate, he simply rinsed off the one with the least grime.

The young man finished straightening up the terrace. He walked towards the chair where he had left his tunic. As he passed by the ironwork gate in the wall, he stopped and peered out into the street, twisting his neck so that he could see down the hill. He appeared to be entranced by whatever he was seeing. He stood with one hand poised above the back of the chair about to pick up the tunic. Jason held his breath. He wanted to do nothing that would distract the young man and interrupt the scene below him. If this was the Angelo that Maria had spoken to earlier, he was rightly named. He looked like a young angel disturbed in his labours by a vision of beauty. He was himself a vision of beauty.

Angelo turned suddenly and looked back towards the hotel. He grabbed his tunic and put it on, buttoning it hastily. He moved forward and then greeted someone coming out of the hotel. Jason heard murmured ‘buongiornos’ and then Angelo gestured towards the tables, inviting someone to sit. A couple, a man and a woman, appeared on the terrace. They consulted briefly, pointing first at the tables shaded by the flowers and then at a table in the sun. They chose the table in the sun. The wife spoke to Angelo, who nodded and then hurried away. He returned shortly with a tray laden with a cafetière of coffee, a dish of melon slices, and a plate of rolls along with a bowl of sugar, a pot of milk, and plates and silverware. Angelo set the dishes on the table with quiet competence and efficiency. Every movement was a note in an aria of assured gracefulness.

Jason suddenly wanted to sit in the garden and have breakfast. He would choose the table under the flowers. He would nod to the couple but not disturb them with conversation. Angelo would serve him the same meal he had just brought the couple. They would smile at each other. One of the bright red bougainvillea flowers would fall slowly onto the table, a gift of the gods.

Jason went into the bedroom and dressed quietly. He would let Charles sleep—Charles did like a lie-in. It was another difference between the two of them. As Jason walked down the stairs, he decided not to raise the subject of living together with Charles yet. It would be better to wait until after they had returned to London and he could evaluate the relationship soberly. It was too easy to get drunk on Italy. The country tempted one into hasty decisions.