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.

Chapter 10 - Night visitors

For the next half an hour, I stood at the window of my bedroom, lights off, enjoying the scent of the night breeze and the view of the hill country, revealed by stars and the lights of the distant town. If Ivan called the police, I would never again see a wide open space like this; it would be close, grey walls, dirty windows with iron bars covered with old chipped paint, and perhaps a patch of blue sky if I was lucky. But no one came along the road, no black cars with flashing blue lights, and after a while more mundane needs took over. I was ravenous, and prepared the last of the fresh pasta Angelo had brought a few days earlier, with pesto siciliano, and ate it upstairs with the plate set, somewhat precariously, on the window sill.

Should I be proud of myself, I wondered, having been able to defuse an emergency that by all counts should have landed me in jail? But then, I wasn´t the one paying the price: it was Ivan, alone in the big house, going through his own personal hell. And what did that make me? A self-centered opportunist, or something worse? My victim of circumstance spiel was starting to wear awfully thin.

This was going nowhere, I decided. This was not the time for existential resolutions, they weren´t something I could afford. Day-to-day crisis management would have to do, for now, and I needed to take my mind off the night´s events. On the floor, by the bed, lay two books I was reading contemporaneously, both by Italian authors, as in charge of my entertainment Angelo kept showering me with Italian productions whether it be Fellini or Rossellini movies or books by Oriana Fallaci and Pierpaolo Pasolini. After some deliberation I settled on watching once again my favorite comedy, Mario Monicelli´s Parenti serpenti, a love-and-hate story about close Italian family ties.

When I woke up the next afternoon and opened the shutters of my window, Ivan´s house had come to life. A gardener was at work in the garden, large green canvas sunshades had been set in the terrace to protect sets of rattan chairs and tables, and there were two people lounging by the swimming pool. Ivan was sitting on the edge of the pool, his feet in the water, and his girlfriend was lying in a deck chair sunbathing. I took a step back into the room, not wanting Ivan to see me watching over them after the havoc I´d brought him the previous night, but he had already noticed and stood up, turning his back. A moment later he had disappeared into the house. His girlfriend took off what no doubt was the latest in Italian sunglass design and turned her head, perhaps calling for him, but when he didn´t return she seemed to shrug, and then lay back and put her glasses on. The little soap opera was a welcome change to the excruciating monotony of my days, but when nothing more happened I gave up and went down to the kitchen for breakfast.

A few hours later, when the sun had already set, I heard the sound of a car approaching. Heart thumping, sure that the girl had figured something was wrong and extracted a confession out of Ivan, I sprung to the window. However, it was Angelo´s army jeep, with him looking as good as ever with his massive legs stretching a pair of military shorts, perfectly matched with a black t-shirt and a baseball cap, a two-day stubble, and a grin. I hadn´t been expecting him for another two days, and anxiously descended to let him in, afraid there was trouble. However, he gave me his usual bear hug, asked if everything was all right, and began hauling bags into the kitchen.

“How come you´re here so early this week?” I asked, a little suspiciously. “Is everything fine in Milan?”

“Just peachy,” he answered, pulling three baguettes from a bag and setting them on the counter.

“I see… Luca is doing his battered housewife routine?”

Angelo rolled his eyes. “He´s been home from work for two days and I thought I needed a break.”

“Why has he been home?”

“He can´t sit down.”

I stared at Angelo. “What did you do this time?”

“There was a fight-“

“I figured that,” I said dryly.

“-and I whipped his ass,” he finished. “With a belt. Hard.”

“And he let you do it, I mean just like that?” Getting clobbered without a warning was one thing, but belt… that was time-consuming.

“He was tied up.”

“And he didn´t shout? The neighbors?”

“I stuffed a sports sock in his mouth,” Angelo explained, and added, “Secured with a jockstrap.”

“That sounds, well, rather organized,” I said disapprovingly. “Are you taking him to the next level?”

“There´s no need to be sarcastic.”

“I´m not sarcastic, I´m worried. It´s one thing to embrace the SM lifestyle-“

“Not sarcastic, huh?”

“-and another being delusional like him. I mean, he truly believes the women´s magazines he reads at his hair salon! He thinks that he´s getting beaten up only because he´s got such capacity for love but you´ve taken away his self-esteem-“ I paused, trying not to laugh.

“You don´t much like battered housewives, do you?” Angelo said, unable to stay serious himself.

“Not his type.” I made a face. “He´ll land you in jail to feel himself empowered. Then he finds a new boyfriend who makes him cower in the corners, just like before.”

“He´s rather good at the cowering part,” Angelo said pensively. “He gives the best head like that.”

I sighed. “I rest my case. That´s not saying that I approve of the evil things you do.”

We went on like that, half serious and half childish, while putting away the groceries and sorting out the movies he´d brought.

“And Jan? What´s he up to?”

“He´s working in Milan now. Started on Monday.”

“How convenient,” I commented. “Doing what?”

“Construction, like in Como,” Angelo said. “He should get his papers from Questura in a couple of weeks.”

“I bet he´s worked hard for those papers...”

“He has.” Angelo gave me a wink. “And now it´s time for you to earn your upkeep.”

Later, still in bed, I told him about Ivan. He listened, and nodded, but didn´t comment.

“I know I shouldn´t have used their pool, but you don´t know how hard it gets-“

“It´s OK,” he answered, his thumb caressing my cheek.

“But the longer this whole thing goes on, the bigger risk it is for you, too-” I started.

His thumb moved on my lips to shut me up. “What else can we do?”

“I could give myself up.”

“For something you didn´t do?” Angelo looked at me with a frown. “We´ve discussed this already. I don´t let my friends down, so let´s drop the subject.”

“Angelo. I can´t stay here forever.”

“I´ll find you another place.” He pulled me on my feet, and dragged me to the bathroom and the shower. “Jan knows some people who might be able to help.”

The human traffickers.

“But it takes time to organize everything.” He poured liquid soap all over me, and began spreading it all over my back with slow, sensuous strokes. “Which suits me just fine.”

I could tell it did. His thick cock, rubbing against my slippery ass, was definitely growing tumescent.

Then, out of the blue, he asked, “So when can I see this kid?”

There was a new undertone to his question. He was curious, no doubt about it, but also a little annoyed, or even jealous.

“I don´t think that´s a good idea,” I said, instantly preoccupied, knowing Angelo´s wiles in matters involving sex. “Not at all.”

“Hmm… I could lose my way, and go ask directions.”

“After he´s seen your car parked here?”

“So you think he´s been watching?” Again, the touch of resentment. I was starting to enjoy myself.

“You bet. And so far I haven´t seen him touch his girlfriend once.”

“So you´ve been watching, too?” He swirled me around, to face him.

“Just a few peeks.”

“Right.” His curtness took me by surprise, but then his soapy hands wandered at my backside, cupping my buttocks.

“Just don´t see him again,” Angelo said firmly. “Better not take any chances.”

“Look who´s talking,” I countered, and licked at his muscular neck as fingers probed between my asscheeks. “Ouch. Take it easy.”

“Yeah?” His tongue slipped into my mouth, and his finger moved in deeper. I was held in place by his big arms, unable to slip away, as he ruthlessly probed my ass until my hard-on was leaking helplessly against his thighs. Then he turned me around, my face squashed against the trasparent wall of the shower cubicle as he grabbed me by the wrists and held my arms above my head, and I felt his hard cock poke at my glutes. The blunt smooth head slipped in between the cheeks, found the opening, and gradually forced its way deeper into my ass. I shivered as the muscle gave in, stretching tight around Angelo´s thick shaft, and he groaned into my ear with raw pleasure.

A couple of hours later, when he was gone, I wondered what the media would make of him if the whole thing blew up on our faces. Carrying on with a sixteen-year-old illegal alien from Romania; regularly checking his official boyfriend into an emergency room for domestic abuse; and then, last but not least, me; and all of it behind an impeccable front of an affluent Milanese professional. Not to mention a lawyer. It would never cross anyone´s mind that he was giving us all exactly what we needed most.

The only breaks from my weekend routine were the sightings of Ivan and the girl by the pool, or dining at the terrace in candlelight. Even from the distance, I could tell things were not quite right between them. There was no horseplay in the pool, no laughter carried over across the depression between the houses, and there was no sight of relentless teenaged holding of hands. There was public kissing, though, and somehow always facing Carlo´s house, but the couple rarely disappeared out of sight after one of these bouts despite what seemed an evident arousal packing Ivan´s blue speedos. More than once I caught her staring after him, arms slightly raised, as if puzzled or hurt by something he´d said. The kid needed a lesson in good manners, apparently. While watching them I was careful to stay in the shadows of my room, mostly because I didn´t want Ivan to know I had nothing better to do than to spy on a messed-up straight kid making out with his girlfriend.

On Monday he was alone again. The girlfriend had returned to Milan, presumably, and the staff had either gone home or retired into their quarters by the time I woke up in the late afternoon. I opened the shutters to find him working on a book by the poolside, occasionally jotting down notes, and every now and then laying back in the deck chair and staring up at the blue cloudless sky. I figured he´d been exiled to the country to study for some important exam coming up in September. After a short while I got bored with nothing happening, and following the usual very late breakfast I returned to my own books and videos, only occasionally glancing over at his house when I stood up and walked around the room to stretch my legs. Once I caught him climbing up from the pool, dripping water, and shooting a quick look at the direction of Carlo´s house as he adjusted his wet speedos, a racy yellow pair this time.

Evenings were already falling noticeably earlier than in June, an observation that only added to my anxieties, and now that the pool was off limits I had to go for awkward walks in the fields to avoid car headlights. The walks were demoralizing affairs with my shoes usually sloshing wet from copious night dew or from landing my feet into ditches, and I wondered if I should trust Angelo´s claims that there were few poisonous snakes in Italy. Scorpions could only be found in the very south of the peninsula, I seemed to remember having heard him say. Despite these dangers, real or merely embarrassing, the walks did keep me from starting to babble to myself senselessly, closed in the hot stuffy house.

Tuesday seemed to have a detrimental effect on Ivan´s studies. He only stayed in place for a few minutes at a time, either by the poolside or the terrace, and then disappeared into the house for about ten minutes with his books before reappearing outside. Interestingly, the books no longer covered his speedos while he lay back in the deck chair, contemplating the sky, and the way he positioned himself in the chair suggested that he believed – not inaccurately – that he was being a discreet cocktease. Furthermore, the trip from his chair to the edge of the pool took considerably longer than previously and when I awarded his efforts by appearing at the window, leaning on the sill, shirtless, his small but noticeable start while standing at the edge of the pool made it more than clear that he´d been keeping an eye on Carlo´s house. He gracefully dived into the water, stayed in quite a while, presumably to keep me hanging on the edge of my sill, and when he finally got out he couldn´t help a quick glance at my direction. Obviously, I was nowhere to be seen; I´d been playing the game far longer than him. However, when the night fell I felt as little in control as he probably did, roaming the house as I waited for the safety of darkness for my time outdoors, trying not to remember his expression of pain and awe as I slowly forced my way into his smooth tight body, and the wonder in his eyes when the pleasure finally set in. That night I had the longest walk so far, almost to the edge of the town where, like an exile or a wraith circling a gathering of people and not quite audacious or substantial enough to become part of it, I was scared away by the lights and sounds of ordinary life. I heard two sisters argue vehemently who should clean their room; dogs barking as they sensed my presence and warned their pack; televisions tuned into the same channel, sending out their canned voices slightly out of step with each other while the blue flicker faithfully increased and diminished in unison. I stood at the edge of darkness, my craving for Angelo and Ivan like a slow burn within, a vicious unrelenting need, and I wished humans could howl at the moon the way canines do to unburden themselves. I couldn´t help smiling at the thought; being caught howling would certainly give my defense some good material to work with.

Ivan´s house was all quiet and dark when I returned. There was a sudden glimpse of white light in the garden as I walked by, and after a brief flash of alarm I realized it was the reflection of the crescent new moon over the swimming pool. I calculated the approximate odds for the angles having been just right for me to see the reflection, and came to the quick conclusion that they were vanishingly small; yet it had happened. Perhaps something similar would happen with the mess I found myself in, and for a moment I felt my spirits lift – there was only one way for them to go – but it didn´t last for long. Counting on improbabilities certainly wasn´t the most practical way to handle one´s affairs. I reached Carlo´s house, and the lit upstairs window casting a warm yellow glow over the front yard and the surrounding cypresses gave me an unexpected sense of coming home. I stood outside in the dark for a while, with the moon and the night breeze, enjoying the durable, efficient esthetics of the house, and wishing it was mine.

The next day there was no sight of Ivan. A couple of books lay abandoned on the garden table next to his deck chair by the pool, their pages randomly turned by the wind, and a large towel of deep, intense blue had been thrown carelessly down on the tiles as if he´d left in a hurry. A gardener was mowing the lawns with a miniature tractor and someone wearing black was cleaning the windows, now wiping the last two ones dry. By the time I had prepared and finished my breakfast of fried eggs and thick crusty slices of Sicilian bread, with ice-cold orange juice, both the gardener and the maid were gone and the books and the towel had vanished. However, shortly after sunset a few of the rooms lit up, including Ivan´s, and through the tall, arched living room windows the blue flicker of his huge TV set grew visible as the night fell. The radical change of habits seemed odd and I naturally wondered what had prompted it, as mere tediousness of his books didn´t explain the sudden aversion to swimming and to the frequent public adjustings of his speedos. In any case, it made for a boring day for me, having to do without the minor soap opera of his faltering heterosexuality, and I was getting ready unusually early for my nightly walk when there was a knock on the door. I hadn´t heard the arrival of Angelo´s car which could only mean that whoever was behind the door was someone local, or a plainclothes policeman pretending to be one. Besides, Angelo never visited this late. My heart was suddenly racing as I walked to the living room, despite having decided long ago what to do in a situation like this.

“Who is it?” I called through the heavy door.

The answer was almost inaudible mumble, and I repeated my question, more severely. There was a pause that did nothing good for my pulse, and then one word made it through the thick wood.

“Ivan.”

My plan hadn´t contemplated opening the door, but after a moment I decided it would be the best course of action, or at least the most interesting. As soon as I unlocked the door Ivan slipped in, clearly petrified with the thought of someone seeing him. I closed the door, keeping an eye on him as I made sure the lock made its usual loud grating noise as I turned the key. He started a little with the noise, and his eyes darted around the room.

“Are- are you alone?” he asked, eyes settling on the dark doorway to the shed as if a pack of howling devils might ride out from there any moment.

“Yes. And you?”

He looked at me, wide-eyed and uncomprehending at first, and then attempted a smile. “I haven´t called the police, if that´s what you mean.”

Fighting the impulse to pick him up and carry him upstairs, better if kicking and screaming, I let some friendliness creep into my voice. “Good.”

“I´m sorry about what I said,” Ivan blurted out. “I didn´t mean it, I was… confused.”

“It´s OK,” I said after a moment of suspense, as if there had been an actual possibility of me asking him to go. Then I added, “Your weekend didn´t seem to go too well.”

His shoulders slumped, and he was about to say something but then held back and only said, “No.”

I could do the day-time TV psychologist act, smile comprehendingly and give bland supporting advice until he gently fell into my bed. How boring, though.

Instead, I said off-handedly, “Tonight, you´re not going to run away as soon as I´ve finished fucking that gorgeous ass of yours?”

He let out a little gasp, hearing it said out loud, but there was a fleeting look of relief in his eyes as well.

“Eh, well, I might,” he stuttered awkwardly. “It´s so – new to me.”

“Maybe I should tie you up first, so you can´t.”

It took him half a second to realize I was joking, probably because I wasn´t, and he cocked his head, smiling. His slightly protruding ears turned the smile impish and enormously appealing, and I gave up the games and pulled him into a tight embrace. He was shaking, and as I lead him upstairs he held tight on to my arm as if the stairs were cascades and any moment the current might tear us apart and carry him away, downstream.

Chapter 9 - Ivan

I had no time to make a decision. Instincts took over, and I tore after him, gaining fast on the panicked kid. The house was too close, though, and I saw that he would make it in time. I picked up speed and veered off the path, onto the lawn, where my bare feet found better purchase, and then the kid was already at the door, pulling it open, but his momentum was too high and he didn´t get the door open quickly enough. Trying to slip through, he hit the edge of the half-open door with his shoulder instead and was thrown sideways, crashing into the frame, and then I was upon him. I wrapped my arms around him from behind and picked him up, letting my own speed and weight push us through the door and into the unilluminated house before he had time to cry for help. The door slammed close behind us.

“Hel-“ he started, but I tightened my hold, squeezing air out of his lungs, and the cry turned into a toneless, prolonged whimper.

Then he was kicking and thrashing with all his might, gasping for breath to cry out again, and even with my superior size and strength I was having trouble keeping him under control. Something that looked like a coffee table went crashing against a lamp, turning it over with shattering of glass, and his next kick landed so painfully on my shin that my grip partially loosened. Instantly, like an eel, the kid almost slipped free, and I let him go, surprising him, but before he had time to recover and slip away I gave him a quick powerful shove at his back and sent him stumbling over a large, deeply padded leather couch. For a brief moment he remained sprawled on the back of the couch, trying to get a grip on the smooth material, but then I was on top of him and had my arms around him again, and as we slid down on the seat, locked together, he managed a sideways twist and landed under me, face to face. I had his upper body pinned under my weight, his arms useless within my hold, but he kept kicking and trying to push us down from the couch, and it took me a while to wrap my legs efficiently around his and completely immobilize him. The kid bucked and strained under me, but he was already out of breath and slowly I tightened my hold, like a constrictor, until he lay still, mouth agape, desperately laboring for each short intake of breath, his body taut like a spring. He let out a few whimpers, like a frightened puppy, and then even the little sounds died out. He was mine.

The sudden awareness that I could do whatever I wanted to him sunk like molten lead into the pit of my stomach, and my groin. There was no instinct to hurt the kid – pain had never really been my thing – but I was telling myself that he, like every kid of his age, secretly wondered what it would be like to be taken by another man. The way I had wondered about Scott and Jake, and Greg. And in any case, you´ll be in jail tomorrow, and for good, my mind reasoned. This is your last chance. Do it. The kid let out a moan, little more than another scared whimper, but instead of stalling me it only made the animal urge grow more intense. I was completely unable to focus on anything but the way his small muscular body felt under my weight, helpless in the hands of a stronger and bigger man.

I held back for an instant, to prolong the moment, but the pause was just long enough to allow my brain to start reasserting itself, and make comparisons between what I was doing and what had happened with Gabriele. It wasn´t the same thing, I tried to tell myself, but I knew it was, in a way. I´d damage the kid if I went ahead. I had to stop and let him go. I had to.

Slowly, carefully, I loosened my hold, enough for him to breath easily but not to fight me.

“Calm down,” I whispered hoarsely, in Italian. “I won´t hurt you. I promise. Just calm down.”

A shiver ran through his body, but he said nothing.

“A friend brought me here to be safe,” I said, my eyes fixed on his, hoping there was enough light in the room for him to see I was telling the truth. “To that farmhouse next to yours. He knows I didn´t do it.”

“C-Carlo´s house?” he stuttered, but I could hear his voice was smooth, and matched his looks perfectly.

“Carlo is in Boston, so one of his best friends did it,” I explained, perhaps implying more than what was the actual truth.

He clearly held Carlo in high esteem, as I felt him relax for a brief moment before he tensed up again. His eyes roamed the dark room to find something to help him. “But all the things they say about you-“

“Most of them are lies,” I said firmly. “Not all, but most. Do you believe everything you see on Channel 5?”

“No,” he said, even a little upset that I could imagine him so naïve.

“Look me in the eyes,” I ordered, and emphasizing every word repeated, “I – did – not – kill – Gabriele. It was a setup. And I won´t hurt you either.”

But I wasn´t letting go of him yet, either. We lay still, in mockery of lovers´ embrace. There was a trace of mint in his breath. I saw him coming down from his room, sleepy-eyed, for Mint Oreos and cold milk. A mischievous smile as he realized some local boy was taking advantage of his swimming pool, believing there was no one home.

I could feel his pulse slow down. He was starting to trust me. He let out a few long sighs, as if dissipating fear through his breath. I loosened my grip on him a little more.

“What´s your name?”

“Ivan.”

Suddenly he tensed up again, and his eyes flew wide open. Now that the first rush of panic was gone he had remembered that the man holding him down was completely naked, and realized that the hardness pressing against his thigh was something more than just my leg. Instantly he was fighting me again, squirming madly to free himself, and all I could do was to tighten my arms around him.

“I won´t-“ I started, then stopped.

The kid wasn´t fighting because he was afraid of me. His body had reacted at once. An unmistakable, swelling bulge in his baggy shorts was giving him away, and this time apprehension almost brought tears into his eyes; I could see tiny glints of reflected light in them as he blinked rapidly, straining his neck to get away from me.

“Let go of me,” he cried, his voice rising. “Now, I want to go now.”

“Stay calm,” I murmured. “I won´t hurt you.”

“D-on´t,” he begged, his breath catching, and for a moment he stopped moving, eyes closed, trying to collect himself, but then he shivered violently and he was fighting me again.

His struggle had lost its focus, though, with the recognition of what was happening to him, and gradually he grew still. We lay together, my arms around him, saying nothing. A minute passed, then two. Slowly, very slowly, his taut body was giving in, the hard muscles melting together with mine, one by one, in a silent war that he was powerless to fight. I watched him, in the quiet, shadowy room. I waited. Inevitably, in the end, his eyes were drawn to mine. One of my hands slid downwards underneath him and pressed against the small of his back, pushing his abs against mine, and I felt him inhale sharply. The fingers of my other hand slipped into his silky, jet black hair, and gently gripped a fistful. I lowered my face closer to his, letting our breaths come together, and as my lips brushed the side of his mouth he turned his face to a kiss, surprising me.

Some time later I discovered that his mouth and tongue knew their way around a man – like most Italian teenagers, I suspected – but to go through the ultimate, brutal part was something he´d never done before. It took place upstairs, in his room, surrounded by familiar things: there was a poster for an old video game on the wall, an amateur telescope, and a shelf with several model cars he still hadn´t had the heart to get rid of. From the window, the lights of Carlo´s house could be seen.

Later, he rolled on to his side, facing a wall, his back turned to me. I lay next to him, watching the back of his head, trying to gauge his mood, and when I touched his shoulder, playfully, he shrunk away from my touch.

“Go. Now,” he said, his voice strained, but his education won out and he added, “Please.”

“I will,” I said, and sat up on the edge of his bed. “It´ll be ok-“

“No it won´t,” he almost yelled, suddenly losing it. “You bastard. My girlfriend is coming over tomorrow for the weekend.”

I stood up, staring at the immobile figure huddled under a sheet he had pulled over himself. There are extremely few situations when a touch or a kind word won´t help and only make things worse, and this was one of them. The only way to help him was to go.

I was on my way out when he added, “I should call the police. There´s a reward for you.”

I stood still, and turned back to him. The kid was so upset he was becoming irrational – or rational, depending on the point of view – and I wondered if I should stay to make sure he did nothing rash either to himself, or to me. Did he believe that doing the law-abiding thing now would cleanse him, in his mind, of what had happened? And return him among ordinary people, where he now felt expelled from? I decided that during the next ten minutes, he might think so.

Hating myself, I told him, “Go ahead, call the police. The whole country will know that you´re so hungry for dick that even someone you think a killer and a whore gets your ass up in the air. Now what would your girlfriend say?”

“Get the fuck out,” he yelled. “Get out! And don´t you ever come back to my house!”

I left the room and descended to the ground floor, not particularly proud of myself, and came to a halt at the foot of the staircase. Quietly, I stood in the shadows, listening. After what I´d said I doubted he´d call the police, and if he did – well, there was nothing I could do about it. But I couldn´t leave him all alone, not just yet. Everything was quiet for a while. Then I heard steps and the shower went on, and I couldn´t shake the image of him rummaging for his dad´s razors in the bathroom cabinet, face devoid of expression. Slowly, I walked back upstairs. The bathroom door was ajar, and carefully I moved close enough to look into the room. I saw his profile on the mirror, his generous lips now pursed into a tight line, eyes staring blankly at the tiled wall of the shower stall as he lathered himself with handfuls of liquid soap. After only few seconds, instinct warned him that someone was watching and he jerked his head around. As he saw me his jaw dropped, and he started violently, backing into the corner of the stall.

Gesturing him to stay calm I stepped into the doorway, and raising my voice, to make sure he heard me over the running water, I said, “I just wanted to make sure you weren´t going to harm yourself." I paused. "I´ll be going now.” Then, unable to stop myself, I added, “I´m sorry about what I said. You´ve done nothing wrong. Remember that.”

I didn´t wait for an answer. I walked out of the house, still in the nude, and picked up my clothes from the poolside. Away from the brightly lit water, in the safety of darkness, I got dressed. The light had attracted insects, and there were bats darting around the glittering pool in their inscrutable, startling ways, perhaps the very same ones that spent their days sleeping in my shed. I finished tying up my shoelaces, and after a last glance at Ivan´s room upstairs started down the road.