Chapter 14 - Torre del Lago

The wind was blowing straight in from the sea, letting rough waters make their way into the river estuary through the opening in the brakewater. The boat bounced up and down, spraying me with the cool white foam flying off the tops of the waves as they were slashed by the bow, and with each passing swell the electric hollow rollercoaster feeling in the pit of my stomach was switched on and off. Ahead of us, the sea turned into a brilliant turquoise as if underneath the water the seabed itself was glowing with light, and then farther along suddenly darkened into a deep fathomless blue that I´d always found unsettling. Even now my heart beat a little faster with the thought of us gliding recklessly hundreds of yards above the invisible, dark sea bottom, with only an insubstantial and treacherous liquid sustaining us from the deathly, mysterious depths. To shake off these thoughts I scampered back to Ivan, shedding my disguise of rags and ´70s sunglasses and trying not to fall overboard.

“Do we have enough gas to get to Torre del Lago?” I asked, dropping down on the seat next to him.

He made some quick mental calculations, and nodded. “Not enough to get back, though. Why?”

“I´m meeting Angelo there tomorrow at midnight.”

We had cleared the wavebreaker and he steered the boat to the north, but a frown was deepening between his eyebrows.

“What is it?” I asked, even if I already knew what was bringing him down.

“Is that where you´re planning to dump me?”

Overcome by the feeling in his voice, I stood up and hugged him tightly from behind.

“I´m not going to dump you,” I answered, my voice sufficiently convincing now that he couldn´t see my expression. “We´ll decide together what´s the best thing to do.”

I felt him relax in my arms. “We better.”

I should have gone into the cabin to put away the groceries before the choppy sea ground them into pulp, and to hook up the TV, but these were going to be the last two days I´d ever see Ivan. I remained standing behind him, kissing his smooth neck and my hands resting on the narrow muscular waist, while my skipper manouvered the boat ever farther from the shoreline.

“Why Torre del Lago?”

“Angelo took me there last summer,” I explained. “There´s a gay beach, a few gay clubs, and a gay cruising area in the pinewoods behind the beach. That´s where I´ll – we´ll – meet him because it´s dark and safe.”

“Gay pinewoods? At night? That´s safe?” Ivan seemed alarmed with all three concepts, each more worrying than the previous one.

“Well,” I hesitated, “perhaps it´s better if I go there alone.”

“No.” He shook off my hands. “I´m in trouble already, have been since yesterday, and now I´ve practically stolen this boat for you. So what difference does it make if I stay with you a little longer? Why do you keep selling me short?”

“Because every minute you spend with me you´re getting deeper into that trouble. It´s just not right.”

“I´ll be the judge of that. I´m not a little kid, you know? I can decide for myself.”

“Can you, I mean legally? Are you really eighteen like you said?”

He didn´t answer.

“Ivan…” I said, laying my hands on his shoulders, half expecting him to shake them off this time as well. My erection was pushing painfully against the leg of my pants, and as the boat swayed he could feel it press against his back. “I don´t think the Italian law is as strict as American, but when they catch me I´ll probably get the local equivalent of death penalty for what I´ve done to you.”

“But you´ve done nothing wrong!”

“You didn’t think so the night we first met.” I slipped my hand under his t-shirt, my fingertips tracing the curves of his taut abdominals.

“No one will ever know about that.”

“Let´s see what they do know. I´ll check if the TV works.”

The abbreviated early morning news were on, and as expected we were the main headline. Ivan couldn´t hear the commentary to where he was standing, and I had to relay it to him over the wind and the low groan of the motor. Through the cabin door, I could only see his legs and the lump of his groin, and the smooth hard curve of the muscles of his belly when the wind occasionally picked up the waist of his t-shirt. We´d have to find a place to anchor the boat soon.

“The call was anonymous,” I called out to him, relieved that Luca had at least had the common sense of not to implicate himself and Angelo. “They say I´d left the house only moments before their arrival, and – wait – happened to catch you riding your scooter alone and abducted you. And you´re just barely seventeen.”

Unfazed by the revelation, Ivan called back, “Why not steal just the scooter? Why me, too?”

“Wait – they´re saying that you´re exceptionally attractive – here´s the photo, they´re right – and I´m a sick murderous pervert, and there should be death penalty in Italy for certain crimes.”

Despite my dismissive version of the newscast I couldn´t help a rush of the old familiar panic, but smiled nevertheless when I heard the urgency in Ivan´s voice.

“Which photo?” he called. “Was it good?”

“Yes, very good,” I reassured him. Brutta figura was the worst thing imaginable to an Italian. “Here´s more of them, you´ll soon be as famous as I am.”

His family hadn´t provided only the best photos in the family album, there was a statement as well. “They´re asking me to let you go, and not to harm you…”

“Are they on TV?” Ivan took a quick peek into the cabin.

“No, not yet, it´s just a written plea.” I listened to some more. “They think we might be in Rome, your phone trick worked.”

He sneaked a quick look into the cabin again, smiling proudly. The last piece of information the newsdesk had was that the owner of the house – Carlo´s name wasn´t mentioned – was living abroad and the authorities hadn´t been able to reach him yet. I wondered how long it would take for the police to connect Carlo and Angelo, and if the fact would be sufficiently incriminating to throw Angelo into jail. Then the newscast was over, promising live coverage with ´an expert panel´ starting at nine. Out of Ivan´s sight I sat on the berth, my head resting on my hands, as I tried to figure a way out for my friends. It was useless, of course, as even giving myself up wouldn´t now stop the investigation no matter what lies I told the police. Furthermore, the agonizing moment when I´d have to leave Ivan was inexorably moving closer at seemingly increasing speed, as if the time itself was accelerating, and I still had no idea how to make it happen. No amount of reasonable talk would sway him; in the end I´d have to resort to something vile.

There were no secluded bays in this part of the coast, but we anchored the boat near the shore in front of a wide swath of forest with only a barely visible strip of a beach beneath the trees. A few other boats had chosen the same area but as all of us had done it for privacy´s sake none of them came alarmingly close, and in fear of powerful binoculars we always wore sunglasses and headgear when out in sight, even while swimming. We splashed like two children, had sex, napped, devoured sandwiches, had sex again. Every now and then I caught him staring at me coldly, aware of the impending betrayal, but the stare always melted into a smile and an embrace with the certainty that he´d outwit me when the moment came. In the meanwhile, the TV news and commentary went from bad to worse as there was no word from Ivan to his parents, and by the time we woke up on Monday morning the whole country believed I´d done away with him and dumped the body in the sea in Ostia, or in certain more pictoresque versions into the river Tiber in the very outskirts of Rome after repeatedly having had my way with him. Ivan´s parents kept asking for silenzio stampa, which the news organizations naturally ignored; Ivan was far too good-looking, perfect for the role of the innocent, and there was much emphasis on his age. Marinella was interviewed by the Berlusconi´s flagship Channel 5, Ivan´s schoolmates and cousin by RaiUno, and the lesser characters of the drama by the equally lesser channels. At first we made fun of the newscasts, although somewhat awkwardly, and then stopped commenting on them altogether as the more vicious pundits took over.

Late in the Monday evening we had our last swim, reluctantly scampered back onboard, our spirits dampened and heavy, and soon before sunset Ivan switched on the motor. His eyes shimmered in the last warm rays of the sun as he looked at me, there was a twitch to the side of his mouth, and I had to turn away to clear the sudden lump in my throat. The night fell; the pinpoints of light of the coast slowly slid past us as the digital numbers of the GPS display clicked closer to the location neither of us wanted to reach. Then, inevitably, I recognized the lights of Torre del Lago and the flurry of people crowding the beachfront bars, and the night breeze carried the music to us over the water. It was already ten past eleven, and we didn´t have time to find a proper place for the boat. Protected by darkness, Ivan took us as close to the shore as he dared, anchored the boat, and we took off our clothes and stashed them into the plastic bag along with our money. The water felt cold as I slipped in, holding the bag high above my head, closely followed by Ivan.

“What if someone rams into the boat,” I asked him, bobbing in the waves and looking back at the dark hulk silhoutted against the night sky.

“No one will, I think this is a restricted area because of the beach,” he answered, kicking water next to me. “And it´s too close to the shore anyway.”

I felt his warm hand touch my arm underwater, and we turned and swam towards the lights and the noisy, happy crowd.

Chapter 13 - Marina di Pisa

It was Saturday night, in the holiday month of August, and the traffic grew steadily heavier as we approached the coast. Ivan therefore judged it relatively safe to use certain stretches of main roads every now and then, even though it made us both feel horribly exposed. About an hour into the journey we entered the outskirts of a small town, keeping a wary eye on all the approaching headlights, and stopped at an automated gas station to fill the scooter up. Thankful for the emergency funds Angelo had left me, I gave Ivan two bills for the machine and stood by, stretching my legs, as he proceeded with the smelly job. Once he was finished, he pulled out a cell phone from his pocket and checked the display.

“Eleven missed calls,” he grumbled, looking worried. “My parents. I have to call them back.”

He pressed a couple of keys, and the call was answered even before he had time to lift the phone to his ear.

“I´m fine, just fine,” he said, with the appropriate amount of teenage irritation. “I´m over at Enzo´s, in Pisa, watching TV. You don´t know him. Never mind that, what´s going on?”

A truck carrying two huge concrete elements rumbled into the parking lot, contradicting Ivan´s claims about the imaginary Enzo, and he had to wait for a moment before the call could be continued. Once the driver had turned off the engine Ivan resumed the conversation, listening for a while, and then interrupted, innocently, “Oh, that was why the police stopped me?” However, hearing the answer his expression clouded, he squinted, and then a frown appeared. “No, of course not. What, you let those dogs into the house?”

His focus shifted to me from the call, even as he listened to the anxious warbling voice from the other end. The next question was for my benefit. “What did you say? The dogs ran straight into my room? Why would they do that?”

The pitch of his mother´s voice rose. “That´s what we want to know, too.” More incomprehensible talk followed.

“No. No,” Ivan answered. “If they say that, they´re crazy. No, I´m not coming home, I´m in Pisa, I don´t know Enzo´s home number.”

Someone else came on the phone, with a deeper voice. His father. I thought I heard something like “The dogs were howling around the bed, for Chrissakes-“

Ivan listened for a while, and then interrupted, “If they want to look for me, let them. I don´t care.” Now he was starting to look anxious himself, defying his own father, not an easy task for an Italian. “Listen, I have to go now-“

“He´s with you isn´t he?” This time I could hear his father´s voice quite clearly. “Is he holding you hostage?”

“Don´t be stupid,” Ivan snapped, but his face had turned pale. “I´m just fine. I have to go now. I´ll be home tomorrow morning.”

He ended the call before his father could answer, and started to push the phone back into his pocket, his hand shaking.

“Ivan, the phone leaves a trace,” I said. “When the police checks it they know where we are.”

He nodded, and was starting to turn it off when he saw the truck he hadn´t paid much attention to before.

“It has Roman licence plates,” he said contemplatively, thought about it for a second, and then pitched the phone into a hollow in one of the concrete elements. “At the rate my parents keep calling the battery will go dead pretty soon, but there should be a nice southward trace by then.”

I stared at him, impressed. “You just threw away your music collection.”

He shrugged. “I´ll download it again.”

“Ivan.” I started, gnawed my lip, knowing how stubborn the kid was. “Maybe you really should go back. If your parents think that you´ve been kidnapped they´ll go crazy with worry.”

“That´s what they´ll say,” Ivan answered with a sneer. “For the neighbors´ sake. And stop telling me what to do, thank you.”

“So what are we doing?”

“First I thought I´d take you to our boat for the night but it doesn´t seem like a good idea now,” he said unhappily, but then immediately added. “I have a plan B, though.”

“Which is?” I didn´t want to sound sceptical, but I was beginning to think we were on a dead end street and driving too fast.

“Have you ever seen anyone alone on a boat in Italy?”

I thought about it for a second, and shook my head. The images that came to my mind all pertained to white boats crammed to capacity by young men wearing speedos and usually making a lot of noise.

“I´ll call a friend,” he said, pulling on his helmet.

The apparent lack of details about his plan worried me as we took to the road again. Also, I had to get in touch with Angelo as soon as possible, supposing he hadn´t already been locked up.

The trip had taken longer than expected, and morning was drawing closer. The traffic, however, only seemed to be getting heavier and I suspected that not all the drivers had abstained from drinking. Luckily they kept the police busy enough, and the one patrol car that passed by never saw us thanks to two cars Ivan strategically wedged us in between. The sun was already lighting up the edges of the highest clouds to the east when we entered a small, pictoresque coastal town and found a functioning phone booth, a minor miracle. This time, as I waited, I didn´t take my helmet off to keep my blond hair hidden. The call itself didn´t take long but I noticed that the machine gave no coins back.

“I got Roberto on his cell phone,” he started. “He´s in Marocco with his family.”

“Damn,” I cursed. “Listen-“

“Wait,” he interrupted. “His grandmother is at home. Robbie will call her, and she´ll give us the key to the marina where their boat is moored. We can stay there for a day or two.”

“What did you tell him? Won´t he call the police as soon as the news comes out?”

“I didn´t have to tell him anything, he´s in Marocco,” Ivan reminded me. “I only implied that I needed a place where I could take a girl behind Marinella´s back.”

“The ever valid Italian excuse,” I muttered, shaking my head disapprovingly as if I could afford it. “What about the granny? She won´t even open the door if you don´t show respect and take the helmet off.”

“Right… well, I´ll tell her it´s my brother´s, and so small that it nearly rips my ears off when I put it on or take it off.”

“I don´t know about your brother but the rest of the story is no lie,” I laughed, earning a hard cuff on the side of my helmet.

Roberto´s house was only a two minutes´ drive away, an old-fashioned villa surrounded by a small but lush garden, and while I waited outside Ivan went in to charm the old lady. Soon he returned, with a wide grin and a happily jangling set of keys.

“She´s a bit addle-brained, I think,” he said with good-humored Italian straight-forwardness. “Not only did she give me the marina key, but the one to the boat as well. We can go and have a ride if there´s enough gas in the tank.”

“Won´t the marina janitor, or whatever his title is, call the police when a boat disappears?”

“First he´ll call the granny, and she´ll say that everything´s all right,” Ivan answered.

“Are you sure?”

“If we stay holed in the boat it´ll look more suspicious than taking it out,” Ivan reasoned. “And we´ll get a sunstroke hiding in the cabin all day.”

“True.”

Still, the idea of going pleasure-boating while half the police force of the country was chasing us seemed a bit outlandish. On the other hand, frolicking in the sea would hardly be what was expected of us, and to spend the afternoon slowly rogering Ivan in the cabin, with all the rope one was sure to have available on a boat, and no one within earshot, was not an invitation easily turned down. Besides, if the shore patrol caught us in the act, with Ivan helplessly tied up, no further proof of his innocence would be necessary.

We found an open bar and bought a cache of food, and got some change for me to call Angelo. Back at the phone booth I put a call through to the emergency number Angelo had given me. Thankfully, the cell phone number was working, but it rang several times before Jan answered sounding sleepy and alarmed at the same time.

“Jan, this is a friend of Angelo´s,” I started, but he interrupted me right away.

“He told me that… eh, someone, might call and leave a message.” His voice was suddenly quite friendly, and I remembered our first and only meeting in the villa by the lake and on what a different footing we´d been then.

“Great… listen, would you tell him to meet me tomorrow, that´s Monday, in the pine woods near the bars at midnight? The bars - he´ll know what I´m talking about.”

“All right,” Jan answered, sounding a little puzzled.

“If either one can´t be there on Monday, I´ll be there on Tuesday at the same time,” I added quickly.

“I´ll tell him,” Jan promised. “I hope to see you soon. Take care.”

We began the last leg of the ride, leaving the town behind, and soon I noticed that there were unmistakable glimpses of rippling blue water in between copses of trees to the right side of the road.

“What´s that?” I shouted over the wind, pointing at the water. “Not the sea already?”

“The river Arno,” Ivan yelled back.

I was somewhat stunned by the answer, and nearly dropped the heavy shopping bag I was holding between us. The River Arno, whose almost holy waters, albeit rather polluted ones, had run under the Ponte Vecchio in Florence probably only yesterday, and here we were obliviously riding a scooter right next to it as if it were little more than just another ditch. Traveling in Italy was tricky business; ask an innocent question and the answer is likely to contain words such as Michelangelo, Giotto, or Vestal Virgins.

Then Ivan slowed down, his head scanning the riverside trees and bushes, apparently looking for a hiding place for the scooter. Suddenly a salty sea breeze penetrated into my helmet, and delivered the wave of exhilaration that the first smell of sea always brings. Ahead of us, above another copse of luscious trees, I could now see the edge of a forest of gently swaying white masts. Ivan found a place he judged safe enough, and after drudging the scooter into a thicket across a narrow field, hoping that the two cars that passed by in the meanwhile didn´t find our actions alarmingly odd, we headed for the marina. The gate was still locked this early in the morning, and after seeing we had the key the only person about, an expensively groomed tall man tinkering with the ropes of his sailboat, didn´t ask us any questions despite quizzically following us with his eyes. Under his watchful gaze Ivan lead us to the motorboat, and jumped on board.

The boat had looked deceptively small from the outside, as I discovered that the cabin nevertheless had room for two beds and a tiny kitchen, and a cleverly hidden toilet. Despite the size the only correct word for the vehicle was yacht, with its white streamlined shape, enough room on the front deck for sunbathing, and the back designed for an easy descent into water for a swim. The chromed railings were spotless, and the whole thing gleamed with almost blinding brightness in the early morning sun. We ducked into the cabin and pulled off our helmets with a sigh of relief, but there was not enough time to start fussing with the groceries.

“How are we going to get out of here with that snoop out there?” I asked.

“We´ll improvise,” Ivan answered, familiar with the boat.

He rummaged through a series of minuscule cupboards and came up with a dusty baseball cap, a whitish rag that had clearly been used for cleaning the kitchen and perhaps something nastier as well, and a pair of sunglasses so old that the lenses were scratched useless. In the process he also found a black-and-white portable TV set, with a five-inch screen.

“You go sunbathing on the front deck-“ he started.

“What are you saying?” I interrupted, uncomprehending and shocked by the mere idea of exposing myself publicly after the weeks spent inside the farmhouse.

“Boat thieves don´t sunbathe at work,” Ivan explained. “We cover your hair with the rag, and these sunglasses are so large that I bet they belong to Roberto´s mother. If no one can see her wrinkles with these, they won´t recognize you either.”

“All right, you´re the expert on boat behavior,” I agreed warily as he tried on the baseball cap, pulling it down to cover his face.

Once my disguise was ready, including bare chest, Ivan switched on the motor, ran a quick checklist including the amount of gas we had, and told me to step outside and give him instructions lest we hit the jetty and attract our relentlessly curious neighbor. Careful to keep my back towards him, I managed to guide us away from the quayside, and as we inched our way towards the center of Arno I gave a friendly wave at the man, and climbed on the glamorous although uncomfortably curving front deck. As soon as we were safely out of the harbor I´d plug in the TV and find out all the details of my latest dasdardly deeds, wondering which crime received longer sentence in Italy, murder or kidnapping and statutory rape of someone who was most likely still a minor.

Chapter 12 - Unsheltered

When I returned downstairs, wearing bermudas and acting as if my badly misplaced welcome erection had never taken place, Luca was dragging heavy plastic bags from the car into the kitchen while carefully avoiding eye contact.

“Is Angelo all right?” I asked as nonchalantly as I could.

“Yes.”

“Is he in Rome?”

“Yes.” Luca slammed another two bags on the kitchen table. “He´s driving around in his jeep, followed by the police.”

“Damn,” I muttered. “This is getting out of hand.”

“You said it.”

To keep myself from flinging a Barilla tomato and basil jar at him, I started putting the groceries away and offered, sincerely, “I´m really sorry that you´ve gotten involved with all this.”

He didn´t answer, but I thought I saw a sneer at the edge of my vision. Admittedly, he had plenty of good reasons to be angry with me, but the bitching was starting to get on my nerves. I delicately set the last Barilla jar into the cupboard. When I turned back, he was staring at me with a curious expression.

“Would you show me around? I´d like to see the house.”

“Sure,” I said.

I took him upstairs and showed him the bathroom, pointing at a few curious features of the architecture, then lead him to the bedrooms. He gave a fleeting glance into the provisional, unfinished one, and stepped into mine, looking around, his eyes moving from the computer to the books, and to the open cupboard where I kept my clothes. He observed the bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling with refined distaste before turning to me.

“He fucks both Jan and you, doesn´t he?”

I looked surprised – I was – but for a brief moment he had read the answer in my eyes, and we both acknowledged the passing of information.

In Rome, do as Romans do. “I don´t know what you´re talking about,” I said slowly.

“You bastard. I bet you have threesomes here together.” His hands were gathering into fists.

We stood still, staring at each other across the room.

Denying the truth had been the best approach, I decided. I had done Luca a favor, making it easier for him to believe Angelo when later tonight big fists would be convincing him about Angelo never having cheated on his boyfriends. Possibly they´d even avoid a trip to the emergency room. Besides, I was sure that the only reason Luca had asked the question was to stir up another fight with Angelo; maybe their sex life had been boring lately.

I had to hand it to Luca: he was playing the part quite well, standing under the bare light bulb like a picture of triumphant, righteous indignation in expensive trousers and a retro t-shirt, and with the perfect haircut. He was very good-looking, safely beyond any caprices of personal tastes, with a sheen that more frequently comes with money than with education and eyes like two magnificent pieces of glass surrounded by a world not up to their standards. The moment of triumph was quickly passing, though. The postponed recognition that he´d have to deal with the results of his ruse was inescapably catching up with him, and there was an intimation of deeper feeling in his eyes, perhaps betrayed by their inability to fully express their owner.

“How you must have laughed at me,” he said, his full curved lips turning white.

It wasn´t true but I could only shrug, as if saying he was imagining things, but it turned out to be an unwise gesture from my part. He wasn´t going to lower himself to actually hit me, so he looked around the room, wild-eyed, and grabbed the first thing at his reach, the notebook computer lying on top of the bed. With a snarl he hurled the offending present from Angelo out of the window, but the power cord snagged and spoiled the trajectory, rather detracting from the gesture. The edge of the computer smashed a window pane before disappearing into the night and landing on something outside with an ominous, loud metallic clang.

There was a brief flicker of horror on his face as he took a step toward the window to assess the damage to his BMW, all other considerations forgotten. Then he stopped and turned back to me. His mouth opened, but not a word came out, and he marched past me and down the stairs, slamming the front door behind him. A moment later a crashing sound echoed from the front yard as he finished off the poor computer, before climbing in his car and speeding away.

I stood at the window with a sinking feeling, watching the receding flashes of brakelights as he assaulted the winding country road, and tried to figure out what would happen next. None of the possibilities looked good, and I wondered if Angelo´s fists would be able to resolve the situation this time, after the mortifying scene that had just played out. I glanced around, taking stock of what to take with me if I had to leave in a hurry. The only bag I had was an old rucksack Angelo hadn´t bothered to take back to Milan with him, and it wouldn´t hold much.

However, I struggled to believe Luca would do something to hurt Angelo outright, at least after he had calmed down a bit, and I was still hesitating whether to pack or not when I heard a familiar, cautious voice outside.

“Erik!”

It was Ivan, the little spy, undoubtedly having taken advantage of his telescope once again, and I wondered if it was time to present him with a pair of infrared night goggles. When I opened the door he was standing in the shadow of the house, studying the remains of the computer.

He glanced up at me and asked, puzzled, as he slipped in, “Was that Angelo?”

“No. That was his boyfriend.”

“The spoiled bitch?”

The kid had extracted more pillow talk information than was good for him. “I never used those words.”

“Well, I got the picture. Besides, I didn´t think it was you who threw the computer out. What happened?”

I told him everything, including the sex between me and Angelo, hoping that the knowledge would send him back to Marinella and out of the harm´s way. For a while it seemed like the plan might work, with him standing in the kitchen with his back to the sink, hands clasping at the edge of the counter and his face as pale as his knuckles. He thought it over, and when he spoke his voice was thick.

“That´s sort of like me and Marinella, isn´t it,” he said.

“Well, not really,” I answered, not at all pleased with his reasoning but unable to find a more convincing retort. “Listen, I think I should go for a long walk, just in case Luca does something stupid.”

“I´ll bring the telescope out and we set it somewhere we can see the house,” he said instantly.

“I don´t think that´s necessary,” I curbed his enthusiasm. “But I think I´ll bring some clothes, just in case.” And a bottle of lube, most definitely.

We threw some clothes and a loaf of bread into the backpack, then added a couple of tomatoes, a package of smoked ham and a bottle of spring water to fill the bag to capacity. All the while I kept an eye on Ivan, calculating the chances he´d obey me if I told him to go and leave me on my own, but the look on his face spoke clearly. I should have known better than to hook up with a teenager full of determination and enthusiasm for what he regarded as his first serious affair. With another man, at least.

Leaving the lights on, we slipped out of the door and into the shadows. Lightnings still occasionally lit up distant clouds towering over the higher mountains of the inland, and helped us dodge the ditches and occasional potholes while we walked across the fields towards the garden of his house where, Ivan claimed, he knew a perfect spot for us to keep an eye on the valley even without his precious telescope. It was near the top of the hill, within a copse of trees, and from a safe distance from the main building. As soon as we arrived, he was off to the house, and after a few minutes he returned with a blanket and a carton of ice cream, and two spoons. We settled down comfortably, soon feeding each other and giggling quietly in the dark when the ice cream ended up where it wasn’t supposed to.

I was licking away a dab of strawberry from his neck when I suddenly felt his body tense up.

Sitting up, I looked around, alarmed, and caught a glimpse of blue light in the direction of the town. Then it was gone.

“A police car,” Ivan said, almost inaudibly, his ice cream forgotten. “Probably a coincidence.”

Neither of us resumed eating, and as we sat still, in silence, I felt his hand creep into mine. The nervous, playful atmosphere had been shattered and, perhaps for the first time, he realized that the trouble coming my way was real and in the long run, inevitable. He pulled himself closer, shivering a little, and rubbed his head on my shoulder. His body was warm in the cool night air. Another car passed through the town, and then another. Neither one was flashing blue lights.

“A rush hour,” I whispered, and when the lights of the fourth one lit up the distant main street I added, “This could be it, kid.”

We waited.

“I´ll hide you in the cellar,” Ivan murmured. “No one ever goes there. You´ll be safe until tomorrow night.”

I shook my head. “If they´re really coming after me, you go back to your room and stay there.”

“Can you hear that?” Ivan asked softly.

There was a low hum in the night, from the direction of the valley. Then three dark cars emerged from the night and crept into the faint circle of light cast from the windows of Carlo´s house, and as we slowly stood up and withdrew deeper into the copse several policemen got out of the first two cars, some of them quickly disappearing behind the house. Suddenly, the headlights of several more cars approaching along the road were turned on, along with their flickering blue lights, and from the back of one of the cars already outside Carlo´s house a man let out two German shepherds.

“They´ve got sniffer dogs,” Ivan gasped.

For a second, we both stared at the scene, frozen. Then I managed to gather some of my wits.

“Go,” I ordered, turning around, but he grabbed me by the arms.

“The dogs will find you in five minutes,” he said. “Your only chance is to let me help you. You know the road behind this hill?” He didn´t wait for an answer. “Run down there. I´ll catch up with you on my scooter, the police won´t stop me when I drive by alone, and I´ll take you far enough to be safe from the dogs. There are a bunch of small roads in this area from farm to farm, they can´t block all of them.”

What he was saying made sense, but I still hesitated. This was the moment to make my decision. I could do the right thing, send the kid home and be caught; or I could continue my scramble for freedom, in ever more squalid terms, dragging Angelo and Ivan and whoever else helped me down. I was about to turn and walk back to Carlo´s house when a thought occurred to me: I hadn´t done it. I was not the murderer. A hustler, yes, and a runaway and a troublemaker, and probably not the most marvellous human being around, but not a murderer. It wasn´t my fault that the Italian police were either negligent or incompetent; if they weren´t doing their job, it was fully in other people´s rights to help me, and in mine to be helped. Even in the worst case scenario, I could hardly imagine Ivan being punished with more than a harsh reprimand if his involvement came to light. One look at him, and all the judges could do was to forgive him his youthful trustfulness. No such clemency would be extended to Angelo, however, and to keep running was to keep him from harm.

I nodded and gave Ivan a quick hug, caressing one of his cute protruding ears, and started the rush down the uneven, dark hillside. After a while there was the sound of his scooter starting, and I thought I heard a dog bark. Then one of my feet hit a shallow pothole, reaching the ground only a fraction of a second later than it should have, but the delay was enough to send an adrenaline shock through my body and I almost fell, more due to the shock than actual loss of balance. I slowed down, and headed towards the pale winding line of the dirt road barely visible in the night. The sound of Ivan´s scooter became audible once again, and soon the single headlight pierced the darkness as he appeared behind one of the hills. One look at his direction made me lose my night vision and I had to slow down again, and I realized that he´d drive by before I could reach the road. Maddeningly, I was only twenty feet from the road as he roared past, too deafened by the motor to hear my calls, and there was nothing else to be done but run after him, feeling desperate and stupid. He soon turned back, however, and his lights picked me up. I thought it wise to jump off the road and away from the beam of light as soon as I was sure he´d seen me. A few moments later I was behind him on the scooter, frantically pulling on a helmet he had handed out from the back casket, and grabbing him by the waist with one arm as he speeded up the scooter like a madman. The rutted old road was in horrible condition and we kept jouncing in all directions as he steered this way and that to avoid the worst of the potholes, and somehow he managed to keep us away from the ditches.

“Where are we going?” I yelled over the motor and the wind.

“Torre di Pisa.”

The leaning tower of Pisa? Obviously, I had heard him wrong – at least I hoped so – and unwilling to distract him with further questions tried to figure out other places that sounded somewhat similar, and in the end decided he might have meant Marina di Pisa, which made slightly more sense. I calculated it would take us at least two hours to reach the coast, depending on the route, and tried to settle as comfortably as possible on the narrow, bouncing seat.

Chapter 11 - Downward spiral

The August that year was unusual, Ivan told me. In the first week there had already been three thunderstorms, which ordinarily only managed to break into the cupola of heat over the Mediterranean towards the end of the month, starting from the north. For a few hours after each storm the temperature dropped ten degrees centigrade, to the great relief of everyone, and strangely enough, the summer was considered all the more beautiful because of the downpours. In the weekend between July and August a mass exodus had left the large cities empty as Italians either returned to their paese, the town where their family originated, or alternatively moved to a seaside resort or to the mountains if they weren´t enthusiastic about spending a month with relatives and in-laws. The industrial production of the country came to a grinding halt as all the largest factories shut down for the entire month, a sign of pure Mediterranean madness to Americans, and most Northern Europeans as well. Ivan´s parents weren´t an exception to the rule, and they were spending the first two weeks of August in the countryside before flying to Tokyo for ten days, an arrangement which put Ivan under tremendous stress as he juggled between his daytime perfect son act and his covert nighttime escapades to my place. Then his parents went to visit an uncle for two days and that night he insisted I go to the big house and fuck him in his room, to leave my scent in his bedclothes.

“Marinella´s family has returned from Paris,” he grimly said the following night, back in my place, lying naked on top of white sheets that made him look superbly tanned and very Mediterranean. “And my parents have invited her for the weekend.”

“I thought you´d broken up,” I said, leaning on one elbow and running my fingertips over the smooth perfect globes of his glutes.

“Well, sort of,” he answered, squirming a little. “But she wants to see me, and my parents want me to see her.”

“I see. So she´s coming.”

“I´m afraid so.” There was a trace of panic in his voice. “She knows something´s wrong.”

“Well, kid, for the last three weeks you´ve been fucked by a man every single night except the one we spent talking-” I tickled him, and he let out a spontaneous laugher like a child who hasn´t learned to repress himself yet. “-so she´s probably right.”

His face turned serious, “When she was here the last time, you know, after you and me, I couldn´t come with her any longer. I continued doing it, but it just… became impossible, until I thought about the things you did to me, and then...” he made a quick arching gesture, and one of his funny faces, making me laugh. “But she knew something wasn´t right, that I wasn´t really there with her.”

“Are you going to tell her?”

“Are you out of your mind?” Ivan regarded me with surprised alarm.

It was the quintessential Italian reaction, and I couldn´t help laughing again at his expression of incredulity at the mere idea of telling the truth. Then I grabbed him by the hard muscular waist and dragged him over to me, feigning hostility. “So you´re going to sleep with her?”

Naturally, he knew nothing about my continuing trysts with Angelo. There was little doubt the kid was falling, hard, and although I had warned him not to come over the nights there was a car parked in front of the house, with the excuse of ensuring Angelo his anonymity in case Ivan was ever questioned by the police, I couldn´t help worrying what would happen if he somehow found out. After Angelo´s last visit, it had taken Ivan fifteen minutes to show up at my door, at 3am, and a major effort had been necessary to keep him from climbing upstairs to discover the fucked over bed and the still wet bathroom floor. I´d seated him at the kitchen table and we´d had a long talk over glasses of the white wine I hadn´t had time to drink with Angelo, and before leaving, at the door, his face flush with the wine and some embarrassment, Ivan had revealed he was so glad about the way we´d spent the time just talking because it meant our relationship wasn´t only about sex.

He was taken in by my aggressive tone, and said hurriedly, “I´ll have to sleep with her, otherwise-“

“What, she´ll tell your parents?”

He nodded vigorously. “Everyone would notice something´s wrong if I didn´t. Our families are old friends, and ever since we were kids they´ve always thought we´d get married.”

Apparently, the kid wasn´t coming out of the closet any time soon.

“And if you can´t do it? If there´s trouble again?”

With a smug smile, he said, “There won´t be. I have many more things to think about this time.”

It was almost four o´clock in the morning, and it was time for him to sneak back home to catch some sleep to avoid suspicions. He pulled on his clothes and we went downstairs to finish off a bottle of orange juice before he left.

“Well, um, actually Marinella´s coming tomorrow already,” he said quickly, sipping his drink.

“Tomorrow?” This time my frustration was real. “It´s only Thursday.”

He shrugged. “My parents are worried about us, so they invited her early.”

The “us” referring to him and Marinella made me realize that the inchoate lurch of something I´d just felt was jealousy. I considered lugging him back upstairs for an extra half an hour but it was late, and he needed his sleep to be able to study the next day, in addition to charming Marinella of course. Once he was gone, I walked around the house restlessly, thinking of the long nights ahead without his addictive presence. There were signs of him all over the house: a single sock that had disappeared mysteriously and was later discovered in the cold fireplace downstairs, and had been left there untouched as a proof of our hurry that previous night; his toothbrush; a piece of crust of a sandwich he had wolfed down after the first quick round of sex. I was certain Ivan couldn´t help visiting me when everyone else at the big house was asleep, but there was no way we could spend more than an hour together each night, perhaps not even that. Luckily, Angelo was expected to show up on Friday or Saturday, this time driving up from Rome where he was spending the week with a reluctant Luca before moving down to Taormina, in Sicily, for ten days to celebrate the pinnacle of the Italian holiday season, the Ferragosto.

As it turned out I needn´t have worried about being bored. The next day I was back in the headlines, big time. When I woke up and tottered downstairs for my breakfast, eyes barely open as I flicked through national TV channels, I came across a teaser about a possible breakthrough in the case. I sat up straight, all traces of sleep suddenly washed away from my system as tried to figure out what exactly they were referring to. With a shaking hand I set down the orange juice, lest I spill it, and was told that the Police Chief of Milan, Dottor Matarazzi, would hold a news conference at 7pm, and according to anonymous sources within the police force they apparently had found an eyewitness. Logically, a witness could only help my case, but as I wasn´t accustomed to Italians displaying anything similar to logic I was plunged back into the severe anxiety of my first days in the house, when even the slightest noise outside sent me running to the windows and when I sometimes had even had trouble breathing as if a tight, smothering belt had been fastened around my chest. I didn´t know how long the channels had been running the teasers, and wondered if Ivan had heard the news already or if wooing Marinella had required all his attention. Angelo would probably be on the gay beach in Ostia, outside Rome, and the news would spread there like a wildfire as soon as someone happened to hear about it. During the hours preceding the news conference I tried to play several games, watch a movie, and read one of the Italian novels Angelo kept showering me with, the latest one consisting of two gay short stories by Pier Paolo Pasolini, but none of the attempts lasted for more than fifteen minutes before I had to get up and try something else. Two of the networks would be running the conference live, and well before seven I was already in front of the computer, suffering my way through the interminable advertising that was being thrown into the suddenly coveted slots. At ten past seven the live feed from Prefettura began, Dottor Matarazzi entered the room, and the show began.

The lingering hope that the eyewitness would help my case was quickly vanquished. Although the witness´ identity wasn´t disclosed, it was immediately clear that Matarazzi was talking about the Czech truck driver. Having returned to Italy he had learned that there was now a substantial reward on information leading to my capture, provided by Gabriele´s family, and he had promptly marched to the nearest police station. Whatever story he had told them obviously had very little to do with reality, but the point wasn´t what had happened, but where and when. A large traditional map was brought behind Matarazzi, in a strikingly unhollywoodian manner despite the carefully studied beginning of the conference, and he proceeded to point out the main roads forking off from Genoa.

“Whoever was helping him - Loefgren didn´t have a car, and all the persons who rented a car in Milan the following morning have been controlled - most likely either continued to the north and took him across the border to France, or chose the autostrada to the south towards Tuscany, Rome, and eventually perhaps Sicily.”

So far there had been no mention of Angelo. His bogus story about me blackmailing a client had apparently been successful and he continued to take extensive precautions every time he visited me, never even bringing his cell phone along to avoid leaving a trace on towers, but I wondered if the police was aware that he was spending his holidays in Rome and if that would now seem suspicious. I remembered how he´d taken me to the beach that morning to break the gruesome spell of the night, despite the personal danger he was putting himself in, and the thought of him facing jail time as an accomplice tightened the smothering belt around my chest one more notch.

“In Italy, the most likely hiding places are the coastal towns, and even more so Rome,” Matarazzi added. “We´re hoping that the public collaborates…”

Rome. He´d said it. There was no way Angelo could come to me this weekend, not now. I would be all right until Thursday or Friday with emergency rations and then, hopefully, Ivan might be able to help until Angelo thought it reasonably safe to visit me again. However, I found the idea extremely aggravating. It was one thing to be helped by one´s best friend, and another to ask for help from a teenager who thought he was in love with you and so could neither consider the situation objectively nor refuse you. It made me feel dirty in a way that even my worst hustling experiences hadn´t, and after thinking about it for a moment, while Matarazzi droned on about matters everyone in Italy already knew, I realized I couldn´t do it; this was the moment to exit Ivan´s life before I messed him up as well.

Then it was time for the questions, and the first journalist went straight to the point. “Your eyewitness didn´t see the person helping Loefgren?”

Matarazzi shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. However, he believes that the car, which he didn´t see clearly, was of ´new design´.”

Would a classic sports car count as new design, I wondered. Hopefully not.

In the meanwhile, Matarazzi continued. “Consequently we´ve been re-checking the cars of every person who has been in contact with Loefgren.”

“In contact with Loefgren? You´re talking about the people whose numbers were found in his phone?”

“Yes, we´re including them. Along with everyone in his complete phone record.”

There were several demands, quite loud, to release the list of all the numbers.

“That´s obviously out of question,” Matarazzi answered curtly.

The rest of the conference dealt with subjects I had already heard time and time again on the news and talk shows, except one surprising question regarding a recent divorce of one of the major national football stars.

“Is there any truth to the rumors that Paolo del Zardi´s wife filed for divorce because his number was found in Loefgren´s cell phone?”

“That is completely untrue. I can tell you with the most absolute certainty that his number is not in the list.”

“And the Bonamici divorce?”

Matarazzi´s conviction wavered for a fraction of a second, and realizing it he almost lost his temper. “Are you going to ask me about every recent divorce in the country? I´m here to talk to journalists and not gossip columnists.”

He had answered the question badly, and he knew it. From now on Signor Bonamici, whoever he was, would be branded as my client, and judging by Matarazzi´s reaction he most likely had been. No more questions were allowed, infuriating the crowd, and Matarazzi left the room looking rather grim for someone who had finally had some good news to tell.

At three a.m., a small rock flew into my room, bounced from the wall and landed somewhere under my bed. Smiling at the teenage antic, I turned off the light and found my way downstairs. Ivan slipped in and I felt his full lips close on mine in the darkness, his breath warm and sweet, and as we kissed I slipped a hand into his loose trousers from the back, and cupped one of the smooth round buttocks. He pulled back, wanting to slow down, and I let my hands rest on his hard, slim waist.

“I was worried at first when I heard the news,” he whispered, as if someone was listening. “But you´re safe, they don´t know you´re here.” He let out a soft mischievous chuckle. “You should have heard what my parents said about you while they were watching the news. If they knew–”

“Ivan.” I took his head between my hands, making him look up to me even though we were in almost complete darkness. “You can´t come here again until we know that the police isn´t following Angelo.”

He tried to protest and I pressed my hand over his mouth to keep him quiet, the way I sometimes did while fucking him rougher than usual. This time he pushed my hand away.

“Like hell.” He stood still for a moment, silently fighting the idea. “And how long would that be?”

“A week, at least. Probably two, or more.”

“No way.” His took a few fast breaths. “In two weeks´ time he may have taken you somewhere else. You´d leave without telling me, wouldn´t you?”

“I´d probably have to. This is no game, Ivan.”

“You´re right, it´s no game,” he hissed. “Not to me.”

Then he was gone, out of the old creaky door and into the darkness of the hot summer night. I waited for a while, but he didn´t come back, and in the end I locked the door again. I stood in the dark, thinking about the way he felt in my arms, my heart still beating fast, and I cursed myself, unable to decide if wanting to fuck him meant I was weak and giving in to my basest instincts, or if I was being strong not giving a damn about social conventions. Me and my motives were no longer the point, however; the risks Ivan was taking were fast becoming very real.

The next evening, close to midnight, I lay in my bed with the lights out to watch the flashes of one of the anomalous storms of the season raging in the distance, too far for the thundering to be heard. The night breeze had brought in fresh air from the storm front, and the house was pleasantly cool; I would sleep under covers tonight, for the first time since the high summer had started. Ivan hadn´t yet reappeared, which was to be expected with his show of temper the previous night and Marinella´s presence in the house, but I found myself unable to focus on anything else while I was waiting for him.

I knew he´d come; after having done his duty with Marinella he´d be at my door, and the awareness of seeing him soon was like a constant low wattage charge buzzing through my body. Idly, I touched my hard-on straining against the simple white briefs that were a continuing turn-on to him, and thought of the things I´d do to the kid as soon as he arrived. Then I heard the car.

The pit of my stomach went cold with the usual adrenaline shock, and without turning the light on I moved cautiously to the window. Instead of flashing blue and red I only saw the familiar headlights of Luca´s BMW; Angelo had gotten away from Rome. My erection swelled back to full hardness, threatening to burst the seams of the white briefs, as I walked downstairs and opened the door.

It was Luca.

His eyes dropped to my bulging hard-on, and the expression on his face tightened even further, if that was possible. I quickly stepped back, and turned away while gesturing him to enter.

“Come on in,” I said, talking to him over my shoulder and aiming for the right pitch of modesty. “I was waiting for someone who lives near by. I´ll be right back.”

“Right,” I heard him say as I walked up the stairs to the second floor.

He´s going to call the police tonight, I thought. The way he looked, he won´t care if the fallout brings him down, too. This is fucking it.